401. The End of Innocence

So it began to dawn on me that Jonathan was a morning person, no pun intended.

That particular morning he confessed to how much he loved fucking me with his morning wood, and that the only reason he hadn’t done it more often was he knew how much I liked to sleep in. (He didn’t bring up the fact that half the time lately insomnia had been sending me into the studio before dawn, but whatever, point taken.) I told him he could basically do me anytime and I’d tell him if it became a problem. We basically had to make a mutual promise to tell each other when to back off. That we made this promise while he was balls deep in me didn’t detract from the significance of it.

Maybe it added to it.

We were lying there and I was contemplating going back to sleep when the phone rang. He answered it, but I was assuming it was for me, probably Digger to tell me when and if we were meeting with Mills.

But no, it was for Jonathan. I yawned, decided to take a shower, then decided to take a swim right from getting freshly showered without bothering to put on trunks. What was the point of a private pool and a sheltered backyard if you couldn’t skinny dip?

When I was done doing my half-assed laps I climbed out and got back into the shower to get the chlorine off. I was just getting out when J. got in, and when he got out I was still in the bathroom, Q-tipping my ears and combing out my hair. It was getting long.

“So, that was the production company on the phone,” he said as he toweled his torso. “Looks like things are really shaping up into… some kind of shape.”

“Oh yeah, what shape is that?”

“Very definitely mini-series. Backing’s come through. They want me to commit to being here to work with them three days a week for at least three months.” He wrapped the towel around his head. “But probably more like six.”

“That’s great! Your mom won’t mind feeding the cat?”

“Well, I’m thinking of giving up my place in Jersey. Lease is about to run out anyway. That way I can pay for a place here.” His eyes looked very blue in the bathroom light as he drew me slowly into a damp half hug, our hips touching. “Remo will want his house back eventually, I assume.”

“Um, probably, though I’m under the impression we could stay right through Christmas if we wanted. That way you could save your money.”

“It’d be weird if you weren’t here, though,” J. said. “He’s your mentor.”

“He’s your friend,” I replied. “At this point, you are, you know.”

“It’d still be weird. I think I should look for a place.” His gaze bore into mine and I knew he was trying to say something important. “Want to move in with me?”

I did not say “what?” though I thought it, because it took my brain a moment to believe that’s what he had asked. “In L.A.?” I asked stupidly, because I was still trying to work out if that was all he had asked. I mean, wait, move in? He used the words move in.

“Maybe West Hollywood,” he said. “A little less traffic between there and the office.”

The gay neighborhood. I tried to keep the discussion to logistics since I had no idea what I was feeling. “I don’t even know if I’ll be here, though. What if we end up with overseas dates after all? What if Jordan Travers wants us in New York to record?”

And then what I was feeling hit me like a firehose. What about Ziggy? Stopped me in my tracks like a firehose, too.

“Don’t make me any promises,” J. said quickly. “You don’t have to. But if I’m going to be here, and you don’t have to be anywhere else, I’d rather have more mornings like this one than not. I don’t exactly feel like you’re rushing to get back to Boston.”

Boston and my homophobic-but-trying-to-get-over-it housemate/drummer, and the housemate that I really liked sex with but probably shouldn’t tempt myself with, and my little sister. He was right. I wasn’t rushing back to that.

Then the phone rang. This time it was Digger and he was telling me when to be at the BNC offices. I felt weird talking to him with no clothes on. I got dressed somewhat hurriedly after I got off the phone.

“Look,” I told Jonathan. “I’ll probably know more about what my next few months will look like by tonight.”

“The subject is wide open,” J. said, combing out his hair. He’d gotten dressed in his work clothes while I’d been on the phone. “But there you have it. I’d like you to move in. Or for the two of us to keep staying here. Whatever. Now you know how I feel.” He turned to face me. “I want more mornings like today.”

I gave him a quick kiss. “I can’t complain about that. Now come on, I’m dropping you off and then taking the truck to BNC. I’ll pick you up after? Or should we meet at the deli?”

“The deli,” he said, putting his laptop into his bag.

So I drove him to the production office, and then I got into traffic even though it wasn’t rush hour. I flipped the channels on the radio, but I wasn’t really listening to what songs I was finding.

I was thinking about Ziggy. Would I see him tomorrow? Would he come out of the clinic and head into L.A.? Would Digger put him up? Would he be surprised to see me?

Under other circumstances I would’ve told him there were guest beds at Remo’s. Something told me that doing so was a recipe for disaster bigger than earthquake, mudslide, and fire combined.

I’d have to ask Digger. For all I knew he was flying straight back to Boston. I remembered there was also a small chance they might decide at the last minute to keep him for another 30 days. But I was pretty sure they would have already told Digger if it looked like that was what was going to happen. Of course, that didn’t mean that Digger had bothered to tell me, but I was reasonably sure Digger was operating under the same assumption I was, that Ziggy was getting out tomorrow.

The only reason I wasn’t a nervous wreck thinking about that, or about the meeting with Mills, was because the sex that morning had been so good. My entire body felt as good as I’d ever felt. I opened the window and as the traffic broke up I let the wind blow my hair around. Yeah, that’s how I got that carefree, wind-blown look. I swaggered up to the BNC offices looking and feeling like a rock star all right.

—

(So, apparently Don Henley has required YouTube to nuke all versions of “The End of Innocence. So I have two alternate versions for you. The one below is by some guy in Kentucky named Jeff Bryant, great version, just him and a guitar… and then below that, a cover by Bruce Hornsby live with piano.)