Spoiler Alert: The Hero Dies: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Other Four-Letter Words

by Michael Ausiello

Our boyfriend history was fairly similar. We had both had one major prior relationship of similar duration (three years) and end date (less than two years ago). Our girlfriend history, however, diverged greatly, in that I’d never had one and he, well, had. And a serious, adult one at that. All told, what we lacked in common interests we more than made up for in snark-filled chemistry. I wrapped up dinner wanting to know more about him. I got the distinct impression he felt the same about me. We split the bill, proceeded outside, and faced that awkward “what do we do now” quandary. It was clear that neither of us wanted the evening to end. “We could go back to my place and hang out,” Kit suggested, sheepishly. “I don’t know . . .” I hedged. “We don’t have to have sex,” he assured me. “We could just . . . hang out.” “I’m not sure I’d be able to restrain myself . . .” And with that, Kit pulled out his notebook and pretended to write, “No. Willpower.”

It had been forty-eight hours since Kit and I first laid eyes on each other at New York’s Webster Hall, the site of the Gay Sports Ball, an annual event that was a mashup of my favorite things: gay athletes and gay music, and, if I was lucky, gay tonsil hockey. My BFF and wingman Matt Eriksson was my plus one, and it would be our first social outing since the events of 9/11 exactly two months earlier.

This particular slice of heaven was tall, probably six-two or six-three. Slim build. Aquiline nose. Smart glasses. Sexy in a nerdy kind of way. And I could tell by the way he was chomping on his little cocktail straw that he didn’t lack confidence. Sign. Me. Up.

Now, what happened next would be the subject of much heated debate over the course of our entire thirteen-and-a-half-year relationship. According to Kit, I immediately lunged toward him, desperately crying out, “No! Don’t go!” I, however, recall taking a more subtle approach, something along the lines of “You sure you don’t want to hang out here a little longer, you handsome sexy fuck?”

Regardless, Kit ended up staying behind with me, while Nate and his crew (which now included Matt) moved on to gayer pastures. Maybe it was the residual high from my one-sided flirtation with the captain of the flag football team downstairs, but the moment Kit and I were alone, I boldly moved my lips toward his and yanked that cocktail straw right out of his mouth and into mine. “Excuse you,” he mock-reprimanded me, as I smiled sheepishly at him. Without missing a beat, he charged at me and snatched the straw back.

“Oh, I see how it’s going to be,” I sassed. We would repeat this unusual mating ritual continuously over the next nine minutes, our mouths never once touching. The pace of our straw-play gradually sped up and ended in him kissing ...

I immediately charged back at him and stole a second kiss. And then a third. And then a fourth. By the tenth, we decided to make ourselves more comfortable on one of the nearby sofas, on which we continued practicing an aggressive form of CPR on each other for the next hour or so. We eventually came up for air, exchanged phone numbers, shared one final kiss, and met up with our respective posses. The Cheshire grin on...

Back to our first date: I ultimately caved and agreed to relocate to Kit’s apartment, but I vowed to keep sex off the table for now. I needed to delay introducing Kit to my childhood alter ego—“Fat Mike”—as long as possible. I was convinced that if he were to find out too soon that hiding under my comfortably fitting clothes were pockets of loose skin and rows of faded-but-still-noticeable stretch marks—a by-product of my supersized teenage years—he would promptly run in the other direction. Best to leave Kit thinking there was a Marky Mark–caliber six-pack waiting for him underneath my disco shirt. If and when the day came that he learned the truth about my uniquely proportioned midriff, I’d already have my hooks deep enough into him that it wouldn’t even matter.

We hopped in a cab uptown to his pad on 68th and Central Park West, copping various PG-13–rated feels the entire way. As we entered his fourth-floor apartment, he warned me, “My roommate is here, but we can hang out in my room.” I hoped he had noise-canceling earplugs for when Kit and I banged. Oh, right. Fat Mike had already declared tonight a sex-free zone. Ugh. Fuck off, Fat Mike!

And the entry didn’t look like it was in mid-renovation. It looked like it was the victim of severe neglect. I caught a fleeting glimpse of the sizable living room, which, much like the hallway, was a homely, poorly lit sight. What little furniture there was appeared old, dusty, and mismatched. In the distance I’m pretty sure I saw a banana peel on the floor, right next to . . . a dinner roll? What the fuck was this place? I’d known he was too good to be true. There was no sign of the alleged roommate. Before I could take in the rest of the apartment, Kit opened his bedroom door and invited me in. I was worried about what might be waiting for me on the other side. Mannequins covered in the excised skin of Kit’s exes? A trophy case filled with blood slides from his victims? Weapons of mass destruction?

I finished tinkling, flushed the toilet, and . . . opened the medicine cabinet. Much like the rest of the bathroom, its contents were sparse. There was a stick of deodorant, a tube of toothpaste, your standard-issue toothbrush—just the one, thank heavens!—a small jar of mouthwash, all of which had been (curiously) stripped of their labels. On the bottom shelf, tucked into the corner, were two miniature plastic dinosaur figurines hugging each other—adorable! Oh . . . hold up a second. On closer examination, they weren’t hugging at all. The Triceratops was brazenly riding the Apatosaurus from behind in what appeared to be a consensual act. Hmm . . . Slightly disturbing but not a deal-breaker.

On the top shelf rested a wooden paddle with red-and-black illustrations etched into the wood. Only after picking it up and reading the words “Peter Meter”—and noticing that it was shaped like a cock—did I realize it was a measuring stick. A penis measuring stick. The units (in ascending order) were as follows: * Should have been a girl * Just a water spout * 95% imagination * Seen better days, but not much * Just a teaser * Woman’s home companion * A secretary’s delight * For large girls and small cattle * Home Wrecker size * For Barroom Betting only * WOW!

The paddle, combined with the fornicating prehistoric reptiles, suggested three things to me about the man waiting for me in the other room: He liked himself a vintage novelty item; he had a cheeky relationship to—and an unapologetic attitude toward—sex; and he was a size queen. That last one worried me. What if my “woman’s home companion”–sized endowment wasn’t big enough for him? What if he was aiming for someone in the “sec...

It was like we got each other, without fully knowing at this point exactly what it was we were getting. The best part? “Fat Mike” wasn’t shitting on my post-date high. And, for that matter, neither was “Gay Shame Mike.” Or “Survivor’s Guilt” Mike. All the Mikes that for the past fifteen years had conspired to convince me that because my parents had died, or because I wasn’t straight, or because I was once 250 pounds, I didn’t deserve to be happy. Or to be loved. They kept their collective mouths shut the entire way home and allowed me to just be. I had never enjoyed a bus ride to New Jersey more.

This routine played out pretty much nightly. And I was so busy demonizing Kit for his pot dependence that I shrugged off my wine use as the lesser—and certainly the more legal—of two evils. Kit occasionally called me out on the double standard, but for the most part he didn’t judge my drinking. Part of me wished he would express some concern or take more notice, to demonstrate to me that he cared. Because, the fact was, over the course of our relationship I went from hating wine to tolerating wine to liking wine to loving wine to needing wine.

I needed wine to quell my raging insecurity about the extra thirty pounds I had gained in the twelve years since Kit and I met, extra padding I feared only drew more attention to how far out of my league he was. I needed wine to dull the shame I felt over Kit and me not having had what he referred to as “big boy sex”—intercourse—in more than two years. I needed wine to ease my guilt about waking up early each morning and quietly jerking off to porn while Kit lay asleep next to me, because it was easier than initiating sex and getting rejected or, even worse, having sex and being reminded of how much our romantic spark had dimmed.

I needed wine to drown out my suspicions that, despite his unequivocal denials every time I point-blank asked him, he had fallen off the infidelity wagon again, this time with a guy named Todd, an up-and-coming interior designer he’d met through his current gig as head photographer at Manhattan’s foremost vintage midcentury furniture shop, Wyeth, and who spoke the same design language as Kit, and, as bad luck would have it, was the spitting image of his ultimate celebrity crush, Olympic diver Tom Daley. I needed wine to live with the part of me that felt like a pushover for not trusting my gut about Kit’s infidelity because, if I did, it would mean I’d have to finally make good on my threat to leave him. I needed wine to silence the voices in my head that pointed out all the in...

That was essentially where we were at when Kit decided to go rogue: We were weighing all of our options. Together. So for him to unapologetically sign the lease behind my back, before we had mutually agreed on which path to take, infuriated me. And the fact that the communication-challenged Kit struggled to articulate why he would do such a hurtful, insensitive thing—beyond saying that he felt suffocated—only confirmed my worst fears: I was losing him. And to a fucking outer borough.

So I reacted as I typically would when Kit pushed me to the emotional brink: I gave him the silent treatment. Instead of engaging in a knock-down, drag-out shouting match that Kit was always game for, I went in the opposite direction and shut down. It was the same dance we’d been doing for the past almost twelve years. Kit wore his emotions on his sleeve and I bottled mine up. And I did so, in large part, because I was terrified of what lay beneath. If I cracked the floodgates open even just an inch, forty-one-plus years of grief and gay bullying and fat shaming and sexual oppression could potentially come pouring out. And what would that look like? What would it look like to completely lose it? Combine that with Kit’s default incendiary temperament and things could get ugly. Maybe even violent, as they often had with my short-fused dad.

So, instead of discussing the matter further with Kit, I froze him out until our next appointment with Tony, who attempted to put Kit’s insensitive actions into words: What if his impetuous decision to slap his John Hancock on that lease wasn’t a sign that he wanted t...

And as frustrating as it was that Kit needed Tony’s help in both diffusing the storm brewing inside him and finding the right words to articulate those feelings, I was just relieved to hear that we both still wanted the same thing: to be in a healthy, happy relationship with each other.

the symmetry of our pillowcases when making the bed (“The opening flaps face out,”

It was a lovely evening, although I did notice that Kit was shifting uncomfortably in his seat through most of the meal. I assumed it was related somehow to the bowel issues he’d been experiencing. Or perhaps it was connected to the light traces of blood he had started seeing last week in his semen—a worrisome symptom that WebMD nonetheless assured us was likely nothing serious and would probably go away on its own.

“That store is not going anywhere,” I assured him. “We can always come back.” Despite all my timing concerns, we managed to squeeze in trips to Target and IKEA and still get the rental returned on time. And, honestly, what was I really worried about? Having to pay a $50 late fee? I was constantly in a rush to be somewhere other than where I was at in any given moment. And it was exhausting.

As I handed the menus back to her, I noticed Kit shifting in his seat. Again. “Are you OK?” I asked. “Something’s not right with my ass,” he replied. “I feel like I’ve got a golf ball lodged up there.” “A . . . golf ball?” I worriedly shot back. “Yes,” he confirmed, before picking up on the fear in my eyes. “Bodge, come down off the ledge. It’s probably just a big hemorrhoid.”

Quick sidebar: Bodge—pronounced Boj (think “Bo Jackson,” just drop the “ackson”)—was one of a handful of nicknames we’d adopted for each other over the years. It arrived after our initial “Poopiedoops” and “Dooplumdoops” phase, although we never could recall its exact origin. It was as if the word had been implanted in our brains one night while we slept, and then when we woke up we were simply each other’s Bodge. And there were variations. Like Bodge-lums. And Bodge-lum-doops. But mostly it was just Bodge.

Kit knew me well. My internal alert system was raised to DEFCON 1, a level not seen since a week ago when I thought I felt a lump in my testicle and raced to an urgent care facility in Chelsea to be felt up by a stranger in a lab coat, only to be told what I was feeling was just normal scrotum bits. Now I took a deep breath, came down off the anal cancer ledge, and urged Kit to at least get it checked out. There was also the ongoing bloody semen issue, so now he had two—possibly related—reasons to see a doctor. He agreed. Our Arnold Palmers arrived, and as I began to s...

“They found something,” he informed me. “But the doctor said there are a hundred things it could be other than cancer.” “They found a growth?” I clarified. “Yes,” he confirmed. “I’m having it biopsied on Friday. I’m going to be fine. Please don’t be worried. I’m not . . . You get one more question.” “Are you in any pain?” “The rectal exam was not fun,” he said. “But I’m OK. I’m going to treat myself to some retail therapy now. I will see you tonight when you get home.” “OK, Bodge. I love you.”

Through it all, my mom was surrounded by a cloud of smoke. Oh, man, did she smoke—as much in a day as every character on Mad Men would in a season, combined. Morning, noon, and night, she had a cigarette in her mouth. On airplanes, in cars, at work—there was never a bad time to take a puff, as far as my mom was concerned. She would buy them by the carton, and if she ran out (or came close to it), she would send me to the corner store to pick her up a pack. (I couldn’t help but feel like her drug mule.) Deep down, though, I knew that it wasn’t good for her. I feared she would die of lung cancer. One night, I even ran downstairs crying after having a nightmare that she had died. “I’m not going to die, Michael,” she assured me. “Now go back to sleep.” But I nonetheless worried that the most important person in the world would be taken away from me.

And in the end, she would. The eleven-month period between her diagnosis and death was a dark, debilitating stretch. The emotional roller coaster of fear, hope, sadness, disappointment, and ultimately, abandonment haunts me to this day. Because I spent so much time with my mother, I was given a bird’s-eye view of the entire ordeal—I even accompanied her to her daily radiation treatments. And as I held her hand in the emergency room on December 27, 1988, I looked on as she opened her eyes, glanced at me, and let out a barely audible “Michael.” It was the last word she would ever speak. This couldn’t be happening again.

“What is this?” he said, with a mix of fear and curiosity, before pulling out the ring box and opening it. He glanced up at me with a look of “Is this what I think it is?” I took possession of the ring, grabbed his right hand, and . . . “Shit,” I sighed. “Which one is the ring finger?” “Oh, just give it to me,” he demanded with mock irritation, before snatching the ring and slipping it on his finger. Much to my surprise, it was a pretty decent fit. “Will you marry me?” I asked him. He simultaneously chuckled and sighed. Meanwhile, as I nervously awaited his response, it dawned on me for the first time that he could say (gulp) no. He looked up and deadpanned, “Oh, geez. You’re marrying me because I have cancer.”

It was funny because, well, it was true. “It’s more than that,” I insisted, fighting back tears. “If anything good has come from this fucked-up situation it’s that it allowed me to look past all of our problems—the pot, the lack of sex, my job—and realize that none of it matters. All that matters is that we’re together. I want to be your husband. I want the doctors and nurses to know that the person by your side is your husband. And he would do anything for you.” I took a deep breath, looked into his eyes, and repeated the question at hand: “Will you fucking marry me or not?” He cracked the sweetest smile and said, “Yes, Bodge, I will marry you.”

“Speaking of the ring . . . do you like it?” I asked, hesitantly, before proudly declaring, “They’re simple. And classic!” “I don’t have any problem with this ring,” he declared. “You did good.” Mission. Fucking. Accomplished. And then like a thunder bolt, it hit me: I’m engaged. I’m going to be someone’s husband. Fat Mike from Roselle Park, New Jersey—or “Fudgepacker Mike,” as John Valentine called to taunt me every day at the start of Mr. Bangs’s Chemistry class, just loud enough so everyone could hear—was getting married to the man of his dreams.

I woke up the next morning with a strange feeling. Something called . . . optimism. It was just a twinge, but at this point I’d take a twinge. Maybe all the crap I had read on the Internet pertained to a worst-case version of this cancer, I thought. Maybe Dr. Barnes, the first of two neuroendocrine specialists we were seeing today, would reveal that Kit had a more treatable form of the disease. Maybe Kit and I would be able to grow old together as husband and husband. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.

Michael Ausiello March 24, 2014 • Some big news to share—some of it good, some of it less so. Let’s get the crappy news out of the way first. Two weeks ago, Kit was diagnosed with an extremely rare, rather aggressive, high-grade neuroendocrine cancer. Because it’s such an unusual form of this disease, there is little in the way of data about prognosis, but his doctors at Memorial Sloan Kettering are hopeful that an aggressive chemo cocktail will melt away the fist-sized tumor currently nestled in the lower part of his gastrointestinal tract. Treatment begins today and continues through Wednesday (all of the outpatient variety), and then, after a three-week respite, the three-day-on, three-week-off cycle continues. This could go on for anywhere from three to four months. One variable: Docs detected two tiny nodules in his lungs that could be related to the primary tumor. They’re too small to biopsy, so his docs are taking a wait-and-see approach on that front: If the nodules vanish during chemo, then it’s obvious there has been spread. And if they stick around, it’s probably unrelated. Again, the goal is for the chemo to wipe away any/all of the cancer. Surgery is being billed as a last resort, so we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Kit, meanwhile, has Gallows Humored his way through every step of this process. If attitude is half the battle, he’s going to kick cancer’s ass. (BTW, we have dubbed the tumor “The Lurker,” so please refer to it as such in any corresponde...

While the events of the past three weeks had clearly foreshadowed the hands-on role I would take in Kit’s medical care, this morning’s chair-gate brouhaha had firmly established how I would tackle my job as caregiver: ferociously, passionately, and with zero tolerance for bullshit. And it felt good. It felt good to fight for something without worrying about my emotions getting the best of me or how I’d be perceived or what the possible blowback would be. It felt good to love someone so much that literally nothing was as important as making sure that person was safe and comfortable and protected.

In the wake of steam room–gate, a new Kit emerged, one who was contrite, vulnerable. By the time I got home an hour later, there was an email waiting for me in my in-box. It was from Kit, and the subject line read, “Peaks, Valleys, and Unexpected Turbulence.” I clicked it and began reading. I’m so glad you saw me. I got to see you. Hold and hug you. Hear you say that you’re O.K. That we’re O.K. You’ve seemed so far away since last night. Or maybe it was the idea of us that seemed like it was fading. I couldn’t help but feel today’s bus was a metaphor for that. Making me strain to make you out behind its smoked glass. Making me rely on my idea of you. Causing me to think what I would do if you weren’t there. Weren’t here. Weren’t in my life. Staring through my reflection I looked at myself and wondered who you saw. Then I asked myself where are you going? Wondered if our tickets are for the same destination. On the same flight. Perhaps though, our journey is the destination. Then tickets are not required and to that I’d say, now boarding. Have your tray table up and your seat belt securely fastened. There may be unexpected turbulence. If I’m scared, I’ll know you’re in the seat next to me. Holding my hand. Talking me down. Telling me WE’RE going to be O.K. When everything settles down there will be a quiet ding and we’ll be free to walk about the cabin. Together.

Michael Ausiello March 27, 2014 • Kit completed his first three-day chemo cycle yesterday and will now recuperate at home for three weeks before Cycle 2 starts in late April. He’s doing fairly well on the side-effect front so far—there’s some light nausea, malaise and sleepiness but nothing too major. Kit’s background as a world-class napper has already come in VERY handy.

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting in HBO’s posh screening room waiting for The Normal Heart to start, my eyes still glued to my phone for a text from Kit or a call from Davis. I then decided to kill more time by checking my email and was startled when a new one from Kit appeared with the subject line “Holy Shit!” I took a deep breath and opened it. The first thing I saw was a close-up image of the inside of our toilet bowl accompanied by the following caption: “Normals at the bottom. Guinness record on top!!!! Thanks for the coffee!!! I feel great!” I let out a spontaneous, happy sigh of relief so loud I almost felt the need to apologize to the folks sitting around me for disturbing the pre-show peace. I’d never been so happy to see a literal pile of shit in my life. I quickly wrote him back, “Amazing! Thank you so much for sending that. Show’s about to begin. I love you!!!”

Michael Ausiello April 13, 2014 • Just when we were beginning to think we dodged the hair-loss bullet—it’s been nearly three weeks since he began chemo, after all—Kit awoke Wednesday morning to a pillowcase covered in brown strands. Upon making the discovery, he summoned me from the kitchen with an alarmed, “Michael! It has begun!” A few tears were shed, but the sadness quickly gave way to curiosity and astonishment. Cut to Kit spending the next three days gleefully grabbing fistfuls of hair out of his head SIMPLY BECAUSE HE COULD (and also because he knew it unsettled me). And then on Saturday, he decided to accelerate the process with a thorough and complete head shaving in our bathroom. Playing the role of barber was yours truly and, despite some major reservations on Kit’s part, I’m proud to say not a drop of blood was spilled. News flash: Bald Kit looks just as sexy as Hirsute Kit.

Michael Ausiello May 9, 2014 • We received some disappointing news this morning—a fresh MRI confirmed that the chemo cocktail Kit had been prescribed had no impact on The Lurker. In fact, the bastard grew a little bigger over the past seven weeks (which explains the increased discomfort Kit’s been feeling). Also, a few suspicious nodules turned up in his pelvic region, which also blows. The encouraging news is that there are other chemo cocktails out there, and Sloan Kettering has recommended a new recipe that they hope will succeed where the last mixture failed. Kit resumes treatment next Friday—the docs needed the extra week to boost his chemo-impaired white blood cell count. If all goes according to plan, he’ll be on this regimen for the next several months. We’re also meeting with a radiation specialist to see what options are available on that front. All told, a little setback, but the fight continues.

Michael Ausiello June 29, 2014 • On Friday, Kit completed his fourth week of radiation (that’s 20 sessions, one a day with weekends off). He has five sessions left, and then he rests/recovers for a few weeks before his doctors determine what’s next—a decision that will hinge on the results of his next scan at the end of July. The very promising news: During the second week of radiation, Kit began experiencing a sharp decrease in symptoms. By the third week, the excruciating pain that was making it difficult for him to stand, let alone walk more than three steps, had largely vanished. He was still having discomfort, but for the first time in months it was manageable. Clearly, the radiation is decreasing the size of The Lurker, but, again, we won’t know how much the bastard has shrunk until scan-time. Oh, and his hair is growing back. It’s approaching buzz-cut length, which is making for some VERY satisfying (for me, at least) head rubs.

Michael Ausiello September 3, 2014 • After experiencing improved symptoms for much of the summer, Kit’s pain level ratcheted back up in mid-August and intensified with each passing day. We had a scan done on Friday and got the disappointing results today: The primary tumor—aka The Lurker—is back to its pre-radiation size. Not only is this an aggressive tumor, but he’s a stubborn bastard as well. We’re obviously disappointed, sad and a little angry that nothing they throw at this thing seems to be working. Luckily, the docs still have a few more tricks up their sleeves—including a different form of chemo (the first dose of which Kit will receive on Friday). More radiation may also be an option further down the road. So the fight continues.

“What are we looking at here, Doctor?” Kit asked, sending a shiver down my spine. “Six weeks? Six months?” “More than six weeks,” she replied, solemnly. “Six months . . . ? Probably not.” “OK,” Kit said, as he hung his nodding head down. Davis wrapped up the call by telling us that someone from Halstead’s office would be in touch tomorrow morning about getting the brain radiation ball rolling. I clicked off the speakerphone and immediately embraced Kit on the couch. “I’m so sorry, Kit,” I cried. “It’s OK,” he said soberly. “We gave it our best shot.”

“It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.” “I’m actually relieved,” he told me resolutely, as I pulled out of our hug. “I know where I stand now. I know where this is headed. It’s weirdly comforting.” I knew what he meant. I felt a little of it, too, the relief. So much of my mental and physical energy the past seven months had been expended on trying to avoid the dire outcome Davis had predicted. But now it was undeniable: Kit was going to die. And soon. But mostly I was sad and angry and terrified at the prospect of having to say goodbye to the most wonderful person to ever step foot in my life.

“Are you afraid to die?” He lit up his one-hitter, sucked in the cannabis, and slowly exhaled, the smoke billowing out of his mouth, over the fence, and into the neighboring courtyards. I could see him ruminating over the question. “I’m not,” he responded sincerely. “I had a great life . . . I’m scared of what the end looks like. But I’m not afraid of dying.” He then added, “Promise me you won’t let me die in a hospital.” I took a beat to allow my heart to finish shattering into a million pieces before responding steadfastly, “I promise.” “And please look after my parents,” he continued. “I’m worried about them.”

On this request, I hesitated. The last thing I wanted to do was make a promise to my dying husband that I wouldn’t be able to keep. The question of what my relationship with Kit’s parents would look like without Kit had quietly been weighing on me for months. The fact was, I just didn’t know the answer, mostly because I just didn’t know how all of our lives and priorities would shift when the person tying us all together was no longer here to tie us together. Would Marilyn and Bob want anything to do with me, or would my presence be an aching reminder that their only child had been snatched away from them? And would similar feelings of anguish and resentment be triggered in me when I saw them? What if I just wanted to hole myself up at home and block out everyone and anyone who wasn’t Kit? Also, what exactly did Kit mean by “look after”? Would I relocate to Millersburg when their health started to decline? Would I carry on our beloved annual Christmas tradition solo, complete with Phase 10 card games and gift exchanges and lottery scratch-off marathons? What if they needed more of me than I was capable of giving?

Rather than subject my interrogation-phobic spouse to my litany of neurotic follow-ups, I swallowed another sip of wine and reassured him with utmost confidence. “Your parents will always be in my life. I will be here for them. I promise.” As hard as it was to have this discussion, I felt a sense of relief that we were finally broaching the subject of what my life would look like without Kit in it—something I’d been reticent to do prior to Davis’s call this evening. I then decided to take it a step further and share something that could have a direct impact on my proximity to Kit’s parents. “I was thinking . . . I might move to Los Angeles,” I told him, trepidatiously. “I figured you would,” he said, unfazed, as he lit up his one-hitter before taking another puff. “How would you feel about that?” “I think you should do it,” he said, triggering a deluge of relief inside me that, in turn, triggered another cry spell. I’d known I would have to have his blessing on this, but I hadn’t be...

“I want you to be happy. And that includes someday meeting someone else and—” “Stop right there,” I interrupted him, as teardrops dotted my wine. “I appreciate you saying that. But I can’t go there.” A silence fell over the deck as Kit looked up at the stars and I tried to enjoy being in the company of my two favorite guys on this beautiful fall night. A light breeze whipped across the deck, causing Mister Scooch’s adorable little cat nose to twitch. “Is there anything you want to get off your chest?” I asked him, cementing the discussion’s no-holds-barred theme. “Now’s the time to unburden yourself.” Kit emitted another puff of smoke, contemplating the question at hand before responding, “I can’t think of anything.” He then turned the tables on me: “Anything else you want to ask me?” Aside from the death thing, there was really only one other unresolved issue I wanted to put to bed once and for all—for my sake and perhaps for...

I took a deep breath, which was followed by a sip of wine and a second deep breath. “Did you have sex with Todd?” Almost before I could finish asking the question, Kit said, “Yes.” And, for the first time tonight, he started crying. “I’m so sorry I lied to you,” he yelped. A year ago, I would’ve reacted to this admission by vengefully taking a match to his beloved font collection. But tonight, I was grateful we had the opportunity to partake in this air-clearing moment together. I felt zero anger or resentment. “Kit, it’s OK,” I assured him. “It’s OK. I forgive you.”...