Butterfly Tattoo by Deidre Knight Page B

truly your issue right now. Julian Kingsley’s novel?”
    “No.” Air almost goes out of the room as my anger deflates, and with it my energy. I drop back onto his sofa hopelessly.
    “I didn’t think so.” Carefully removing his wireframes, he folds them together. “You’re in an awful mood. This is toppers even for your worst days.”
    “You should’ve shown me the proposal, and I’m still pissed about it.”
    “Look.” He rises from the desk, prying my empty scotch glass out of my hand. “I wasn’t being underhanded, all right? I just knew how much you dislike him.”
    “I’ve never met him.”
    Trevor pads into the adjoining dark living room, finds the crystal decanter, and refills my glass. There’s the sound of tinkling ice cubes, and I realize he’s stocked the bucket just for me. Or someone else? Did Trevor have a date over this evening? Suspicion’s hard to shake once it has taken root.
    “You can stay the night on the settee,” he offers as he returns, tapping my crystal glass with his fingertips significantly. In other words, I can drink myself silly if that’s what I want. “But first, I’m going to tell you about Jules and his novel, and then you’re going to tell me all that’s wrong in your world tonight.”
    “Absolutely everything.” I sigh, sinking back into the dark brown leather sofa, feeling the familiar dips and mounds beneath me. “And I’m sorry for being such a bitch.”
    “Oh, I doubt you’ve a bitchy bone in your body.” He drops onto the sofa beside me. “You’re just complex. Like the rest of us around here, aren’t you?”
    “My life might be getting a whole lot more complex.”
    “How’s that?”
    “I’ve met someone, unbelievable as that might be.”
    An elegant black eyebrow shoots upward, questioning as he laughs. “Second thought, let’s start with you and wrap with Jules.”
     
    I try to think of a good way to frame it, but there simply isn’t one. So I just blurt, “It’s Heavenly Handyman,” feeling foolish already. Especially with the way my extremely gay friend stares at me, clearly dumbfounded.
    “The lad from electrical construction?”
    “That’s the one.”
    “But he’s queer.” Not a question or doubt about the facts of the situation.
    “Not quite.”
    “Not quite ?” He coughs. “I’d say it’s a yes or no situation, unless—”
    “He’s bi.”
    “Oh, dear Lord, no wonder your humor is foul.” He gives me a wry, knowing look. “His sort’s to be avoided at all costs. By both our kinds. Enter not the forest of uncertainty, for demons dwelleth there.”
    I smile back at him, my own expression dreamy and naive. “He’s amazing.”
    “Yes, well that’s what we all say, isn’t it? Right before it gets bloody confusing as to which way the wind blows.”
    “Trust me, his sexuality is the least of the issues.”
    “Really? How’s that?”
    I wonder if I can describe Michael’s deep grief about Andrea and all they’ve both lost. I doubt it’s possible to put words to what I’m feeling—to what I felt there with them in that house tonight.
    So I close my eyes and think like an actress. It hasn’t been so long that I can’t call upon my method technique. My memory searches for a quarter-inch of something from their house tonight, something tangible to help me translate the emotion to Trevor.
    What I instantly recall is their family portrait, the one hanging in the hallway. A dreamy photograph of the three of them, sitting together in that sun-drenched backyard, bathed in a diaphanous halo of light. Alex so alive and vital, like he might step out of the picture and talk right to me. Shock of deep auburn hair, broad grin, freckled face. Natural good looks. A good man , obviously. And then the man beside him, too. Strong and handsome, years younger than the one I’ve met in the past few days. Unlike my Michael Warner, that one’s not weary and weathered; the whole world still bows at his feet.
    Then precious