Me and My Monkey, a daria fanfic

Me and My Monkey

by Dennis

My name is Tom Sloane and I was twenty-one years old the first time I made love to another man. It wasn't the first time I kissed another man. I was all of thirteen when I did that. His name was James, and it was at a boys' boarding school, and that's all you really need to know about that.

I went to a day school for high school, which meant I had access to girls, and took advantage of it. I don't think my parents were comfortable about my high school dating choices, but at the time, they were polite enough not to say anything. Turns out they were waiting until I got to Bromwell, the family alma mater. They were sure I'd do right by my wealth and class then. For awhile, it looked like they were right.

I can still clearly remember looking over my class list with Dave, my roommate, at the beginning of our senior year. Our cat, Monkey, sat on the low coffee table.

"Ballroom dancing, Sloane?" Dave said with a laugh. He was shorter than me, but much broader, with a lumpy looking face that make him seem dumb. Actually, he was much smarter than me. "Gonna waltz your way to the top of the finance world? Or did Sarah browbeat you into it?"

"No," I said. "Mom and Dad." My voice took on my mother's patrician cadence. "I trust you will broaden your horizons this year, Thomas. Your father is a quality violinist and your uncle has had several successful gallery showings. You will at least know how to dance well."

Dave made a face. "So much cooler being nouveau riche. My dad doesn't care what I take, as long as I graduate with a finance degree."

"Yeah," I said. "I can't major in anything interesting, but my parents can pick my damn electives." With a sigh, I stood, giving Monkey an absent rub. He made a content sound, as I headed past him, out the door, and off to class.

The two finance classes were, well they were what they were. I had a head for finance but little interest. By the time they were over, I was tempted to cut the dance class. I decided to stick it out, though. Cutting wasn't really my thing.

The first thing I noticed when I got there was that the genders were surprisingly balanced. I wondered briefly how many guys were there to please their fathers but put it out of my mind. If I was going to do this stupid class, I was going to do it right.

Everyone sort of milled around this big ballroom for a few minutes until the instructor showed up. I remember he was wearing a light colored track suit, and his legs were long. He didn't seem to walk, so much as float. That stuck with me, because it wasn't the sort of thing I usually noticed.

Everyone sort of drifted toward him as he walked. He gave us a big smile and said, "I'm Peter Forrest. You can call me Pete, though, because I love the idea of you all learning ballroom dance from a guy named Pete." Most of us laughed, including me, and the comfort level of the room improved. He quickly had us paired off—me with a pleasantly plump blond girl with a pretty smile—and had us work on what he called "the boring basics," like hand position, posture, and grip.

To my surprise, I found I wasn't bored. In fact, I was enjoying it. Pete was an engaging instructor, and there was something deeply sensual about sliding my hands along my partner's waist to find just the spot that would make us move together, and if Pete's hands moving mine added to that feeling, I didn't notice at the time. I left feeling good about coming back.

The next class, we got to move around, but not much. First, Pete had us do single steps, one step forward and back to rest, then one step backward and forward to rest. The way out bodies moved against each other was interesting, but the repetition quickly grew dull. Pete kept circling the room, offering encouragement, advice, and the occasional wisecrack in his smooth, pleasant voice. I thought it was nice of him, so after class I sought him out for a quick word.

"I just wanted to thank you," I said, catching him right at the ballroom door.

He turned and smiled. "For what?"

I met his eyes, which were a soft brown. "For doing your best to make the class interesting. I know it can't be much fun for your watching us bumble around."

"Well, no," he said. "This part isn't much fun. It's as boring for me as it is for you to do the basic steps over and over again. But we'll be past that soon." His smile deepened, making his face seem almost luminous. "Your abilities will grow and so will your confidence. And some of you, at least, will find the dancer that always lived inside you, the one you never knew was there. That's when it will be fun." For just a second, he seemed to shine like the sun, but then it disappeared. "And you're off to a good start. Can't wait to see you next week."

"Same here," I said, and meant it.

By then end of dinner on Friday, Sarah was tired of hearing about ballroom dance. "Geez, Tom." she said. "You're learning how to waltz, not perform brain surgery. It's not that exciting."

"I know," I said, picking at the remains of my dessert. "It's just that I expected it to be boring and so far, it's been really cool. It's like cleaning the litter box and finding a gem. Maybe it'll turn out to be a diamond, maybe just a cheap knock off, but at least it's not cat crap."

Sarah sighed and ate a bite of mud pie. We never split deserts, even though we'd been a couple for over a year at that point. In fact, we never did a lot of things that couples do. My high school self would have loved that, but now I was starting to miss it.

"So why didn't you ask me to take the class with you?" Her big blue eyes suddenly pinned mine.

"I didn't know it was going to be fun," I said. "It was just something I'm doing for Mom and Dad."

"Well, maybe I should transfer in," she said, taking another forkful of pie, but not eating it.

I realized that I didn't want her joining the class, that I enjoyed the private space it created. If she guessed what I was thinking, though, she would jump right in and go out of her way to make it hell on earth for me in the process. She was like that. I tried my best to be nonchalant. "If you want. It's totally up to you."

"I'll think about it," she said and lapsed into silence. We finished the desserts, and I grabbed the check. Neither of us was in the mood for more, so I dropped her off, getting a perfunctory peck on the cheek for my trouble, and headed home.

The next class was Tuesday, and to my relief, Sarah wasn't there. We finally started doing basic combination steps, so it started to feel a little like dancing. After the class, I caught up with Pete again.

He gave me a big smile and for some reason, my brain just cramped. I'd meant to compliment him on the class, but what came out of my mouth was, "You're really young, aren't you."

If he was surprised, he didn't show it. "Not as young as you," he said, still smiling.

"Well, yeah, but I'm a student and you're the teacher."

"True," he said, as if I'd just scored a masterly debating point. "Well, I'm 25."

"And you're teaching here already?" I was honestly surprised. "Even the TAs here aren't usually that young."

"What can I say? I'm just that good." He shot me a wink. "I can tell you about it, if you like."

Somehow, I failed to notice my heart start thumping. "How about now?" I blurted. "Coffee's on me."

We hit a Starbucks not too far from campus. Over lattes, we shared parts of our lives with each other. He told me that he was trying to break into the New York dance scene, and I told him about my family and how surprised I was that dancing could be so much fun. We must have talked for a couple of hours before he finally looked said, "I gotta go, but it was great talking to you, Tom. We should do it again."

Again, I missed, or ignored, the sudden flutter in my chest.

Dave must have seen something in my face, though, because his first words on my arrival home were, "Way to go, dude."

"Yes," I said. "I successfully got coffee." I held up the takeout cup I'd grabbed on my way out. "Not sure why that's worthy of applause, though."

"Get real, Tom," Dave said, with a mock grown. "That was pretty ballsy, cutting your lame-o class to get some."

"Huh?" I said, now completely confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Dude, you're friggin' glowing. I assume you're not three months' pregnant so you must have gotten laid. And you cut your stupid dance class to do it, which is pretty awesome."

"Are you high?" I demanded. Dave wasn't much of a pothead, but I'd interrupted him in the middle of a few herbal experiences.

"What?" Monkey jumped on the coffee table and Dave, looking somewhere between confused and pissed, gave him a few perfunctory pets.

"I went to class," I said, enunciating clearly. "Then I got coffee with a couple of the other people from the class. I didn't cut and I didn't get laid, and I am not glowing!"

He gave me a blank stare for a second. I thought he might have been surprised by my vehemence, until a cagey grin crossed his face. "I get it. Nothing happened, so there's nothing to tell Sarah." He shot me a leer. "Nice."

"The hell with it," I muttered, and headed to my room. Reasoning with Dave when he gets an idea in his head is only slightly less pointless than trying to move a mansion with a teaspoon.

Still, his comments stuck with for the rest of the day and into my date with Sarah that night. What the hell did he mean? I liked talking to Pete, but that didn't mean anything. I liked talking to Dave too, when he wasn't being insane, and I liked talking to plenty of other people. I wasn't sure I liked talking to Sarah, but I didn't have to talk to her that much. I just had to be seen with her and listen.

"You're quiet tonight," Sarah said, on the way back from the movies. I'd already forgotten what we saw. It wasn't very good anyway. "Even for you."

"Just thinking," I said.

"About what?" she asked, suddenly intense.

Maybe it was her intensity. Maybe it was what Dave had said earlier, or maybe it was even the sparkle in Pete's eye when he talked about dancing in New York someday. Whatever it was, I skipped the empty noises I was going to make and said, "I'm kinda wondering what we're doing. We've been together for over a year., and I'm not sure what's even going on."

Of all the responses I might have expected, a throaty laugh was not one of them. "Sometimes, I wonder if you really are that naïve or if you're just pretending."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I said, stung. I thought I'd been brave to even speak, and she'd cut my legs out from under me.

"You know, Tom," she said. "You just won't say it." Now her smile was sad. "Our parents want us together."

"Yeah," I said, "An arranged marriage, to consolidate wealth and power. Brokerage house marries commercial bank."

She winced at the bitterness in my voice and looked away. I tried to think of something comforting to say, but my brain wouldn't cooperate, so I just drove. Finally, she said, "Look, I like you, Tom. I like you a lot."

"I like you too, Sarah," I said, and wondered if I was lying.

"And that's enough for me." She sighed. "Love's a nice idea, I suppose, but it doesn't work for someone in our position."

"What do you mean? You've got money, looks, and brains. You don't need to settle for—"

She cut me off. "Someone like you? You've got money, looks, and brains too, Tom. And that's the problem." She heaved another sigh. "How many times have you fell for a girl and then found out she only liked your money?"

I thought about my two serious high-school girlfriends, Jane and Daria. I'd been attracted to Jane because she gave off a bohemian vibe, like she didn't give a shit about money or status. And Daria was too honest to consciously hide how she felt. First she'd hated me, then she'd loved me, and finally she'd lost interest. And now I was sitting here next to Sarah. "I kinda made sure that didn't happen in high school," I said.

"Money got in the way anyway, I'll bet," she said, smirking.

I started to deny it, but memories crept back into my brain. "It kinda did," I admitted. Daria never wanted me for my money, but it bothered her that I had it. It was part of why we broke up.

"Well, that's not a problem for us. We both have money, so we know where we stand. And," she smiled, "we actually get along, which is more than lots of couples can say."

"That's something," I said, and stifled a sigh. Once I got home, I laid in bed for hours thinking what a shame it was that I'd never really be in love.

I decided I was allowed to feel sorry for myself so I moped around for the next week or two. At first, Dave tried to draw me out, but I wasn't having it, so he finally said the hell with it and started ignoring me. It didn't really affect my grades, since I did most of my classwork on autopilot anyway, and none of my friends said anything... until Pete did.

"You don't seem like yourself," he said in my ear as I tried to master a complex cross-step.

Surprised, I almost tripped. "Don't distract me," I snapped. "This is hard enough as it."

If he was bothered by my tone, he didn't show it. "Alright. I'll be back to check on you later."

I kept trying to master the stupid cross-step, which might be why it took me so long to notice the cold vibe my partner was giving off. When Pete told us to break for a new step, she fixed me with a cold glare and snapped, "That was pretty fucking rude."

I'd like to say I realized my mistake and was suitably chastened, but that would be bullshit. Actually, since I was mired in self-pity, I decided to be a total dick about it. "I'd take your opinion more seriously if I could remember your name."

"Well, fuck you very much," she said and flounced off.

Pissing someone off only improved my mood briefly, and the rest of the class dragged. It seemed like forever before Pete finally gave everyone a cheery, "See you Thursday," and people started to file out. He hadn't come back once after I told him to leave me alone. I stood frozen in the rapidly emptying ballroom, torn between apologizing and getting the Hell out of there. Pete took the decision out of my hands.

"What's the matter, Tom?" I was surprised be the deep concern on his face.

"Nothing," I said. "I'm fine."

"Right." He put his hands on his hips. "And I'm the freakin' Pope. You've been moping through this class for the last couple of weeks. When we started, you were one of the most enthusiastic students, and now you're one of the least." He quirked a half-smile, that reminded me of Daria. "Was it something I said?"

"No," I said, trying and failing to articulate my mood. "It's just– nothing. I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You look and sound like one of your parents just died."

"Just my dreams," I whispered before I could stop myself and turned away, hoping he hadn't heard.

He had. I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. "No way you're walking away after dropping something like that. C'mon, we'll go back to my place."

He didn't pull me or put pressure on me in any way, but I followed as if he had. It felt like someone else was controlling my limbs as I crossed the parking lot and climbed into the passenger seat of Pete's silver Toyota. I don't remember the make, but I remember it was a stick, and Pete was really good at driving it—better than I'd been when I had the Rustbucket in high school.

His "place" turned out to be a one-bedroom apartment in the basement of a house in North Haven. He deposited me on the old brown sofa, which was surprisingly comfortable. and disappeared into the corner niche that served as a tiny kitchen.

Looking around, I noticed that the living space was sparse. Along with the couch was a coffee table, a full bookshelf, and with a television stand that rather than a television, held several small trophies and awards.

"Dance competitions," Pete said, reappearing with two mugs in his hands. "Tea," he added, as I shifted my gaze from the trophies to the mug being offered to me.

I took the tea, and he sat down next to me. "So, heavy stuff, huh?"

"i suppose," I said, and took a sip of tea. It was warm and sweet, easing tension I hadn't noticed. "It's really family crap."

"Family can be tough," he said, and sipped his own tea.

I nodded in agreement, thinking I would stop there. But his brown eyes were so soft and concerned and supporting that I decided I couldn't. "They create these expectations. This is your school, major in this, take that class, you have to uphold your family honor..."

"Square pegs, round holes?" Those eyes watched me from over the rim of the mug.

"It's not even that. I have a head for finance, so maybe that's exactly what I should be doing. I might be the roundest round peg ever, but they won't let me find my shape." I took another sip of my tea and looked down.

In the silence, I could feel him moving, closing the small distance between us. His breath seemed to tickle the exposed skin of my neck. When I looked up, it was into those hypnotic brown eyes.

"Not sure who you are?" His soft voice frightened me. I wanted to run and hide, pretend we'd never met—grab hold of him and never let go.

I don't remember who started kissing who; I just remember that one moment we weren't and the next we were and it was wonderful. Our hands touched skin wherever they could, and I couldn't tell which excited me more, his gentle touch or the warmth of his skin against my questing fingers.

As we broke apart, the exhilaration and attraction were finally obvious to me, but they were underlain by confusion and not a little fear. I tried to say something, but all that came out was, "I uh er."

"I liked it too," he quipped, in echo of facile words of mine some years ago.

Like a puppet, I played out the rest of the old script. "I gotta go," I said, and like Daria all those years ago, was gone.

I spent a sleepless night on the couch with bad TV droning in the background. Dave was out, so all I had for company was my whirling thoughts and Monkey, who enjoyed the attention. The kiss had been amazing, wonderful, better than any of Sarah's, or any of the others. But did that mean I was gay?

Sure, I'd messed around with boys (well, a boy) before, but that was at an all-boys boarding school, where thirteen-year-olds were expected to practice kissing in pairs and choking down bad food by the hundreds. This was adult Tom with ready access to women and a long-term relationship, and no time in his life for bi-curiosity.

And that was another thing: I was in a long-term relationship. Admittedly, Sarah and I were hardly Antony and Cleopatra, but we were together, and that meant something. I'd cheated on my very first girlfriend, and the hurt in her eyes still haunted me. I didn't want to do that to someone else.

The next morning, I still had no idea what to think, and my head felt like it was stuffed with straw. Monkey's purring prevented the headache that usually accompanied my sleepless nights but that was a small comfort, and the rest of the day wasn't any better. I shuffled through it like a zombie—one of those "Thank God it's the middle of the semester" days—saying word nothing to no one.

Dave found me slumped on the couch, the idiot box blaring away and mostly full boxes of cheap Chinese take out on the table in front of me. "Well, well, well, Master Sloane. You look what the proverbial cat dragged in." He spotted the food-like feast that lay ignored on the table, and because he was Dave, added, "But I see that you're the one that did the dragging. You must be in a bad way to even consider eating that crap."

He sat down on the couch next to me, and giving the lie to his words, began shoveling in pork lo mein with my fork. "All right, young Thomas," he said, around a mouthful of noodles, "tell old Uncle Dave all about it."

"Just stuff on my mind," I said, wishing he would go away and knowing he wouldn't.

"Clearly," he said, and pointed the fork at me. "Because you've suddenly decided you're me and have a taste for poisonous take out. "What's the matter, chippy finally dump you?"

"Huh?"

"Your piece on the side get tired of being on the side, condemning you to the frigid pecks and unimaginative sex of your icy blond consort?"

"Icy blond—" The sheer bizarreness of his statement roused me a little. "Have you been reading the Penthouse Forum again or something?" He just looked smug, so I added, "I don't know what's wrong with you, but I'll bet it's hard to pronounce."

"Yeah, yeah, casual abuse." He waved a dismissive hand. "You still haven't answered me."

"I don't have a chippy. I've never had a chippy, and Sarah and I are fine. I'm just chewing over family shit and what I'm going to do after college."

Dave screwed up his face in disgust, possibly the at food, more likely at me. "Dude, you are the most boring man alive. Even when you angst, it's not about chicks or drugs, but about 'your future.'" He gave me the fork again. "Your fallback position in life is rolling around on piles of money, so stop bitching and start living."

"Sure thing, Norman Vincent Putz," I said, temper rising. "I'll get right on that, shall I?" The, before I could lose it further, I headed to bed, leaving Dave with my nasty Chinese food.

The next day was dance class again. I seriously considered skipping it, but that seemed cowardly. Besides, if I went and didn't react to him, I could write the whole thing off as an aberration and put it out of my mind. It was a great plan, and it lasted almost ten minutes, and then Pete came over and put his hand over mine to correct my positioning and that was that.

Instead of "getting on with my life," I barely waited until the end of the class before pulling Pete into a hug saying, "Have dinner with me?"

He was initially surprised, I could tell, but much to my joy, his surprise faded to happiness. "Sure!"

"Good. I'll pick you up at 7."

It occurred to me on the way over to his place that I'd never seen Pete dressed up before. For all that we were learning ballroom dance, we wore comfortable clothes—Pete usually wore an outfit more appropriate to a track coach than a dance teacher. So I wasn't prepared for how well he cleaned up.

His door opened to my hesitant knock—my stupid brain suddenly reminded me that this counted as a date—and there he was, stylish in a camel hair blazer and gray slacks. Somehow the combination managed to deepen the brown of his eyes. My brain stopped bothering me about cheating and started reminding me that I had a sex drive. "You look great," I finally managed.

"Thanks," he said and smiled. "You look good too." I supposed I did, in a freshly ironed pair of khakis and one of my nicest collared shirts, but next to him I felt like a hobo.

The car at least was nice. I'd ditched the blue Pinto and the beat up Jag that followed it. Now I drove a sporty red Miata—not quite a "Sloane car" but something that didn't actively embarrass my parents. Pete slid gracefully into the passenger seat, I hopped into the driver's, and off we went.

I wish I could remember what we talked about at dinner, or even where we ate. I know it was an upscale place, and we split a bottle of wine, but other than that, dinner was a blur. Dizzy with what felt like heatstroke (or Petestroke), I accepted his invitation for a nightcap when I dropped him off. We didn't even get to the drink before we were on the couch frantically making out and plucking at each others' buttons.

Somewhere in the back of my mind were thoughts of my girlfriend and my family, but they went unheard in the rush of sensation. Soon we were both naked and then we were in bed and pleasure such as I had never known wracked my body. I lost all sense of time and identity in the rush of climax, and it wasn't until I woke with sun peeking in through a tiny ceiling-level window that I realized I'd fallen asleep in Pete's arms.

The full force of what I'd done struck me, and I ruthlessly squashed it down. I wasn't going to let being Tom Sloane ruin the afterglow of what had been a wonderful night. Instead, I shifted to kiss his cheek—not easy, since part of his chest rested on mine and one of his arms pinned me to the bed. The movement must have disturbed him, because he mumbled something and opened his eyes.

"Hey," he said, blinking. "Give me a minute and I'll make breakfast. Without waiting for an answer, he kissed my lips, several times, and struggled out of bed. I laid there in a pleasant half doze, his warmth still around me until he poked his head back in the room. "Coffee's on," he said, "and there's towels and soap in the bathroom. Chocolate chip pancakes okay for breakfast?"

I nodded and rolled out of the bed, with not a little regret. The afterglow faded in the shower, and as I pulled my clothes back on, the negative thoughts I'd squashed started creeping out. They didn't get in the way of breakfast, which was pleasant. Pete and I chatted idly and sipped coffee over the remains of the pancakes, which had been delightful.

On my way out, I gave him a peck on the cheek. He returned a smile and a piece of paper. "Call me tomorrow," he said. I promised I would and hopped in the Miata.

The ride back from North Haven was quiet, both on the roads and in my mind. Yes, I'd just had sex with another man, which meant I'd cheated on my girlfriend and was at least bisexual, so I knew I had a lot to think about. Somehow, though, I was confident that if I could just have the weekend to myself—no parental instructions, no demands from Sarah, and no snide commentary from Dave—that I'd be able to work through it. Even after all this time, I remember how clear that thought was, and how foolish I was to have ever entertained it.

I walked in the door to see Dave sprawled on the couch, idly teasing Monkey with our feather-on-a-string cat toy. "Well, well," he said, with that expression of his that's halfway been a scowl and a sneer. "The prodigal son returns. And before you try and feel me any of your bullshit, I'm not your answering service. Sarah called twice last night, and killed a perfectly good buzz doing it, and your freaking parents woke me up calling half an hour ago."

Even as I swore under my breath, I tried to divert him. "Aren't you supposed to be in class?"

"Pssht. Friday is my bullshit elective. You know that. I've gone twice. That's enough until December. But if memory serves," he pointed a finger at me, "you have statistics in half an hour. Yet you're only getting home, and I haven't seen you since before your dance class—which, to an enlightened mind like mine leads to some very obvious conclusions."

"You've started smoking enough weed to damage your brain?"

"Cute, Sloane." He gave me what I think of his as dick look—as in, if you stop talking, you might not be such a big one. "Remind me why I still like you."

"I can't think of a reason offhand, unless we have that in common," I said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a class to get ready for." I disappeared into my room, feeling like I'd gotten the last word.

Of course, that was only for the moment. Dave's bullshit was as nothing compared to the grilling I knew I'd face when I called home. On returning from class, I decided to get the interrogation out of the way, so I blew past Dave and back into the bedroom. I gritted my teeth and picked up the phone.

My phone conversations with my parents always go the same way: an aimless pep talk from my father, usually about "not letting the side down," after which my mother would lay out of a list of specific demands and turn down any requests I might make. This one was no different.

"So, m'lad, how are your classes?" My father affects a slight accent; I'm not sure if he's trying to be a casual aristocrat or a formal naval officer. I'm just happy he doesn't say "Ahoy,"

"Fine, Dad," I said. "I'm top of the class in finance and macroeconomics."

"Good, good. Wouldn't want you to let down the side, you know." After a moment—and a puff on his pipe, no doubt—he added, "And your dance class? Your mother is very keen on you widening your horizons. Culture and all that."

Now why did he have to bring that up? I'd carefully filed Pete and our lovemaking in the back of my mind, until I was done dealing with family obligations. "It's fine, Dad. Fine. I'll never love it, but my teacher says I'm doing very well." He'd said some other things last night, but I didn't need to get into that.

"Good lad," Dad said. "Very dutiful. Your mother will be pleased. Good to talk to you, Tom."

"You too, Dad." Dave for all his faults ended his parental conversations with, 'I love you.' I never did. I wasn't prepared to think about what that meant. Especially not with Hurricane Kay incoming.

"Hello, Thomas." She used to call me Tom, back in High School. But in her world college meant that I was an adult, so now I was Thomas. I still called her Mom, mostly out of stubbornness.

"Hi, Mom. How are you?"

"I'm well, as I'm sure you know," she said. "I'm not sure I can say the same about you, though."

"What do you mean? As I just told Dad, my grades are good, I'm on track to graduate on time, and I'm even doing well in the dance class you had me take."

"Why is Sarah not in your class, Thomas?" There was an edge to her voice that I didn't like.

"I assume because her mother didn't insist she take it," I returned, letting some bitterness show, though I wasn't sure what I had to be bitter about besides being stuck in this conversation.

"It's a public setting, Thomas. Don't you think you should be seen with your significant other? But then," she added, and I definitely didn't like her tone, "I don't think you take your relationship with Sarah seriously enough."

"What are you talking about?"

"You've been together for over a year, Thomas," she said, and my insides suddenly clenched. "You should already be engaged, or at least shopping for a ring. Yet the two of you aren't even together all that often."

"Mom, I'm not even out of college yet!" I blurted, and realized my mistake.

"Your father and I were married before we left Bromwell, Thomas." I could have said it along with her. Her next words surprised me, though. "I thought this didn't need to be said, and that you would do right by your family, but I see that I was wrong. So let me make it clear, Thomas. You can have a long engagement if you want, but your father and I expect you to be engaged to Sarah by the end of the semester."

Her bluntness took my breath away, and before I get it back, she added a smug, "Good-bye, Tom," and hung up. I listened to the dial tone for a good thirty seconds before I followed suit. I tried to hide out in my room and come to terms with my mother's ultimatum, but I wasn't to get the chance.

A knock on my bedroom door disturbed me, and my heart started pounding. Dave doesn't knock, he thumps, so I knew it wasn't him. I opened the door to find Sarah there, perfectly coiffed and icy as usual. "Hello, Tom," she said. "I thought you'd like to take me out for the afternoon."

In fact, I would rather have pulled my own head off, but admitting it would have been tantamount to suicide with help from several different sets of hands, so I gave her my best fake smile. "Of course, my dear," I said. "Where would you like to go?"

"I was thinking we could go for coffee," she said, with a poisonously sweet smile. "There's a Starbucks not too far from campus that Emily and I sometimes visit." Emily was her roommate, who she only tolerated at the best of times. Picturing them doing anything as friendly as going for coffee was beyond me. Picturing Sarah's ulterior motives was all too easy. I wondered if she could sense my fear.

"I'll get my jacket," I said.

It could have been a coincidence that we ended up at the same Starbucks where Pete and I first had coffee together. It could have, but I wasn't betting on it.

Sarah surprised me, though. We sat and sipped our lattes, making small talk. Instead of half-hidden barbs about mystery men amid suspicious questions about ballroom dancing, she offered assessments of her classes and amusing details about her professors and fellow students. She even get a few laughs out of me, which was unusual.

I responded as well as I could, but this was a side of her I'd never seen, even after a year, and it threw me for a bit of a loop. Maybe that was why I missed the big whammy.

"Aren't you going to say something?" she said, clearly annoyed.

"About what?" I asked and took a big slug of my latte.

Her eyes narrowed. "I just said you don't have to propose to me right away. Surely, that deserves a response."

I choked, but managed not to spew latte in every direction. "What? I thought we were talking about classes, not our future."

"Don't treat me like a child, Tom," she snapped. "Our parents talk to each other, you know."

"About money," I retorted.

She seemed taken aback. "They talk about more than that."

"There's something more than that?"

"Point," she said, and smiled. It was a sad smile, but she hid it quickly. "They want us to get married, and I think we should give them what they want."

"Married?" I raised an eyebrow, hoping desperately she didn't see how afraid I was. "Did you want to book a flight to Vegas now?"

"You know what I mean. I'm not in any hurry to get married." She shivered slightly, and for the first time, I wondered if she was also afraid.

"Sarah," I said, but didn't get any farther.

"You don't have to say anything right now, Tom." Like a curtain, an icy smile came down over her face. "I certainly wouldn't want to get engaged in a Starbucks. Far too gauche."

"I'll think about it."

"Don't think too long, Tom. Our parents want us engaged by the end of the semester."

"Semester's not over for six more weeks."

She gave me another chill smile. "Thanks for the coffee, Tom." Before I could say anything or even show surprise, she rose. "I'll find my own way home," she added, and in a whirl, she was gone, leaving a very confused Tom Sloane behind.

He—that is, I—was still confused on Saturday. The day itself was quite lovely, the sort of pretty fall day you get in New England where the trees have all turned, but the sky is blue and the temperature decides to pretend it's still summer, or at least September. At least that's how it looked from the window. I, of course, was hiding in my bedroom again, pretending to study but really watching my mind whirl.

I wasn't sure what the consequences would be if I didn't propose to Sarah. I didn't think my folks would cut me off: after all, I was the only male heir and even if Dad would put aside his patrician sexism, Elsie had zero interest in finance. Still, it was a possibility, as was being forced to go to every one of Mom's black tie charity events for the entire summer or being forced to work in the mailroom instead of the trading desk at Dad's office.

But then I thought of how mechanical sex with Sarah could be and how my skin came alive at Pete's merest touch. And then the phone rang.

"I thought you were going to call me?"

Pete. My hands started to shake. "I was. I did. I mean, I will." Nice job, Sloane. "I was going to call later."

"How much later? It's already four." I thought I heard a touch of irritation in his voice.

I looked at the alarm clock next to my bed. 3:56 glowed back at me. Holy crap! Pete was right. I'd lost most of the day stuck in my own head.

"Anyway, get ready," he contained. "I'm coming by at 6, and we're going dancing."

"Ballroom dancing?" I blurted.

"Any kind of dancing. What does it matter? You spend too much time lost in your head and not enough time getting out and having fun."

"Have you been talking to my roommate?"

Pete laughed. "I don't need to, Tom. I can see it in every line of your body. So we're going to dance tonight, and you're going smile and let go. And then," he trailed off.

"And then what?" I said, suddenly breathless.

"And then we'll see." He laughed again. "See you at six."

My outfit was casual preppy with comfortable shoes. I'd shaved and made sure my hair looked neat, but I was pretty sure I hadn't gone overboard with my preparations—okay, maybe the hundred-dollar cologne Dad gave me for my last birthday was a little overboard, but I had to use the stuff sometime, right?

I would be calm, cool, and collected, ready to go out for a casual evening at six, or whenever Pete showed up. Or at least I would have been if Dave hadn't walked in at 5:45, carrying take-out Chinese and reeking of weed.

"Yo, Sloane," he said, and threw a wave in my direction before dropping down on the couch next to me and rooting around in the takeout bad. "You smell funny," he added, as Monkey materialized from nowhere and plumped himself into my lap.

"How can you tell?" I returned. "You smell way too much like nature."

"Whatever," he said, and was soon shoveling food-like substance from a white carton into his face with a pair of chopsticks.

Perfect. Now I was all ready to hit the town for a casual night of fun covered in cat hair and smelling like pot and week-old mu shu pork. I didn't see how it could get any worse until Dave took a break from his feast to look me over. "Who you going out with?"

"Huh?" I said, too stunned to answer.

"Not Sarah," he mumbled. "You don't do hair or cologne for Sarah. Is it your chippy?"

My luck. I have to room with the only pothead in Connecticut who turns into Sherlock Holmes when he's stoned. "Nunya," I said, trying a line I'd heard from a stand-up comedian.

He was suitably confused., and grunted.

"Nunya business," I replied.

"Suit yourself," he said, and went back to shoveling Chinese food in his face, while I sat and tried not to watch.

It didn't help that Pete was late. At six, Dave was still eating. At six-ten, he was belching. At six-fifteen, I decided I didn't want to know what he'd do next, so I decided to wait outside. At six-twenty Pete finally pulled up in his green Nissan Sentra. He started apologizing as soon as he got out of the car.

"Don't worry about it," I said, and smiled. He hadn't dressed as much as I had—to my cargo pants and butterfly-collar shirt, he wore jeans and a light green pullover—but he looked good, as always.

"I'm really sorry," he said again, as we hugged. "I didn't expect you to have to wait outside."

I laughed. "That had less to do with impatience than it did with my roommate's atrocious table manners and taste in food. So where are we headed?"

"You'll see," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief as he opened the passenger door for me. I slid in, my smile widening.

"I was picturing a club or a hall," I said. We stood in the middle of a small park, a couple of city blocks on each side. A few paths meandered through the scrubby grass, one with a rows of tree along it. In the center was a round basin that might have held a fountain if it wasn't empty of water.

"Clubs, pfui!" Pete said and took my hand. "I want to dance, not wade through clouds of sour sweat and rancid perfume." He led me into the basin and soon we were dancing, twirling across the tiled floor. With his arms on me, I felt as light as air, as if my feet moved me of their own will in intricate steps beyond my understanding.

I couldn't tell you how long we danced or whether anyone saw us, but I remember Pete kissing my neck and his breath in my ears until he finally whispered, "I think I love you," and the spell was broken. My feet faltered, and suddenly, I was Tom Sloane again, with responsibilities and expectations, and a woman I was supposed to propose to.

"I don't know what to say," I said as we stopped moving.

"You don't have to say anything," he said, understanding in his eyes, as they met mine. "I've been around enough to know that people don't fall in love at the same time. As long as I know you like me, there's still a chance for love."

"I do like you," I said. "I like you very much, and I'm happy when I'm with you. It's just—"

"Shh," he said and covered my lips with a kiss. "We don't need to talk about it now. Let's just go home."

I woke the next morning with his arm over me, our bodies nestled together. But this time, it was in my bed, which meant, at least to me that it was my turn to make breakfast. I slid out of bed, doing my best not to disturb Pete, pulled on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt, and headed to the kitchen.

I cut up a green pepper, diced half an onion, and got out a couple of frying pans, one large and one smaller. I buttered the smaller pan and put in link sausages, and laid several strips of bacon in the bottom of the longer pan. Once they were merrily frying away, I fished eggs out of the fridge, cracked six into a baking cup and beat them into a single consistency. Then I added the peppers and onions, a little milk and ground cinnamon, because I liked the scent.

Before the sausages and bacon were done, a figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. Unfortunately, it was Dave. "Hey," he said. "Chef Sloane busting out the mad breakfast skills. What are you making me?"

"Leave, if I can get it to work," I said.

"Cute," he said, sliding into one of the two chairs at the kitchen table. Monkey appeared from nowhere, as cats do, and Dave rubbed his back, to which he responded ecstatically. I continued frying sausages and bacon.

"I notice there's enough for more than one, Young Thomas," Dave grinned. "By your pleasant reaction, I'm guessing you're not taking pity on your poor roommate for his terrible eating habits, so I can only assume your evening out was a pleasant one."

I ground my teeth and kept my mouth shut, willing myself not to rise to his bait. Instead, I scooped the bacon from the pan and patted out the grease with a paper towel. I recovered the sausages and cut them up, before pouring the eggs into the vacated sausage pan, at which point Monkey gave an unholy howl and Dave shouted, "Shit!" I turned to see a blur of fur exiting the kitchen at warp speed, and Dave, cradling his hand an staring at Pete with naked shock.

"Uh, good morning," Pete said.

"What the fuck?" Dave said.

"Good morning, Pete," I said. "This is my roommate. Dave, this is my friend Pete." I turned back to the eggs, with a sour feeling in my stomach telling me that everything was about to go to shit.

"No, really, Sloane, this is a joke, right?" Dave snapped. "Where's your chippy?"

I let the eggs thicken a bit and then added the meat, before turning back to him. "You got your lines wrong," I said. "You're supposed to say. 'Hi, Pete. I'm Dave. I'm pleased to meet you.' Then you can make a snide joke about me, and we can have breakfast."

"I don't know what you're up to, but I don't want to be around to see it." I was surprised at the anger in my usually sardonic roommate's voice. "I'll be back when you get your head on straight," he added and stormed off.

For a moment, the only sound was the sizzling of the pan as I finished making the omelet. I dished up two plates as Monkey crept quietly back into the room. "Sorry about my roommate being an asshole," I said to Pete.

"Doesn't like the homos, does he?" Pete said, tone light as he took the chair Dave had vacated.

"Never thought about it before," I said. "It doesn't seem like the sort of thing that would bother him."

"You never know," Pete said, and now there was sadness in his voice. "My Mom and Dad are cool with me, but two of my brothers don't speak to me anymore." I didn't say anything, but I did put a hand on his arm. "Ah, fuck it," he said. "We had a nice night. Let's have a nice breakfast." We suited the action to the word.

While I cleaned up, Pete played with Monkey, who if his freight-train purring was any indication, loved every minute of it. After that we took a walk. We didn't say anything much, really, but I know I enjoyed the feeling off closeness, of being together, much more than I ever had with Sarah. He left me on my doorstep with a kiss and a promise to call. As his car pulled away, I thought about what he'd said last night and whether it was really that long a leap from like to love.

Dave didn't reappear until well after dinner, by which time I'd been buried in the books for several hours. Thanksgiving was approaching and with it the due dates for several papers. The closer I got to done now, the less sleep I would have to sacrifice later. Mind you, microloans might be exciting for third-world economies, but they were not at all thrilling to read about, so I wasn't engrossed enough to miss Dave's entry, or the clunk of something landing on the coffee table next to my book.

"What's that?" I said, looking up.

"Keys," he grunted. "You'll want the extras back. I'll give you mine back on Friday when I come get my stuff."

"What are you talking about?" I said.

"I'm moving out. Don't worry. I'll pack in the afternoons when you're at class." He gave me a nasty look. "I wouldn't want to disturb you and your boy toy."

I felt a sudden stab. I wasn't sure I liked Dave much any more, but we'd been good friends at Fielding, and for the most part, living together had worked well for us. "Can we at least talk about this?"

"What is there to talk about? You and your faggot boyfriend can make gay love all over the apartment, and I won't have to be near you or think about it."

Before I knew it, I was in his face, nose to nose. "How dare you talk like that?"

Instead of answering, he said, "I gotta say, though. I knew you were an uptight weirdo, but I never figured you'd take it up the ass. You think you know a guy." With that, he was gone, leaving me to collapse back on to the couch, panting with the aftershocks. Sometimes, I still wonder if he realized how close he came to getting his nose broken.

Dave was true to his word. I saw neither hide nor hair of him the whole week, although every day when I came home, more of his stuff had disappeared from the common areas. Meanwhile, I was busy juggling dates with Pete and Sarah, which would have made me uncomfortable if I let it.

I'd gone out with Sarah on Wednesday, and unusually, she'd claimed Friday night, which was okay in that I was seeing Pete on Saturday, but weird in that she was generally okay with one date a week. As I was getting ready,

I heard a series of thumps. I poked my head out the door to see a guy I didn't recognize holding two boxes.

"I guess he was really serious," I muttered, as the guy, and the boxes, disappeared through the door. Dave appeared a moment later, followed by another guy I didn't know. Neither acknowledged me, so I went back to getting ready.

When I went back into the living room, dressed and ready for the date, they were gone, along with the coffee table, the television, and some ugly prints I'd always hated. The couch was still there, and somewhat surprisingly, so was Monkey. Dave had been the one to bring him home from the shelter two years ago, but apparently, he was staying with me, at least for now. With a sigh, I dropped down on the couch next to him, and began scratching between his ears.

Looking at the space where the television used to be, I finally let myself think about what I was doing. I was the next best thing to engaged, and involved in a relationship on the side—a relationship with a man. And that relationship had cost me one of my oldest friendships. Okay, it really wasn't much of a friendship anymore, but Dave and I went all the way back to boarding school together. He'd been there for me any number of times, and now he was gone—because I was having sex with a man.

Of course, I wasn't just "having sex" with Pete, I was falling in love with him. And I was pretty sure that Angier and Kay Sloane's plan for their only begotten son didn't involve a boyfriend. Not marrying Sarah might not get me cut off, but I was sure that embarrassing the family by running off for a life of sodomy with his dancing teacher would do the job.

I don't remember how long I sat there petting the cat and asking myself what I was going to do, before a knock at the door reminded me about Sarah. With a sigh, I heaved myself up and answered the door. Sarah stepped in for a hug, but stopped.

"You going off the grid, Tom?" she said, eyes on the spot where the television had been.

I quickly considered a dozen white lies and discarded them all. "Dave moved out."

"Did he give you a reason? Or was it one of his nouveau riche whims?"

"I don't know what got into him," I said, somewhat truthfully. I would never have expected Dave, or anyone who survived an all-boys boarding school, to be that homophobic. "He freaked out at me on Sunday and said he'd be moved out by Friday. And he is."

"Good," she said, with a firm nod, anyway. "I never liked him. He's vulgar and self-satisfied, and thinks far too much of himself. And he left the only good thing about him behind," she added, settling down next to Monkey where I'd just been sitting.

I tried to hide my surprise. Sarah had never paid much attention to Monkey before. "Did you want to stay here or go out?"

"Let's stay in," she said. "We can get delivery and maybe watch a movie or something. Is Indian okay?"

"As long as it's not Chinese," I muttered, thinking of Dave's frequent pseudofood feasts.

I made the appropriate phone call and within a half-hour, Indian food had appeared. I popped a DVD on—Babe, I think—and we settled down to serious eating. When Sarah finished, she surprised me by resting her head against my shoulder. It felt...nice. Not as nice as Pete's did, but it hardly an imposition. I tried to picture our life together: a big house back in Lawndale or some other Baltimore suburb; me working at a brokerage house while she did the social whirl; our two or three children raised to privilege. It almost seemed pleasant—but it also seemed dull.

"Tom?" she said, the first words either of us had said in awhile.

"Yes, Sarah?"

She lifted her head from my shoulder and looked me in the eye. "You like me, don't you?"

"Of course I like you," I said.

"Good," she said. "I like you too." She put her head back on my shoulder as if that settled something.

I tried to settle back to the movie, but something spurred me. "I know we've talked about this before, but why would you ask that?"

"Well, you know." She sighed heavily, but before I could ask what I knew, she added.,"It's just that so many couples like us—couples with money—don't actually like each other. I don't mind not being in love, but I don't think I could take it if we didn't even like each other."

"You don't need to worry about that, Sarah," I said. "I like you very much." Of course, I was in love with someone else, but she didn't need to know that.

The next three weeks were both the happiest and most uncomfortable of my life. I spent at least three days a week with Pete, which was a joy. He took me to the ballet; I took him to the opera. We danced, we sang, we ate glorious meals, we drank expensive wines. We made love over and over, and each time was more electric than the last. But I was still committed to Sarah—and I still hadn't told him I loved him.

Everything finally came to a head the Sunday before Thanksgiving. It was our last date before Pete left for Manhattan on Wednesday—he was spending the holiday with friends of his there. After a quiet dinner at a French restaurant I knew, we took a walk along the river. Watching the water rush down toward the sound, I wondered if I was being swept toward some unknown future, and if I could do anything to hold it back.

Pete put a hand on my shoulder, and I turned toward him, leaning in for a kiss. He leaned away. "Tom," he said, and my heart started hammering. "I love you, but but I can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?" I said, stalling. I might as well have trying to stop the river.

I saw the first flash of genuine anger I'd ever seen in his eyes. "You know damn well what," he said. "Don't play the fool, or I'll think you don't respect."

"I do respect you," I said. "You're an incredible person, and I'm lucky to be with you."

"But you're not," he said and looked away and toward the river. "I've tried to be patient and understanding, because I know how hard it is to come out—to let go of who you were before and start over. I didn't ask you to talk to your parents or break up with Sarah right away because I didn't want to hurt you, and I didn't want to scare you off. But I love you, and I can't hide anymore."

"What are you saying?" I said, breathless with fear. Was I losing him right here, right now?

"I'm saying that you have to decide who you want to be. Are you going to be Tom Sloane the financier, with a blonde wife, two-point-three kids, and a BMW in the driveway and another in the garage, or are you going to be my lover and my partner?"

"Do I have to decide right away?" I said, before I could stop myself. When I saw the hurt in his eyes, I wanted to die on the spot.

"You need to tell your parents and you need to tell Sarah about us," he said. "And you need to not hurt me again like that or we can end this right here."

"I'm sorry," I said, voice breaking. "I'm so sorry. I never want to hurt you." I tried to take his hand but he pulled it away, and we walked back to the car in silence.

"What now?" I said as we pulled up to his door after an endless, silent drive.

"I'll see you in a week. You tell me what happens after that."

Before I could answer, he was out of the car and up the walk.

In class on Tuesday, Pete didn't say a word or even approach me. It was probably for the best, since I wouldn't have been very coherent. I hadn't slept more than three hours in the last forty. I spent the time wrestling with the choice before me: love or security; serve myself or keep my word. How easy it looks in retrospect; how hard it was at the time.

I wanted Pete, I knew I wanted Pete,but I never quite got as far as telling anyone. Several times, I got as far as picking up the phone, but the dial tone always seemed to turn into my mother's voice haranguing me for "not living up to my name." I never touched a number.

I spend a lonely Thanksgiving with store-bought turkey breast and bad television before meeting Sarah for dinner on Friday. "This is it," I kept telling myself over and over on the way to her place. "I have to decide." Pete would be back tomorrow, and if I hadn't told Sarah by then, he was going to leave me.

I was shaking by the time I got to her place, but if she noticed, she was good enough not to say anything. We took in the symphony before a late dinner at her favorite high-end Mexican place. She let me twist in the wind over the entrees before striking over margaritas. "So what's got you all wound up, Tom? You're not proposing tonight, are you?"

"I'm not— what— I didn't— I'm not wound up," I said.

"Of course," she said. "That's why you haven't successfully completed a sentence all night. I had to admit, she had me there.

"I'm not proposing," I said. "I just.. have something on my mind."

She took a dainty sip of her drink. "I didn't think so," she said. "You wouldn't be nearly this nervous if you were. After all, proposing isn't a big deal." She laughed, but it was hollow to my eyes. "Telling me about your lover, though," she added, "that's got to be a challenge."

I drained off half my drink at once. "What are you talking about?" I said, all righteous indignation. "I haven't been with another woman since we got serious."

"Ah," she said, and took another dainty sip. "So it's that way."

"You're starting to piss me off," I said, even as I felt my stomach drop. "Cut it out with the hints and innuendos."

She seemed to take no notice of me, but started speaking as if to herself. "At first, I thought it was a woman from that dance class, but when Dave moved out so suddenly, I figured a man was a possibility. After all, he probably would have been happy for you to hook up with another woman, the sleaze. I didn't know, though, until right now."

"What do you mean?" Even in my shock, I wondered why everyone I knew seemed to be a detective out of a mystery novel.

"Come on, Tom. You're a terrible liar, even when you're choosing words like a wannabe lawyer."

"I told the truth," I said.

She sighed, and took a much bigger sip this time. "Of course you did. You could honestly say you hadn't been with a woman, but you couldn't honestly say you hadn't cheated. So you said what you said."

"Fine," I said, waiting for the worst and picturing my mother's anger and father's stiff upper lip disappointment. "So what do you want to do about it?"

"Dance a jig?" she said, and smiled more widely than I'd ever seen her.

"What are you— I don't— Can you—" I was back to babbling.

"Come on, Tom," she laughed. "I don't expect you to be faithful. I just expect you to be decent."

"So it doesn't bother you that I'm bisexual?" I blurted it out, but at the same time, I realized it was true. "It sent Dave around the bend."

"Dave's an asshole," she said. "He learned to be an asshole from his asshole father. I'm surprised your father even let you hang around with him. My father certainly wouldn't have."

I felt a flare of curiosity—I clearly knew less about my former best friend's father than my girlfriend did—but I ignored it. "Forget him," I said. "You're okay with marrying me while I'm in a long-term relationship with another man?"

"Better that than a woman," she said, and of all things, winked. "You can't get a man pregnant, and he can't sue for paternity."

I drained the rest of my glass, just as the waiter walked by. I ordered two more. "My head hurts," I said, apropos of nothing.

"I keep forgetting how naïve you are. Rich people have affairs. It's what we do. Hell, poor people have affairs, too, but we codify it. As long as we're discrete, no one is going to care."

The new drinks arrived. I gulped at mine. "You expect to cheat too?" I asked.

"That's a pretty hypocritical question," she said, eyes narrowing. "You're the one who's got himself a boy toy, not me."

"He's not a toy," I said.

"Neither am I."

"No. No, you're not." I leaned forward and took her hand. "It just all seems seems so ruthless to me. I can't imagine my mother being party to something like this."

"Really?" She arched an eyebrow. "Because I'm willing to bet you had one incompetent servant or groundskeeper, someone who had a job that you knew, but who you never saw doing it. A pool boy or landscaper, when the pool was dirty or the bushes not always trim."

I started to protest, but I remembered one guy, young and handsome, but not very useful. He was supposed to maintain the stables, but we only ever had the one horse. I blushed a vivid red, and Sarah laughed.

"I can't believe my father would put up with that!"

"Oh, really," she said. "Old Pip Pip and All That Rot Angier? Angier who thinks he's the Duke of Marlborough? Did you ever wonder why he affects that accent? Or how he met my father?"

I was thoroughly at sea. "They met at school. This school."

"Not quite," she said. "They were lovers at school. Angier thinks of himself as peer, and every good British peer goes both ways."

"Oh, come on!" I said. "That's—"

"Ridiculous?" Her grin was even wider if that was possible. "You never kissed a boy at boarding school?"

"Well, no— I mean, yes— that is—" My head was spinning as I stammered out, "How the hell do you know all this?"

The look she gave me mingled pity with the amusement. "My family talks to each other, and not just when there are odors involved."

There wasn't much to say after that. I dropped Sarah off and drove home in a daze. When I woke up, my mind was still in a whirl. I eventually stumbled into the living room, where I sat on the couch and tried to process everything Sarah had told me last night. Meanwhile, Monkey purred.

Gradually, an idea emerged from my confusion. I wasn't expected to be faithful. I was making a lifelong commitment, true, but not one that precluded other commitments. Hadn't Sarah actually told me that having a male lover would be better? And that meant, that meant, I didn't have to give anything up. I could be Thomas Sloane, the financier's son, the American aristocrat, and Pete's lover Tom, who danced in fountains, sang karaoke, and made love with abandon.

When it finally filtered all the way through my consciousness, I wanted to jump for joy. I settled for picking Monkey up and swinging him around in my arms, ignoring his indignant yowls. "I'm free!" I shouted. "Free!" More fool me.

We met at the same Starbucks where we first had coffee. I liked the symmetry, and I hoped he did too. He was already sitting when I got there, and when I approached, his face looked all closed up. "Well?"

"It's okay" I said, smiling as I sat. "They know."

"And how did Sarah take it?" His tone was even, and his face still closed.

"Well," I said. "She took it well. She really surprised me." The understatement of the year.

A slow smile spread across his face, warming me inside. "That's wonderful," he said. He reached across the table and took my hand. "I really didn't think you'd do it."

"I wasn't sure I could, but Sarah made it easy for me." I smiled. "Turns out she knew about us all along."

"And she didn't let you have it?"

"No," I said. "She was totally understanding. It's a rich people thing."

His eyes met mine, and I took a deep shuddering breath. "I can't believe it," he said. "I can't wait for you to meet my friends. I can't wait for us to do lots of things."

"Me too," I said. "I'll be tied up for awhile after graduation, but once the wedding is over, we'll have all the time in the world." I didn't notice his face falling.

"Wedding? Don't you think this is a little soon?"

"It'll be a year or more, but we'll still get to see each other. We just won't get to see each as much as well will after it's over. I'm going to have to spend more time with Sarah until we're married is all."

He draw back his hand and his face closed up again, like a thundercloud filling the sky. "What do you mean? You're still marrying Sarah?"

"It's just for show. I have to play house with her, but I get to be with you. Isn't that..." I trailed off, seeing the anger growing in his eyes.

"Isn't it what? Wonderful that I get to be your piece on the side? Your mistress?" He was shouting by the last word.

"No! Sarah and I are the sham. My real life is with you! But I don't have to choose! Don't you see how wonderful that is?"

"Wonderful? More like cowardly. I need a partner," he said, "someone I can share my life with and who can share their life with me. I'm not going to be be Tom Sloane's guilty secret—a part of someone else's life that can't be talked about or invited over for the holidays. I thought you could understand that!"

"I did! I do!" I pled.

"You don't," he said, and stood. "Good-bye, Tom."

"Don't leave," I screamed. "Oh, please don't leave! I love you!"

But he was gone.

He wasn't at class the next week either, or for the rest of the semester. I finished with the grades my parents expected, and Sarah got her ring on our last date before Christmas. The wedding, a year later, was suitably spectacular, but truth to tell, I don't really remember any of it—not the way I remember his hand on my back and his arms around me as we danced, or the feel of waking up next to him.

My name is Tom Sloane and I'm thirty-three years old. I've been married for ten years, and I have two children, a boy and a girl. I'm remarkably faithful, at least for the circles I move in. Sarah and I still share the same bedroom and still do our duties to each other every week or so. I don't have a mistress and I don't treat every charity ball and gala as a opportunity to score.

But every few weeks, I rent an expensive hotel room and get myself an escort. Sometimes I'm rough, and sometimes I'm gentle. Sometimes I stay and cuddle and sometimes I send him away immediately. But every single time, I curl up in a ball in the rented king-size bed and and wonderful he is and whether he's happy. And than I say his name, "Pete," and cry myself to sleep.

Author's Note:

Another story I've had laying around and haven't uploaded. This started as a challenge by tafka on PPMB to write an angsty story with a cat, a dance class, and a romance. I came up with this.