Page 452 - A Little Life: A Novel

“I think it’s a mistake,” Jude added, quickly. Willem didn’t bother
answering; they had been having this argument for a month.
After dinner, he and JB lounged on the sofa and drank tea and Jude

loaded the dishwasher. By this time, JB seemed almost appeased, and he
recalled that this was the arc of most dinners with JB, even back at
Lispenard Street: he began the evening as something sharp and tart, and
ended it as something soothed and gentled.
“How’s the sex?” JB asked him.
“Amazing,” he said, immediately.
JB looked glum. “Dammit,” he said.

But of course, this was a lie. He had no idea if the sex was amazing,
because they hadn’t had sex. The previous Friday, Andy had come over, and
they’d told him, and Andy had stood and hugged them both very solemnly,
as if he was Jude’s father and they had told him that they had just gotten
engaged. Willem had walked him to the door, and as they were waiting for
the elevator, Andy said to him, quietly, “How’s it going?”

He paused. “Okay,” he said at last, and Andy, as if he could discern
everything he wasn’t saying, squeezed his shoulder. “I know it’s not easy,
Willem,” he said. “But you must be doing something right—I’ve never seen
him more relaxed or happier, not ever.” He looked as if he wanted to say
something else, but what could he say? He couldn’t say, Call me if you
want to talk about him, or Let me know if there’s anything I can help you
with, and so instead he left, giving Willem a little salute as the elevator sank

out of sight.
That night, after JB had gone home, he thought of the conversation he
and Andy had had in the café that day, and how even as Andy had been
warning him how difficult it would be, he hadn’t fully believed him. In
retrospect, he was glad he hadn’t: because believing Andy might have
intimidated him, because he might have been too scared to try.

He turned and looked at Jude, who was asleep. This was one of the nights
he’d taken off his clothes, and he was lying on his back, one of his arms
crooked near his head, and Willem, as he often did, ran his fingers down the
inside of this arm, its scars rendering it into a miserable terrain, a place of
mountains and valleys singed by fire. Sometimes, when he was certain Jude
was very deeply asleep, he would switch on the light near his side of the
bed and study his body more closely, because Jude refused to let himself be

examined in daylight. He would uncover him and move his palms over his