Page 39 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Peter lifted me from the floor, cradling me against his chest. And I knew that he noticed I was wet, though he said nothing. Made no indication that he noticed. He carried me upstairs and into the bathroom, and I was too embarrassed and weak to protest.

Upstairs, in the master bathroom, he undressed me, and himself, and took us into the shower. We sat on the shower bench together as hot water cascaded over us and Peter helped me wash up. I said nothing, and Peter honored my embarrassment by saying nothing as well.

Once we were clean and dry, and Peter had helped me put on fresh underwear for bed, he did the same. Then he led me to bed and laid me down, cradling my head as I sunk into my pillow. Then he covered me with the warm covers, rounded the bed, and crawled in beside me. Pressing his body gently against mine, but as close as he could, he draped an arm over me.

Finally, I looked down at him in the dark with crystals in the corner of my eyes.

I can’t imagine a world without you, Enzo.

The crystals dropped like stones.

I don’t want to imagine that. I won’t.

He covered my face in kisses so soft I might have imagined them.

At some point, we fell asleep. But not before I could wonder who would want a defective toy when there were so many better options.

Warm on Both Sides

Beginnings are happy, endings are sad, and everything between the two points is what comprises the purest memories. Often, we willfully look back through rose-colored glasses to where things began, refusing to admit that when we set out for our destination, it was little more than a small voice inside of us, daring us to dream. We had no agency; we merely answered a compulsion that, if ignored, would destroy us. A sad ending can bring a man to his knees, but it’s nothing compared to the memory of refusing that voice beckoning us to set out on the path we’ve been traveling along since we took our first breath on this earth. That’s why beginnings are happy; it’s ignorance with no consideration for the possible consequences should we get lost on our journey. It’s also why endings are sad. Either we failed to reach our intended destination and must carry the regret, or we succeeded, and it’s always too early to want to leave.

Never is this truer than when one’s journey is towards love.

The middle part—the journey—is what I wanted to focus on as the minutes ticked by and Peter and I snuggled on his couch on the final night of my visit to America. Two weeks in America had been glorious, especially with Peter by my side. Even with our few missteps—through no fault of our own—it had been the best two weeks of my life. For the last night of my trip, likely the final night we’d ever spend together, I only wanted to focus on the middle parts. The beginning had been happy, to be sure, but my mind had been such a jumble of anxiety that I couldn’t trust my recollection of the event. The ending was going to be sad, so I didn’t want to focus on that, either. There, on the couch, and everything that led up until we got into his car to go back to the airport the following day was what I chose to focus my energy on.

For our final evening, I had offered to make dinner for the two of us. However, Peter had suggested that we order takeaway—my favorite, Pad Thai—so that we could focus on our time together instead of cooking and then cleaning dishes. Once our food arrived, Peter and I made a picnic of the takeaway boxes on the dining room table. Over noodles—spicy for me, mild for him—we teased and joked and laughed. We shared stolen kisses and bites of each other’s food, though other than spice level, it was virtually the same on both sides of the table. As the dinner wore on, our jovial moods incrementally turned somber as the sun sank and darkness loomed through the windows.

Once our meal was done, we worked together in silence, clearing away the empty containers and cleaning off the table. Without discussing it first, as though we had already fallen into a routine, we went to the den and snuggled into the sofa together. Peter turned the television on and rested his head against my chest. I didn’t pay attention to which channel he settled on before cuddling up next to me. I was too busy smelling his hair and holding him in my arms so that I might remember his scent and the feel of his body against me forever.

It would be all that I would return to Montreal with the following day. Forgetting it would have been a sin for which I never could have prayed about enough.

The evening crept on as we held each other in silence and the television played lowly before us, though neither of us paid it much mind. When it became apparent that we were both simply delaying the inevitable, I kissed the top of Peter’s head, my lips lingering against that field of fiery silk for as long as they could without being awkward. Then I wiggled out of Peter’s arms and stood, offering my hand as I gazed down at him, hoping that my eyes did not look as sad as my heart felt. Peter gazed up at me for the longest of moments, his feelings not nearly as guarded as mine, before he sighed and used the remote to switch off the T.V.

For a moment, as he gazed up at me longingly, I was certain he would say something. However, he simply averted his eyes and slid his hand into mine, and I helped him up from the sofa. In silence, hand in hand, we exited the den, made our way through the dining room, into the living room, and approached the stairs. Before I took my first step up, I let go of Peter’s hand and turned to him, taking his face in my hands. His eyes closed and his lips pursed as I moved my face to his. Unlike all of our kisses before, this one meant the most.

It was the last kiss that was simply a kiss.

Our last chance to give each other a kiss that wasn’t a “hello,” a “goodbye,” or something carnal. And the two of us took our time with it. When I finally pulled away, though it was against my better judgment, I did my best to smile down at Peter. He leaned up and gave me another quick kiss, which only made my smile spread, though my heart was anything but happy. I ran my thumbs along his cheekbones and gazed into his eyes, wondering at what point in my life I would no longer remember the feel of his skin or the look in his eyes. When would the day come that Peter’s memory was no more than a mere shadow and a wistful dream of what could have been? How painful would it all feel until that day arrived and washed away the ache?

“I don’t want to think of you not here,” Peter said.

I merely smiled at him.

“This house will feel so empty without you, Enzo,” he continued. “I’ll feel empty without you. I’ll feel—"

“We should have sex,” I said.

There was no point in playing coy; no time for pretensions. This was our final chance to enjoy each other’s bodies and I didn’t intend for there to be any misunderstandings.

Peter nodded, so I smiled, took his hand, and turned to lead him up the stairs. My foot had barely touched the first step when Peter’s voice stopped me.

“I love you,” he said.

When I was a teenager, a mere fourteen years old, and absolutely certain that I was gay, I had to convince myself of two things. One, I had to convince myself that being gay would not destroy my life as I was terrified it would do. Two, I had to be certain that one day, no matter how long it took, another man would tell me he loved me. He would tell me that I was the person who made life complete for him. That I was lovable. That love was a possibility. And I would feel complete. I would feel like I was home. Hearing those words come from Peter’s mouth did none of those things. It made me feel sadder.

I turned to Peter. Instead of the smile I should have produced, I simply stared at him, wondering what we were to do with such a thing.

“I don’t mean to,” Peter said. “I know we weren’t supposed to…do that.”