Our Complication

Chapter 1

Chapter 1Byron

I had doubts about the evening before it started, because let’s face it: I was fifty-six, my boyfriend (insert ironic quotation marks) was half my age, and the last time we went out it ended with me watching while he sucked someone else’s d**k.

JoJo liked to party. We went out a lot, to the clubs and bars along Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. We had decent s*x, meaning we reliably had orgasms together, but at my age, the morning erection was the one most likely to satisfy a much younger man. Late in the day, a little diamond-shaped blue pill might be required. Thus, it was usually morning-after s*x. The morning after a night going from club to club, bar to bar. Me watching, having a cocktail here or a beer there, while JoJo danced and flirted, showing off his handsome face and spectacular body. It was foreplay for us. And if the usual conclusion of such an expedition was JoJo and a plus-one doing something late in the evening, then JoJo and me doing something the next morning, I didn’t mind. My thing with JoJo wasn’t a relationship the way some people define it. Most of the guys I knew in my own age cohort envied me. Everyone wants a hot young lover, right?

But the truth is, after more than a year of this, I was getting discouraged. JoJo was a fling who became a habit, always appearing content to keep it casual. Casual s*x is absolutely fine when that’s all you want. I actually wanted to make a life with someone again, and the time left to accomplish that was running out.

I never saw myself with JoJo over the long term. He’d eventually move on. As the old song goes, how do you keep a wave upon the sand? I was a professor at UCLA, not a movie producer. He was a college dropout who I couldn’t take along to functions with my coworkers, because they knew me as half of Byron and Anthony. We’d be judged accordingly, which wouldn’t be good for either of us. So I kept showing up alone to the plays or cocktail parties, occasionally wishing JoJo were there, suspecting those evenings would be a lot more fun if he were.

I’d helped him catch the eye of a few people. People who could hook him up with a modeling gig, or with a minor celebrity who needed a camera-ready, name-checkable plus-one. People who might recommend him to a casting agent. JoJo wanted to be a star. He first appeared in a boot-camp-inspired reality show. That led to a dating show, on which the young lady purportedly seeking love kept him around, even though she saw through his straight act immediately, because it drove the actual straight contestants batshit. After that, he did another reality show, one of those where a bunch of strangers have to live in a house together and team up to solve challenges. He told me the producers on that one asked him to deliberately drive the other contestants batshit, to the extent he could while legitimately trying to win. We laughed hysterically when we watched his clips together. Even though the cumulative effect might well undermine his true goal.

He’s not a bad guy at all. If he gets a job, he does the job. He doesn’t screw up. He’s reliable, in context. And his friends are mostly harmless. But they drink a lot, and they do more drugs than I ever did. I kept finding myself in this quasi-parental role, which, considering daddy kink is not remotely my thing, I found unspeakably unsexy.

Thus: doubts. And a feeling of inevitability when, between one club and another, moving down the crowded sidewalk with an amoeba-like group of much younger men, I found myself edged out. Walking at the border of the amoeba, one foot on the actual curb and the other seeking purchase on the slippery slope of irrelevance. Not even surprised when the boys, mostly buzzed, in the state that’s half laughter and half aggression, started bouncing off each other in a way that was one degree from shoving, and I ended up getting bounced into the street. Right at a corner, in WeHo’s heavy Saturday night traffic, with a car coming too fast.

I had completely lost my balance, was a split second from falling in front of the car, which wasn’t slowing because nobody ever does in LA, and I fully expected to die. But somebody grabbed me, pulling me back onto the sidewalk, clutching me as if I meant something to him. “Are you okay? Jesus! That was close!” I stood there in his arms, shaking, heart pounding, breathless not from exertion but from the shock, and couldn’t immediately reply. He leaned closer, as if to make sure I could hear him, which was thoughtful. This was not a quiet place to have a chat. “Are you okay?”

“I’m, uh, yeah,” I managed. “Thank you. Fuck.”

“For real!”

He had a distinct New York accent, which is unusual in LA. Plenty of people can do a New York accent, but those to whom it comes naturally do their best to mute it here. It’s too distinctive. Being distinctive has less value than you’d think, in the entertainment business; most people judge it “niche” and move on. Anyway, I sucked in a breath, blinked, looked at my savior, and blinked again. “Holy shit.”

“What?”

“You’re Cole Black.”

“Yeah, so?”

“What are you doing in LA?”

“I live here now. Why do you know who I am?”

Upon realizing that I still clung to him, I eased back enough to make eye contact without being weird. He was my same height, an inch or so shy of six feet. Mostly bald, slim and hard-bodied despite being sixty-plus, with dark, deep-set eyes and a luscious mouth that seemed ready to smile. I said, “I teach at UCLA. Theater. There aren’t many legendary Broadway choreographers I couldn’t recognize on the street.”

And there was the smile. “I don’t know about legendary.”

“You choreographed more hit shows than Bob Fosse,” I pointed out, “and you’re still alive.”

He laughed. “So are you. Uh, who are you? And what just happened, anyway?”

“Oh s**t, yeah.” I hastily offered a hand. “Byron Hartley. I don’t, huh.” I looked around. The amoeba had moved on, as if none of them had noticed my brush with vehicular manslaughter. Even JoJo wasn’t looking around, wasn’t looking for me, wasn’t the slightest bit concerned. I sighed as Cole released my hand. “Boys.”

“One of them yours?”

“In a sense. To a degree.” We made eye contact again. “Not really.”

“Will his feelings be hurt if you disappear?”

“Only when he looks around and notices I’m not there to buy his drinks.” I got my phone out and composed a text, narrating aloud. “Hey JoJo, I’m not feeling it tonight. Have fun with your friends, talk to you soon.” Sent the text and started to put the phone away, then stopped with it still in my hand. “I don’t suppose I could have your number?”

Cole c****d his head to one side, as if seriously considering the question, and didn’t quite answer it. “I was on my way to dinner.”

“Could I buy you dinner, then? To thank you for snatching me from under the wheels of disaster?”

He laughed again. “Yeah. Sure. Come on.”

We walked down the street, me conscious of a twinge in my ankle from sliding off the curb, Cole apparently unconscious of the slinky, graceful way he slipped through the crowd on the sidewalk. I didn’t care if the ankle was sprained. Expected it was, honestly; I’d sprained it before, and the ligaments had been wonky ever since. It was good enough to get me down to the next corner, then up the block past the donut shop, the boutiques, and the dance studio. Cole glanced through the windows and smiled at the ballroom crowd inside. “You like to dance?” He turned as if to make sure I knew he was talking to me.

“I can dance a little,” I said cautiously. Then I realized I was trying to protect myself, which was utterly ridiculous given the way we’d met, so I told the truth. “I loved it in college. Still take class every so often. My favorite thing in the world is a Broadway musical with wall-to-wall chorus boys.”

“Oh my God, mine too!”

We were both laughing as we passed the nail salon and joined the queue in front of the Italian restaurant. “So when did you move to LA?”

“Last month,” he said.

“Can I ask why?”

“What, you haven’t heard about the divorce?”

“Oh, s**t. No, I hadn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, it was rough for a minute. He kept the apartment, but I kept my money, and I’m in decent shape that way. I mean, you know. Thanks, pop music!”

He said that with such rueful humor and sincerity, I laughed again. “All those music videos?” I wasn’t the guy who obsessed over such things, unless a Broadway legend was involved. Then, yeah.

“Videos, casinos, cruise ships, drag shows. I’m a w***e, man, I’ll take any gig there is. So this pop star I did tour choreography for is co-producing a TV show for streaming, a series with musical numbers, and they called me to choreograph it. It’s filming here, right, so they were like would you mind staying out in LA for a while, and I just thought, you know, f**k it. Why not move out there. I’ve been in New York my whole life, shouldn’t I try something new? I’m sixty-four. That’s not too old, right? Will you still need me, dah di dah dah dah.” He sang the last phrase; a couple of people in the line ahead of us turned to look, smiled at the guy they didn’t recognize, and turned back around. Cole gave me a sideways look that was half an eyeroll, half a laugh.

He wasn’t used to being recognized. It occurred to me, in that moment, that me recognizing Cole meant something to him. Something almost on a par with being snatched out from under the wheels of disaster.