Men Who Love Men. William J. Mann

that legally kept you together. Now, as I watch all those happy faces on television—all those happy gay faces running down to apply for marriage licenses across the Commonwealth of Massachusetts—it just underscores how alone I really am. Am I for gay marriage? Maybe—if I could find someone who wanted to marry me.

      See, here’s the thing. When the state Supreme Court ruled that the state had to allow gay couples to marry, I just never thought Jeff and Lloyd would be among the throng who scampered down to Town Hall. They’ve never been the type for convention of any kind. They make great shows of rejecting old, failed paradigms—like monogamy, they say. But here they are, sitting across from me like two little high school lovebirds. Be happy for us, their faces are pleading.

      Be our best man.

      Best man.

      What a strange turn of a phrase.

      How can one feel best when one doesn’t even feel all that good?

      “Well?” Lloyd is asking.

      I take a deep breath.

      “Of course,” I say.

      Lloyd is up off the couch in an instant, his arms encircling me. Jeff doesn’t move quite as fast, but he comes over, too, tousling my hair. “Thanks, buddy,” he says. “You’ll look grand in a tux.”

      “Tux?” I look up at him as Lloyd moves off to uncork the champagne. “It’s going to be that formal?”

      “Sure thing. All the trimmings. It’ll be the event of the season.”

      I smirk. So that’s part of the motivation, too. Since Jeff’s become a success, he likes to put on a good show. I can only imagine who he’s getting for entertainment.

      “We’re bringing in Connie Francis,” he tells me, as if reading my mind. “You know, ‘Where the Boys Are.’ I met her in New York a few weeks ago and we got to be friends. I’d like to get Kimberley Locke, too—you know, this year’s second runner-up on Idol. I met her at the Abbey in West Hollywood last month.”

      “Cat,” Lloyd says, using Jeff’s nickname, “let’s not make this into a three-ring circus.” He’s pouring the bubbly into three glasses.

      “Hey, it’s our wedding. A once-in-a-lifetime event. Let’s do it up!”

      Lloyd hands me a glass of champagne. “I just can’t imagine the two of you, married,” I say. “Legally and everything. Until death do us part and all that traditional mumbo jumbo.”

      “Happens to the best of us,” Jeff says.

      The best of us.

      But not the best man.

      I figure I ought to offer a toast. “To the two of you,” I say, not sure where I’m going with this. “To…what moments lie ahead.” Not very romantic, I suppose, but the best I can muster.

      We clink glasses. We drink.

      The loneliest sip of champagne I’ve ever had.

      3

      ON THE PIER

      Even though the sun has failed to make an appearance today, hiding stubbornly behind a dreary gray haze like a sulky child, Luke wears no shirt, just a backpack slung over one shoulder. A breeze is blowing in off the water, making me shiver, but the boy seems oblivious to it, striding ever closer to where I’m sitting, parading that flat little belly of his, the lines of his damn obliques running down into his loose-fitting cutoff cargo shorts.

      Why the hell am I doing this? Why did I agree to meet him when he called? The kid only wants to meet Jeff. Why am I allowing myself to be suckered?

      “Hey, handsome,” Luke says, sitting beside me on the bench.

      Maybe because of the way his dark blond hair falls in his eyes. Maybe because of the way his lips curl at the corners. Maybe because he called me handsome.

      “Hey,” I reply.

      “Where’s the sun, dude? I can’t see hiking all the way out to the beach without any sun.” He rustles out a pack of cigarettes from his backpack and shakes out a cancer stick. “Want one?”

      “No, thanks, I don’t want to die a gruesome death.”

      “Yeah, I know I should quit,” Luke says, lighting up. “Picked up the habit at a young age, and it’s hard to get out of the mindset.”

      “It’s called nicotine addiction.” I frown. “And just what is a ‘young age’ for you? Twelve?”

      “Close to it.” Luke exhales smoke away from my face. “I was probably thirteen when I started.”

      “So how old are you now?”

      “Twenty-two.”

      Well, what do you know? Seems I’d given him credit for an extra year that he’d never lived. Actually, to look at him, it’s pretty tough to guess his age. He’s definitely got a baby face, and in some ways twenty-two seems too old for him. But in other ways, he seems a bit overripe, a tomato left on the vine a little too long.

      “You must have some bad habits,” Luke says, squinting those hazel eyes at me.

      “Ice cream.” I pat my belly. “As this squishiness demonstrates.”

      “Dude, you’re not that squishy. You need to get over your body hang-ups.”

      “Thanks for the advice.”

      In my head, I’m keeping a countdown. It’s been nearly two minutes since Luke sat down, and no mention yet of Jeff.

      “So, Henry,” the kid says, “you want to get some food later? Maybe you can show me where to eat cheaply in this town.”

      I lift my eyebrows. “Not too many cheap options here. At least not if you want to avoid clogged arteries and high blood pressure.”

      Listen to me. I sound like my mother. When did I get so old?

      “I’m thinking of becoming a vegetarian,” Luke says. “But I figure if I’m going to turn my body into a temple, I gotta quit these things first.” He takes one last, long drag on his cigarette and flicks the butt into the water below. “But that will take some effort.”

      “Well, if I can quit the ice cream, you can quit the nicotine.”

      “Is that a wager?”

      “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

      “It’s a deal.” Luke is smiling. “We can check in every day to make sure we’re not cheating.”

      I let out a sigh. Overhead a seagull swoops down low, arcing over our heads. I decide to move the conversation away from addictive behaviors.

      “Where did you say you were from, Luke?” I ask.

      “I’ve lived all over the country.”

      I look at him closely. “But in what particular part of it were you born?”

      “Long Island, New York.”

      Now it’s me who makes a face. “Lung Gyland?” I ask, using the local vernacular. “You sure don’t sound like you’re from Lung Gyland.”

      He smirks. “I told you. I’ve lived a lot of places. Besides, not everyone from Long Island sounds like Joey Buttafuoco.”

      I can’t help but smile a little. “I guess.”

      “My stepdad was a lawyer,” Luke tells me, “so I had a pretty upscale, middle-class childhood. At least for the later part. The beginning of my life is a whole other story.” He pulls his legs up onto the bench to sit cross-legged next to me. Our knees touch. It distracts me from asking a follow-up question and allows him to keep control of the conversation. “So how about you?” Luke asks. “Where were you born?”

      I’m