I knew that I wanted to kiss her again. I knew that I wanted to touch her. But I didn’t know exactly what I was supposed to do or how it was supposed to work. It was easy to think of that one kiss in a dark laundry room as a fluke. It wasn’t even that hard to tell myself that the feelings I had for her were simply platonic.
As long as I only indulged my thoughts about Celia sometimes, then I could tell myself it wasn’t real. Homosexuals were misfits. And while I didn’t think that made them bad people—after all, I loved Harry like a brother—I wasn’t ready to be one of them.
So I told myself that the spark between Celia and me was just a quirk we had. Which was convincing as long as it remained quirky.
Sometimes reality comes crashing down on you. Other times reality simply waits, patiently, for you to run out of the energy it takes to deny it.
And that is what happened to me one Saturday morning when Celia was in the shower and I was making eggs.
There was a knock at the door, and when I opened it, I saw the only face I was happy to see on that side of the threshold.
“Hi, Harry,” I said, leaning in to hug him. I was careful not to get my runny spatula on his nice oxford shirt.
“Look at you,” he said. “Cooking!”
“I know,” I said as I moved out of the way and invited him in. “Hell has frozen over, I guess. Would you like some eggs?”
I led him toward the kitchen. He peeked into the pan. “How well have you mastered breakfast?” he asked.
“If you’re asking if your eggs will be burned, the answer is probably.”
Harry smiled and put a large, heavy envelope on the dining room table. The thwap it made as it hit the wood was all the clue I needed to what it contained.
“Let me guess,” I said. “I’m getting a divorce.”
“It would appear you are.”
“On what grounds? I assume his lawyers didn’t check the boxes for adultery or cruelty.”
“Abandonment.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Clever.”
“The grounds don’t matter. You know that.”
“I know.”
“You should read through it, have a lawyer read through it. But there’s essentially one big highlight.”
“Tell me.”
“You get the house and your money and half of his.”
I looked at Harry as if he was trying to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge. “Why would he do that?”
“Because you are forbidden to talk to anyone at any time about anything that
happened during your marriage.”
“Is he also forbidden?”
Harry shook his head. “Not in writing, no.”
“So I can’t talk, and he can blab all over town? What makes him think I’ll go for that?”
Harry looked down at the table for a moment and then back up at me, sheepish.
“Sunset’s dropping me, aren’t they?”
