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“What would you tell them?”

He put down his fork, took a swig from his glass, and said, “I’d tell them it was only because it was he; because it was I.”

“Parce que c’était lui; parce que c’était moi.”

“Huh?” he said.

“You just quoted Michel de Montaigne.I just repeated it in the original French.”

“Mr. Fabricant would be thrilled.”

“Indeed.”

Wednesday, May 30, 2018, St. Jude—“Rio all settled in?” MJ asked.

“I guess,” I said, looking around the room and realizing there was no evidence of his presence—except for the two coffee mugs in the sink and the bag of Cafe Bustelo in its distinctive yellow, red, and black packaging.

“How’s it going?”

How could I tell her it’s been three weeks and we are both nearing sixty but are as horny for each other as teenagers?

“Fine,” I said. “Getting to know each other and catching up on what we missed over the years.”

“How long is he staying?”

“I’ve no idea. He doesn’t seem to plan much in advance. He doesn’t seem to own much either. Just some clothes, his music equipment, and his car—”

“That hooptie in the car port?”

I nodded.

“Good for him,” MJ said. “Remember how, back in college, we all swore we wouldn’t be tied to possessions like our parents? We would just have books and clothes and maybe a nice stereo?”

“Not me,” I said. “I wanted things. I grew up with nothing, so accumulating stuff was always important to me.”

Thursday, June 7, 2018, St. Jude—I woke up from a dream about Jackson this morning. Unusually, Rio was still in bed beside me, snoring lightly. I dream of Jackson more often than I like to admit even to myself. I’ll open my eyes suddenly in the dark, waking from a dream of him, erect and slightly nauseous, my mouth filled with the taste of barbecue enflamed by too much lighter fluid. The dreams are always searing,hot, like sex with Rio. I’ll whisper to myself, “I love you, Jackson,” even as I snuggle up to a still-sleeping Rio. I know it’s insane. I still love Jackson. I love Rio, too. But differently. I don’t know him. Still, I hope he knows that despite what happened and whatever comes next, I will always love him. We grew up with so little love that I hope he never feels unloved again.

Tuesday, June 12, 2018, St. Jude—“What was your relationship like?” Rio asked me. We were sitting on the back patio, having drinks and watching the ducks play in the canal.

“With Jackson, you mean?”

He nodded.

“I don’t know. I never thought about it. We just were, you know?”

He kept his eyes on me, and I felt the need to keep talking to try to explain, though whether I was explaining to him or myself, I don’t know.

“The few guys in my life—you, Juan—were like pieces of the puzzle of me.”

“Juan was the guy from the orchard, right?”

“Yeah. Anyway, with Juan, I learned a little more about myself. But when Jackson came along, he fell into my life like the finalmissing puzzle piece. With him, I got to see the first complete picture of myself, of my life.” I paused, shook my head. “Does that makeanysense at all?” I asked.

“Yeah, it does.” He paused. “Can I ask you another question?”

“Of course.”

“So where do I fit into this puzzle of yours?”