When the Stars Come Out by Rob Byrnes

move.
    Noah, though . . . Noah had not been punctual, nor had he been
    responsible. Nor had he even had the decency to dramatically dis-
    appear. He had simply taken a relatively small amount of PMC
    money and not delivered. And it wasn’t the money, David kept
    telling himself; it was the principle. As a gay man himself, David felt a special need to give back to his fellow gay writers, and when one of them didn’t deliver—as occasionally happened—David Carlyle
    felt personally wronged.
    But Noah had now taken the initiative to contact him, and although David was certain it was only because of the hospital visit, no one was holding a gun to the young man’s head, so he felt
    slightly better. Maybe Noah would walk into his office with 100,000
    words or so tucked under his arm and . . .
    “David?”
    David looked up from whatever it was he had been trying unsuc-
    cessfully to read and saw Noah in his doorway. Nothing was tucked
    under his arm. He frowned.
    “Take a seat, Noah.” The younger man sat. “Before we get down
    to business, how is your father?”
    “No change overnight. He’ll be fine. But he’s driving everyone
    crazy right now.”
    “I can only imagine. Tell your father and Tricia I asked about
    them again, will you?” Noah nodded. “Anyway, on the matter of that manuscript . .”
    “I know.” Noah, his frown matching David’s, glanced at the floor.
    “I’m far behind schedule. But it’s not coming.”
    “Not at all?”
    Noah summarized his problems with the book for David, who re-
    acted not without sympathy. But business was business.
    “Let me ask you a question,” said David, when Noah concluded
    his narrative. “Do you think you’ll be able to finish this book?”
    Noah thought seriously about that. He wanted to say no, but was
    afraid that not being able to finish would speak to his abilities more than his topic. So he said, “Can I have another three months?”
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    “Will the manuscript be done in three months?”
    “I think so,” he lied.
    “Then three months it is. But I really do need something by early
    January, at the latest.”
    “I understand,” said Noah, trying not to think of the commit-
    ment he had just made.
    They talked briefly and Noah excused himself, wishing he had
    never taken the $4,000 initial payment. It was not as if he needed the money, but his life at that moment would have been a lot easier without having to turn in a manuscript that he didn’t want to write.
    David Carlyle wished he had not taken the $4,000, too. Not be-
    cause of the money, but because it had created all different levels of social awkwardness for him, and David hated social awkwardness.
    And even as he watched Noah leave, he knew he would not be see-
    ing a manuscript by January, or at any point after that. There would be permanent social awkwardness, and that made him very unhappy.
    Noah left the imposing Sixth Avenue building housing Palmer/
    Midkiff/Carlyle and began wandering aimlessly up the avenue,
    into the West Forties. Even though it was still technically the final days of summer, the tourists had largely decamped after Labor Day, and he was determined to enjoy the relatively uncrowded sidewalks.
    The holidays, with their maddening hordes, would arrive soon
    enough. After a dozen blocks, as he approached Radio City Music
    Hall, he saw something out of the corner of his eye that stopped
    him in mid-crosswalk.
    It was that stranger, the handsome young man from Bar 51, walk-
    ing south on the opposite side of Sixth Avenue.
    Noah squinted, unable to believe that he was having this third
    coincidental encounter. As he stood in mid-crosswalk, the lights
    changed; two milliseconds later, a line of cabs and delivery trucks laid on the horns. Noah jumped and dashed for the opposite corner, narrowly avoiding a bicycle messenger in the process.
    He looked back at the stranger, who now—thanks to the ruckus—
    was staring back at him. And when he smiled, Noah