Page 427 - A Little Life: A Novel

“Maybe,” he said. But really, although he had no proof of this, he knew that
Jude wasn’t. It was in this same, proof-less way that he assumed Jude was
probably gay (though maybe not), and probably hadn’t ever had a

relationship (though he really hoped he was wrong about this). And as
much as Jude claimed otherwise, Willem wasn’t ever convinced that he
wasn’t lonely, that he didn’t, in some small dark part of himself, want to be
with someone. He remembered Lionel and Sinclair’s wedding, where it had
been Malcolm with Sophie and he with Robin and JB—though they hadn’t
been speaking then—with Oliver, and Jude with no one. And although Jude
hadn’t seemed bothered by this, Willem had looked at him across the table

and had felt sad for him. He didn’t want Jude to get old alone; he wanted
him to be with someone who would take care of him and be attracted to
him. JB was right: it was a waste.
And so was this what this was, this attraction? Was it fear and sympathy
that had morphed itself into a more palatable shape? Was he convincing
himself he was attracted to Jude because he couldn’t stand to see him

alone? He didn’t think so. But he didn’t know.
The person he would’ve once discussed this with was JB, but he couldn’t
speak to JB about this, even though they were friends again, or at least
working toward friendship. After they had returned from Morocco, Jude
had called JB and the two of them had gone out for dinner, and a month
later, Willem and JB had gone out on their own. Oddly, though, he found it
much more difficult to forgive JB than Jude had, and their first meeting had

been a disaster—JB showily, exaggeratedly blithe; he seething—until they
had left the restaurant and started yelling at each other. There they had
stood on deserted Pell Street—it had been snowing, lightly, and no one else
was out—accusing each other of condescension and cruelty; irrationality
and self-absorption; self-righteousness and narcissism; martyrdom and
cluelessness.

“You think anyone hates themselves as much as I do?” JB had shouted at
him. (His fourth show, the one that documented his time on drugs and with
Jackson, had been titled “The Narcissist’s Guide to Self-Hatred,” and JB
had referenced it several times during their dinner as proof that he had
punished himself mightily and publicly and had now been reformed.)
“Yeah, JB, I do,” he’d shouted back at him. “I think Jude hates himself
far more than you could ever hate yourself, and I think you knew that and

you made him hate himself even more.”