In-between

Matthew had known from the start it’d end this way.

“Bernardo,” Will’s e-mail started, as Matthew made his way through it, “would you like to go to Ibiza this spring? Please, sweetheart, we really need this time alone – and a trip to Europe would really put some space between us and … you know.”

Matthew knew exactly what he meant. So he marched into the bedroom, thinking abstractly about the times the three of them had spent together – Matthew and Bernardo, buying the Pacific Heights house together, then two years later, Bernardo and Will meeting at the Eagle for a quickie, Will taking to Bernardo, then meeting and seducing Matthew (that had been wonderful, Matthew thought even now), then the three of them together, fitting together like three bananas, Will moving into their third floor apartment, then coming downstairs and living with them.

He found Bernardo rubbing Will’s blond temples while the two of them watched Giatta de Lorentis prepare a linguini marinara.

And Mathew saw the same look in Bernardo’s eyes, that look that had first appeared the day Will had fixed those downstairs windows, the ones that had been stuck all those years, that Matthew had tried to dislodge but never had – and then, instead of Matthew sleeping in the middle of the mattress, Bernardo did, facing Will –

Matthew snuffed out the image. “When the hell were the two of you going to tell me about Ibiza? It isn’t happening, fellas, it just isn’t happening.”

“If you don’t want to go,” Bernardo said, avoiding eye contact, “you don’t have to. But we’re going.”