Page 441 - A Little Life: A Novel

then, Willem has held him in the same way every night, even through July,
when not even the air-conditioning could erase the heaviness from the air,
and when they both woke damp with sweat. This, he realizes, is what he

wanted from a relationship all along. This is what he meant when he hoped
he might someday be touched. Sometimes Caleb had hugged him, briefly,
and he always had to resist the impulse to ask him to do it again, and for
longer. But now, here it is: all the physical contact that he knows exists
between healthy people who love each other and are having sex, without the
dreaded sex itself.
He cannot bring himself to initiate contact with Willem, nor ask for it,

but he waits for it, for every time that Willem grabs his arm as he passes
him in the living room and pulls him close to kiss him, or comes up behind
him as he stands at the stove and puts his arms around him in the same
position—chest, stomach—that he does in bed. He has always admired how
physical JB and Willem are, both with each other and with everyone around
them; he knew they knew not to do it with him, and as grateful as he was

for their carefulness with him, it sometimes made him wistful: he
sometimes wished they would disobey him, that they would lay claim to
him with the same friendly confidence they did with everyone else. But
they never did.
It took him three months, until the end of August, to finally take off his
clothes in front of Willem. Every night he came to bed in his long-sleeve T-
shirt and sweatpants, and every night Willem came to bed in his underwear.

“Is this uncomfortable for you?” Willem asked, and he shook his head, even
though it was—uncomfortable, but not entirely unwelcome. Every day the
month before, he promised himself: he would take off his clothes and be
done with it. He would do it that night, because he had to do it at some
point. But that was as far as his imagination would let him proceed; he
couldn’t think about what Willem’s reaction might be, or what he might do

the following day. And then night would come, and they would be in bed,
and his resolve would fail him.
One night, Willem reached beneath his shirt and put his hands on his
back, and he yanked himself away so forcefully that he fell off the bed.
“I’m sorry,” he told Willem, “I’m sorry,” and he climbed back in, keeping
himself just at the edge of the mattress.
They were quiet, the two of them. He lay on his back and stared at the

chandelier. “You know, Jude,” Willem said at last. “I have seen you without