Page 450 - A Little Life: A Novel

They watched as JB put his fork down and put his head in his hands. “I feel
sick,” he said, and they waited until he looked up and said, “But I’m really
happy for you guys,” before they exhaled. JB forked into his burrata. “I

mean, I’m pissed that you didn’t tell me earlier, but happy.” The entrées
came, and JB stabbed at his sea bass. “I mean, I’m actually really pissed.
But. I. Am. Happy.” By the time dessert arrived, it was clear that JB—who
was frantically spooning up his guava soufflé—was highly agitated, and
they kicked each other under the table, half on the verge of hysterics, half
genuinely concerned that JB might erupt right there in the restaurant.
After dinner they stood outside and Willem and JB had a smoke and they

discussed JB’s upcoming show, his fifth, and his students at Yale, where JB
had been teaching for the past few years: a momentary truce that was ruined
by some girl coming up to him (“Can I get a picture with you?”), at which
JB made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a groan. Later,
back at Greene Street, he and Jude did laugh: at JB’s befuddlement, at his
attempts at graciousness, which had clearly cost him, at his consistent and

consistently applied self-absorption. “Poor JB,” Jude said. “I thought his
head was going to blow off.” He sighed. “But I understand it. He’s always
been in love with you, Willem.”
“Not like that,” he said.
Jude looked at him. “Now who can’t see themselves for who they are?”
he asked, because that was what Willem was always telling him: that Jude’s
vision, his version of himself was singular to the point of being delusional.

He sighed, too. “I should call him,” he said.
“Leave him alone tonight,” Jude said. “He’ll call you when he’s ready.”
And so he had. That Sunday, JB had come over to Greene Street, and
Jude had let him in and then had excused himself, saying he had work to do,
and closed himself in his study so Willem and JB could be alone. For the
next two hours, Willem had sat and listened as JB delivered a disorganized

roundelay whose many accusations and questions were punctuated by his
refrain of “But I really am happy for you.” JB was angry: that Willem
hadn’t told him earlier, that he hadn’t even consulted him, that they had told
Malcolm and Richard—Richard!—before him. JB was upset: Willem could
tell him the truth; he’d always liked Jude more, hadn’t he? Why couldn’t he
just admit it? Also, had he always felt this way? Were his years of fucking
women just some colossal lie that Willem had created to distract them? JB

was jealous: he got the attraction to Jude, he did, and he knew it was