The Muse's Undoing

“Yeah, let me get my jacket.”

He heads back to the bedroom, and I text Maggie that we’re on our way. She’s bringing a boy to dinner, and it’s a family affair. Mom and Dad are driving in from Larchmont, and we’re headed to the Upper East Side. Apparently we’ll be dining at the Plaza, which I’ve never been to, but understand it means this dude is loaded.

Because I’m with Fischer, who can barely walk and hates the train, we take a cab across town from his Hell’s Kitchen apartment, speculating about what Maggie—a quirky fashion student—sees in a guy who wants to do a “meet the family” at the Plaza. We decide he’s probably a black sheep who plays in a rock band, living off his parent’s money while cruising the Village for hot girls who’d look good shaking a tambourine. All of which is ridiculous, but it passes the time.

Stuart March isn’t a black sheep, though. He’s a finance student at Columbia with an expensive haircut and a suit I can only assume is designer. I’m immediately suspicious, but Fischer gives him a friendly handshake.

Maggie looks up at me expectantly—waiting for me to be impressed. She’s wearing a close-fitting dress—a first—and heels. Her hair is up, which is also unusual, and her contacts are in. “You in there somewhere, Mags?”

She gives me a pointed glare before forcing me into a hug. “Be nice.”

“I am. You look great. I’m Matthew,” I say to the guy.

“I figured.” He flashes me a charming smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Mom and Dad are at the bar,” Maggie says. “Let’s go say hi.”

Fischer’s limp is barely noticeable, but that doesn’t keep my hand from hovering a few inches away from his lower back in case he loses his balance. Mom and Dad stand, smiling as they see us approach.

Introductions go smoothly, we’re seated at a round table, and a server takes our drink order. Fischer and I share a few looks as Maggie and Stuart talk about how they met—an open mic poetry night—and a few of the dates they’ve been on. All places I’ve never heard of, but Fischer has. Eventually we all know Stuart well enough for the conversation to shift elsewhere, and that starts with Mom directing a question at me.

“Matthew, now that Fischer’s back on his feet, are you planning to stay on at the hotel or get a place of your own?”

She’s smiling, but there’s something in her eyes I’m not sure I like. I have some issues with the question, too. “I haven’t really thought about it.” The owner of the hotel where I work was kind enough to offer me one of the first floor rooms when I was hired. It’s nice enough, but Fischer’s place is nicer.

Dad speaks up, aiming his inquiry at Fischer. “And what about you? Any plans for getting back to work?”

“He just started walking without a crutch today,” I say. “He’s still in PT.”

My mom’s eyes narrow slightly. “He’s a grown man, Matthew. Let him answer your father’s question.”

I turn to look at Fischer, who’s studying her strangely, too. “I have been working,” he says. “Never stopped.”

“You know what your father means, hon. Are you planing to continue your international work?”

Fischer’s international correspondent work is what wound him up half-broken with a panic disorder that got diagnosed last month when the nightmares started to come with persistent regularity. The less drugs he took, the more the reality of what happened to him settled in.

We don’t sleep on opposite sides of the bed anymore, but unless my mom somehow knows that, I don’t get why she’s looking at us like this. Still, I’m paranoid that on one of her visits she installed a camera.

Our nights would make boring content—angsty dreams and even angstier come downs as I talk him back to reality with my arms wound tightly around him and my mouth against his skull.

It’s not like a camera would catch my boners since Fischer’s ass is always covering them. And unless there’s one in the bathroom where I go to take care of myself so I can get back to sleep—no one should be the wiser about it—not even Fischer.

“We’ll see what the surgeon says at my next appointment,” my brother says.

“When’s that?” Mom asks.

“A couple weeks,” is his quick answer.

“Have you been getting out at all?” she asks me.

“Yeah. I go to work. Maggie and I have lunch a couple times a week.”

“Oh,” she says, with a conspiratorial smile. “You know what I mean. Are you seeing anyone?”

“No, Mom. But I promise I’ll let you know if anything changes. Maybe I’ll take you and everyone to dinner at Chipotle to introduce you.”

Maggie bristles.