as much on Halsted, five years back—bars were just starting to pop up; people were just starting to move there; and Boystown (no one had even called it that yet) was just starting to coalesce—and so this place, way down by the river, was where Yale first fell in love with the city.
At the Bistro, Yale felt entitled to joy. Even if he was just watching from the wall, drink in hand. This, the Bistro announced, was a town where good things would happen. Chicago would unfurl its map to him one promising street, one intoxicating space, at a time. It would weave him into its grid, pour beer in his mouth and music in his ears. It would keep him.
The relationship grew serious that fall—drunk, Yale whispered into Charlie’s ear that he was in love, and Charlie whispered back, “I need you to mean that,” and things progressed from there—and for about a year, Charlie worried aloud that Yale hadn’t experienced the city’s freedoms, hadn’t been with enough men, and that one day he’d wake up and decide he needed to live some more. Charlie would say, “You’re going to look back on this and wonder why you wasted your youth.” Yale was twenty-six then, and Charlie somehow imagined their age gap to be practically generational even though he only had five years on Yale. But Charlie had started alarmingly young, in London. Yale was still figuring himself out sophomore year at Michigan.
Eventually things settled. Yale was suited to relationships, to the point that Teddy thought it was great fun to call him a lesbian, to ask how life on the commune was going. He’d stayed with each of his first two lovers for a year. He hated drama—hated not only the endings of things but the bumpy beginnings as well, the self-doubt, the nervousness. He was tired of meeting guys in bars, would rather lick a sidewalk than look for action in some parking lot by the beach. He enjoyed having standing plans with someone. He liked going to the movies and actually watching the movie. He liked grocery shopping. For two years, things were easy.
And then, after the virus hit Chicago—slow-motion tsunamis from both coasts—Charlie suddenly, inexplicably, worried all the time, not about AIDS itself but about Yale leaving him for someone else. Last May, before he realized how deep the insecurity had grown, Yale had said yes to a weekend pilgrimage with Julian and Teddy up to the Hotel Madison—a trip Charlie couldn’t join because he wouldn’t leave the paper, even for three days. They explored the city and danced in the hotel’s bars and Yale spent most of Saturday night listening to the Cubs on the radio, but when they got back, Charlie questioned him for an hour about where everyone had slept and how much they’d drunk, about every single thing Julian had done—and then he barely spoke to Yale for a week. He claimed to understand now that nothing happened up there, but the idea of Yale with Julian or Teddy or both of them had taken his imagination hostage. It was more often Julian that Charlie worried about, in fact. Julian was the flirt, the one who’d offer you a bite of cake off his own fork. The Teddy thing was odd, specific to last night.
Yale rolled toward Charlie and decided to apply Bill Lindsey’s advice on talking to Cecily Pearce. He phrased it as a question: “Do you think it’s possible that all the sickness and funerals and everything—they’ve made us feel less secure? Because this is new for you. And I’ve never given you reason to worry.”
Charlie spoke to the window. “I’m going to say something terrible, Yale. And I don’t want you to judge me.” And then he didn’t say anything at all.
“Okay.”
“The thing is, the most selfish part of me is happy about this disease. Because I know until they cure it, you won’t leave me.”
“That’s fucked up, Charlie.”
“I know.”
“No, that’s really fucked up, Charlie. I can’t believe you said that out loud.” He could feel a vein pulse in his throat. He might get in Charlie’s face and scream.
But Charlie was shaking.
“I know.”
“Come here.” He rolled Charlie toward him like a log. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m not looking for anyone else.” Yale kissed his forehead, and he kissed his eyes and chin. “We’re all under a lot of stress.”
“That’s generous.”
“You get afraid of one thing, and suddenly you’re afraid of everything.”