Disclaimer: Queer as Folk is not mine, it’s ShowTime et al’s. I’m only trying to clean up the mess.

Author’s Note: The way this plotline was handled made no sense to me whatsoever. This is my attempt to reconcile it with my sense of logic and reason. Wish me luck.

The thoughts were flying through my head faster than I could acknowledge them. I was thrilled, ecstatic, euphoric about landing an agent. Of them all, that thought was most dominant. My break, my life . . . it was finally happening.

And there beneath all that was Justin. A million and one thoughts about Justin. How I had turned down the contract instinctively, out of loyalty. How I had gone back and accepted out of . . . what? Selfishness? Good judgment?

How Justin was clearly disappointed but outwardly supportive.

How Justin had asked, with a virulent edge to his voice, “Where did you hear that?” when I, carelessly, repeated my reasoning.

How we both knew I’d heard it from Brian.

Fuck Brian.

Brian was not a factor in this relationship. Brian was a nonentity. Brian was wrong, all wrong for Justin, and I was right.

And soon to be famous, and rich, and able to provide Justin with anything he wants and everything he deserves. The delighted grin of triumph crossed my face for the thousandth time.

I did a double-take as I stepped past the display window of the gift shop. I walked inside, followed by the tinkling of the bell on the doorknob and by barely audible whispers of lingering guilt. I nodded in response to the shopkeeper’s “Hello.”

I glanced around at the colorful displays of trinkets. I was unsure of what I was looking for, knowing only that there had to be something in here that I could use to convince Justin, if not myself, that everything was going to be okay. Wonderful, in fact. My eye paused at the small jewelry case.

I pored over the chains and pendants, all artistic pieces in silver and pewter. I zeroed in on the ring tray. Two in particular stood out. The shopkeeper approached. “Can I take anything out for you to look at, sir?”

“I’d like to see the rings, please. Are they silver?”

The man unlocked the glass case and pulled out the black velvet ring tray. “Sterling,” he said, as he laid out the tray on top of the counter. I pulled out one of the pair I’d been eyeing, and tried it on. It fit, perfectly.

“Are you shopping for yourself today, or for a gift?”

“Both,” I said distractedly, somewhat annoyed at the interruption of the salesman. The ring was simple in design, but looked like it belonged on my hand. I picked up the mate and slid it onto my other ring finger. It was slightly larger, and the fit was loose.

“Do you have any others like this?” I asked the guy.

“I don’t, actually. These were made by a local artist, and they’re they only ones I have of the kind.”

I smiled, and looked at the rings on my fingers one more time. “Great,” I said, “I’ll take them.”

I left the shop with a gift box in my pocket, forty dollars poorer. The cost didn’t matter; soon enough money would no longer be an issue. Nor would the doubts that had been infringing on my exhilaration. Justin will wear this ring, and he’ll be reassured that, regardless of my contract, I’ll always be with him.

*

I kissed Justin passionately, thrilled at the upcoming concert in Harrisburg. Thrilled that he had accepted my ring and everything it symbolized. Thrilled that this was all going to turn out fine, after all. The argument was forgotten; Justin understood why I had to do it, and he was happy for me. He had to understand now that it wasn’t about Brian’s words . . . it was about us. The life we would have together, the bright, shiny future . . .

Something wasn’t right.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, looking up at Justin’s face from the spot on his chest I’d been kissing. His expression was blank, unresponsive.

“Nothing,” he said, without meeting my eye.

Of course it wasn’t nothing. It’s never nothing, especially with Justin.

“It’s the interview . . .” I said, hesitant to bring it up but needing reassurance that he understood.

I should have told him that the reporter was coming that day, but I just didn’t think of it. I’d gone from second-best to artist-in-demand in a matter of days, and it simply hadn’t occurred to me. I was having trouble keeping it all straight.

“Your cousin?”

“Come on, I had to think of something . . .”

So he was upset. He told me it was Daphne that was mad, not him, but he’s not a particularly good liar.

“Is this how it’s going to be . . .”

See?

I told him all the beautiful pictures that had been appearing in my mind . . . images of a house, our home, a place where we could make music, literally and figuratively. The price wasn’t really so high, was it? For what we could gain in return? “We could have this amazing life . . .”

“You dream big,” he said, but it wasn’t a dream. It was going to happen. I could see it as if it were already a memory. His laughing tone concealed doubt . . . but it didn’t matter. He’d see. I would make him happy.

* *

I fingered my ring as I sat on the train, watching bare trees and telephone poles whirr past. I’d made a joke of it – the goodbye – but the truth was it was hard on me, very hard. No amount of reassurance or nonchalance or cockeyed grinning was enough to get rid of the tension under Justin’s supportive smile. He was reluctant to let me go, he was afraid of what would happen to us when it wasn’t just an overnighter, but a week, a month, a lifetime of touring . . .

I so hoped these rings would be enough for him. At least until he began to see for himself that I was telling the truth, that I would keep him, that the last thing I wanted was to ever lose him. That I had to do this – the contract, the concert – alone – or else I’d be betraying myself.

Of all the times to fall in love.

My stomach turned a somersault as the train pulled into the Harrisburg station. I was due at the concert hall for rehearsal, Glen would meet me there. My worries about Justin temporarily vanished as the accustomed jittery excitement came over me. I grabbed my things and disembarked.

* * *

Aside from the stiff unfamiliarity of the tux, I felt wonderful. The conductor tapped his baton and Misha nestled easily beneath my chin. This was my biggest audience . . . my performance debut . . . and I felt as comfortable as if I were in my apartment – naked – with Justin sketching furiously. Perhaps it was because in my imagination every song I played was for a crowd. Or, perhaps, I had simply grown accustomed to my role as genius virtuoso.

I stole a final glance over the house and momentarily imagined I saw Justin’s face among the expressions of anticipation. I smiled, then blocked them out. The sheet music sat unacknowledged in front of me. I focused on the conductor and began to play.

* * * *

I was already glowing as I stepped out of the auditorium. The unexpected applause as the crowd outside noticed me was just the icing on the cake. For the first time I knew what it was like to be a star. It was amazing. Thanking my admirers, responding to Glen’s comments, happened as if in a dream. I was exhilarated; floating.

I remember wishing Justin was there to see it. He would have been so proud of me.

I also remember when he first came up to me.

I thought nothing of it, he seemed like just another congratulator. Then he asked me if I was alone. I answered, “Yes.”

I wish I could say I didn’t know what he was asking of me.

He asked when I would be finished. I said I was ready to get out of there, now. He said he would bring his car around, then left.

And I really only gave it about two seconds’ thought before I looked around to make sure I wouldn’t be noticed. I followed him out.

* * * * *

I laughed and flirted. I was on, I was performing. This guy was blown away by my talent, by my good looks . . . and it was just so easy.

Sitting in the passenger’s seat of his Volvo, I answered his trifling biographical questions without asking any of my own. I’m from Pittsburgh. Yes, I’ve always played. I’m a student at PIFA, and up until now I’ve been playing on the street for cash. Whatever.

Yes, Justin was on my mind. He’s never not on my mind, even now. But it’s all part of the show.

Justin wasn’t there. This guy was. That was enough.

This was my moment, and I was going to take it. After everything . . . years of practice, sweating, starving, and bleeding for my art . . . and heartbreak, rejection, failure . . . I deserved to take it. I deserved to behave like a star, even for one night.

Suddenly I felt a new appreciation for Brian.

Nonetheless, when we arrived at his apartment, it felt wrong. I felt selfish, dirty – and it didn’t even stop me. I fucked him, impersonally, then quickly made my tired excuse of catching an early train.

I hailed a cab and returned to my hotel room.

* * * * * *

I stood a long time under the hot spray of the luxurious shower, trying to enjoy the opulence of the hotel. And all I could think about was being back home.

I barely slept in that strange bed for thinking of Justin. He was at home, alone, trusting me, and look how long it took me to betray that trust. All my words were meaningless, and he was right to doubt them.

Except they weren't meaningless. I meant all of it. I loved him, and I meant to prove it to him.

What finally put me to sleep was the realization that I still could, that it wasn’t too late. I’d made a mistake, I’d slipped – God knows it wasn’t the first time anyone had done it. It’d been done to me a hundred times.

Justin didn’t know, and he didn’t have to. I wouldn’t do it again. I would go home and love him all the more.

When the alarm went off the next morning, I felt much better. I was happy again at the success of my show, and at the thought of coming home to Justin’s arms.

The rest could be forgiven and forgotten.

* * * * * * *

“However far away . . . however long I stay . . . whatever words I say . . . I will always love you.”
Lovesong, The Cure

end part one