Page 14 of The Liar's Reckoning

“Do I have time to shower?” I ask because I have no idea where we’re going.

“I need to regardless,” Eric says, by far the sweatiest of the three of us.

“All right, come on, let’s make it quick.” Drew is the oldest and has big dad energy. He’s also permanently grumpy. His life isn’t turning out the way he wants, which just makes him another member of the biggest club ever.

My mom just got out of the hospitalagain—third trip this year, and while Medicare pays some of the bills, it doesn’t cover everything. I can’t remember the last time I got a decent night’s sleep, and I’m supposed to head to Queens this weekend to give my aunt a break and do some meal prep for the two of them.

Stress is part of my bloodstream now. It’s my heartbeat. So automatic I don’t notice it anymore. I don’t even flinch when the doctors and nurses say she might not make it next time. And none of that is because I want her to die, or it’ll be a relief when it’s over—I don’t think it will be—but because I’m numb to it. It’s another notation on a list of shit I can’t do anything about. So fucking what? All I care about is whether she’s comfortable or not—are they doing everything they can so she’s not suffering or alone or struggling to breathe?

Death’s doorstep or not—they know what’s wrong with her. They can’t fix her, but they can sure as hell make her breathe easier.

Eric asks about her as we take our seats at a nearby Chipotle with our burrito bowls. His auburn hair is shoved back from his freckled face, blue eyes bright as he scoops a large bite into his mouth.

“She must be in good spirits,” I tell him. “She sent me a long ass shopping list for this weekend.”

“You spending the night out there?” Drew asks, devouring his chips and guac.

Our apartment has three beds to fit four grown men. I’m not sure that’s why he’s asking, but I nod to let him know I’ll be out most of the weekend. Tomorrow night, I have a date set up through the escort service with a client who always requests me when he’s in town.

He’s quite a bit older—in his fifties—and he runs a tech company in Silicon Valley. He comes to New York a few times a year to meet with investors and cheat on his wife. Four hours, dinner, a few blow jobs powered by Cialis, and I’m one grand richer for about fifteen minutes before the next major expense pops up. This time it’ll be the home care nurse benefitting from my hard efforts. “I’ll be back Sunday,” I tell them.

“You look rough, buddy,” Eric says.

I rub my face because I feel it, too. “Yeah. Won’t last forever, though. I’ll sleep when I’m dead, right?”

Our other roommate Christian has a birthday coming up, and we discuss plans for that—who to invite, where to get together, how to make all our crazy schedules work. Of all the guys, Christian’s probably my best friend—not because I’ve known him the longest—that honor goes to Eric—but because he and I are the most alike.

We do what we have to do to make things work without worrying too much about how it’ll all end up. Also, he was there for me when things ended with Ben, and I lost my ability to match socks and shave for a month. He even helped pick up some of my slack out in Queens by making sure Mom’s fridge was stocked, and the house was clean.

In the apartment, whenever bed sharing has to happen, it’s usually him and me bunking up together. I’m not a huge fan of sleeping alone. Never have been. Chris isn’t a cuddler, but he doesn’t mind the fact that I like our shoulders or asses touchingwhen I fall asleep. Drew and Eric are straight, but Chris is “flexible,” although I’ve only ever seen him date women.

We all have a Wednesday off two weeks from now, so that’s the date we settle on for the party, even though it’s a few days before Christian’s actual birthday. “Is he seeing anybody right now?” Eric asks, finishing his bowl first and sipping at the dregs of his drink.

“Not that I know of,” I say, “But that could change. He’s been wanting to go out more.”

“You should join him,” Drew says, his tattooed forearms flexing as he props his chin on his hands. “You need to get out more, too. I’m surprised your cock isn’t starting to atrophy.”

Little does he know…

Eric snorts. “I’d play wing man, but I’ve got finals.” He’s about to finish his master’s in finance, and then he’s headed for Wall Street. He spends most of his time either working, in class, or at the NYU library. Soon, he’ll be living in one of the buildings where guys like us man the door.

Once upon a time, I used to have dreams—becoming a physical therapist, climbing Everest, living in the suburbs and having a family or at least a few dogs, but life took a different turn when Mom got sick, so here I stay—hustling.

I’m not unhappy, though. Not like Drew who thought he was gonna move to the city and become an overnight success as a model before realizing New York doesn’t work like that for most people. Granted, when Ben dumped me, I wasn’t sure I’d bounce back from that, but I’ve learned to take life a day at a time, enjoy the nice moments, and keep my dreams to a minimum.

We wrap up dinner and go our separate ways. Drew and I both work tonight, and we part at 71stand Lexington. I work in a building called Hanover Gardens, named for the courtyard at its center, which is really nice considering it’s surrounded by a bunch of concrete and glass. Hanover is off Park Avenue, so the residents don’t get the fancy view, but they do pay extra for awindow overlooking the courtyard. It’s an eight-floor building with thirty-two large units and one elevator.

The residents fall mostly into two categories—old, retired couples or brand new families just starting out. They’re a couple blocks away from some of the best schools on the Upper East Side—the kind with soul-crushing waitlists and silent fundraising auctions—as if the tuitions aren’t high enough.

I’ve worked here for six years, so I’ve got the lay of the land. The people who live in this neighborhood are obviously rich as shit, but lower on the society totem pole than where Drew and Chris work over on Park. Drew’s building—The Eastmoor—has a whole bunch of famous people in it, and Chris’s building—Gramercy Place is chock full of plastic surgeons and Wall Street traders.

Hanover is old. A few of the units are still rent-controlled and usually left to someone in a will. Those that aren’t cost a small monthly fortune and are mostly occupied by people with some association with Broadway. Actors, directors, producers who come and go.We have some lawyers and doctors, too. Everyone’s on a first-name basis, and it’s an extremely easy union job that pays well and provides health insurance.

There’s not much of a lobby to speak of, more of a hallway leading to the vestibule where the elevator and mailboxes are. In short, there’s not much of a place for a doorman to be, but we get a small set up—enough room to set down a phone and clipboard for notes at hand-off and a stool to sit on. You fall asleep on the job, you fall off the stool. I tend to pace. Sometimes I get really bored and do lunges.

Raphael is waiting with a tense look on his face when I come in for my shift. “What’s up?”

“The move in isnotgoing well.”

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