“That is not dinner, at least eat a fucking Uncrustable.”
“I know.”
Tank opened the grocery bag and started unloading. Two sandwiches. A bag of chips. A bottle of Gatorade. A six-pack of beer.
He looked at Piper across the island.
“This is a lot?”
“I know.”
“Right answer.” Then, “Piper, we can’t let them win.”
“I know, but I was never ready for all of this all at once.”
Tank put his hand on Piper’s shoulder.
“This is not about you, it’s about them. It’s about all their insecurities and internalized hatred. I only care about one thing, and that’s for you to be happy. Fuck, I know you are famous, but does that mean the public can own you?” Tank gave Piper a look.
Piper could feel what Tank said deep in his being, and tears began to build in his eyes again.
“I know you and Noah are together, I’m not fucking dense. I mean, I’m not exactly crazy about your choice of men. He is our division rival, but I have never seen you happier than when you’re with that asshole.”
Piper laughed, brushing tears from his eyes.
Tank embraced Piper. “We will get through this, like we get through everything. I promise. You hear me, Piper?”
“I do, thanks for always showing up. Let’s drink.”
***
Piper didn’t sleep that night. Tank watched him like a hawk. They watched playoff games, Netflix, Bravo, and drank all the booze that was in the house. Piper sat on the couch with his eyes on the wall behind the screen.
They had watched the entire first season ofReal Housewives of Atlanta, and Tank was enamored with Shereé Whitfield. He thought about launching his own clothing line for men, Tea By Tank, which made Piper laugh hysterically, but told him he would happily be an investor.
***
Somewhere on the second night, when Piper had been lying still long enough that his body had stopped feeling like his, he thought about the young dude at the pool house years earlier.
He hadn’t thought about him in a long time.
He had been twenty-one. He had known Jayson for three weeks. He had ended up in a pool house at two in the morning kissing a young guy his age who said he was a model. He had been at one of Jayson’s parties, which were filled with beautiful young guys and the men who paid for them.
The guy was smart, muscular and funny. Piper loved funny guys more than a jacked body or model face. Jayson had met him at a runway show in Paris.
He didn’t remember the guy's name.
He had tried to remember it. He couldn’t. He had told himself, eventually, that the name had not been important. He had been drunk. The kiss hadn’t meant anything. There had been, for sure, other guys who had kissed guys at that party and hadn’t remembered names either. That’s what that kind of party was for. Piper had told himself this.
The guy had died the following day.
Overdose was the word in the news item Piper had found on social media. Overdose at twenty-one, a promising young model, no foul play suspected, and the family asked for privacy. The drug was one the guy had told Piper, in the pool house, he hadn’t touched in his life.
Piper hadn’t gone to the funeral. He hadn’t known him well enough, that was what he had told himself.
He saw the obituary and had remembered how much he had made him laugh.
Jayson had asked him once if he was sad that the man had passed. Piper knew not to tell him he felt anything toward anyone for fear of the repercussions. Sitting in his house surrounded by the press, in a media prison, he did not want to be the next victim, he had too much to live for now. He was going to make damn sure Noah wasn’t the next victim.
