Page 38 of In Frame
He’d share photographs of Leo Whyte with Jameson and a few others, depending on exclusivity and price. He’d seehisLeo spread out across tabloid pages for money. As expected. As Leo also expected.
He thought that maybe if he sent a message just to say,We’re over the ocean and I thought about your sparkly fish-shaped pillow and I thought you would make a good merman,Leo would laugh and come up with something wonderfully weird and instantly clever to say right back, something imaginative about growing kelp or herding clownfish or organizing a protect-the-oceans charity Shakespeare reading; Sam did know about the kitten adoption and children’s hospital and youth theater events.
He did not have in-flight internet, not having paid for it. He would’ve texted Leo, though. He wanted to.
Hecouldtext Leo Whyte. Because Leo wanted him to. Because he was allowed to. He’d been given that. Whatever they were to each other, whatever they’d been or might be, they were something. Together.
He could try sending a message with some thoughts about mermen and sparkly fish-shaped pillows after they landed. Leo would be happy, he thought, if he did. He liked that idea.
Chapter 4: Connections
Leo, up far earlier than usual, found himself with a great deal of time to kill before the afternoon press circus over at the historic Langman Hotel, and therefore wandered around his house for a while, needing to be in motion.
He considered opening his front door and waving to anyone present. He wasn’t Colby, but he wasn’t entirely uninteresting, either, and there’d be at least two or three paparazzi camping out the morning after a premiere and an after-party. But thinking about the camera-carrying horde made him think about Sam, and he didn’t want to be photographed by anyone but Sam at this precise moment.
He truly didn’t. He felt like himself, and not like himself. Like some new version of himself. Turned inside-out and shakenandstirred.
He found himself in his bedroom. He regarded his bed, with new resplendent memories of Sam. He did not make his bed, and it did not mind.
He peeked into his bathroom and stared at his shower: at the knowledge of Sam having stood there, having helped scrub his back, having been real.
He got fuzzy polka-dotted socks out of a drawer and went downstairs, keeping the curtains drawn. He made more tea, the autopilot usual English Breakfast blend—he had more exciting varieties, but his mother always had English Breakfast in the mornings, and Leo’s head associated it with coziness and routine—and put sugar in it.
He found his laptop and opened his email, sitting cross-legged on his sofa with a mug in one hand, and contemplated emails from his agent, press tour schedules, interview requests, invitations to a convention or two.
He generally liked conventions. He liked hugging fansand hearing what they had to say about his characters, particularly some of the most inventive theories about how Del the villainous space wizard might return from being trapped in a time vortex. Leo knew that the minds behind that particular British-institution science fiction show did indeed want him back; the writers were working on it, and he’d happily don over-the-top swooping robes and headgear again and run around menacing time and space.
He wondered whether Sam had ever seen any of his episodes. Sam liked science fiction, right? At least the children’s cartoon version.
He wondered whether any of those conventions requesting his presence might take place in or near Las Vegas. He spent some time looking up science-fiction fan gatherings, and then the prices of luxury hotels in Vegas. Ones with large pillow-topped beds.
Hewantedto see Sam again. He wanted more. He wanted so many things that they got into his chest and stomach and throat and tangled up there.
Sunshine, now fully present and chasing off fog, snuck through curtains to flood across his laptop, his knee, his sofa.
Sam had liked his sofa. His decorating sense. His accents of color, sequins, comfort.
He’d had sex with Sam. Splendid, incandescent, rhapsodic sex. He’d had sex with a man, and liked it, and been aroused by the feel and taste and rush of their bodies fitting together.
He was almost certainly not straight, he concluded. Or not exclusively straight. Not that he’d thought he was. Or at least he hadn’t been opposed to theideaof not being straight. He simply…hadn’t thought about it much. Until now. When he had to look his sexuality in the face. As it were.
Sam had a very lovely face. Very kissable.
He said to his laptop, experimentally, “I might be gay?” His laptop shrugged back, electronic support of whatever identity Leo chose to explore.
He drummed fingers beside the keys. “You’re no help. But thanks.”
So, he thought. What would help? Or, specifically, who?
He eyed his phone. He picked it up, tossing it from hand to hand.
Twenty minutes later, standing outside Colby’s building, he textedHave you got clothing on yet?that direction. The neighborhood, leafy and literary and museum-decorated, widened eyes at Leo Whyte’s lime-green bomber jacket in bemused but well-mannered welcome. Leo had always thought Colby Kentwouldlive someplace exactly like this: quiet and quietly full of quirky architectural detail and tidbits of history, discreetly expensive without showing off, unless one counted havingthatmany books as showing off.
He’d evaded paparazzi eyeballs successfully, having taken the same exit strategy he’d offered to Sam; he’d told Carolyn, his own driver, to go and have the rest of the day off, since he’d no idea how long he’d be, and he could get a ride over to the press event with Colby and Jason if necessary. The vultures and their cameras were not permitted outside Colby’s building; devoted security saw to that. He knew there’d be some random gossip items—Leo Whyte Visits Gay Co-Stars Post-Premiere! Potential Polyamory?—but that much was unavoidable, and anyway Colby and Jason would be entertained by the rumors.
Colby answered his text withWe’re perfectly decent at the moment, if you were serious about dropping by for brunch! Tell us when to expect you.
This time Leo called instead of texting. “About that…”
