Page 35 of Wait for Him

David Walker and I reconnected this past summer. An old college boyfriend, the one I'd always quietly filed under unfinished business and never quite gotten around to closing out. We'd been exclusive for four months when I gave him a key to my apartment two weeks ago, which, in my world, is roughly equivalent to a public proposal with a string quartet.

I don't hand out keys. I've handed out exactly two in my adult life, and I've regretted both, which you'd think would have taught me something durable by now.

This weekend I was going to bring David to dinner and introduce him to Michael. Make the whole thing official. Hand him the family handshake, let my brother size him up over a beef roast and watch the two most important men in my life decide how they felt about sharing me. I had a reservation. I'd thought about what I'd wear.

That was the plan, anyway.

Then I came home this morning and found David in bed with Jet, the man he'd introduced as his cousin two months ago when I ran into them at our favorite bistro down the block.

Cousin.

He'd made the introduction without a flicker of hesitation. David, Jet. Jet, Rose. There'd been a handshake. Small talk. I vaguely remember asking Jet how long he was in town and him telling me he visited often.

Apparently.

I'm really not one to rage and throw fits. Life has handed me enough genuinely hard hits over the years that I've learned to absorb the blow into the body and keep walking before anyone thinks to ask how it landed. It's been a highly useful skill. It's gotten me through worse mornings than this one, and that's not me being dramatic.

But I'll confess, this particular blow lands somewhere tender and unguarded. Mostly because I only just bought those fucking sheets.

They clearly haven't heard me come in.

David has Jet folded over the bed, railing into him at a brutal and, I'll be fair, frankly admirable pace. I've been standing in my own bedroom doorway for...I check my watch…going on five minutes now. And his pounding rhythm hasn't so much as stuttered.

That's more than I can say for anything he ever did on my side of the bed.

Interesting.

Good to know the equipment works.

In his defense, and I do try to be fair even to men I'm actively watching betray me, I was supposed to be on a plane to Beijing right now. He had every reason on earth to believe the apartment was his for the day and the coast was clear all the way to the horizon. A weekend dust-up with Michael torched the entire trip and rerouted me home before we'd even left the tarmac, which is the only reason I'm standing here in my coat, keys still in my hand, watching a man I was planning to introduce to my brother this weekend fuck his “cousin” on my eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton.

My innocent beautiful sheets.

I lean one shoulder against the doorframe and continue watching because at this point leaving feels strangely premature. I've already seen enough that there is no salvaging the relationship, so I may as well collect all available evidence before rendering judgment.

Attorney habits die hard.

Jet makes a sound that would've had the neighbors knocking on the wall if our units weren't built like bunkers, and David grabs his hips harder.

Huh. He's never done that with me.

I'm learning so much today.

There is probably a healthy emotional response available to me somewhere. Rage, maybe. Devastation. Throwing something expensive against a wall seems popular in movies.

Instead, I find myself studying the details.

The condom wrapper on the floor.

David's shirt hanging over the chair he picked out himself.

Jet's shoes by my nightstand.

My boyfriend's hand currently reaching around to stroke another man’s cock.

No.

Not my boyfriend.