We groomed ourselves sufficiently to appear in public, went and worked out, returned to my house via his house to collect the doggo and bring her over, and had brunch together. Here in my late middle age, I have become a sincere proponent of brunch. My metabolism now rewards me for a long fast, meaning I usually eat dinner no later than seven-thirty and then don’t eat again till eleven or so the next morning. Only if I’ve done some unusually strenuous activity at night will I consume anything solid early in the day. Sex doesn’t count, unfortunately. I’m talking strenuous like blocking an entire two-hour show.

Anyway, having long since mastered the simple art of making an omelet, I turned out a big one, packed full of sauteed veggies, rendered delicious with some pepper jack cheese, to applause from the house. Along with that, apple slices with the choice of more cheese or peanut butter, and Bloody Marys. “I’m delighted that you prefer these to mimosas,” I told Byron. “Back when I was dancing ten hours a day, I could drink fruit juice and wine pretty much constantly. Now, pssh.”

“When I think of how I used to drink,” he said, rolling his eyes. “The way JoJo and his gang drink, honestly. I let myself get kind of judgy about it, but they’re no worse than I was.”

“Ever get blackout drunk?”

“No, never. That was one of my boundaries.”

“Yeah, me too. And again, being a dancer. You don’t want to get cut from a show because you’re late because you woke up in Atlantic City and don’t know how you got there.”

He leaned back in his chair, grinning. “That sounds like a true story.”

“It is. Not mine, but a true story.”

We told each other work stories while he helped me clean up the kitchen, and then he thanked me again for brunch, gave me a kiss, and returned next door to take care of professor business.

The club, he said, had a good bar menu, so we could actually eat there before or during the show. Having agreed on before, he’d then texted JoJo to let him know when to meet us if he’d like to eat with us. Or, more accurately, invited the kid to go with us. As in, come to Byron’s place to park, and we’d take one car over. My driving skills were sketchy and I’d never owned a car. I hadn’t done an evening thing outside West Hollywood since my arrival, but I’d heard from plenty of people about the infinite hassle and high cost of parking. Two cars for three men made no sense.

I had not inquired about the possible ramifications of bringing JoJo home after the show. If Byron wanted him to spend the night, I didn’t mind, and I made sure he knew that. Between my own nascent interest in the kid and the clear case of breakup guilt Byron displayed, exclusivity hadn’t really even been discussed. I mean, come on. We’d known each other for eight days; he’d known JoJo for a year.

Maybe that sounds odd. But you have to remember who we were and how we’d lived. Both of us had been through the long-term relationship scenario. We knew how to have relationships. We didn’t believe exclusivity was truly necessary in all cases. As long as everybody’s telling the truth about what they want, and being kind to each other, it generally works out.

My only real concern was safety. It was great that JoJo was on PrEP, but Byron wasn’t. He swore he always used a condom when they fucked, and I believed him. I was always going to use one, because of what I’d lived through. Losing eight out of ten of your closest friends will make a person take certain considerations seriously.

There are a lot of things you can spread around through sex. My worst: HPV. It’s dormant or gone, undetectable, and Byron’s had the vaccine. I didn’t want to interrogate JoJo about his health history. Had to trust that Byron knew what he needed to know to protect himself, and therefore me.

And what was I worrying about, anyway? We were going out to dinner and a show. A live dance show, a first for me in Los Angeles, and I was determined to enjoy it to the full, even if the dancing turned out to be crap.

Then I got the text from Byron to say JoJo had arrived, took one more look at myself in the mirror and decided this was fine for a Sunday night show in a bar, remembered to switch on the light over my front door, and locked up behind me. Strolled next door to greet the boy. He smiled and shook my hand, convincingly sincere as he said how great it was to meet me.

A few minutes later, we were getting into Byron’s car. I was doing the social thing, friendly banter and small talk, not mentioning the infinite ways this meeting could be or become awkward. Not pointing out by word, expression, or gesture how utterly exhausted JoJo looked.

His car was decent. In the class that I’d been told was bookable, meaning a location shoot might put a car like this in the scene because it looked so innocuously normal and forgettable, as evidenced by the fact that I instantly forgot what it was, beyond Smallish Silver Crossover. Anyway, yeah. Clean, undamaged, not at all the stereotypical show-off-mobile some might expect from a club-hopping wannabe TV star. Practical. Lived in.

For no particular reason, I received the strong impression that he might actually be living in it.