Scott Sherman: First You Fall

Then, the past walked towards me.

Tony Rinaldi.

The only man I ever loved.

The only man who ever left me.

Until tonight, when Al en left me, too.

Seeing Tony again was like seeing the dead brought back to life.

He looked at me like he’d seen a ghost, too.

I had just enough time to make out his stil — familiar features before I fainted.

Ok, I thought, back at my apartment, that could have gone worse.

I could, for example, have thrown up on him. That would have been worse. Or my head could have exploded. That would have been worse and messier.

Oh, who was I kidding? We don’t see each other for seven years, and I greet him by passing out.

It couldn’t have gone worse.

But I had an excuse, right? I mean, first Al en dies, and then Tony appears. There are only so many shocks a system can stand.

As a computer geek, I know al about systems crashing. Too much input and the whole network comes crashing down.

I was definitely suffering from data overload. The attention deficit doesn’t help, either. According to the books, it’s at moments like this that I’m likely to be distracted by a mil ion smal details and forget to focus on the big picture.

Focus, Kevin, focus.

Tony couldn’t have been nicer about the whole thing, but in a detached, professional way. In front of the other cops, he kept cal ing me “sir,” offering to get me water or a chair. Final y, when everyone else drifted away, he whispered to me, “Listen, I know we have to talk. How about I get your address and take your statement at your place? You OK to get home? I could have someone take you.”

I told him I was fine. I gave him my address and he said he’d be over as soon as he finished up at “the scene.” He figured it would be another hour, hour and a half, tops.

That was an hour ago. Plenty of time for me to replay our conversation in my head a mil ion times.

What did he mean by “we have to talk?” Did he mean about Al en or about us? And why come to my place to do it? Couldn’t we have spoken just as wel there? Does he always interview witnesses at their homes? I didn’t see him inviting himself over to Homeless Lady’s house, although I guess she didn’t have one, being homeless and al.

I thought for a moment about whether homeless shelters counted as “homes” before I realized I was getting distracted again.

Focus.

I ran around the apartment, putting the dirty dishes under the sink (no time to wash them), making the bed, and taking the porn off the nightstands. I considered changing into something sexier, but I figured that would look contrived. But I did comb my hair and wash the snot off my face.

I was doing some push-ups to pump up my pecs when I stopped myself.

Why was I bothering? He probably has another boyfriend by now. Even if Tony was interested, and he did nothing to signal that he was, would I want him back? It took me a long time and a lot of tears to get over him. Did I want to put myself through that again?

Tony Rinaldi had caused me nothing but pain.

Which is why I couldn’t understand the feelings I had the whole time we were talking in front of Al en’s building.

The lightheadedness. The pounding heart. Even under the terrible circumstances that had brought us together, the sheer joy I felt seeing his face again.

That squishy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wondered if an antacid would help.

Shit.

Tony knocked ten minutes later. “Hi,” he said, immediately extending his arm for a handshake.

Making it clear that he didn’t want a hug.

In front of Al en’s building, I couldn’t get a good look at Tony. But standing in the light of my hal way, I saw him clearly. He looked incredible. His boyish features had matured, maybe hardened a little. His cheekbones were more defined, his lips even ful er.

His body was stil prime. Wide shoulders tapered to narrow hips. I could see the bulge of his biceps and the flatness of his stomach underneath his white dress shirt.

I knew the view would only improve from the back.

There was also something a little haunted about him, a little tired. Maybe it was just the years, or the lateness of the day, or the stress of the job. Maybe it was al the work that having to deal with Al en’s death would bring. Maybe it was the heat.

Maybe it was seeing me again.

I shook his hand.

“Come in,” I said. “It’s good to see you. I think.” I gave a little shrug.

“Yeah,” he said, a slight chuckle in his voice. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“But weird.”

“Yeah, weird,” he agreed.

We stood at opposite ends of the room like boxers waiting for the bel to ring. I knew why I didn’t want to get any closer. I didn’t trust my hands to behave themselves.

“How about something cold?” I offered.

“That would be great.”

I got us both beers. When I returned, Tony was sitting in a chair across from the sofa. I handed him his drink and took a sip of mine. I licked my lips. As Alicia Silverstone so memorably said in Clueless, anything that draws attention to your mouth is good.

“I’m breaking a couple of rules by having this now,” Tony observed as he opened his bottle. “I’m here on official business, you know.”

He was joking, but he was also making sure I knew why he was here: Sorry guy, nothing personal. I felt something inside me sink, but I wil ed myself not to react.

“Too bad about your friend,” he said. “How did you know him?”

I’m not ashamed of what I do for a living, but it never even occurred to me to tel Tony how I real y met Al en Harrington. I figured I’d get the false origin of our relationship out of the way as soon as possible, so I could stick to the later, more relevant, truths. “We met at a party. We’d get together once a month or so for dinner, a show, whatever. He was a great guy.”

Tony fidgeted. “Some of his neighbors said that he was, uh, gay.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Wel, I was just wondering, if you two were, um, boyfriends.”

“No. He was just a friend. I told you”

“Just checking.” Tony took a long swig from his bottle. “You’re probably not even into that stuff anymore, right?”

“Friends?” I asked stupidly.

“No, you know, gay stuff.”

Maybe it was just al the shocks of the day, but I real y couldn’t fol ow him. “What do you mean?”

Tony’s face was starting to get red and his voice louder. “What do you mean what do I mean?”

Was he trying to confuse me? “Uh, say what now?”

Tony sighed exaggeratedly. “I mean, you know, fooling around with guys.”

Was he insane? “Of course I stil fool around with guys. I’m gay, Tony. Just like you.”

“Whoa!” Tony stood up. “Wait a minute!” He held out his left hand. “I’m married.” A gold band around his ring finger confirmed it.

OK, I hadn’t noticed the ring. Cal it denial. But, give me a break. If I had a dol ar for every man with a wedding ring I’ve done, wel, I’d have a lot of dol ars.

“Being married doesn’t make someone straight, Tony.”

“It makes me straight, damn it.” He took a breath and seemed to wil himself to calm down. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, I’ve always been straight.”

I made a vow that I’d grab his gun and shoot myself in the foot before I cried in front of him again.

Instead, I decided to play it steely, like Faye Dunaway in Mommy Dearest when she faces down the Pepsi board of directors, hissing, “Don’t fuck with me fellas, this ain’t my first time at the rodeo.”

“Don’t pul that shit with me, Rinaldi. You fucked me, remember? I sure do.”