Disclaimers:   Neither Tim Bayliss nor Billy Tallent belong to me, and I'm not making any money from this.

Six Paramitas

by shell

copyright 2003

There are six traditional activities in which the bodhisattva trains, six ways of compassionate living.   Traditionally these are called the six paramitas, a Sanskrit word meaning "gone to the other shore."   —Pema Chodron

The Chinese character used for paramita means "crossing over to the other shore," which is the shore of peace, non-fear, and liberation.  The Buddha said, "Don't just hope for the other shore to come to you.   If you want to cross over . . . you have to make an effort."  This effort is the practice of the Six Paramitas.   —Thich Nhat Hanh

The Six Paramitas:

dana (giving, offering, generosity)

shila (the Five Mindfulness Trainings , also known as the Five Precepts)

kshanti (forbearance, patience, inclusiveness; the capacity to receive, bear, and transform pain)

virya (diligence, energy, perseverance)

dhyana (meditation)

prajna (wisdom, insight, understanding)

I.  Dana (Generosity)

The greatest gift we can offer anyone is our true presence. —Thich Nhat Hanh

It's much harder leaving Vancouver Island than I thought it would be.  It's more difficult than all the other times I've left or he's left, and that doesn't make sense; it should be easier.  I'm going to see him in a week, when he comes back to Portland, and we're going to look for a house together.  In a couple months, if everything works out, I'll see him every day—well, every day he's not on tour, or down in LA recording.   You'd think it would be easier.   But it's not.

I guess he's feeling the same way, because as I'm about to get in my jeep, he puts his hand on my arm.   "Fuck, Tim," he mutters, then puts his hand along my face, staring at me.

I take his hand in mine and bring it to my lips.  "Yeah, I know.   I don't want to go.   It's just a week, though, right?"

He nods.  "A week.  We can do a week."

I lean in and kiss him.   "I love you, Bill."   I haven't said it more than once or twice since that night, but I need to say it again, now, before I leave.

His gaze softens.   "Yeah, I know," he says, running his thumb over my mouth.  He smiles.   "Now beat it.   I'll see you next week."

I smile and get into the jeep, rolling down the window.  "Right, next week.  I'll call you when I get in."

"I love you," he says quietly.   I nod, start the car, and drive away, although I want nothing more than to stay.   It's just a week, I tell myself.   I can do a week.

It's a long week.

We talk on the phone at least once or twice a day.  There's not much to talk about beyond what kind of house we might want, and neither one of us seems interested in narrowing it down much at this point.   We both talk to Karen—I have dinner with her and Casey every night I'm not working at the bar.  I think she's a little frustrated by how vague we both are, but she's busy making a list of houses for us to look at.

I go to pick him up at the airport, remembering the last time I did this, only three weeks ago.   Life is full of change, I know, but it's still mind-boggling when I think about the last few months.

He walks past security into the open part of the airport, sees me, and walks right into my arms, kissing my cheek, apparently not giving a shit that people are staring.   So I try not to give a shit either—after all, I'm not anybody here.  I'm not a cop anymore; I'm certainly not a famous musician.   I'm just a bartender.  And he's wearing the baseball cap again—maybe no one recognizes him.

"Fuck, I've missed you," he murmurs finally, pulling back a little, but keeping one arm around my waist.

"Yeah, I've missed you too.   I'm glad you're here."

He smiles.   "Come on, let's go."

This time I'm the one who kisses him the minute we get into the car, leaning past the gear shift, cupping the back of his head, pulling him towards me.  We only kiss for a minute or two, but it's more than enough to get me hard, to make both of us sigh when we break it off.  I run my fingers through his hair one more time.

"I really missed you," I say again, starting the jeep.

"Yeah," he answers, resting his hand on my thigh.  "I know."

We make pretty good time back to the apartment, despite the traffic and some rain.  It takes forever to get through the doors and up the stairs and into the apartment, but then we're finally there.  We barely make it through the door before Bill's pushing me against the wall, one long arm slamming the door shut behind us.   I lean back, wrapping my arms around him, and he runs his hand along my face, then down my neck, to my chest, kissing me intently, every inch of his body focused on mine.  I break off the kiss just long enough for us to get into the bedroom, and then we're all over each other, pulling off clothing, fondling, licking, nuzzling, an occasional teasing bite.  I watch his face as he comes, and that's what takes me over the edge myself, even more than the feel of his hand on me.  

I make him dinner, just a little pasta with some red sauce.  And then we spend the rest of the evening in bed, as promised.   We share the shower, unfortunately a tighter squeeze than the one in Baltimore, before we go off to meet Karen for breakfast.   The sky's cleared up, the sun shining, just a hint of fall crispness in the air—it's a beautiful day, and Karen's brimming with enthusiasm.

>From the minute we get to the first house, though, Bill acts weird.  The houses are nice, in good neighborhoods, but apparently they're not what he's interested in.  He's dismissive, moving through quickly, shaking his head, acting more and more annoyed.   Finally, after lunch, after another three quick rejects, he says something.

"Listen, Karen, I appreciate what you're showing us here, and I know we weren't really clear on what we wanted, but I don't think this is it."  He looks at me apologetically.  "I don't want to live in the fucking suburbs, Tim.   I want something with some character to it, you know?  These houses all look alike.  And we need some privacy, some land, maybe a fence, keep out the stalkers."

"Stalkers?" I ask, going into alert before I even realize it, then consciously trying to relax.

He shrugs.   "Now and again, yeah.   It's no big deal, usually—the house in California has a gate, and so far no one's made it up to Port Alberni—but I wouldn't want these nice American families worrying about crazies coming after their new neighbors."

"I understand," Karen says smoothly, while I continue to stare at Bill. "As a matter of fact, I have a couple more places for us to check out that might be more what you're looking for.  Tomorrow we'll head out to Lake Oswego, Clackamas, that area.  You two are coming over for dinner tonight, right?"

"Yeah, we are," I answer.   "We'll be there at 6:30."

"Great.   I'll see you then.  You know how to get back, Tim?"

"Yeah, no problem."   We get into the jeep and head back towards the apartment.

After a few minutes of silence, Bill says, "What the fuck is bothering you?"

I glance at him.   "What?  Nothing.  I'm fine."  I can feel his gaze boring into me, so I give it up.  "Well, okay, the thing is—stalkers?   Seriously?"

"One or two over the years, yeah.   Like I said, it's no big deal."

"Right, right, no big deal.   That's why you never bothered to mention it.  Jesus, Bill."  I don't know why I'm surprised.   He's famous.    He's rich, and he's famous.   He's a rock star, for god's sake.   Of course he has stalkers.   And now he's involved with me, another man, and apparently has no intention of being anything but open about it.

"Yeah, that's why I never mentioned it—fuck, Tim, why does this bother you so much?"

"Because I've seen what people can do!" I exclaim, then start thinking about our options.   "I don't know why it never occurred to me—I don't have my gun anymore, but I could easily qualify for a permit—"

"What?"  

I don't know why he sounds so shocked.   "In case someone tries to break in, I should have a gun," I answer reasonably, wondering why Alan Costello didn't carry one, wondering if he'd still be alive if he had.   "As a former police officer, I wouldn't have any problems getting a concealed carry permit."

"Don't do that for me," he says angrily.  "You think you want to have a gun in the house, I don't suppose I can stop you, but don't use me to justify it."

"Okay, fine, calm down," I say, trying to mollify him.  "I didn't realize you felt that strongly about it.   You don't want a gun in the house, we won't have one.   But we'd better have a good security system."

"Fine," he says.   "You're in charge of security.  Whatever kind of system you think is best, we'll have.  But no guns."

"No guns," I agree, secretly relieved.  I haven't touched one since I turned in my Glock, and maybe that's for the best, despite the clarity I used to feel on the shooting range.  I suppress a shudder, remembering.  I never even went back after Larry Moss, thankful I'd qualified again just a week before the Roshi Felder murder.   I thought briefly about carrying an unloaded weapon, but I couldn't take the risk that anyone else would get hurt.  

"What is it now?" Bill asks, pulling me out of my reverie.

I shake my head.   "Nothing.  Sorry."

"Nothing, right," he says, giving me a look.

"No, really, Bill—just thinking about some shit from when I was a cop.  It's not important."

"If you say so," he says.   He lets it go, for now, and I briefly wonder if moving in with him is the best idea.   I don't know how I'm going to be able to keep it from him when we're together every day—it's hard enough already.   I love him; I want to tell him everything.  But I can't tell him, not about Ryland, much as I want to.  Telling him would only cause problems; him leaving me would probably be the least of it.

So I talk to him about what kind of furniture he'll be moving up here, about what of mine we'll be able to use.   It passes the time until we get back to the apartment, after which we do something a lot more pleasant.   Jesus, I didn't think it was possible, but sex with him just keeps getting better—knowing how I feel about him, knowing he feels the same way, that it's a long-term thing, makes it even more intense.

That evening, we eat dinner with Karen and Casey, and I realize that my frequent meals with them, with my family, will include him from now on.  My sister and my niece greet us with hugs and kisses; Karen says she's got some extra brownies for us to take home, and I think, this is going to happen again and again.  The two of us are going to come to dinner here, and they're going to come to our house, once we find one—they haven't come to my apartment very often, since there's not much room, but that's sure to change.

The reality of it hits me.   I've never lived with someone, never even had a roommate after college, beyond the few days Brodie stayed with me, which were a complete disaster.  I'm not used to sharing my space.  Sure, the two weeks in BC were great, and having Bill here every morning and every night is incredible, but I wonder how I'll handle it day after day, week after week.  And Bill, he's lived on his own since he left Joe the first time—this isn't going to be easy for him, either.

Then I look at him, sitting on Karen's sofa, talking about Justin Timberlake with Casey.   He glances up and meets my eyes with a smile.   I smile back, and nothing else seems important. 

I have a nightmare that night, the first since that night in Port Alberni.  It's about Ryland.  Bill wakes up and asks me what it was.  I tell him I can't remember.  He kisses me, then fucks me, and I don't dream again that night.

The next day we look at houses that are considerably bigger and more expensive.  The day before, the average price was about $500,000.   The cheapest one in this group is $1.2 million.  I'm the one that's weird today, although I'm not sure either one of them notices.

The last house we see has it all—hardwood floors, wood exterior, 20 acres, wonderful views.   It's beautiful.  It's also enormous, over 6000 square feet.   The sofa in the living room probably cost more than my jeep.

"Now, this is more like it," Bill says.  "And it's already got a great security system."

Karen smiles.   "I thought you'd like it."

"Isn't it a little big?" I ask cautiously.

"So it's big, so what?   Come on, let's go check out the master bedroom and talk about it.  Karen, we'll be back."

He drags me after him.   The master bedroom is bigger than my apartment in Baltimore.  A lot bigger.

"Nice, huh?" he says, gesturing.

"Bill," I say urgently.   "You do realize this house costs four million dollars?"

He looks at me, smirking a little.   "Is that all?   Fuck, money sure goes a lot further here than it does in LA.  Of course, a house like this up in BC would be half that, and it'd be in Canadian money, so I guess it's all relative."

I stare at him.

"Don't worry about it, Tim—I've got the money, you know that.  I'll probably get a couple million for the LA house, anyway."

I stare at him some more, my stomach in knots.

"Don't you think it's too big for what we need?" I ask finally.  "It's got five bedrooms, Bill."   And six and a half bathrooms, and two ovens, and an industrial sized refrigerator. 

He looks at me and finally notices my discomfort.   "Hey, I'm not sure I like it that much, anyway," he says, shrugging, giving my shoulder a squeeze.   "It's got a fucking gazebo, for fuck's sake—what's up with that?  Come on, it's been a long day—what do you say we get some take out and eat it in bed?"

"Sure, sure," I answer, distracted, following him back out to the living room.

"I think we'll take a pass on this one, at least for now," Bill tells my sister.   "I'm not sure your brother's ready for this kind of lifestyle."

"That's not buddies," I mutter, but the remark stings.

"No problem," Karen answers, looking at me.  "Hey, can I talk to Teej a minute before you take him off to ravish him?"

"Sure," he says, winking, "but it's his turn to ravish me tonight, just so you know."   He grins at me, and I can't help smiling back.  "I'll meet you at the car."

"What is it?" I ask Karen.   She punches my shoulder.

"Don't screw this up, Teej."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't let the fact that he's loaded mess with you.  He loves you, you love him, end of story.  If he wants to buy a four million dollar house for the two of you, why not just go with it?"

"You sure this isn't just about your commission?" I ask.

She punches me again, harder.   "Ow!" I complain, but she ignores me.

"To quote you and Bill," she says sternly, "that was not buddies.  I just want you to be happy, bro."

"I know that, sis."

"Do you?"  

"Yeah, I do."

She looks at me hard, then nods.   "Okay then.   I've got a couple more listings for you to look at tomorrow, including one that just came on the market that sounds perfect.  You think you can manage an open mind?"

"Sure, sure.   Of course I can."

"Good.   Go on, he's waiting for you.   Jesus, Teej, do you have any idea how lucky you are?"

I kiss her cheek.   "I do, Karen, believe me."

"You'd better," she grumbles, punching me again, relatively gently, then tells me to get out of there.

I get into the jeep and start it, feeling very unsure of myself.  Bill keeps looking at me throughout the drive back to my apartment, but doesn't say much other than talking about the hockey games that are coming up, asking if I want to go up to Vancouver for a Canucks game.

"You know, I've never been to a hockey game," I tell him.

"Well fuck that—we're definitely going then," he says.  "Forget basketball, Tim—hockey is the best, and the Canucks rule."   He watches me for a few seconds, then adds, "of course, we can go to some Trailblazers games, too.   We could get season tickets.   When's your birthday, anyway?"

"In May, the 31^st," I answer, startled by the realization that we've been seeing each other for over six months, not even counting Baltimore, and there is still so much we don't know.  "When's yours?"

"Next month, the 12^th.   I'll be 41, if you can fucking believe it."

"So I'm six months older than you," I say.  "We'll have to celebrate—where?"

"You could come down to LA," he offers.  "Since you haven't been yet, and I'm not going to be there much longer.   Shit, I could get tickets for the Kings—they're not the Canucks, but they'd do in a pinch."

"Sure, that sounds good," I say, wishing he hadn't brought up LA.  "How big is your house?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Not too big.   About 3500 square feet, pretty small for the whole Malibu scene, but it's got a good view."

I have to ask, have to know.   "And how much did it cost?"

"Uhhh, I paid, uh, 950 I think, but I put some money into it—the broker's asking 2 million."

"2 million dollars.   That's what your house is worth?"

"From what I understand, yeah," he says, a little sharply.  "And the house in BC is worth about 550,000, Canadian, all right?   But, like I said, it'd cost a lot more in this market here."

I pull into the parking lot of the apartment complex, very conscious that it was built 20 years ago, that I have outside parking, that my jeep is three years old and just recently paid off.

We walk up the stairs, go past the main door, and up more stairs to my apartment.  I notice the carpet is coming loose along the wall as I unlock the door.  Bill follows me inside, heading straight for the sofa, looking through the fast food menus I have in the drawer of the end-table.

"What do you feel like having tonight?" he asks.  "Pizza sound good?"

"You know, you don't have to stay here," I say, looking at the off-white walls.   "If you'd rather be in a hotel—"

"What the fuck are you talking about?   Why would I want to be in a hotel?"

"No, see, I could come stay with you there.  If you wanted."

"Why would I want that?" he repeats.  "You're not making sense here."

"I know this isn't exactly what you're used to," I say, gesturing at the walls, the dingy carpet, the cramped space.  "Shit, it wasn't much, but at least my apartment in Baltimore had some character."

"I don't give a shit about that, freak.  This is where you are, so this is where I am."

"But the thing is, you do give a shit about it.  You said so yesterday.  And if today was any indication, you want a hell of a lot more than I knew you did."

"Is this about that house?"

"Maybe.   Yeah, I guess it is."

"What the fuck is wrong with wanting to live in a nice house, Tim?  I told you, I can afford it—"

"Exactly how much money do you have, Bill?"

He looks at me hard.   "So, we're going to have this conversation, are we?   Okay, fine.  I have a fuckload of money, Tim.  I am fucking loaded.  I have so much fucking money I don't know what to do with it.   Is that what you want to hear?"

"I just want to know—"

"I don't know exactly," he interrupts.  "It goes up and down a little, depending on my investments, and the exchange rate—some of it's Canadian investments, some of it's here.  And it goes up whenever the royalty checks come in, or the money from the label.  Last time I talked to my accountant, which was a couple weeks ago, it was somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty million.  That's twenty million American dollars, okay, Detective?"

"Jesus."   I sit down heavily on the armchair, the one I've had for fifteen years.  Hearing it, out loud, in actual dollars, makes it more real than it's been for all the time I've known him, ever since he threw down a ten dollar bill for a buck fifty cup of coffee and ignored the change.

"You knew I had money, Tim," he says sharply.  "Why the sudden freak out?"

I shake my head.   "We haven't talked about it.   Not at all.  About this house we're supposedly buying—I thought we were buying it, Bill."   I hear myself, and I know I sound like a petulant child, but I can't stop.   "I thought we were buying it together.   I guess I knew you could pay a bigger share than I could, but any contribution I can make—if you take everything, all the savings I have, the money I made from selling my share of the bar, it's barely a drop in the bucket if we're looking at a four million dollar house.   I mean, jesus, how much is a monthly mortgage payment on a something like that?"

He shrugs.   "This probably isn't what you want to hear, but I wasn't intending on making any mortgage payments.   I wasn't kidding when I told you I had more money than I knew what to do with.  I don't go for collecting cars and planes and shit like that—give me my guitars, and enough money to provide for my kid, and that's about all I need."

"You're planning on just paying cash?"

"No, I was planning on writing a check," he says, obviously trying to lighten the mood, but I'm stuck.

"A check," I murmur.   "For four million dollars."

He sits there for a second, looking down.   "Did I ever tell you about how I grew up?" he asks suddenly, in one of those lightening changes of subject he's prone to.

"I know you were an only child," I say, "and I figured you didn't have the best childhood.   I know you ran away before you graduated from high school.  But that's pretty much it."

"Those houses we saw yesterday—I grew up in that kind of place, what my parents and their friends referred to as 'a nice neighborhood'—an exclusive little suburb on the fucking right side of the tracks.  My dad was a lawyer, and my mom was a housewife.  I was supposed to go to a good university, do the respectable thing, you know?"

I nod.  "My mom wanted me to be a doctor.   We were pretty middle class, but my cousin, Jim, he lived in that kind of neighborhood, the nice kind, like you're talking about."

"So you know what I mean.   Fuck, I was in private school until I met Joe and got expelled."

"Private school, huh?" I say, flashing on Larchmont Prep and MacPhee Broadman, how he'd torched the headmaster's car and still stayed on, never got expelled until he incited a murder.

"It wasn't one of those boarding schools or anything, " he says, "but it was decent.   I liked it okay, but Joe hated that I went there.   It was his idea to break into the headmaster's office and steal his hockey trophies, and I'm pretty sure he's the one who actually tipped them off so I'd get kicked out."   He looks distant for a second, remembering.

"What about Billie?" I ask.   "Does she go to private school?"

"Nah," he answers, shaking his head.  "The schools are good in her mom and Evan's neighborhood, no need to ship her off somewhere else.  Not that the schools were bad where I grew up—it was just important to them, to my parents, the appearance of it, you know?  That they could afford to send their pride and joy to private school, where the uniform incidentally did a great job of covering the bruises."

The way he reacted when I told him about my uncle, the way he ran away to be with Joe, and a thousand other little hints have been there, but he's never talked about it before.   I knew it, though, knew instinctively it was another secret we had in common.

"Bruises?" I prompt after a few seconds of silence.

He nods.

"Yeah," he says.   "See, my friends, they were always jealous, because I had everything a kid could want, you know?   But they didn't know that when I got my first guitar, when I was nine, it was right after my dad broke my mom's arm.  And that private school, they didn't ask any questions, as long as the money kept coming.   They didn't give a shit that my dad was drunk who liked to beat up on his wife and kid.   Not that there's anything earthshaking in that—happens all the time."  He looks at me, and his gaze softens.  "Fuck, worse things happen all the time."

I move over to the sofa and take his hand.   "Is that why you ran away with Joe?"

"That, and the music.   And that I loved the fucker."   He starts playing idly with my fingers.  "The first few years, we lived in crappy hotels, bandhouses, or slept in the van.   Not exactly what I was used to, but I didn't give a fuck.  I was happy, Tim, do you get that?"  He looks at me until I nod.  "It didn't matter what kind of shithole I was sleeping in, didn't matter that I had to deal with rats, cockroaches, even lice a couple times.   It didn't matter that I didn't have shit to my name except my guitar and the ratty clothes on my back.   I was happy, for a couple years anyway.  It was the Joe and Billy show, onstage and off, and I was fucking happy."

He pauses, looking at our hands, then up at my face again.  "I'd never been happy like that before.  I didn't think I ever would be again, until I met you, which I know sounds like some stupid fucking romance novel, but it's true."

"It's not stupid," I say softly.  

He nods slowly and strokes my cheek.   "You're right, it's not.   So, the thing is, I don't give a shit where we live.  If it's important to you, we'll go strictly 50-50 on the house, just get what we can afford that way.  Fuck, if you had some sort of attachment to this stupid apartment, I'd move in here in a fucking heartbeat."

"I don't want to stay here," I say, smiling.  "It's too small.  I want to live in a house."

"Yeah, okay, good," he responds, smiling back.  "I won't lie to you, Tim.  I'd prefer to live some place a lot bigger than this apartment, more comfortable than what we could afford on your stupid halfsies plan.  But as long as I'm sleeping in the same bed with you every night, I don't give a fuck how big the bedroom is.  This is about you and me, not about how many square feet we have."   He jabs me in the chest, then points to himself.  "You and me, understand?"

I nod.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I understand."

"I love you, Tim."   It's the first time he's said it before I did.  I reach out and stroke his cheek, feeling the warm skin beneath the stubble.

"I love you, too," I tell him.   "And you're right, it's stupid not to be comfortable.  I guess I just don't know how comfortable I'd be in a house that costs millions of dollars.  I know it doesn't make much sense—"

He stops me with a finger on my lips.   "You and me, Tim.   Okay, nothing over a million, how's that sound?  And nothing over, say, 4000 square feet?"

I smile.  "You know, you're right about something.   The thing is, as long as you're sleeping in the same bed with me every night, I don't give a fuck how big the bedroom is."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.   Come on, the pizza can wait."   I stand up, pulling him after me with one hand, the other unbuttoning my shirt.  He laughs and tries to help as we stumble towards the bedroom.   Once we get in there, though, once we're undressed, he gets serious.  He makes love to me slowly, tenderly, paying careful attention to every inch of my body, leaving me gasping and sweaty and begging for more.  Then he's the one begging as I ease my way inside him, and then neither one of us is capable of speech as we work our bodies together.   I'm not even sure which one of us comes first.

After, I get up just long enough to grab the phone and the pizza menu.  This time I'm the one who goes in his bathrobe to answer the door and pick up the food.  I bring the pizza back to the bed, and we eat it there, managing to avoid pizza sauce on the sheets by licking it off each other whenever (and wherever) any spills.   I put the box in the kitchen when we're done, and when I get back in bed, he rests his head on my chest.

"I'll tell you one thing," he says, running his fingers idly along my stomach.

"What's that?" I ask, kissing the top of his head.

"We're keeping this bed."

I smile.  "Yeah?"

He nods, stubble brushing my skin.   It tickles.   "Yeah.  I have a certain sentimental attachment."   I reach for his hand and bring it to my mouth, and he squirms a little, until he can see me.

"It's where I first saw you naked," I acknowledge.

"It's where we slept, the first time," he adds.

"It's where you fucked me, the first time," I say huskily, "and where you're going to fuck me the next time, too."

He smiles.   "Is that so?  When exactly did you think that next time was going to happen?"

"How about now?"

He tastes like pizza at first, but after a few minutes he just tastes like Bill.

————

The next morning we head out again.   Yesterday was my last day off for awhile, so we only have time to see a couple places before I have to hit the lunch shift.  Karen's all enthusiastic, convinced that today will be the day, that one of the two houses she has lined up will be perfect.  Before we head to the first showing, she gives us a little pep talk.

"Okay, I really hope you guys will like this one.  Like I told Tim yesterday, it's just come on the market, and it's a steal at $995,000.   It's got wood floors, a view of the river, downtown, and the mountains; a library, a gym, and a pool, but it's not nearly as large as some of the homes we saw yesterday.   The lot is a little smaller than you wanted, but the way it's set up, I think you'll have all the privacy you could want—it's practically surrounded by Forest Park.   And the neighborhood is great.   It's not suburban at all—it's within the city, eight minutes from downtown."

"Sounds great, Karen," I say, trying to convince myself, wondering what we would need with a gym or a pool.   Bill looks skeptical as well, but we head off to see the place anyway.

The minute we pull up into the driveway I'm intrigued, and I can tell Bill is too.  The garage is detached, next to a guest house; there appear to be a total of five buildings, including the garage, none of them ostentatiously large, all of them built log cabin-style, the logs painted a dark brown that blends in with the surrounding trees.  The lot is small, but it's surrounded on three sides by parkland.   Across the street is an industrial area on the edge of the river; the view that way includes downtown.   In the other direction it's all parkland, filled with trees.

We see the guest house first, and it's great—cozy, with a fireplace and built in shelves.   Next we explore the gym, which Karen casually says she figures Bill could turn into a studio.  He nods, looking interested.  Then we walk across the deck to the main house.   Within seconds, Bill and I are smiling at each other and Karen.  By the time we make it up the narrow stairs that run between the kitchen and the loft, I know this is it.

"What do you think?" Bill asks cautiously, but I can tell he's excited.

"I think it's perfect.   I can see us living here, can't you?"

"Yeah.   Yeah, I can.  Fuck, Tim, you're right, it's perfect.   Do you care if we even see the other one?"

"No.  Let's go tell Karen we want to make an offer."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."   I grab him and kiss him.   "When Billie comes to visit, she can stay in the guest house, or we can fix up the downstairs bedroom for her, because this here—this is where we're going to be sleeping."

"We're going to be doing a lot more than sleeping up here," he tells me, grabbing my ass, pulling me into another kiss.

"You got that right," I murmur when he lets me up for air.  "But we'd better wait until the house is ours before we start, huh?"

"Fucking wet blanket," he tells me, squeezing my ass one more time before letting me go.

"The sooner we make an offer, the sooner we'll be able to move in."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, heading down the stairs, yelling for Karen before he reaches the kitchen.   "Karen, where the fuck are you?  Let's buy a house already!"

We head back to her office and get started on everything, but we haven't heard back about the offer when I have to leave for work.  Bill offers to drive me to the bar and pick me up when my shift's over.

"Let's go out tonight, after you get back," he says, "Celebrate, you know?"

"Sure, that sounds good.   How about Bluehour?"

He nods.  "Great."

We keep driving for a minute.   "Can I ask you something, Bill?"

"Sure."

"You're not—at the airport, and in Port Alberni, I mean, I know you said everyone in the band knows about us, but you don't, you're not worried about people seeing us, people finding out?"

He glances at me.   "I don't give a fuck what people find out.   I'm not hiding anything.   I'm not going to go off and shout it from the rooftops, but if someone sees us, if some interviewer asks me a direct question, I'm not going to lie about it.  Why, are you afraid of being outed?"

"What?   No, it's not that at all.   If people find out I'm with another man, it's no big deal.  But it's different for you.  People will treat you different.  It might affect your record sales.  You said you have stalkers already—imagine what might happen once it's public knowledge that you're gay.  Because that's what they'll call you."

He shrugs.   "That's what I am, Tim.   I know you're big on the whole bisexuality thing, and that's fine for you, but I have to tell you, fucking groupies never meant shit to me.  I tried dating some women when I first moved to California, and it didn't work.   Joe, and you, those are the only two people I've loved, and if that makes me gay, I have no problem with that.   If some fucking bigots decide not to buy a Jenifur record because their guitarist is a fag, good riddance.   If it starts to affect sales enough that they fire me, fuck 'em.  I've got enough money to last the rest of my life and take care of my kid, and that's all that matters.   That, and you."

I reach over and squeeze his thigh.   "I'm glad, Bill, really, I am.  But are you sure you've thought this through?  You've never—it's not exactly pleasant, when people who don't really know you start treating you differently."  He pulls into the bar parking lot, but neither one of us gets out.   He looks at me, waiting.

I take a breath, then say it.   "I never told you about this one case I had, where this guy was murdering women, live, on the internet."

"That internet killer?   I remember hearing about that, when was it, late nineties sometime, right?  Shit, that was right before we met, wasn't it?   I remember there was still shit about it in the papers in Baltimore.  That was your case?"

"Me and another detective, Renee Sheppard.  She was new, and it was her first redball—that's a big case, one the media's all over, one the bosses are crazy to get solved—and they wanted me to take over, although I didn't.   Eventually we caught the guy, and then he got off on a technicality, but that's not why I brought it up."

"He got off on a technicality?   Fuck, why didn't that get more news coverage?  You'd have thought that would be on CNN or Court TV or something.  What happened to the guy—is he still out there?"

"No, no, uh, he was killed right after he was released.  But the point is, this guy Ryland, he used other people's web sites to host his murders, you know?  And he went after the detectives on the case—went after Renee on a chat room, and went after me—"

"What did that fucker do?" he asks, a fierce protectiveness in his voice that warms me.

"He used my website.   It was anonymous, just some stuff on Buddhism and bisexuality, and Ryland used it, and then it wasn't anonymous anymore.  So the whole Baltimore police force found out about Tim Bayliss, the Zen Detective, the gay guy up in Homo-cide."

"It was rough, huh?"

I bark out a laugh.   "You could say that.   I met someone around that time, another cop, and when he found out, he stood me up for dinner, then called me a fag in front of all his buddies."  I look at him.   "I guess it all worked out for the best—if I'd been with Roger Fisk, I never would have met you—but after that, and Roshi Felder, I swore I was just going to be celibate.   I was, too, for two and a half years."

"Fuck, Tim.   I'm sorry you went through that, but I really don't think it's the same—"

"No, it's not the same—it's on a whole other scale, Bill, don't you see that?  It was bad enough for me, with just the whole police department knowing, with the bosses breathing down my neck, telling me to shut down my website, but for you, it's going to be the whole world.   Are you sure you know what you're getting into here, with this openness?  People are going to see us, and they're going to figure it out.  Before you know it, we'll be on the cover of the National Enquirer."

"Yeah, we probably will," he says, and he looks a little pissed.  "Won't be the first time, not for me.   You sure it's not you who's got a problem with that?"

I shrug.  "I'm not a cop anymore.  I don't have to worry that some uniform's not going to back me up, not anymore.  The people that are important to me know about you already.  I'm not thrilled that my private life is going to be public knowledge, but it's not me I'm worried about, it's you."

"Well, I'm telling you, don't.   Don't worry about it.   I'm not some naive kid, Tim—I know what I'm doing.  I told you, I don't give a fuck what people think, and I meant it.   But if you're uncomfortable with it, all you have to do is say something.  If you'd rather keep it quiet, we'll keep it quiet."

"No, it's okay, Bill.   If you're sure."

"I'm sure."   He looks at me for a few seconds.   "There's no one in Baltimore that's going to come after you, no one you're hiding from?  Some felcher like this Ryland, someone who's out on the street and after your ass?"

"What?"   I manage not to jerk away from him, from how close he's come to the truth.  "No, there's no one after me, Bill, jesus."

"You're sure?   Because I know there's something else, some other reason you left, something you're not telling me."   He says it matter-of-factly, not making any big deal about it, just stating the obvious, but I still have to deny it.

"There isn't.   A reason, or someone who's going to come after me.   Gee died, I was burned out, and I needed a change, just like I told you."

He shakes his head.   "You're a fucking lousy liar, Tim.   Don't worry, you can keep your deep dark secret, for as long as you need to.  And when you're ready to tell me, I'll be ready to listen."   He starts the jeep again.   "You sure you're okay with going out in public?  Because we can celebrate at home if you want."

"No, it's fine.   It'll be good to go out.   And, you know, I have to work again tomorrow night—maybe you can come over to the bar?  If that wouldn't be too weird for you."

"They got good food here?"

"They tell me the burgers are good.   And I hear they've got a really hot bartender."

"That they do," he says, smiling.  "I'll be there."

"Good."   I lean in and kiss him.   "I'd better get in there.   You remember how to get back to Karen's office?"

"Yeah.   I'll call you when I know anything.   And you get off at 7, right?"

"Right."

"See you then."   I get out, then watch him drive away.

"You're late," Keisha tells me as I walk in, but she's smiling.

"Yeah, I know—sorry."

"Of course, if I had someone that hot dropping me off, I'd probably be late too—is he your boyfriend?"

"What?" I say, hanging up my coat.  Her tone is lighthearted, and she's obviously teasing, but it still throws me.

"Your boyfriend.   Or am I wrong—you are gay, aren't you?   Shit, never mind, forget I said anything; it's none of my business," she apologizes.

"I'm not—" I start to say, then catch myself, remembering what Bill just said in the car.   "Yeah, I'm gay.  Bisexual, anyway," I can't help adding.   I wink at her, and she relaxes again.

"Better not mention the bisexual part to Desiree—she's already got a crush on you," Keisha teases.   "So you are with that guy?"

"Yeah, I am," I say, smiling.  

"What's his name, anyway?"

"Uh, Bill.   His name is Bill."   I knew she was a country music fan, but I'm still surprised she didn't recognize him.

"Am I ever going to meet this Bill?"

"He's coming by to grab some dinner during my shift tomorrow night.  And he'll be here to pick me up tonight—you can meet him then, if you want," I say boldly.

"Cool," she says, smiling.   Then a few customers come in, and we get to work.

A few hours into my shift, the phone rings.  Keisha answers it, then gestures for me to come pick it up.

"Hello?" I say, a little nervously, hoping it's good news.

"When's the lease up on that shitty apartment of yours?"

"Fuck the lease.   They took the offer?"

He laughs.   "Think you can be ready to move by December 15^th?   Be in the new house before Christmas?"

"Shit, Bill, seriously?"

"Fuck yeah.   We still got some paperwork to deal with, stuff we both need to sign, but it looks like a done deal.  They are just as eager to sell as we are to buy—apparently they've bought a yacht and are itching to get it in the water and headed south as soon as possible."

"Wow.   December 15^th?"

"Yeah.   It'll be a little tight—Trevor wanted to get the band back in the studio for a week or two before the holidays, try out some new stuff, but we won't be recording until after the new year, so I think it'll work out okay.  Of course, if you wanted to just wait until January—"

"No, I don't want to wait—do you?"

"Fuck no," he says, and I smile.   "I'd do it tomorrow if we could."

"Yeah, me too.   Listen, when you come pick me up, come inside, okay?   Keisha wants to meet you."

"That your boss?"

"Yeah, she and Joe own the bar," I confirm.

"You came out to her, huh?"

"She'd guessed, but yeah, I did."

"Good.   Hold on."  He says something to someone—Karen, I think.   "Listen, I have to go.   I'll see you at seven."

"Great—see you then."

The rest of the shift passes pretty quickly, and before I know it Bill's walking in the door.   I introduce him to Keisha, and he puts on the Billy Tallent charm, gets her eating out of his hand.  The next night he does the same for the rest of my co-workers.   I feel awkward, but I seem to be the only one.

A few days later Bill heads back to LA.   It's a little easier seeing him off this time, knowing I'll be heading down there myself in a few weeks. He'll be back just a few weeks after that, and then we'll move into our new house.

II.  Kshanti (Forbearance, patience, inclusiveness)

To suppress our pain is not the teaching of inclusiveness.  We have to receive it, embrace it, and transform it.  —Thich Nhat Hanh

There are only three people who call my cell phone these days, and two of them have got to be asleep already—it's close to midnight.  So I answer the phone with, "Hey, Bill, what's up?"

There's a pause, and I wonder if it was a wrong number, but then he speaks up.  "Hey," he says, and his voice sounds different.  

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing.   Just wanted to say hi."

I put down the glasses I'm drying and go lean against the wall, somewhere I can watch the few customers and not have anyone overhear my conversation.  "It's less than a week till I'm down in LA."

"I know."

"You going to meet me at the airport, or just send a limo?" I ask, hoping to get a laugh.

His voice stays flat.   "Nah, I'll meet you, don't worry about that."

"I still don't have a clue what to get you for your birthday."

"You.   Freak."

I can hear a little smile in his voice with that one, and I smile as well.  "That's already yours, Bill."

"I'm glad.   Fuck, Tim—"

"Cut the bullshit and tell me what's wrong."

"I have a tradition I haven't told you about.  Happens every year around this time, for the last—well, this will be the sixth year.   And it's not—I don't want to do it anymore, but I'm not sure I can stop."

"Are you drinking?" I ask carefully.

"No," he says wearily.   "Not yet, anyway.   But tomorrow—fuck."

"What's happening tomorrow?"

"Well, it's not exactly tomorrow.   Because it was about three in the morning.  But that's when it usually starts."

"Joe," I say, piecing it together. 

"Got it in one, detective."

"I'm sorry, Bill."

He sighs.  "Local liquor store plans on delivering.   I had this agreement with them, set it up a few years ago."

"Call them and cancel."

"Yeah.   Yeah, I'll do that.  First thing, right after they open."

"You want me to do it?   Give me the number."

"No, that's okay.   I think I just needed—I'll do it, Tim.  Tomorrow morning."   He yawns.   "Fuck, I'm tired."

"You sleeping okay?"

"Fuck no.   But I think I might be able to tonight, if I go to bed now."

"Yeah, okay," I answer, reluctant to hang up, but not really having anything concrete to keep him on the phone.   "Call me when you get up?"

"Sure."

"I could try to take off a few days early—"

"No, it's okay.   I'll see you soon.  Listen, I'm really fucking beat all of a sudden—I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

"Sleep well."

"You too, Timothy."

He doesn't call the next morning, and when I try him, I get voice mail.  I tell myself he's still asleep and try to relax.  I'm working a long shift at the bar, and it's a busy one; I get a couple more chances to call, but I still get voicemail.

Finally, when I get home, he picks up the phone.

"I'm not drinking it," he says.   "It's just sitting there.   I'm not drinking it."

"Pour it out."

"Can't do that.   Fuck, if I smell that shit, that's all it's gonna take.   I'll pour it down my throat, not the sink."  He swallows.   "I don't know how much longer I can keep from pouring it down my throat anyway."

"Bill—"

"I, uh—I made a reservation.   The flight leaves in a couple hours.  I know I said—"

"I'll be there.   I love you, Bill."

"Yeah, I know.   Fuck—I'm sorry, Tim—"

"It's okay.   Listen, I have to get some stuff together and head to the airport.  I'll see you soon."

Fortunately, Keisha doesn't give me any shit about taking off early—I think she hears something in my voice that makes it pretty clear I'll just quit if she doesn't give me the time.   Which is the truth.  

I step off the plane at 2:15 am.   There are a surprising number of people waiting for loved ones, friends, or whoever, but only one of them is wearing a black suit and carrying a sign that says "Mr. Bayliss."   I try not to think about why Bill's not picking me up himself.  I walk up to the kid, a short, skinny red-head who barely looks old enough to drive, and he greets me with a smile.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Bayliss," he says cheerily.  "I'm Dave.  This all you got, or do we need to go to baggage claim?"

"No, this is it."

"Great.   You go have a seat by the door, and I'll go get the car.  Used to be easier to pick folks up, but with these new security precautions I can't leave it parked out front anymore."

I nod and follow him towards a bench near the door, where I can watch.  A black stretch limo appears a few minutes later.  Dave gets out and opens the door, and I get in for the long but comfortable ride to Bill's house.

I fall asleep for a few minutes, resting back against the leather seats;  it's not like I've slept much since the phone call yesterday.   I wake with a start as we're pulling up to a gate, hearing Dave's voice, then the noise of the gate opening to admit the limo.  I'm out before Dave can open the door for me, barely glancing at the front of the house.   Not that you can see much in the dark, but it looks big, and I can smell the sea.   Dave looks a little disappointed, but he smiles and waves as I walk up to the front door.

It opens as I approach.   Bill stands there briefly, a beer bottle in his hand, then walks down the hall, away from me.   I follow him into the living room.   He reeks of alcohol, the smell trailing after him as he drifts towards the living room.   He throws himself loosely onto the sofa and tips the bottle to his mouth without saying a word.

"Bill—" I say, but he just glares at me and takes another drink, daring me to do anything about it.   Then he turns on the television and starts flipping through the channels, pointedly ignoring me.   I stand there for a minute, watching him, completely at a loss.

I might as well get rid of the bag on my shoulder.  It takes a minute to find the master bedroom, full of clean, simple furniture, every bit as sophisticated and expensive as I expected.   The bed is unmade, the sheets rumpled, and I push away the thoughts that brings up.  I drop my bag next to the bed, hang my jacket in the closet, and go back out to the living room.

He's still watching television; as soon as he sees me, he takes another drink.  I take the bottle out of his hands—he doesn't fight me—and go into the kitchen to dump the dregs into the sink.  Then I open the fridge and take out the remaining bottles, open them, and start dumping them as well, expecting some sort of protest, but hearing nothing from the living room but the sound of the television.

I look up, and he's drinking from a clear glass bottle—looks like scotch.  He must have had it next to the sofa, where I couldn't see it.   I go back to him, and he stands up, facing me down as I reach for the bottle.  He brings it to his mouth again, his throat working as he swallows repeatedly, guzzling, the whiskey more than halfway gone, and when I try to take it from him, he swings the bottle at my face, swearing.   I manage to grab his hand just as the bottle connects with my chin—he's nearly six inches shorter than I am, and he's drunk, but he's strong, and he's quick.

The two of us struggle for control of the bottle.  I almost let go when he starts punching me with his free hand.  He does some damage—splits my lip, connects pretty hard with my nose, that kind of thing—but eventually my police training and longer reach enable me to get the bottle away from him, get to the sink, and dump it out.

I stand at the sink for a minute, Bill a few feet away from me.  Both of us are breathing hard, trying not to let things escalate any further.

"Is that all of it?" I ask finally, "or do you have another fifth of scotch hidden somewhere?"

He shakes his head.   "No, that was it," he says flatly.

"Okay," I say.   "I'm going to go get cleaned up."

It takes me a few minutes—I have to change my shirt—but when I come back into the living room, he's lying on the living room sofa, his arm over his face, hiding his eyes.   He's turned the television off.  

"Are you awake?" I ask.

He nods, but he doesn't say anything.   I run some water in the sink, trying to get rid of the smell.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles after I finish and turn the water off, his voice thick and barely audible.

"Yeah, I know," I answer, wondering what happens next.  Nothing does, though—he just lies there, unmoving, his face covered.

"I'm going to make some coffee," I say eventually, and I see him nod behind his arm.

"There's some beans in the freezer.   Grinder's next to the coffee maker on the counter."  There's no slurring of words, only a slight extra care with the syllables.   Someone who didn't know him (someone who didn't get close enough to smell him) might not have any idea he'd been drinking, but judging from the number of empty beer bottles I saw in the trash, not to mention the half a bottle of scotch he just now put away, he's got to be pretty damned hammered.  It's only been four hours since the phone call—he must have started right after he hung up.

"Cups?" I ask neutrally.

"Above the sink, to the right."

I occupy myself with the task at hand, unwilling or unable to think about anything else.  The coffee maker finishes and I pour two cups.   As I add the cream, I remember the first time I made coffee for him, the morning he made me tell him about Larry Moss.   I put the spoon in the sink and take the mugs out to the living room.

His arm is back at his side, but he's looking away from me, unable or unwilling to meet my eyes.   Our fingers touch when I hand him his coffee, and he glances at me for a split second, then stares.

"Oh, fuck, Tim, did I do that?" he asks, reaching for but not quite touching my lower lip.

I shrug.  "I've had worse.  Remind me not to ever piss you off, okay?"

He lowers his head.   "You'd be smart to just get the fuck away from me."

"I'm not going anywhere, Bill."

"I'm fucking serious.   You don't want anything to do with me.  I'll fucking let you down, Tim.  I already have.   And I'll keep doing it.   This is just the beginning of the shit I'm going to put you through.  I could just fucking pick up and leave you, you know?   So you'd be better off getting out now."

"I'm not leaving.   I'm not Joe, Bill, and you're not the same person you were six years ago."

He sits up at that, flinging his arms out.   "How the fuck do you know that?   You barely know me.   How do you know this isn't the real me, huh?  How do you know I'm not going to spend the rest of my fucking life getting drunk and hitting you?"

"I'm a detective, remember?   I know people.   I know you.   I love you."

He sinks back into the sofa.   "If you were as smart as you think you are, you'd stop that shit right now."

"I never said I was smart.   But I'm good at what I do—what I did.  And I don't want to stop, Bill."  I run one finger along his temple, along the hairline.  "And I don't believe you're going to let me down, or leave me."

He looks at me.   "No, I won't leave you.   Fuck, I probably should, now, save you the shit I'm going to put you through, but I can't.  I don't think I ever could."

"If you did, I'd hunt you down."

He smiles a little.   "You would, wouldn't you?"   He sits there for a minute, thinking who knows what.  I drink some coffee and look around again at the furniture.   The reality of it hits me again, as it has at unexpected times the past few weeks.  In another month, we'll be moving this furniture into our new house.

After a few more minutes, Bill looks up and says, "Fuck, I'm really fucked up.  Don't have the tolerance for this shit I did in my youth—I might need some help getting to bed."

"You think?"

He barks out a laugh, then looks sorry he did.  I gesture for him to make room, then sit next to him on the sofa.  "You want to talk about it?"

"About what?   Joe?"

"Yeah.   I mean, I know the basics—he found out you were leaving the band, and he shot himself, right?"

"Except I wasn't going to leave the band.  I mean, yeah, I was going back to Jenifur, but I was still going to stay in the Hard Cores.   Or I was going to try; fuck knows if I would've succeeded.  But the fucker didn't talk to me about it, just started punching me after the last encore, then smashed the fuck out of the Strat, and that was it.   I couldn't fucking take any more, not that night, so I walked the fuck out.  And then he fucking shot himself on the fucking street."   He hangs his head again.   "I should've gone back.   I should've talked to him.   Fuck, even after he smashed the Strat, I probably still would've stayed—I just couldn't—how could he do that?"

"I don't know.   Most people who commit suicide have been thinking about it for a long time before they do it.  I'm sure that was the case with Joe, too."

"What are you, some sort of fucking shrink?"  His voice is getting a little slurred now, his gestures wider, despite the coffee.

"I've seen a lot of suicides.   It was part of my job."  I don't say any more than that.

"You had to figure out if they offed themselves or someone else did the deed, huh?"

"Yeah, I did."   More times than I can remember.

"What's it look like?"

"What?"

He points his finger at his temple.   "Gunshot to the head, film at eleven.  I wasn't there; I didn't see.  What's it look like?   You're a murder po-leese.   You've seen hundreds of dead bodies, right?  Lots of gunshots to the head.  So tell me what it looks like, what Joe looked like, lying on the street.   His brains were probably leaking out, right?"

"You want me to tell you what it looks like?  Why?"

"I never saw him.   It was a closed casket, and besides, I was drunk at the funeral—drunker than I am now.  And contrary to what some fuckers think, it wasn't me who stole his fucking corpse.  I want to know.   I need to know how fucking stupid and gross and stupid he looked, lying on the sidewalk, bleeding.   His eyes were probably open, right?  'Cause it's only in fucking PG movies and on television that people die with their fucking eyes closed.  Fucking fakes.   Tell me what he looked like," he pleads.

Against my better judgment, I ask, "He shot himself in the temple?"

Bill nods.  "McDonald said so.  Said he took a shot and then took his shot, so to speak.   Tell me.   And I want details.  What did it look like?"

I look at him closely.   He doesn't look like he's going to give up anytime soon, and, drunk as he is, he's pretty with it, although his head is weaving back and forth a tiny bit.  If I play this right, maybe it'll help.

"What do you want to know?"

"What does a bullet hole look like?"

"The entrance wound would be small and round, with some powder burns around the edges, stippled, from it being such close range.  So, black and grey on the outside, and red on the inside, from the blood."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he mumbles, a little pale.  "But there'd be an exit wound, right?  What would that look like?"

"Probably there would be, unless there was some weird ricochet off the skull.  It'd be  bigger, maybe a lot bigger, depending on the caliber, and it might be round, but more jagged.   There'd be bone fragments in there—they're kind of yellow-white—and of course a lot of blood."

He's getting paler, a little green around the gills.  Good.   "And you'd be able to see into his head?  See his brain?   Do the brains really leak out, like you hear about?"

"Yeah, they do.   They're not liquid, but they're not—the consistency is kind of like pudding, yellowish-grey pudding, in this shiny covering, and when the covering is punctured by the bullet—"

Suddenly he's completely green, his hand in front of his mouth, and I barely have time to get him to the kitchen sink before he's puking his guts up.  I hide a smile.

Most of it lands in the sink, but he manages to mess up his shirt.  "Come on, shower," I say when he appears to have finished, for the moment at least.

He follows me without complaint, quietly submitting as I strip both of us down and get him in the shower with me.   He leans against the tile, eyes closed, and lets me run the soap over him, relaxing bonelessly as I wash his hair.   I ignore the predictable response I have seeing him naked, to washing his crotch, his dick soft and unresponsive.   I have to work to get him out of the shower—he's getting closer to passing out—but eventually I get us both dried off.

I'm about to urge him towards the bedroom when he opens his eyes and starts sliding down to the floor, his face in his hands.  It takes me a second to realize he's weeping silently.  I put a tentative hand on his shoulder and he throws himself into my arms, his whole body shaking.  I hold onto him, stroking his hair, until he's still.   Then I help him up and into bed.

I watch him for awhile, make sure he's breathing okay.  Even after his shower, the smell is nearly overpowering, and that alone keeps me awake a while longer, but eventually I do fall asleep.

I hear him get up once, but then neither one of us stirs until I wake up.  It's after 11, but the room is still dark, thanks to the heavy curtains.   Bill's still asleep; he doesn't move when I get out of bed.  I take another shower; I think I need to wash the stink of the previous night off me.  

I get dressed and start looking through the kitchen for some cereal, ignoring the spectacular view of the ocean now visible through the living room windows.  Bill emerges, looking relatively normal in sweats and a t-shirt.   "Coffee?" he asks in a rasp, and I gesture at the machine. 

"You should drink some water," I say, and he nods.  "How's your head?"

He shrugs.   "I've had worse."   He looks at me for the first time.   "Fuck, Tim, I'm sorry—you look like a fucking prizefighter.  You shouldn't have done that."

"I shouldn't have taken the bottle away?  What the fuck are you talking about?" I ask, more pissed than I was the night before.

"All I'm saying is, it would've been better if you'd just let me drink until I passed out," he says, like that's the most reasonable thing in the world.   "Then I wouldn't have hit you."

"I couldn't do that."

"Yeah, no fucking kidding.   Freak.   You're a fucking bartender, don't you know better than to come between a drunk and his bottle?"

"When it's somebody else, maybe," I concede.

He snorts.   "Idiot."

"When's the last time you went to a meeting?"

"You mean that AA bullshit?   I don't do that."

I take a breath and let it out slowly.   "You're an alcoholic, Bill." 

"Yes I am, Detective," he says mincingly.  "My   name is Bill, and I'm an alcoholic.  I've also used a lot of bad, bad drugs."  His voice darkens.  "Just because I'm an alcoholic doesn't mean I have to buy into that 12 step higher power bullshit, Tim.  I am not fucking powerless—I chose to stop drinking, and I stopped."

"You've never been to a meeting?"

"I went once.   Hated it, never went back."

"When was that?"

"Ten years ago, the first time I came to LA.  Fuck, Tim, have you ever been to one of those things?  Have you ever read the fucking twelve steps?  Half of them refer to God, and that bullshit is just not—it won't work.  Not for me."

"Okay, fine," I say, frustrated.   "There have got to be alternatives, other groups you can go to, right?"

"I guess.   I've never felt the need to go to any fucking support group, Tim.  You said yourself, when you quit smoking, the only thing that worked was to go cold turkey, right?"

"Right, right, but Kay Howard was quitting at the same time.  And I tried different things, including support groups."

"But what worked was going cold turkey."

"Yes, that's what worked, eventually," I say.  "But I did quit.  I haven't smoked again, Bill.  Not in eight years."

"So you're a better man than I.   Stronger.   Big fucking deal.  It's not like I'm getting drunk every weekend, Tim—it's once a year."

"So, what, you're planning on a repeat performance in 2002?"

"Maybe," he says, a challenge in his voice.  "You think you could handle that?"

"I know I could, if I have to," I reply firmly.  Whether it's what I'm supposed to say or not, it's how I feel—I'm not giving up on him, no matter what.  "I hope I won't have to, though," I add.  "I'd rather not."

He sighs.  "Idiot.  You are a fucking idiot.  You do know that, don't you?"

I figure there's no use in answering.   I sit down at the table, and he joins me, coffee in hand.  "What happened?" I ask after a minute.  "When I talked to you, you were doing okay, but you must have started drinking right after that.  What happened?"

He shrugs.   "Don't know if you really want to hear this."

"Tell me."

He takes a sip of his coffee.   Glances up at me, then looks down.   "Once I knew you were on your way," he says, glancing up at me again, "it was easier, somehow.   I knew you were coming, so I stopped fighting it.  I told myself I was just going to dump it out in the sink, like you told me to, but I knew better, knew I was going to end up drinking it, even if I did manage to pour one beer down the drain.

"I knew you were coming, and you'd stop me.  That, or you'd find me passed out—either way, it'd be over.  So it was easier to just start drinking, to just let myself go numb and stop fighting so hard.  Easier to let go.  Stupid, I know."

"No, I get it," I tell him, thinking about how much easier it got when I gave up fighting and just went and got my gun.  Easier until I looked down at Ryland's body on the street and realized what I'd done.   "But the next day, it's not so easy anymore," I murmur, more to myself than to him.

"No, it's not," he answers, looking at me curiously.  "You got something to tell me?"

"What?   No, of course not.  Just thinking out loud."

"Okay," he says after a minute, "so what do we do now?  I gather you're enough of a freak that you're sticking around—"

"I'm sticking around because I love you, Bill," I tell him, wanting to make sure there's no misunderstanding.   "Which doesn't mean I intend to be some sort of doormat or punching bag."   He winces at that.  "You don't like AA, fine.  But I'm sure you can find a way to work on your addictions without involving any 'higher power bullshit.'"

"Yes, mom," he says, cracking a smile.

"Fuck you."

"No, we'll do that later," he says, smirking, and I can't help laughing, the tension breaking up just like that.  Maybe I should pursue it some more, but it feels so good to laugh with him that I drop it.   We hang out for a couple hours, drinking coffee and watching a hockey game on television, then go out and get some dinner.  We don't talk about the previous night again, although I catch him looking at me   now and then with a guilty expression.

The rest of the week goes, if not perfectly, at least relatively smoothly.  The hockey game is great, seats right behind the penalty box, center ice.   We stay in for his birthday, barely leaving the bed.  We head in to the studio the next day, and I meet his band mates and watch them rehearse.

The time passes quickly, and before I know it, I'm back in Portland, moving from California sun and surf back to rain and clouds and falling temperatures.  Bill comes up for Thanksgiving, then returns to LA to handle packing up the house.  There's no more drinking, and no more talk of drinking, twelve step programs, or Joe's suicide.  I know I should talk to him about counseling, but it's easier to let it alone.

We take possession of the house a couple days before the movers come up from LA, so we stay a few nights in Karen's guest room.  I end up working the lunch shift the day the movers arrive, unable to get out of it, but Bill assures me he can handle everything just fine without me.   

III.  Dhyana (Meditation)

We need to shine the light of mindfulness on everything we do, so the darkness of forgetfulness will disappear.   The first function of meditation—shamatha—is to stop.  —Thich Nhat Hanh

By the time I get home—home, jesus, what a thought—it's getting dark, and the unpackers have left.   It's very strange to use the key, check the newly-installed security system, come inside, and see the house for the first time with furniture in it.  I head up the stairs and find Bill, busy on the floor of the living room, sorting through cds.  I ruffle his hair and start wandering around, looking at the house—our house—with our stuff in it.  His, mostly, but mine, too.  My bed, the one we first shared, is over in the guest house.  My cds and videos are mixed up with his.   My books, the Buddhist books I'd kept in storage but never been able to get rid of, they're here, mixed with his on these shelves.

Wait.

The books are jumbled together, not in any particular order—Suzuki, Glassman, Thich Nhat Hanh, the Dalai Lama, Charlotte Joko Beck, Zinn, Pema Chodron.  Pema Chodron?  There are two copies of Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind , and I'm pretty sure I never had a copy of The Heart of the Buddha's Teaching .   Or The Complete Idiot's Guide to Zen Living .   I think Engaged Buddhism in the West is mine, but I'm not sure.

"Bill?"   I say. 

"Yeah, what is it?"

I gesture at the bookshelf.   "Since when do you read Suzuki Roshi?"

He shrugs, then points to the cd rack.   "Since when do you listen to DOA?  I guess I understand you having some of my old stuff, but I never figured you for a punk fan."

"I'm not, really," I say, then shrug myself.  "Point taken."  I look at him.   "You know I'm not practicing anymore."

"I've never understood why.   Didn't you ever talk to that guy, the one you said you were going to?"

"No, I never did."

"Why the fuck not?"

It's on the tip of my tongue to tell him it's none of his business, but I stop myself.  "Things happened, and I just didn't.   Listen, can we talk about something else?"

He looks at me for a minute.   "Yeah, okay."   He considers something, then stands and stretches.   "Get your ass over here, okay?"

I move towards him with a smile.

"Welcome home," he murmurs, then pulls me in for a kiss.  It's a long, slow, thorough kiss, and at the end of it I feel very welcome indeed.

"Thanks," I tell him, stroking his face.

"Come on," he says, taking my hand and pulling me towards the kitchen.  I follow him up the narrow stairs to the loft.  

"I figured we should try it out," he says, gesturing at the bed, already made up in soft blues and greens.   "It being new and all."

"Yeah, yeah, that's a good idea," I say, smiling.  "Don't want to find out it's not any good just when we're ready to go to sleep."

"Uh-huh, that's right," he says, his fingers busy on the buttons of my shirt.  "Besides, I have a plan."

"A plan, huh?   What sort of plan?" I ask, shrugging out of my shirt and shucking my pants as he does the same.

"It's our house, right?   So, you know, we can do what we want in it."

"Yeah?" I ask, pulling him down onto the bed with me.

"We can do what we want, in any place we want, any time we want," he says, running his hands over my chest.

"That we can," I concede, kissing his neck, tonguing his ear, rubbing my cock against his hip a little.

"So this, now, this is just the first time."  One hand snakes around to my ass.  "The first time you fuck me in our new house, in our new bed."

"Is that what this is going to be?" I murmur, then go back to mouthing his collarbone.

"That's what I figured, yeah," he says, his voice catching as I go for a nipple.   "Next time, I figure we'll do it in that huge fucking shower.  That's a great shower, Tim.  We're going to do a lot in that shower.  That shower was made for fucking.  You do realize that, don't you?"

"Mmmhmmm," I mumble, because my   mouth is too busy to form words.   Jesus, I'll never get tired of his skin, the way it feels to my hands and my lips, the way it tastes, the way it smells, especially when he's like this, writhing a little underneath me as I explore his body.

"After that, we'll try out the, oh, fuck, Tim, that's good, uh, we'll try it maybe in the library, how's that sound, or the studio, fuck , god, I want you everywhere , gonna suck you off next to the pool, gonna fuck you in the dining room, gonna go out to the guest house and rub you up in your old bed, jesus, gonna get you off in every single room in this house, god , Tim—"  and then he grunts as I finish my leisurely exploration of his balls and finally take his cock in my mouth.

I take my time, making it last as long as I can, enjoying the feel of his silky skin; the heat of him; the taste, salty, then bitter; the sound of his breathing; the occasional muttered word or syllable.  His hands in my hair, clenching and releasing as he tries not to thrust, as he lets go, lets me do everything and anything to drive him insane, until his hands tighten again, painfully, just for a second, and then he fills my mouth.

I give him a few seconds to catch his breath before I grab the lube, turn us over onto our sides, and push slowly inside him.  He's talking again, telling me, "now, yeah, harder, come on, more," until it takes me over, takes me deep inside him, deep inside myself, inside him, until neither one of us is capable of anything other than grunts and moans as I rock into him, as he rocks back against me, until I throw my head back and come inside him.

Later, after a shower and dinner, he asks me about Christmas.  We decide to get a tree, and he persuades me to invite my mother to join us.   I only agree because I'm sure she'll say no.

"You'd better call her," he says.   "It's only a week and a half from now."

"I can't call her now," I say patiently.  "It's after midnight in Baltimore."

"Have you even told her about me?"

"What?   Of course I have."   It's not a lie, not exactly.

"What have you told her?   That you've got a new roommate?"

"Okay, okay, yes," I admit with a grimace.  "But can we drop it for now?  I've got better things to do than worry about coming out to my mom."

"Yeah, okay," he says, leaning in to kiss me.  And it turns out the living room floor works almost as well as the bed, although I think we both end up with rug burns.  Good thing the rug's washable.

He mentions it a few times the next couple days, not pushing, just not letting me pretend to forget.   Karen bugs me about it too.   She brings it up at dinner, the first dinner the four of us have at the new house, two days after we move in.

So the next day, after I make my way home through the cold and the rain, I sit down in the study and dial the phone.   It's still early afternoon in Oregon, so I picture her sitting and watching some television after dinner back in Baltimore.  Sure enough, I can hear it in the background when she picks up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mom."

"Tim?  It's good to hear from you.  How are you?"

"I'm fine, Mom.   I'm great."

"I'm glad to hear it.   I talk to your sister and Casey a lot, but I never seem to hear from you.  I like to know you're doing all right, son."

"I know—I'm sorry."

"Karen says you're seeing someone."

"Yeah, yeah, I am.  I, uh, I wanted to talk to you about that."

"So, talk.   What's her name?  How long have you been seeing her?  Karen wouldn't tell me anything, so I'm very curious."

"Well, see, the thing is, uh," I fumble, "we met about three years ago, but we've been together almost a year."  Chickenshit, that's me. 

"A year?   It sounds serious," she says, and I can tell she knows I'm hiding something.

"It is, Mom.   We just bought a house together."   I'm not going to hide it, not going to hide how I feel about Bill.  He's the best thing that ever happened to me.

"So you're not going to be moving in with your friend, what's his name, Bill?"

"No, I am.   I have.  Bill's the one I'm seeing.  He's not my roommate, he's my—" and I can't manage to say "lover" to my mom, and "partner" will always and forever mean Frank, so I stumble a little and settle for, "he's my boyfriend.   I love him, Mom."

Silence for   a few seconds, then, "But Tim—you're not," she hesitates, "you're not homosexual!"

"Not strictly speaking, Mom, no, I'm not.  But I am bisexual.   I'm sorry—I know that's not what you want to hear; I know you wanted me to get married, settle down—"

"I don't understand," she interrupts, sounding just as upset as I knew she would be.   "You've had girlfriends, Tim.   You've always dated girls."

"No, see, I haven't," I say as gently as I can.  "Starting a few years ago, I started going out with men.  I never told you about it, but Jim found out—that's why he pulled away from me; you had to have noticed—"

"I noticed, son, but I thought—I don't know what I thought, but I certainly never thought it was because you were homosexual —does your sister know about this?   Please tell me you haven't told Casey!"

"They know, both of them.   They've met Bill, and they like him.  The four of us have dinner together once a week, Mom."  I can't keep the exasperation out of my voice, because of course she has to bring up Casey, just like Jim brought up his kids, like it was some sort of communicable disease.

"I just—I don't know what to say, Tim.   I don't know how I'm supposed to react to this.  I'm not—I never expected anything like this, not from you.  I wanted your life to be happy.  That's all I've ever wanted."

"I am happy," I say, trying not to think about how little she seemed to care about my happiness when her brother-in-law was groping me every chance he got.  "I'm happier than I've ever been before.   I love him, Mom, and he loves me.   Do you hear what I'm saying?"

"I hear you, son; I'm not deaf," she says, sniffling a little.

"Listen, Mom, the reason I called—I wanted, we wanted, Bill and I, we wanted to invite you here.   For Christmas.  You could stay here, in the house, or if you'd feel more comfortable at Karen's, that's fine, but we'd really like you to come," I say, wincing at the awkwardness of the invitation.

"Oh, I don't know about that, son, I was planning on going over to your aunt Carol's house," she hedges, "and it'd be awfully expensive to fly at this short notice, especially this time of year."

"Don't worry about that, Mom.   We can afford tickets—first class."

"First class?   Don't be ridiculous."

"No, no, see, Bill—okay, Mom, I know this is a lot to take in, but Bill is, well, he's rich.   He's a famous musician, and he has a lot of money.   So, you know, we can afford to fly you out here, no problem."

"You're right, Tim," she says abruptly.  "This is a lot to take in.  I think I need some time.  I'll call you in a day or two, all right?"

"Yeah, all right," I say, defeated.  I told myself I didn't care how she was going to react, but I lied.   "I love you, Mom."   Because I do, still, despite everything.

"I love you too, son.   I'll talk to you later."

After she hangs up I realize I never gave her the new phone number.  I sigh.   If she wants to call, she can get it from Karen.  I hear Bill coming down the stairs; I look up as he enters the study and sits on the arm of the chair.

"How'd it go?" he asks, hand on the back of my neck, squeezing gently.

"Well, she didn't disown me," I say, trying to smile.

"That bad, huh?"

I shrug.  "About what I expected."

"Fuck, I'm sorry, Tim—"

"No, ssh," I tell him, fingers on his lips.  "I wanted to tell her.  I want her to know."

"You do, huh?" he asks through my fingers, his own fingers reaching up to run through my hair.

"Yeah, I do," I murmur, moving my hand to his chin, then pulling him closer so I can kiss him.   He leans into me, then laughs as he starts to fall off the arm of the chair.  "Get over here," I tell him, and he laughs again, maneuvering until he's straddling me, one knee on either side of my hips.

I kiss him again, long and slow, my hands working their way under the flannel and cotton he's wearing to the warm, smooth skin underneath.

"So you're sure you're not missing out on anything?" he asks after a few minutes, caressing my face.   "You're not pining away for the wife and kids and white picket fence your mom wants for you?"

"I've got everything I've ever wanted, right here," I tell him.

He starts unbuttoning my shirt.   "I can think of one thing we don't have right here."

"Oh yeah?   What's that?"

"Lube," he says with a wicked grin, standing up.  "Come on, let's go upstairs."

"Hey, I thought you wanted to try every room in the house," I say, taking the hand he offers me.

"Yeah, I know I said that, but I'm ready for the bed out again.  I'm not getting any younger here, Tim.  My back can't take any more gymnastics, at least not for the next day or so."   He throws another wicked grin over his shoulder, and the two of us practically run up the two flights of stairs to the loft, shedding clothing along the way.  "Besides," he says, peeling off his boxer briefs and tossing them over the railing, "I haven't fucked you in this bed yet."

"Yeah, and you haven't sucked me in this bed yet, either," I answer, tossing my boxers after his, pinning him to the bed.

"Well, I guess you've got a choice to make, buddy—which is it gonna be?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe I'll just rub up against you until I drive you crazy," I say, suiting action to words.   He laughs and wraps arms and legs around me.

"Gonna fuck you," he whispers in my ear, a hint of laughter still in his voice, laughter and something else.   "Gonna fuck you now, in our bed.  Gonna take my time with it, go nice and slow, until you're the one who's going crazy, you hear me?"

"Mmmm, I hear you," I murmur, smiling, and then I kiss him, and neither one of us says anything articulate again for a long, long time.  Because he does, he takes his time, and by the end of it I am going crazy, on my side, one foot braced on the foot of the bed, just like the first time, except this time there are no neighbors to worry about.  This time we're at home, in our home, where we both live, where we'll both still be tomorrow, and the next day, and next week, and next month.

We fall asleep afterwards, and when I wake up, all I want to do is stay in our warm, comfortable bed, maybe get some food in an hour or two.  It turns out Bill's got other ideas.

"Hey, I want to show you something," he says, sitting up and pulling on a sweatshirt that's practically the only clothing visible—most of what we were wearing is either on the stairs, the railing, or somewhere else between the study and the bedroom.   "Let's go out to the studio, okay?"

"You're going to make me get dressed again?  Bill, it's raining outside.  And it's cold.   Can't we just stay here?   It's nice here."   I wriggle suggestively against the sheet, and he laughs, tossing me my boxers.

"It'll mean getting you undressed again later, and warmed up—think of it that way.   And we won't get wet—the overhang'll be there."

"All right, all right," I grumble, opening the dresser and pulling on some sweats.   I grab socks and shoes and follow him down the stairs and out into the rain, where we do get wet, because the overhang doesn't go all the way. 

We walk into the studio, and I realize this is the first time I've seen it since it was remodeled—Bill got some workers started the day we moved in, and I haven't been in since. They must have finished up sometime today, while I was at the bar.

"Wow, it looks great," I tell him, looking around at the equipment, the soundproof windows, everything new and spotless.

"Yeah, it turned out okay," he says, smiling.  "What I wanted to show you is over here, though."  He gestures at a door, and I open it.

Whatever I was expecting to see when I opened the door, it wasn't a miniature zendo.  My Buddha statue is set up on a beautiful wooden table, and there are two sets of cushions—mine and another.

"What do you think?" he asks, starting to move past me.  "I wasn't sure how to set up the altar—"

I put a hand up, preventing his entrance.   "No, you need to take off your shoes first," I say quietly, taking mine off, already more aware of my breath, like a reflex I'd forgotten I had.  

"Yeah, okay," he murmurs, taking them off, watching me intently.  He follows me into the room, bowing at the doorway after me.

"Is it okay?" he asks softly.   "I didn't know whether I should set up the cushions facing the altar or the wall."

"It's fine, Bill.   It's great—it's beautiful.   But when did you start meditating?"

He shrugs.  "I haven't, really.  I've done some reading, and I bought the cushions—shit, I ordered them a few months after we met, kind of tried to sit.   But I never really figured out what the fuck I was supposed to do.  I thought maybe you could show me."

"I'm not a Buddhist anymore," I say, but I hear the uncertainty in my voice, and I know he won't miss it.

He turns to face me.   "Maybe, maybe not.   Even if you're not, that doesn't mean you can't meditate, does it?  Show me the ropes?   I was thinking it might help, you know?"

"Help me with what, exactly?" I ask, feeling defensive.

"Not you, dumbass," he says affectionately.  "Me.   With the drinking.   One of the books I read, one by Thich Nhat Hanh—"

"Thich," I correct him.   "It's pronounced 'tick,' not 'thick.'"

"Yeah, whatever," he says, with a little smile like he's won an argument.  Which I guess he has.  "The book talked about, uh, habit energy and mindfulness, and even though it sounded stupid, I thought it might help."

"So you want me to teach you how to sit?"

"Yeah, I want you to teach me how to sit," he says, still smiling that 'I win' smile.   "You think you can bring yourself to do that?"

"Now?" I ask in one more attempt to warn off the inevitable. 

"Yeah, now."   He looks at me closely.   "Shit, Tim, if this really is too traumatic for you—"

"No, no, it's fine," I say with an effort.  Breathe.   I've meditated hundreds of times before.  There's no reason I can't do it again.  "You said you've done some reading?"

"Yeah.   So I'm supposed to count my breaths, right?   That doesn't sound too difficult."

"It's harder than you think," I murmur, then move the cushions so that they're facing each other.   "This way you'll be able to see what I'm doing," I explain.  I stop for a minute to admire the bell.  "Jesus, Bill, this is beautiful.   How much did it cost?"

"Don't remember," he says casually.  "I wanted something with a good sound."

I kneel down and carefully ring the bell.   The rich tones fill the room, and my eyes burn.  I ring it twice more, breathing deeply.

I light the candle and the incense with the lighter Bill's left there.  Then I show Bill a couple different positions, explaining that some people prefer kneeling, some sitting.  He follows my lead and sits, and I explain what to do if he has to sneeze, if he falls asleep, if he has an itch, remembering when I first sat, how awkward I felt.

I don't feel awkward as I position myself on my cushions, which surprises me.  I settle in quickly, making the minor adjustments I've made countless times before.

"How long are we going to do this?" Bill asks quietly.

"About twenty minutes, I guess," I answer, thinking that's long enough for his first time.   "Then we can do walking meditation, if you want."

"Sure," he says.   "That sounds good."

I ring the bell again, and we sit.

I haven't meditated for nearly three years at this point, but it doesn't seem to matter.   It feels right to be doing it again, right to be watching my breath, watching my thoughts, aware of the deep love I feel for the man sitting across from me.  The twenty minutes passes quickly, and it's with reluctance that I ring the bell, but my back is aching, and I know Bill's has to be bothering him as well.

He stumbles a little, getting up—his feet probably fell asleep—but he follows my lead in bowing and walking, and then we sit for a few more minutes.  We're silent as we walk back to the main house, but it's a good silence, the kind of peaceful silence I remember from retreats.

He moves towards the kitchen once we get inside, but I stop him with a hand on his arm.  "Thank you," I say, full of emotion I can't quite articulate.

He lays his hand along the side of my face, the way he so often does, and I lean into its warmth and solidity.   "You're welcome," he says softly.  "Merry Christmas.   And thank you."

"You liked it?"

He smiles.  "Yeah, I did.  You're right—it's harder than it seems like it should be, just breathing and counting—but it was good.  I feel good—peaceful.  Hungry, but peaceful."

"Hungry, huh?" I ask, pulling him into my arms, nuzzling his neck.

"Mmm, yeah, for food, you know?" he says, fingers in my hair.  "This, too—I'm always hungry for this—" he kisses me quickly.  "But that'll wait until after we eat."  He pulls away, but I grab his hand.

"I love you."

He looks at me.   "Yeah, I know," he says softly.   "How'd I get so fucking lucky?"

"I thought that was my line."

He snorts.

"What?"

"Some punk I am," he says.   "I meet you and suddenly I'm all fucking hearts and flowers."

"Your secret's safe with me," I tell him, smiling. 

After dinner, we're on the sofa again.   The Canucks are playing the Oilers, so Bill's pretty intent on the game.  I've got my head resting on his thigh, pretending to read a magazine but really just dozing, when the phone rings.

Bill picks it up.   "Hello?  Yeah, that's me—who's this?"  He sits up straighter, almost dislodging my head, then squeezes my shoulder apologetically.  "Uh, hi, Mrs. Bayliss, Tim's right—what?  Yeah, okay, sure."  He looks at me with just a touch of panic, fingers digging into my shoulder painfully, then loosening.  "What do you want to know?  Uh-huh.  Yeah, I'm a guitar player.  You've heard of, well, probably you haven't heard of them, but the group is Jenifur, and—oh, you have heard of them?  Great.   Well, then you probably know they sell a fu—a lot of records.  So, yeah, I have a lot of money."

I shake my head.   I can't believe this.  I reach up for the phone, but he points his finger and glares at me.

"No, I'm not from California, I'm from Vancouver.  Yeah, it's in Canada.  I moved down here about ten years ago.  Family?   Uh, no, my parents are dead; I was an only child.  The only family I've got is my daughter, and Tim," he says, looking down at me with a smile.  "What?   Yeah, she's ten.   Lives with her mom up in Regina; that's in Saskatchewan.  Yeah, he met her a few months ago.  No, I was never—her mom was a fan of the band, kind of a groupie," he says, his expression almost comical as he tries to figure out how to tell my mother—my mother —about Billie, and I reach up to take the phone again, furious at the way she's grilling him, but he shakes his head again, his hand on my chest, pushing me back down.

"I'm not really sure this is any of your business, Mrs. Bayliss, but no, I never loved Mary.   I was in a band, she was a groupie, I was doing a lot of drinking back then, and that kind of thing can happen.   I didn't even know she'd had a baby until a few years later.  No, I'm not drinking anymore."  His patience is clearly running out, and he looks like he might be ready to just give me the phone already, but then he pauses, and his expression softens.

He looks down at me again, moving his hand from my chest to my cheek.  "I love him," he tells my mother, looking at me.   "I know I'm not what you had in mind for your son, but I do love him, and I plan on spending the rest of my life with him, if he can put up with me that long."

I take his hand in mine and bring it to my lips.  He gives me a little smile.

"Yeah, see, that's our common ground, there.  We both love him, and we both want him to be happy."  He listens, looks thoughtful, still gazing down at my face.   "Well, yeah, that's pretty much what it is, Mrs. Bayliss.  That's what it feels like, to me.  Yeah, I think it is.  Okay, well, I should let you talk to your son now—" I sit up, putting my arm around him.  

He starts to hand the phone to me, then stops and puts it to his ear again.  "What's that?  Yeah, I'd like that.  Okay, Virginia, here's Tim."

He hands me the phone, and I take it, holding it off to the side, and lean in to kiss him once, then twice.   I keep my forehead to his as I bring the phone to my ear.

"Hi, Mom," I say, my voice sounding surprisingly normal.  "What are you still doing up?"

"I couldn't sleep," she says.   "I kept thinking about our conversation earlier, and I just couldn't sleep.   I didn't even know what I was going to say when I called, but when your—" she hesitates, then goes on, "when Bill answered the phone, I just had to—"

"Had to what, interrogate him?   Come on, Mom, don't you think you went a bit overboard?"

"I love you, son," she says with wounded dignity.  "I don't think it's out of line for a mother to want to know something about the person her son's chosen to share his life with."

"You could find out a lot more about him if you came for Christmas."

"I know.   And I think I'd like to take you up on your offer."

"You would?"   My voice stays steady, thankfully, although I pull away from Bill with a jerk.

"Yes.  I thought I could fly out on the 23^rd and back on the 26^th, if that works out for you two."

"Uh, yeah, that would work," I answer, stunned.  "But, listen, Mom, why don't you stay a little longer?  Billie—that's Bill's daughter—she's flying down on the 27^th and staying through New Year's.  Why don't you stay a few days longer, so you can meet her?"   I realize after I've said it that I should have checked with Bill first, but he's smiling at me, so I guess it's okay with him.

"Well, I'd like to be back here for Jim's party, but I guess I could stay until the 30^th," she says, and before I know it I'm telling her we'll call her tomorrow with her flight information and hanging up the phone.

"My mom's coming out for Christmas," I tell Bill, still in shock.  "She's coming on the 23^rd.   That's in three days.  And she's going to stay here.  Until the 30^th."

"That's great, Tim," he says with a grin, "We'll put her in the guest house, and B can stay downstairs."

"Jesus.   I have to call Karen.  Do you think she'll mind if we have Christmas dinner here?   There's more room."

"She'll love it.   Our kitchen's a fucking wet dream for a cook like her—did you see how she was staring at the appliances the other day?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

He is right.   Karen's thrilled about the kitchen, and even more thrilled that Mom's coming, since Mom's been steadfastly refusing to leave Baltimore each December for the six years Karen and Casey have lived here.

"So it takes you coming out to get her here for the holidays," she says, laughing.   "Good to know.  Does this mean we can't have turkey, or are you willing to let your vegetarian principles slide for once?"   We talk about some options for dinner, and she reassures me about Mom, tells me she'll invite Mom to stay with her and Casey if things get too crazy.

The holidays go the way holidays are supposed to go—celebration, family, presents, and lots of food.   There are definitely a few tense moments here or there, but for the most part everyone gets along fine, even Billie and Casey.  The holidays usually bring out the worst in my dreams, but I only have nightmares a couple nights, and they aren't nearly as bad as they usually are.  It's actually the best Christmas I can remember, although any holiday I don't end up throwing up in the kitchen sink is better than most.   I think the combination of a different locale, not as many Bayliss relatives, and being with Bill is responsible.

The days past quickly, and before I know it my mother's gone home, then Billie, and we've all survived the time together with our sanity intact.

It helps that Bill and I meditate together every day.  I can't quite believe we're doing it, but we are.  He's settled into it like he's been doing it for years, and I've settled into it with him, although I'm not always pleased with