What if this is the worst idea?
I may be struggling as an artist in New York, but I'm a great doorman. Is it the easiest job in the city? Probably. And it gives my mind all the time it needs to wander. Sometimes to my current project or muse, but more often to the one who got away. I was the one he used to reach for in the middle of the night when the nightmares came. My adopted brother, once not much more than a stranger, became my closest friend during one of the most difficult times of his life. Now home from years overseas as a journalist, Fischer is back in his apartment on the Upper East Side where I man the door most evenings, adjusting to his life as a single dad. I've missed him, and at least that feeling is mutual. The other feelings I have for Fischer aren't something we talk about or even acknowledge. No. He only rubs my back to help me sleep. We cuddle up to watch TV. We touch because he needs it, and I crave it. Then, with a single kiss eight years in the making, we unleash a love that could grind both our lives to dust.
