Page 7 of Coffee and Tea

“He hated me then and he’ll hate me now.”

“Want to explain?”

Simon grumbled wordlessly, not moving the arm. “No. Fine. All right, yes, you know me and…you know the sorts of things I used to get up to. If I couldn’t be the good son, I’d be the exact opposite, and all that.”

“Yes…?”

“Every single thing I did shocked him. It was like being watched by the teenage ghost of a Puritan minister. If the Puritan minister in question was the prettiest person you’d ever met, very very gay but totally a virgin, and horrified by even the concept of misbehaving. Like he never knew how to be less than sweet and shy and polite and perfect and…” Simon waved his hand, put the arm back in its place. Like Colby Kent, he had blue eyes; but Colby’s were darker, midnight flowers under long-lashed frames, versus Simon’s summer-sky sunshine and gold. Ben had always loved that about his husband: brightness, radiance, nothing bashful or hidden away. Purely vividly himself, drawing every gaze like a magnet.

Ben, out of everyone in the world, had been lucky enough to be drawn all the way in. To be here with Simon now, and forever. Since the night they’d met, a reconnaissance mission—no action, nothing direct—and a coincidentally timed book signing, crackling electricity and a hotel room, a hidden just-in-case gun and Simon’s ability to trip and knock over a bag in dramatic fashion. The way that Simon had never been afraid of him, demanding an answer but not backing down. Ben’s matching other half from the start of it all.

Simon finished, about Colby Kent, “…and fucking flawless. It was awful. I knew he was judging me, so I made a point of inviting him to clubs, parties, underground raves, kinky sex shows—or into threesomes in a coatroom—just to see him panic and drop whatever book he was reading and run away. And then I’d make a joke about it. To other people. Which he knew.”

Ben said, still very very tactful about it, “Oh.”

“I’m terrible. I know. But it was like looking in a mirror, except the mirror was a better human being and despised me.”

“He’s probably different now. You’re different now.”

“I told him he was the most boring person I’d ever met and an absolute waste of perfect lips, as I recall.”

“Okay, so…probably not great, no. But that was, what, twenty years ago?”

“Closer to fifteen,” Simon muttered. “I’m younger than you. So’s he. He’ll remember.”

“Do you want to not go to this gala? I’m fine with not going.” He eyed the invitation again. “We can just send them some money.”

“No, because it helps—and yes, I’m being cynical about it—if I show up in person. Celebrity. Visibility. And I’m not scared of Colby Kent.”

“You did just say you literally couldn’t go.”

“I just…” Simon moved the arm, and managed to smack it into couch-cushions, and then his own stomach. Ben reached down, found his wrist, put his own hand around petite flyaway bones. A restraint, an anchor, an echo of cuffs and ties. Soothing, steadying. Simon exhaled. “I should apologize to him.”

“If you think you need to.”

“I’m trying to be a better person.” Simon looked at his wrist, Ben’s hand. “I want to be a better person. I like the person I am, now. I’m so much happier. I truly am.”

“He seems pretty nice,” Ben said. “In interviews, doing press. He’s married—you know that, it was a whole big love story.” It had been. Falling in love on a film set, working on that gorgeous period drama Steadfast. Colby’s bubbly sweetness and action star Jason Mirelli’s muscles and their obvious sizzling chemistry. Colby’s injuries on set, and Jason’s devotion to staying at his side. The way they’d gazed at each other, touched each other, smiled like sunrises, at their movie premiere.

The shameless romantic in him had followed every drop of news, and had quietly cheered Colby and Jason on. “So he’s happy now, too. In love and being loved and all. He’ll probably listen, if you apologize and mean it.”

“He’ll hate me, and he’ll want revenge, and he’ll throw a plate of tiny fancy cheese at me, and I’ll deserve it, and the evening’ll be a disaster, and it’ll be my fault.”

“I really don’t think,” Ben said, “that Colby Kent is going to throw tiny cheese at anyone.”

“Well, I don’t want him to. Actually maybe I do. Maybe I’d feel better.”

“Would you like me to throw cheese at you? I think we’ve got cheddar.”

“Can you kill someone with a block of cheddar? You can, can’t you?”

“I’ve never personally tried.” He considered this, suggested, “There was a mission in Rome that ended in a shoot-out in a kitchen, and one of my team lost her weapon and then hit an enemy operative with an entire wheel of Parmesan cheese. And I never told you that.”

“Oh my God,” Simon said, staring at him. “I want that in a book. Some sort of contemporary action romance. The Spy who Came in from the Cold Kitchen. The Spy who Loved Parmesan. The Big Cheese. Please. Can I have that story?”

“No, because only four people know it. Ask me again in eight years. It might be declassified by then.”

“Eight whole years. When The Cheese Is Not Enough is right there as a sexy spy-and-chef adventure romance title.”

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