He didn't reply, just reached for another sandwich, and Kit studied him. "What does Jude think?"

"He thinks I'm going to end up performing in a Kander and Ebb revue on a cruise ship to Alaska," he admitted.

Kit snorted. "Somewhere between how Jude thinks and how you think is how you need to think, Willem," he said. "After everything we've built together," he added, mournfully.

He sighed, too. The first time Jude had met Kit, almost fifteen years ago, he'd turned to Willem afterward and said, smiling, "He's your Andy." And over the years, he had come to realize how true this was. Not only did Kit and Andy actually, creepily know each other-they were in the same class, and had lived in the same dorm their freshman year-but they both liked to present themselves as, to some extent, Willem's and Jude's creators. They were their defenders and their guardians, but they also tried, at every opportunity, to determine the shape and form of their lives.

"I thought you'd be a little more supportive of this, Kit," he said, sadly.

"Why? Because I'm gay? Being a gay agent is far different than being a gay actor of your stature, Willem," said Kit. He grunted. "Well, at least someone's going to be happy about this. Noel"-the director of Duets-"will be fucking thrilled. This is going to be great publicity for his little project. I hope you like doing gay movies, Willem, because that's what you might end up doing for the rest of your life."

"I don't really think of Duets as a gay movie," he said, and then, before Kit could roll his eyes and start lecturing him again, "and if that's how it ends up, that's fine." He told Kit what he had told Jude: "I'll always have work; don't worry."

("But what if your film work dries up?" Jude had asked.

"Then I'll do plays. Or I'll work in Europe: I've always wanted to do more work in Sweden. Jude, I promise you, I will always, always work."

Jude had been silent, then. They had been lying in bed; it had been late. "Willem, I really won't mind-not at all-if you want to keep this quiet," he said.

"But I don't want to," he said. He didn't. He didn't have the energy for it, the sense of planning for it, the endurance for it. He knew a couple of other actors-older, much more commercial than he-who actually were gay and yet were married to women, and he saw how hollow, how fabricated, their lives were. He didn't want that life for himself: he didn't want to step off the set and still feel he was in character. When he was home, he wanted to feel he was truly at home.

"I'm just afraid you're going to resent me," Jude admitted, his voice low.

"I'll never resent you," he promised him.) Now, he listened to Kit's gloomy predictions for another hour, and then, finally, when it was clear that Willem wouldn't change his mind, Kit seemed to change his. "Willem, it'll be fine," he said, determinedly, as if Willem had been the one who was concerned all along. "If anyone can do this, you can. We're going to make this work for you. It's going to be fine." Kit tilted his head, looking at him. "Are you guys going to get married?"

"Jesus, Kit," he said, "you were just trying to break us up."

"No, I wasn't, Willem. I wasn't. I was just trying to get you to keep your mouth shut, that's all." He sighed again, but resignedly this time. "I hope Jude appreciates the sacrifice you're making for him."

"It's not a sacrifice," he protested, and Kit cut his eyes at him. "Not now," he said, "but it may be."

Jude came home early that night. "How'd it go?" he asked Willem, looking closely at him.

"Fine," he said, staunchly. "It went fine."

"Willem-" Jude began, and he stopped him.

"Jude," he said, "it's done. It's going to be fine, I swear to you."

Kit's office managed to keep the story quiet for two weeks, and by the time the first article was published, he and Jude were on a plane to Hong Kong to see Charlie Ma, Jude's old roommate from Hereford Street, and from there to Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos. He tried not to check his messages while he was on vacation, but Kit had gotten a call from a writer at New York magazine, and so he knew there would be a story. He was in Hanoi when the piece was published: Kit forwarded it to him without comment, and he skimmed it, quickly, when Jude was in the bathroom. "Ragnarsson is on vacation and was unavailable for comment, but his representative confirmed the actor's relationship with Jude St. Francis, a highly regarded and prominent litigator with the powerhouse firm of Rosen Pritchard and Klein and a close friend since they were roommates their freshman year of college," he read, and "Ragnarsson is the highest-profile actor by far to ever willingly declare himself in a gay relationship," followed, obituary-like, with a recapping of his films and various quotes from various agents and publicists congratulating him on his bravery while simultaneously predicting the almost-certain diminishment of his career, and nice quotes from actors and directors he knew promising his revelation wouldn't change a thing, and a concluding quote from an unnamed studio executive who said that his strength had never been as a romantic lead anyway, and so he'd probably be fine. At the end of the story, there was a link to a picture of him with Jude at the opening of Richard's show at the Whitney in September.

When Jude came out, he handed him the phone and watched him read the article as well. "Oh, Willem," he said, and then, later, looking stricken, "My name's in here," and for the first time, it occurred to him that Jude may have wanted him to keep quiet as much for his own privacy as for Willem's.

"Don't you think you should ask Jude first if I can confirm his identity?" Kit had asked him when they were deciding what he'd say to the reporter on Willem's behalf.

"No, it's fine," he'd said. "He won't mind."

Kit had been quiet. "He might, Willem."

But he really hadn't thought he would. Now, though, he wondered if he had been arrogant. What, he asked himself, just because you're okay with it, you thought he would be, too?

"Willem, I'm sorry," Jude said, and although he knew that he should reassure Jude, who was probably feeling guilty, and apologize to him as well, he wasn't in the mood for it, not then.

"I'm going for a run," he announced, and although he wasn't looking at him, he could feel Jude nod.

It was so early that outside, the city was still quiet and still cool, the air a dirtied white, with only a few cars gliding down the streets. The hotel was near the old French opera house, which he ran around, and then back to the hotel and toward the colonial-era district, past vendors squatted near large, flat, woven-bamboo baskets piled with tiny, bright green limes, and stacks of cut herbs that smelled of lemon and roses and peppercorns. As the streets grew threadlike, he slowed to a walk, and turned down an alley that was crowded with stall after stall of small, improvised restaurants, just a woman standing behind a kettle roiling with soup or oil, and four or five plastic stools on which customers sat, eating quickly before hurrying back to the mouth of the alley, where they got on their bikes and pedaled away. He stopped at the far end of the alley, waiting to let a man cycle past him, the basket strapped to the back of his seat loaded with spears of baguettes, their hot, steamed-milk fragrance filling his nostrils, and then headed down another alley, this one busy with vendors crouched over more bundles of herbs, and black hills of mangosteens, and metal trays of silvery-pink fish, so fresh that he could hear them gulping, could see their eyes rolling desperately back in their sockets. Above him, necklaces of cages were strung like lanterns, each containing a vibrant, chirping bird. He had a little cash with him, and he bought Jude one of the herb bouquets; it looked like rosemary but smelled pleasantly soapy, and although he didn't know what it was, he thought Jude might.

He was so naive, he thought as he made his slow way back to the hotel: about his career, about Jude. Why did he always think he knew what he was doing? Why did he think he could do whatever he wanted and everything would work out the way he imagined it? Was it a failure of creativity, or arrogance, or (as he assumed) simple stupidity? People, people he trusted and respected, were always warning him-Kit, about his career; Andy, about Jude; Jude, about himself-and yet he always ignored them. For the first time, he wondered if Kit was right, if Jude was right, if he would never work again, or at least not the kind of work he enjoyed. Would he resent Jude? He didn't think so; he hoped not. But he had never thought he would have to find out, not really.

But greater than that fear was the one he was rarely able to ask himself: What if the things he was making Jude do weren't good for him after all? The day before, they had taken a shower together for the first time, and Jude had been so silent afterward, so deep inside one of his fugue states, his eyes so flat and blank, that Willem had been momentarily frightened. He hadn't wanted to do it, but Willem had coerced him, and in the shower, Jude had been rigid and grim, and Willem had been able to tell from the set of Jude's mouth that he was enduring it, that he was waiting for it to be over. But he hadn't let him get out of the shower; he had made him stay. He had behaved (unintentionally, but who cared) like Caleb-he had made Jude do something he didn't want to, and Jude had done it because he had told him to do it. "It'll be good for you," he'd said, and remembering this-although he had believed it-he felt almost nauseated. No one had ever trusted him as unquestioningly as Jude did. But he had no idea what he was doing.

"Willem's not a health-care professional," he remembered Andy saying. "He's an actor." And although both he and Jude had laughed at the time, he wasn't sure Andy was wrong. Who was he to try to direct Jude's mental health? "Don't trust me so much," he wanted to say to Jude. But how could he? Wasn't this what he had wanted from Jude, from this relationship? To be so indispensable to another person that that person couldn't even comprehend his life without him? And now he had it, and the demands of the position terrified him. He had asked for responsibility without understanding completely how much damage he could do. Was he able to do this? He thought of Jude's horror of sex and knew that behind that horror lay another, one he had always surmised but had never inquired about: So what was he supposed to do? He wished there was someone who could tell him definitively if he was doing a good job or not; he wished he had someone guiding him in this relationship the way Kit guided him in his career, telling him when to take a risk and when to retreat, when to play Willem the Hero and when to be Ragnarsson the Terrible.

Oh, what am I doing? he chanted to himself as his feet smacked against the road, as he ran past men and women and children readying themselves for the day, past buildings as narrow as closets, past little shops selling stiff, brick-like pillows made of plaited straw, past a small boy cradling an imperious-looking lizard to his chest, What am I doing, oh what am I doing?

By the time he returned to the hotel an hour later, the sky was shading from white to a delicious, minty pale blue. The travel agent had booked them a suite with two beds, as always (he hadn't remembered to have his assistant correct this), and Jude was lying on the one they had both slept in the night before, dressed for the day, reading, and when Willem came in, he stood and came over and hugged him.

"I'm all sweaty," he mumbled, but Jude didn't let go.

"It's okay," Jude said. He stepped back and looked at him, holding him by the arms. "It's going to be fine, Willem," he said, in the same firm, declarative way Willem sometimes heard him speak to clients on the phone. "It really is. I'll always take care of you, you know that, right?"

He smiled. "I know," he said, and what comforted him was not so much the reassurance itself, but that Jude seemed so confident, so competent, so certain that he, too, had something to offer. It reminded Willem that their relationship wasn't a rescue mission after all, but an extension of their friendship, in which he had saved Jude and, just as often, Jude had saved him. For every time he had gotten to help Jude when he was in pain, or defend him against people asking too many questions, Jude had been there to listen to him worrying about his work, or to talk him out of his misery after he hadn't gotten a part, or to (for three consecutive months, humiliatingly) pay his college loans when a job had fallen through and he didn't have enough money to cover them himself. And yet somehow in the past seven months he had decided that he was going to repair Jude, that he was going to fix him, when really, he didn't need fixing. Jude had always taken him at face value; he needed to try to do the same for him.

"I ordered breakfast," Jude said. "I thought you might want some privacy. Do you want to take a shower?"

"Thanks," he said, "but I think I'll wait until after we eat." He took a breath. He could feel his anxiety fade; he could feel himself returning to who he was. "But would you sing with me?" Every morning for the past two months, they had been singing with each other in preparation for Duets. In the film, his character and the character's wife led an annual Christmas pageant, and both he and the actress playing his wife would be performing their own vocals. The director had sent him a list of songs to work on, and Jude had been practicing with him: Jude took the melody, and he took the harmony.

"Sure," Jude said. "Our usual?" For the past week, they'd been working on "Adeste Fideles," which he would have to sing a cappella, and for the past week, he'd been pitching sharp at the exact same point, at "Venite adoremus," right in the first stanza. He'd wince every time he did it, hearing the error, and Jude would shake his head at him and keep going, and he'd follow him until the end. "You're overthinking it," Jude would say. "When you go sharp, it's because you're concentrating too hard on staying on key; just don't think about it, Willem, and you'll get it."

That morning, though, he felt certain he'd get it right. He gave Jude the bunch of herbs, which he was still holding, and Jude thanked him, pinching its little purple flowers between his fingers to release its perfume. "I think it's a kind of perilla," he said, and held his fingers up for Willem to smell.

"Nice," he said, and they smiled at each other.

And so Jude began, and he followed, and he made it through without going sharp. And at the end of the song, just after the last note, Jude immediately began singing the next song on the list, "For Unto Us a Child Is Born," and after that, "Good King Wenceslas," and again and again, Willem followed. His voice wasn't as full as Jude's, but he could tell in those moments that it was good enough, that it was maybe better than good enough: he could tell it sounded better with Jude's, and he closed his eyes and let himself appreciate it.

They were still singing when the doorbell chimed with their breakfast, but as he was standing, Jude put his hand on his wrist, and they remained there, Jude sitting, he standing, until they had sung the last words of the song, and only after they had finished did he go to answer the door. Around him, the room was redolent of the unknown herb he'd found, green and fresh and yet somehow familiar, like something he hadn't known he had liked until it had appeared, suddenly and unexpectedly, in his life.

2.

THE FIRST TIME Willem left him-this was some twenty months ago, two Januarys ago-everything went wrong. Within two weeks of Willem's departure to Texas to begin filming Duets, he'd had three episodes with his back (including one at the office, and another, this one at home, that had lasted a full two hours). The pain in his feet returned. A cut (from what, he had no idea) opened up on his right calf. And yet it had all been fine. "You're so damn cheerful about all of this," Andy had said, when he was forced to make his second appointment with him in a week. "I'm suspicious."

"Oh, well," he'd said, even though he could hardly speak because the pain was so intense. "It happens, right?" That night, though, as he lay in bed, he thanked his body for keeping itself in check, for controlling itself for so long. For those months he secretly thought of as his and Willem's courtship, he hadn't used his wheelchair once. His episodes had been seldom, and brief, and never in Willem's presence. He knew it was silly-Willem knew what was wrong with him, he had seen him at his worst-but he was grateful that as the two of them were beginning to view each other in a different way, he had been allowed a period of reinvention, a spell of being able to impersonate an able-bodied person. So when he was returned to his normal state, he didn't tell Willem about what had been happening to him-he was so bored by the subject that he couldn't imagine anyone else wouldn't be as well-and by the time Willem came home in March, he was more or less better, walking again, the wound once again mostly under control.

Since that first time, Willem has been gone for extended periods four additional times-twice for shooting, twice for publicity tours-and each time, sometimes the very day Willem left, his body had broken itself somehow. But he had appreciated its sense of timing, its courtesy: it was as if his body, before his mind, had decided for him that he should pursue this relationship, and had done its part by removing as many obstacles and embarrassments as possible.

Now it is mid-September, and Willem is preparing to leave again. As has become their ritual-ever since the Last Supper, a lifetime ago-they spend the Saturday before Willem's departure having dinner somewhere extravagant and then the rest of the night talking. Sunday they sleep late into the morning, and Sunday afternoon, they review practicalities: things to be done while Willem is away, outstanding matters to be resolved, decisions to be made. Ever since their relationship has changed from what it had been into what it now is, their conversations have become both more intimate and more mundane, and that final weekend is always a perfect, condensed reflection of that: Saturday is for fears and secrets and confessions and remembrances; Sunday is for logistics, the daily mapmaking that keeps their life together inching along.

He likes both types of conversations with Willem, but he appreciates the mundane ones more than he'd imagined he would. He had always felt bound to Willem by the big things-love; trust-but he likes being bound to him by the small things as well: bills and taxes and dental checkups. He is always reminded of a visit to Harold and Julia's he'd made years ago, when he had come down with a terrible cold and had wound up spending most of the weekend on the living-room sofa, wrapped in a blanket and sliding in and out of sleep. That Saturday evening, they had watched a movie together, and at one point, Harold and Julia had begun talking about the Truro house's kitchen renovation. He half dozed, listening to their quiet talk, which had been so dull that he couldn't follow any of the details but had also filled him with a great sense of peace: it had seemed to him the ideal expression of an adult relationship, to have someone with whom you could discuss the mechanics of a shared existence.

"So I left a message with the tree guy and told him you're going to call this week, right?" Willem asks. They are in the bedroom, doing the last of Willem's packing.

"Right," he says. "I wrote myself a note to call him tomorrow."

"And I told Mal you'd go up with him to the site next weekend, you know."

"I know," he says. "I have it in my schedule."

Willem has been dropping stacks of clothes into his bag as he talks, but now he stops and looks at him. "I feel bad," he says. "I'm leaving you with so much stuff."

"Don't," he says. "It's not a problem, I swear." Most of the scheduling in their lives is handled by Willem's assistant, by his secretaries: but they are managing the details of the house upstate themselves. They never discussed how this happened, but he senses it's important for them both to be able to participate in the creation and witness of this place they are building together, the first place they will have built together since Lispenard Street.

Willem sighs. "But you're so busy," he says.

"Don't worry," he says. "Really, Willem. I can handle it," although Willem continues to look worried.

That night, they lie awake. For as long as he has known Willem, he has always had the same feeling the day before he leaves, when even as he speaks to Willem he is already anticipating how much he'll miss him when he's gone. Now that they are actually, physically together, that feeling has, curiously, intensified; now he is so used to Willem's presence that his absence feels more profound, more debilitating. "You know what else we have to talk about," Willem says, and when he doesn't say anything, Willem pushes down his sleeve and holds his left wrist, loosely, in his hand. "I want you to promise me," Willem says.

"I swear," he says. "I will." Next to him, Willem releases his arm and rolls onto his back, and they are quiet.

"We're both tired," Willem yawns, and they are: in less than two years, Willem has been reclassified as gay; Lucien has retired from the firm and he has taken over as the chair of the litigation department; and they are building a house in the country, eighty minutes north of the city. When they are together on the weekends-and when Willem is home, he too tries to be, going into the office even earlier on the weekdays so he doesn't have to stay as late on Saturdays-they sometimes spend the early evening simply lying together on the sofa in the living room, not speaking, as around them the light leaves the room. Sometimes they go out, but far less frequently than they used to.

"The transition to lesbiandom took much less time than I anticipated," JB observed one evening when they had him and his new boyfriend, Fredrik, over for dinner, along with Malcolm and Sophie and Richard and India and Andy and Jane.

"Give them a break, JB," said Richard, mildly, as everyone else laughed, but he didn't think Willem minded, and he certainly didn't himself. After all, what did he care about anything but Willem?

For a while he waits to see if Willem will say anything else. He wonders if he will have to have sex; he is still mostly unable to determine when Willem wants to and when he doesn't-when an embrace will become something more invasive and unwanted-but he is always prepared for it to happen. It is-and he hates admitting this, hates thinking it, would never say it aloud-one of the very few things he anticipates about Willem's departures: for those weeks or months that he is away, there is no sex, and he can finally relax.

They have been having sex for eighteen months now (he realizes he has to make himself stop counting, as if his sexual life is a prison term, and he is working toward its completion), and Willem had waited for him for almost ten. During those months, he had been intensely aware that there was a clock somewhere counting itself down, and that although he didn't know how much time he had left, he did know that as patient as Willem was, he wouldn't be patient forever. Months before, when he had overheard Willem lie to JB about how amazing their sex life was, he had vowed to himself that he would tell Willem he was ready that night. But he had been too frightened, and had allowed himself to let the moment pass. A little more than a month after that, when they were on holiday in Southeast Asia, he once again promised himself he'd try, and once again, he had done nothing.

And then it was January, and Willem had left for Texas to film Duets, and he had spent the weeks alone readying himself, and the night after Willem came home-he was still astonished that Willem had come back to him at all; astonished and ecstatic, so happy he had wanted to lean his head out the window and scream for no other reason but the improbability of it all-he had told Willem that he was ready.

Willem had looked at him. "Are you sure?" he'd asked him.

He wasn't, of course. But he knew that if he wanted to be with Willem, he would have to do it eventually. "Yes," he said.

"Do you want to, really?" Willem asked next, still looking at him.

What was this, he wondered: Was this a challenge? Or was this a real question? It was better to be safe, he thought. So "Yes," he said. "Of course I do," and he knew by Willem's smile that he'd chosen the correct answer.

But first he'd had to tell Willem about his diseases. "When you have sex in the future, you'd better make sure you always disclose beforehand," one of the doctors in Philadelphia had told him, years ago. "You don't want to be responsible for passing these on to someone else." The doctor had been stern, and he had never forgotten the shame he had felt, nor the fear that he might share his filth with another. And so he had written down a speech for himself and recited it until he had it memorized, but the actual telling had been much more difficult than he had expected, and he had spoken so quietly that he'd had to repeat himself, which was somehow even worse. He had given this talk only once before, to Caleb, who had been silent and then had said in his low voice, "Jude St. Francis. A slut after all," and he had made himself smile and agree. "College," he had managed to say, and Caleb had smiled back at him, slightly.

Willem too had been silent, watching him, and had asked, "When did you get these, Jude?" and then, "I'm so sorry."

They had been lying next to each other, Willem on his side, facing him, he on his back. "I had a lost year in D.C.," he said at last, although that hadn't been true, of course. But telling the truth would mean a longer conversation, and he wasn't ready to have that conversation, not yet.

"Jude, I'm sorry," Willem had said, and had reached for him. "Will you tell me about it?"

"No," he'd said, stubbornly. "I think we should do it. Now." He had already prepared himself. Another day of waiting wasn't going to change things, and he would only lose his nerve.

So they had. A large part of him had hoped, expected even, that things would be different with Willem, that he would, finally, enjoy the process. But once it had begun, he could feel every bad old sensation returning. He tried to direct his attention to how this time was clearly better: how Willem was more gentle than Caleb had been, how he didn't get impatient with him, how it was, after all, Willem, someone he loved. But when it was over, there was the same shame, the same nausea, the same desire to hurt himself, to scoop out his insides and hurl them against the wall with a bloody thwack.

"Was it okay?" Willem asked, quietly, and he turned and looked at Willem's face, which he loved so much.

"Yes," he said. Maybe, he thought, it would be better the next time. And then, the next time, when it had been the same, he thought it might be better the time after that. Every time, he hoped things would be different. Every time, he told himself it would be. The sorrow he felt when he realized that even Willem couldn't save him, that he was irredeemable, that this experience was forever ruined for him, was one of the greatest of his life.

Eventually, he made some rules for himself. First, he would never refuse Willem, ever. If this was what Willem wanted, he could have it, and he would never turn him away. Willem had sacrificed so much to be with him, and had brought him such peace, that he was determined to try to thank him however he could. Second, he would try-as Brother Luke had once asked him-to show a little life, a little enthusiasm. Toward the end of his time with Caleb, he had begun reverting to what he had done all his life: Caleb would turn him over, and pull down his pants, and he would lie there and wait. Now, with Willem, he tried to remember Brother Luke's commands, which he had always obeyed-Roll over; Now make some noise; Now tell me you like it-and incorporate them when he could, so he would seem like an active participant. He hoped his competency would somehow conceal his lack of enthusiasm, and as Willem slept, he made himself remember the lessons that Brother Luke taught him, lessons he had spent his adulthood trying to forget. He knew Willem was surprised by his fluency: he, who had always remained silent when the others had bragged about what they'd done in bed, or what they hoped to; he, who could and did tolerate every conversation his friends had about the subject but had never engaged in them himself.

The third rule was that he would initiate sex once for every three times Willem did, so it didn't seem so uneven. And fourth, whatever Willem wanted him to do, he would do. This is Willem, he would remind himself, again and again. This is someone who would never intentionally hurt you. Whatever he asks you to do is within reason.

But then he would see Brother Luke's face before him. You trusted him, too, the voice nagged him. You thought he was protecting you, too.

How dare you, he would argue with the voice. How dare you compare Willem to Brother Luke.

What's the difference? the voice snapped back. They both want the same thing from you. You're the same thing to them in the end.

Eventually his fear of the process diminished, though not his dread. He had always known that Willem enjoyed sex, but he had been surprised and dismayed that he seemed to enjoy it so much with him. He knew how unfair he was being, but he found himself respecting Willem less for this, and hating himself more for those feelings.

He tried to focus on what had improved about the experience since Caleb. Although it was still painful, it was less painful than it had been with anyone else, and surely that was a good thing. It was still uncomfortable, although again, less so. And it was still shameful, although with Willem, he was able to comfort himself with the knowledge that he was giving at least a small bit of pleasure to the person he cared about most, and that knowledge helped sustain him every time.

He told Willem that he had lost the ability to have erections because of the car injury, but that wasn't true. According to Andy (this was years ago), there was no physical reason why he couldn't have them. But at any rate, he couldn't, and hadn't for years, not since he was in college, and even then, they had been rare and uncontrollable. Willem asked if there was something he could do-a shot, a pill-but he told him that he was allergic to one of the ingredients in those shots and pills, and that it didn't make a difference to him.

Caleb hadn't been so bothered by this inability of his, but Willem was. "Isn't there something we can do to help you?" he asked, again and again. "Have you talked to Andy? Should we try something different?" until finally he snapped at Willem to stop asking him, that he was making him feel like a freak.

"I'm sorry, Jude; I didn't mean to," Willem said after a silence. "I just want you to enjoy this."

"I am," he said. He hated lying so much to Willem, but what was the alternative? The alternative meant losing him, meant being alone forever.

Sometimes, often, he cursed himself, and how limited he was, but at other times, he was kinder: he recognized how much his mind had protected his body, how it had shut down his sexual drive in order to shelter him, how it had calcified every part of him that had caused him such pain. But usually, he knew he was wrong. He knew his resentment of Willem was wrong. He knew his impatience with Willem's affection for foreplay-that long, embarrassing period of throat-clearing that preceded every interaction, the small physical gestures of intimacy that he knew were Willem's way of experimenting with the depths of his own ability for arousal-was wrong. But sex in his experience was something to be gotten through as quickly as possible, with an efficiency and brusqueness that bordered on the brutal, and when he sensed Willem was trying to prolong their encounters he began offering direction with a sort of decisiveness that he later realized Willem must mistake for zeal. And then he would hear Brother Luke's triumphant declaration in his head-I could hear you enjoying yourself-and cringe. I don't, he had always wanted to say, and he wanted to say it now: I don't. But he didn't dare. They were in a relationship. People in relationships had sex. If he wanted to keep Willem, he had to fulfill his side of the bargain, and his dislike for his duties didn't change this.

Still, he didn't give up. He promised himself he would work on repairing himself, for Willem's sake if not his own. He bought-surreptitiously, his face prickling as he placed the order-three self-help books on sex and read them while Willem was on one of his publicity tours, and when Willem returned, he tried to use what he had learned, but the results had been the same. He bought magazines meant for women with articles about being better in bed, and studied them carefully. He even ordered a book about how victims of sexual abuse-a term he hated and didn't apply to himself-dealt with sex, which he read furtively one night, locking his study door so Willem wouldn't discover him. But after about a year, he decided to alter his ambitions: he might not ever be able to enjoy sex, but that didn't mean he couldn't make it more enjoyable for Willem, both as an expression of gratitude and, more selfishly, a way to keep him close. So he fought past his feelings of shame; he concentrated on Willem.

Now that he was having sex again, he realized how much he had been surrounded by it all these years, and how completely he had managed to banish thoughts of it from his waking life. For decades, he had shied from discussions of sex, but now he listened to them wherever he encountered them: he eavesdropped on his colleagues, on women in restaurants, on men walking past him on the street, all talking about sex, about when they were having it, about how they wanted it more (no one wanted it less, it seemed). It was as if he was back in college, his peers once again his unwitting teachers: always, he was alert for information, for lessons on how to be. He watched talk shows on television, many of which seemed to be about how couples eventually stop having sex; the guests were married people who hadn't had sex in months, occasionally in years. He would study these shows, but none of them ever gave him the information he wanted: How long into the relationship did the sex last? How much longer would he have to wait until this happened to him and Willem, too? He looked at the couples: Were they happy? (Obviously not; they were on talk shows telling strangers about their sex lives and asking for help.) But they seemed happy, didn't they, or a version of happy at least, that man and woman who hadn't had sex in three years and yet, through the touch of the man's hand on the woman's arm, obviously still had affection for each other, obviously stayed together for reasons more important than sex. On planes, he watched romantic comedies, farces about married people not having sex. All the movies with young people were about wanting sex; all the movies with old people were about wanting sex. He would watch these films and feel defeated. When did you get to stop wanting to have sex? At times he would appreciate the irony of this: Willem, the ideal partner in every way, who still wanted to have sex, and he, the unideal partner in every way, who didn't. He, the cripple, who didn't, and Willem, who somehow wanted him anyway. And still, Willem was his own version of happiness; he was a version of happiness he never thought he'd have.

He assured Willem that if he missed having sex with women, he should, and that he wouldn't mind. But "I don't," Willem said. "I want to have sex with you." Another person would have been moved by this, and he was too, but he also despaired: When would this end? And then, inevitably: What if it never did? What if he was never allowed to stop? He was reminded of the years in the motel rooms, although even then he'd had a date to anticipate, however false: sixteen. When he turned sixteen, he would be able to stop. Now he was forty-five, and it was as if he was eleven once again, waiting for the day when someone-once Brother Luke, now (unfair, unfair) Willem-would tell him "That's it. You've fulfilled your duty. No more." He wished someone would tell him that he was still a full human being despite his feelings; that there was nothing wrong with who he was. Surely there was someone, someone in the world who felt as he did? Surely his hatred for the act was not a deficiency to be corrected but a simple matter of preference?

One night, he and Willem were lying in bed-both of them tired from their respective days-and Willem had begun talking, abruptly, of an old friend he'd had lunch with, a woman named Molly he'd met once or twice over the years, and who, Willem said, had been having a difficult time; now, after decades, she had finally told her mother that her father, who had died the year before, had sexually abused her.

"That's terrible," he said, automatically. "Poor Molly."

"Yes," said Willem, and there was a silence. "I just told her that she had nothing to be ashamed of, that she hadn't done anything wrong." He could feel himself getting hot. "You were right," he said at last, and yawned, extravagantly. "Good night, Willem."