CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

June 16 to June 30, 1990.

I had expected tux shopping to be an errand just for the guys, but in June, Ra’Shelle (Queen of Formal Wear) and I join Layne and Paul in Beverly Hills.

We have Colin’s and Tom’s sizes, and we take this opportunity to buy both of them a tuxedo (which neither of them owns). We’re buying theirs off the rack, but Layne and Paul are having theirs custom fitted.

“We gotta sneak out of here and go to lunch,” Ra’Shelle says as we comb through the racks.

“I feel ya.”

“Then who would we model for?” Layne calls.

Ra’Shelle playfully rolls her eyes. “The man hears like a bat.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says. “What do you think of this one?”

Ra’Shelle scans him. “Is that one that I picked out for you, or did you decide to go rogue?” she asks in the same tone she uses when she gently chastises Alex.

“I liked it.”

“But it doesn’t like you. Lift your arms.”

He does. “It pinches a little,” he says, straightening the jacket when he lowers his arms.

“Would you like to raise your arms at some point during your wedding? Maybe for dancing or making a toast?”

He smirks, but doesn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought. Go back in there and try one of the ones I chose for you.”

Layne bows. “Yes, ma’am.”

Of course, Layne and Ra’Shelle have known each other longer than I’ve known Layne, but their dynamic has changed over the last year. Layne’s developed sibling-like bonds with both Ra’Shelle and Kari, and I could watch them banter and bicker all day.

“What about mine?” Paul asks, emerging from the fitting room.

Ra’Shelle circles him. “Straighten out the jacket,” she says before circling him again. “Looks good.” She gestures for the sales associate. “I think he’s ready for a fitting.”

Paul joins the associate who carries a measuring tape and pins, and Layne emerges in another tux.

“So much better!” Ra’Shelle says.

“Yeah, yeah, you were right.”

She dusts off his shoulders and pulls on his sleeves–all the things she told Paul to do. Paul sees her in the mirror, and I know he’s sharing my thought: Why did she do that with Layne, but not with Paul?

Paul may not know the answer, but after spending a few hours with the guy, I do. He seems nice enough, but he’s a little crass at times, and there’s something about him that just makes me far less likely to initiate physical contact.

“Damn, Layne,” Ra’Shelle says. “Who knew you could look this good? Your wrinkled, business casual TA clothes didn’t do you justice.”

“You should’ve seen him at the gala,” I say.

“That’s right… You already have a tux because of all your fancy-schmancy events. Why are you buying another?”

“This is my wedding tux,” he says. “It’s different.”

Ra’Shelle chuckles and gestures toward the other sales associate. “Interesting man you chose, Sam.”

“I know it.”

“Besides,” Paul says, “he wasn’t going to make me do this by myself.”

“True,” Layne says, taking his place a few feet from Paul.

“I’m just glad you picked me, dude,” Paul says. “I was afraid you were going to go with the dude who never shuts up about his sick wife.”

Ra’Shelle looks at me in surprise, and I watch Layne.

“Let it go, man,” Layne says.

“I’m just saying,” Paul continues. “I met the guy once, and the entire night was him talking about her. We’re in a bar, man. Maybe have a drink and relax.”

“Paul, stop being such a dick,” Layne says in a tone I’ve never heard. “She’s fucking terminal now.”

Paul rubs his forehead. “Oh, dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“That’s why you shouldn’t talk shit about other people,” Layne says. “You never know what they’re going through.”

“You’re right,” Paul says, lifting his arms in surrender. “That’s on me. I’m sorry.”

“Good,” Layne says, and his tone softens again. “Ladies, did you find tuxes for the guys?”

“Yep,” Ra’Shelle says, placing two gorgeous tuxedos on the counter. “They’ll look great.”

Layne gestures down his body. “Clearly, I trust you.”

“We’re going to go kill half an hour in nearby stores,” I tell him. “We’ll be back to pick you two up for lunch.”

“Can’t wait,” he says, grinning.

And for the first time, I don’t kiss him before I leave. I may have damn near made out with him at the gala, but I wouldn’t even peck him in front of Paul.

***

Two weeks later, Layne signs us up for a couple’s cooking class.

And this isn’t just a one-hour workshop where you make your own pizza or something. This is a three-hour class that includes an appetizer, entree, and dessert. You even do the prep and clean-up.

I think it’s more of a chef simulation than a cooking class, but it’s a nice way to kill a Saturday, and Layne’s beyond excited.

We’re given two options for each dish (some more complicated than others) and we decide to create margherita flatbread, roasted chicken with seared green beans and mashed potatoes, and a chocolate souffle.

Timing is everything, and if Layne and I were in a dark place, we’d be completely miserable right now.

But after dating for over a year, we’re still deliriously happy, and so we laugh and joke through our ridiculous mistakes, and we enjoy the activity.

Until we get to the dessert.

Layne is separating the egg yolks and whites while I chop the chocolate bar with a serrated knife.

I’m not paying enough attention, and I’m using the wrong technique.

I should know better.

I do know better.

The blade’s teeth bite into my finger, leaving a jagged cut that immediately bleeds.

I suck in a quick breath, but I don’t yell or curse. I don’t show any emotion at all.

“Oh my god, Sam!” Layne yells, alarmed. He takes my hand and places it under cold running water in our sink. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry.”

The teacher retrieves the first aid kit and removes the bloody knife and chocolate.

Other students watch Layne panic, but I take deep breaths, and let the adrenaline work its magic.

Life has been good, and I don’t need the adrenaline right now, but I’ll still take it. What Layne sees as a traumatic event, I see as a happy accident.

Of course, I can’t tell him that.

He makes liberal use of the first aid kit, and I’m soon bandaged and wearing a glove to ensure I don’t contaminate the food.

“Are you okay?” he asks, holding my face with both hands.

“I’m fine. It’s just a little cut.”

“It was a big cut,” he says. “A big, jagged cut. You’re sure you want to stay?”

“I’m sure.”

“You whip the eggs. I’ll chop the chocolate.”

I chortle. “Fine.”

I want to bring back the lively fun we’ve had all night, but I’m basking in the newfound calm, and it’s hard for me to stay in that place and quip simultaneously.

By the time the souffle is in the oven, the feeling is tapering, and I knock my shoulder against him. “Thanks for being my nurse.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Baby, what would you be like if I got hurt for real?” I ask with a grin.

“Torn up,” he says seriously.

“Hey,” I say softly, touching his shoulder. “I’m fine, and I’m going to stay that way. You don’t need to worry about any of that.”

“Promise?”

“Totally promise.”

His kiss is hesitant, like he’s worried my lips are cut too, and I nip at him to bring back his typical passion.

It works, and he feels better.

Despite the rough start, the souffle is fantastic, and I’m proud that all of our food was editable.

The teacher inquires about my injury several times, I’m sure testing whether or not she should be worried about a lawsuit. I reassure her that things happen.

I could tell her that she did me a favor, that I haven’t felt that since Thanksgiving last year, but I don’t think she’d appreciate my morbid gratitude.

While we’re driving home, Layne strokes my hand, and I’m struck by just how nurturing he is.

I didn’t realize how poorly I’d chosen romantic partners until I spent six months with Layne.

“Sam?” he asks tentatively. “Sam, why didn’t you react?

“About the cut?”

“Yeah. When I cut or burn myself in the kitchen, I curse like a sailor. I’ve never seen you do that.”

“You haven’t seen me cook much,” I counter.

“Still. Do you just have a higher pain tolerance than most?”

“Maybe.”

“Baby,” he coaxes, “what aren’t you telling me?”

I look at my bandaged finger. “You know how you don’t tell me how much money you have because you’re afraid I’ll see you differently?”

He hesitates. “Yes.”

“This is my version of that.”

“Nothing could make me see you differently, Sam.”

“Isn’t that what I always tell you?”

He taps on the steering wheel, deciding whether to press me for details.

“The thing is,” I say, “the only person in my life who knows this is Tom.”

He glances at me with raised eyebrows. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” I sigh. “But you’ve hung in here for a year… Maybe it’s right for you to know.”

“I don’t want to push you, but I’d be honored.”

I weigh the pros and cons. I don’t think he’ll freak out or leave.

Is he the type to coddle and pity? In my experience nurturance and pity aren’t always that far removed.

Will he dismiss it the way so many shrinks do? Roll his eyes and tell me to get over it? That would probably hurt the most.

On the other hand, there’s something to be said for telling your significant other your biggest secret. Would that bring us closer together? It’d certainly help him understand me.

Do I want to be understood?

Questions like this fill my head during the entire drive home. When we finally arrive, I say, “Okay. I’ll tell you the story.”