“Isn’t it?”
Carver reached for the third box, but Frank grabbed his arm. “Stop distracting us with sugar. Why are you really here?”
Instead of answering, Carver pulled his arm free and marched into the living room, where he spent a good five minutes looking at the frogs, the record collection, the books on the end table, the framed art on the walls, and the unremarkable view out the picture window. Almost all of which he’d examined during his previous visit.
Frank waited, leaning back against a wall with arms crossed. He figured Carver would get to the point eventually, and in the meantime, Frank could enjoy watching him.
At long last, Carver halted in the middle of the room. His posture was stiff, hands balled at his sides, but that softness remained in his eyes. This was a man, Frank realized, who was never quite convinced he was good enough. Despite the fame, the adoring fans, the awards, at heart Carver was still that fifth son of six, the one his family didn’t understand. Perhaps the man spent his life being other people because he didn’t believe his real self was worthy enough.
Frank wanted to take him into his arms. Or better yet, show Carver the drawings he’d made of him, in hopes that Carver could see himself through Frank’s eyes. Instead, he asked again, very softly. “Why are you here?”
“You’re going to tell me all sorts of crap about how queer people can never be accepted by anyone. How we’re doomed to live lies or to hide like bugs under rocks.”
“I’m not.” Frank shrugged slightly. “Okay, I might have a few days ago. But I won’t now.”
Carver’s stance softened a bit and he cocked his head. “Why not?”
“I had a little talk with Paul. And then one with Sylvia. And neither of them cares that I like men.”
A hint of a smile played at the corners of Carver’s mouth. “Sylvia has a girlfriend, you know.”
“I know now.” Frank wondered briefly how Carver had obtained that knowledge after only briefly meeting her. She’d been Frank’s coworker for years. Maybe he should have paid better attention.
“So… you accept that something long-term, something real between two men isn’t impossible?”
Well, here was where they got to the difficult part. “In principle, I accept it. I’m just skeptical that it’s possible between us.”
“You don’t feel that way about me? I’m okay as a movie-star crush, and I’m okay for a tumble or two in bed, but for anything more… you want someone real.”
Jesus. “You’re real. I see you, remember? X-Ray Spex eyes. I see who you are. And….” Deep breath. Frank had never said anything like this to anyone. “And I sure as hell like what I see. But I’m not a frog prince, Carver.”
Carver frowned. “I don’t?—”
“Your kiss didn’t magically transform me. Look at me, dammit.” Frank spread his arms. “I’m just a guy who draws cartoons for a living. I have a bum foot that’s never going to get better and, according to my doctors, will probably get worse as I age. On my very best days, when I clean up well, I can maybe manage moderately good-looking. I can’t drink. I’m great at understanding other people’s core beings, but I’m terrible at grasping hints and innuendos. I don’t have any real skills aside from art. I work long hours. I’ve been informed I’m one anxiety fit away from becoming a Bouncing Betty. And I can be an antisocial son-of-a-bitch.”
That outburst had taken a lot out of Frank, who limped over to his armchair and collapsed into it. If he had been a drinker, he would have downed a double.
A symphony of emotions played across Carver’s face, astonishment being the most obvious. He walked slowly toward Frank and then, also slowly, sat down across Frank’s lap. He settled an arm across Frank’s shoulders and, sighing, leaned their heads together. “I’m the frog, not you.”
Frank snorted.
“Maybe,” Carver said slowly, “it’s okay if we’re both frogs. Look at my namesakes over there—they seem content enough.”
“They eat bugs.”
“My point, Frankie, is that there’s nothing wrong with being a frog. Warts and all. I’m hung up on you exactly as you are. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, because love at first sight exists, bub, and not just in fairy tales. We can make this work.”
A leap of faith was like a leap out of an airplane. You could land perfectly well. Or you could get shot, or drown, or land badly and have to spend the rest of your life with a messed-up foot. “I’m afraid to jump,” Frank whispered.
Carver was quiet for a few moments. “If you don’t jump, I guess you’ll stay safe. But what will you have to show for it? I’m going to switch metaphors, Frankie-boy. A couple years back, I was offered a part as a Roman slave. My agent looked at the script and told me the part would be dangerous for me. There were hints in the script that the slave sometimes slept with men, and my agent said rumors might start. Especially since I’ve never let a studio force me into marrying some poor girl.”
“I can understand that.”
“I saw the script too. It was a good part. One where I could show I’m more than a pretty face. Where I had more to do than taking my shirt off. And here’s the thing. Bad consequences could follow if I played that slave. But if I turned down the part, I might never know if I had it in me to be a great actor.”
Frank squeezed him. “You did. You do.”
“I know,” Carver said with a grin. “Oscar nomination, remember?”
