The sun drifts lower across the sky, slowly nearing the end of its daily journey. The stones beneath me still radiate the day’s heat, but a breeze rustles the clusters of orange and yellow blossoms on my rooftop terrace. I watch a butterfly bob from flower to flower, lingering over each bloom as though it has nowhere else to be. A sparrow lands on the edge of a planter, regards me for a moment, then darts away. The fountain in the backyard below gurgles softly, water splashing over stone. Somewhere across the rooftops, a mockingbird runs through an ever-changing repertoire of whistles and trills.

I love this place. My own little sanctuary. It is never more beautiful than during golden hour, that last hour before sunset. The brick facades across Julia Street glow amber and copper in the lowering light. Somewhere in the distance, a streetcar bell clanks. I catch the scent of someone cooking dinner – maybe my new tenants in Apartment C, Benoit and Iseul. Garlic, onions, and something spicy drift upwards, warm and comforting. A shriek pierces the air, and I’m fairly sure it’s Gigi arguing with her mother about something. But up here, no one bothers me. Up here, I’m on my own, peaceful and safe. I inhale deeply.

*****

Today is my Mama’s birthday. Her fifty-second. Or it would have been if she hadn’t left us, me and Josie, eighteen years ago. It feels strange to think I’ve now spent three times as long without her as I ever did with her.

Josie is still at her in-laws in Covington cooking her latest ‘biscuit’ until it is safe for him to see the world. Not long now, the doctors said. Only a couple of weeks until Josie reaches another pregnancy milestone. Every day, every week longer is a victory, but after 32 weeks, doctors give my littlest nephew an ‘excellent prognosis’ that after some time in NICU care, he’ll do very well long-term. Josie is my superhero without a cape. First she’s always nursed me back to health when I lived on the streets. Now this bundle of energy has been resting and doing nothing for three months to make sure her youngest is growing inside of her into a healthy baby. I have an amazing sister.

I called her earlier today, and we talked a little about Mama. We always do on her birthday. Josie was ten when Mama passed away. So she remembers her more vividly and she shares some memories with me. Like when our mom tried to brush Josie’s curls, and my sister cried because the brush kept getting caught in her wild hair. Mama stopped, worked the tangle loose with her fingers, then kept going more gently, and told Josie it takes one hundred strokes to make her hair look pretty and shiny. Or when Josie insisted on wearing her newest wool dress to a school function in summer. Mama warned her she’d be too hot in the thick fabric but let Josie have her will. Mama was right, of course, and Josie was a sweaty mess all day.

One story I hadn’t heard before. Josie said I must have been four, and Mama, Josie and I were at the thrift store to find new clothes for us kids. I insisted I wanted a bright pink t-shirt with silver sequins on it. Mama refused to buy it for me, and when I threw a tantrum, Mama hugged me and tried to calm me down. “Oh my sweet little biscuit,” she said to me. “If it were up to me, I’d let you wear every colour of the rainbow and every sparkle, but your dad would never allow it.”

Josie laughed: “I think you were showing your gay very early there, my sweet baby bro.”

I knew she was joking, but it made me think. So I asked her, “Do you think she would have accepted me? Me being gay, I mean?”

“Of course, she would have. And besides, there’s nothing to ‘accept’. No one needs to accept if someone is straight. That’s just such a ridiculous notion.” She scoffed, but when I don’t reply, she goes on, her voice a little softer. “Being gay has always been part of who you are. Even when you were too young to know that yourself. Mama loved you – just the way you are – so very much. You were her biscuit, her beautiful baby boy. Nothing would have ever changed that.”

I can only hope she was right about Mama. Not that I will ever know for sure. I also decide to buy the next bright pink t-shirt with glitter on it and wear it with pride. And to piss off my dad, wherever he is. Rotting in hell if there is any justice in the afterlife. And as far away from my mom as possible.

I miss my mom. I know it sounds ridiculous. A grown-ass man crying for his mama. I wish I could have had more time with her. Or that I could talk to her just one more time. I hardly remember her, but I know her warmth and her kind voice always soothed me. I often wonder what kind of relationship we’d have if she were still alive. Would I have confided in her about Remy? Could she have made me stay after his death? Moot questions that I will never have an answer to. I ask them anyway. And sometimes the pain about losing mom comes back so strong as if it had just happened, ripping through me, leaving me sobbing like a child. Days like today are especially difficult. Days where we should be celebrating mom’s birthday.

I don’t want to worry Josie. She has enough on her plate already. So I smile and swallow my feelings.

The last days haven’t been easy.

Rashid had to go back to England, and I’m on the down bit of my roller coaster of emotions again. Usually the high from being with him gets me through a longer period of time, but this time the high was marred by our big fight about Sam and my confession about Freddie, so I already felt drained and empty when we said our good-byes at the airport. Where Mari picked me up with her big revelation about the night of my attack – almost to the day of its 4th anniversary. Then I found Rashid’s special gift for me. It sits on my bedside table, next to the Mickey Mouse clock my mom bought me, which is permanently set to London time now.

I often flick through Rashid’s photo book. I still can’t believe he did this for me. Even if it’s not lost on me that he decided to end this book with his first day in Oxford. When he was 18. He turned 36 last May. That’s half of his life he left out. Am I to believe nothing picture-worthy happened during that time? Well, I know about some things that happened. Apparently a lot of parties, drugs, alcohol and sex during his first year in Oxford. Being recruited by the Talamasca. His father’s death. Luke. Sam. Gus. One-night stands in between. His mom passing away. I know there are a lot of things that he can’t share with me. Talamasca related stuff. And probably a few that he doesn’t want to show me. To be honest, I can do without seeing happy, couple-y pictures of Rashid with Luke. Or Sam. Gag.

There must be more holiday pictures of hiking along the Yorkshire coastline. I know his profile picture on our messenger app was taken on one of those. He never changed it to a photo of the two of us. I have. It’s a selfie we took in Paris last summer.

Did he just run out of time creating the book? He only had a couple of days while he was here. Maybe there’s a part two.

Rashid’s been great since he returned to London. He calls me every day, whenever he can fit it into his schedule. Sometimes when he’s on the tube, it can be awkward with other people listening in and with the interruptions when he loses signal in one of the tunnels. But he knows how important these moments are for me, so he makes an effort. He gets up early sometimes so he can squeeze in a quick video chat before his morning run. Or stays up late so we can talk when I finish work.

The day after Mom’s birthday, I video call Daniel Molloy. I make sure it is well after sunset in New York, where he currently resides with Armand. And their human housekeeper. Oleksandr Kovalchuk – or Sasha for short – seems to be their ‘Mari’. Although they couldn’t be more different. Where Mari is loud and outspoken, Sasha is quiet and observing. I haven’t met him in person yet, but we’ve interacted over the phone a couple of times earlier this summer. He’s really young – not even 20, I think – and lives with Daniel and Armand, so he can afford to study at NYU.

I definitely need to make amends with Daniel after disappearing off the radar. He was witness to my breakdown, but that was still no excuse for my behaviour this summer. When Sasha hands the phone to Daniel, I expect him to be mad at me for abandoning him and our writing project. But he’s not. He still wants me to work on ‘Lanterns on the River’, the book he’s writing for charity. We talk business for a while, and I promise him that I’ll have a first rough draft for him by the end of next week. Just my ideas on how to structure the material I already collected.

We talk for a really long time before Daniel gives me a stern look through the screen and says, “You know I can’t read your mind over this distance, so I need you to answer me this: how are you holding up?”

I try to deflect him, lying that I’m just fine, but he sees straight through me. Apparently it doesn’t take a mindreader to see I’m not fine. He asks if I’m still seeing Eli, Louis’ therapist. I shake my head. I met Eli a couple of times in summer, but when Sam Barclay’s phone call became the proverbial straw that broke my back, I stopped going.

Daniel looks at me for the longest time, and I wonder if the video just froze. Damn vampires and their ability to turn into living statues. Undead statues. Whatever. After a while, he sighs and says: “You know you can always talk to me if you think that helps.” When I nod reluctantly, he continues: “I don’t mean to sound like an ass, but I really think that professional help would do you good. Eli is a good choice because he knows about our kind” – he means vampires – “so you don’t have to tiptoe around him.”

He’s probably right. I still hesitate. When I don’t reply, Daniel goes on: “Or, you know, I could ask our boy Sasha here to give you a few free sessions. I’m sure they make him take some psych lessons with whatever he’s studying. We’re paying the little shit way too much anyway for the work he does around the loft, so he might as well make himself useful.”

He laughs, but I don’t feel like joining in. Instead, I put on a brave face and promise Daniel, “I’ll apologise to Eli for disappearing on him. If he forgives me, I’ll consider going back.”

Daniel chuckles. “No need to feel bad. I’m sure Eli charged your sessions anyway, whether you showed up or not.”

I wince. I know presumably Eli’s fees were covered by my ‘health insurance’, but no health insurance is that good. I’m pretty sure it’s only code for Louis and Lestat paying for them. They’re still playing my ‘sugar daddies’, although they never ask for anything in return.

Daniel obviously misinterprets my discomfort and adds, “Don’t worry. If Eli gives you a hard time, just tell him a crate of his favourite vintage of Macallan is waiting for him as long as he’s nice to you.”

Great. Adding another ‘sugar daddy’ to my list. That’s four now.

I wait until the next day to call the number Eli gave me this summer. So far he’s always answered himself, but this time a much younger male voice sing-songs into the phone.

“Crescent Counselling, Tahmoh speaking. How can I help you?”

I stare at my phone for a moment, stunned by the unfamiliar voice. I can almost hear the frown in the guy’s – Tahmoh’s – voice when I don’t reply: “Helloooohhhooo??? Anyone there???”

I clear my throat. “I… um… hi… this is Wendell. Um, Wendell Dupree. Could I speak to Dr Barnes, please?”

“Oh yes, hi Wendell!” Tahmoh chirps into the phone. “Eli is currently in a meeting. Are you in any immediate danger?”

You’d think answering the phone for a therapist would suck the cheerfulness out of a person. Apparently not. I assure Tahmoh that I’m not presently standing on a rooftop contemplating sky diving without a parachute, and there isn’t a bottle of prescription drugs in my vicinity either.

Tahmoh seems happy with my answer and trills: “Alrighty then, can he call you back?”

Maybe this is a sign of the universe. Maybe I’m not meant to speak to Eli again. I know I just can’t deal with Tahmoh’s bubbly energy right now. I sigh and leave my phone number with him, just in case Eli trashed it since our last session.

It takes Eli five fucking hours to call me back. I wonder if I should have feigned suicidal thoughts to get a quicker response. Or would it have prolonged my waiting time? I mean, who wants to talk someone off the edge? Surely, not a therapist! Better to leave them hanging. Sorry, bad pun.

When Eli’s name finally shows up on my phone screen, I almost don’t answer. I’m still so pissed off when I see his name flash across my screen. My hand is shaking when I swipe to accept the call, but once Eli’s soft baritone fills my room, my eyes well up. I’m suddenly so relieved to hear his voice. I apologise for missing our last appointments, and he just asks what happened. So, I start talking. About Rashid and our relationship. About hurting Rashid. Fighting with Rashid. Missing Rashid. About being scared of losing him.

Eli listens to me patiently, and then he asks me why exactly I’m calling. I thought that was obvious?

“Let me get this right. You want to restart therapy to save your relationship with your boyfriend? Is that it?” When I confirm, he replies, “I’m sorry, Wendell; I don’t do couples therapy. Think about why you want my help and call me again once you have found the real reason.”

And then he hangs up on me. He fucking hangs up on me.

I stare at my phone in disbelief. In the past days, and especially in the past five hours, I came up with all kinds of scenarios why Eli would refuse to take me on as a patient again: I wasn’t worthy of his time; I was a lost cause, beyond repair. Or my ‘health insurance’ wasn’t paying for me anymore because I hadn’t taken therapy serious enough… I would have understood all of them, but this? At that point my phone almost gains a few more frequent flyer points, but that thing’s crossed my room more times already than Amelia Earhart crossed the Atlantic. I just slump down on my couch and consider taking up Daniel’s offer of Sasha’s help. Or accepting that there is no help for me at all.

I spend the following night and day thinking about Eli’s words. At first I’m fuming. Asking for help has never come easy for me. I never want to be a burden for the people around me. I couldn’t ask Josie for help when I lived on the streets. The times I came crawling back to her were usually the ones I didn’t have a choice anymore. I never asked my vampires for help, and I hate accepting it even if I know they give it freely. With Eli, it took me every ounce of strength to call him, open up to him the way I did, and beg him to do his fucking job – and he just hung up on me! What good is a therapist who doesn’t therapise? Thanks for nothing, asshat!

Then I go for a run along the Mississipi. I get a coffee and visit ‘our bench’ overlooking the river. No one sits on the other bench beside it, and I just stare out over the water until I finish my cup. I feel like a different person sat down here with Rashid all these months ago. One that couldn’t believe why someone like Rashid would even give them the time of the day. One that had a shred of hope left that if Rashid could see something in them, then maybe… maybe there was a chance the broken pieces could be mended. And now?

When I dump my empty cup into the trash can nearby, a light drizzle sets in that turns into a real downpour by the time I reach my apartment again. I peel out of my rain-soaked clothes and drop them on my bathroom floor before I rub a towel over my wet hair and go in search of some clean clothes. Bruno is curled up on my couch, making little huffing noises in his sleep. It looks like a good idea, and I do the same, crawling under the duvet.

I stare at the window front overlooking my rooftop terrace. The heavy rain has stopped, but the sky is still dark and smothering. Single drops glide down the glass, and I follow their paths until they disappear into the void at the bottom of the window. Bruno still snores on my couch.

A buzzing sound jolts me up. Without even looking, I reach for my phone and blindly tap on the screen.

“Yeah?” My voice sounds croaky and hoarse.

“Hello, boyfriend,” I can hear the warm smile in Rashid’s voice. I check my phone’s screen and only see his profile picture. Not a video call then.

“Are you okay? You sound a bit off?” He’s worried.

I clear my throat to get rid of any unsteadiness. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… I think I must’ve dozed off. ” I rub a hand over my face, and my voice comes out a little muffled when I ask, “How are you? Isn’t it late for you?”

“Just coming up to midnight. I thought it would be a good time to call. Do you want to sleep?” I can hear concern creep in even over the distance.

“No, it’s fine. It’s good to hear you.” I force a smile that I’m sure looks fake as fuck but hopefully sounds upbeat and genuine.

We fall into the regular chit-chat. The weather’s been awful in London, and Rashid says he was almost blown off course when he went for a run around the reservoir this morning. He chuckles when he tells me about a selfie he took, his hair blowing every which way. He promises to send it to me later. I try to laugh with him, but I can tell he’s not buying my fake chipper mood. He asks me about work and about Josie, but there isn’t much to tell. There’s an awkward pause before Rashid starts filling it with random details from his day. The new barista at ‘The Bumble Bean’, who is apparently a total disaster. A book he bought but hasn’t started yet. A signal failure on the Tube that caused major disruptions.

I try to follow Rashid’s ramblings, but his words keep slipping away from me. It’s hard to keep my eyes open. I’m so tired – so bone-deep exhausted. My thoughts move through molasses, slow and sluggish, and the ringing in my ears almost swallows his words.

“Rashid?” I interrupt him mid-thought.

“Yes, Wendell?” He sounds amused, the hint of a smile in his voice.

There is silence while I try to form a coherent thought.

“What is it, jaanu?” His voice softens.

I’m drowning. Waves crashing over my head. Drowning out Rashid’s words.

“Talk to me, Wendell.” Gently urging now.

My chest tightens. I can’t breathe.

“I… I can’t…”

Something in me snaps.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

A pause.

“What do you mean…?” Confusion settles into his voice.

I choke. “It’s too much…”

“Wendell…” Panic bleeds into his words. “What are you saying?”

“I’m sorry…” My voice breaks. “I’m really sorry…”

I jab at the screen. The call ends.

I gasp. Once. Twice.

My phone starts vibrating again. A band of steel clamps around my chest. I can’t do this. I just can’t. My thumb slips until the buzzing stops.

I fumble with the app, my fingers refusing to do what I need them to do. My vision blurs as I hammer at the screen.

WD: Please don’t call me.

WD: Don’t text.

WD: And for God’s sake, don’t come here.

WD: Please, just leave me be.

I tap a few more buttons and shove my phone underneath my pillow. My mind feels numb. Blank.

I take a breath. Stuttering at first, but then more even. Air slowly fills my lungs. The weight begins to lift.

I am breathing.

For the first time in forever I am breathing again. And it feels so good.