Free The Whole World Over by Julia Glass

. . ." Hastily, Gordie tucked in
his shirt, smoothed its front, ran his fingers through his hair, touched a
folder on his desk. Finally, thank heaven, he smiled at Walter, who sat
on the sofa, stunned, dressed except for his feet. The smile was warm,
not guilty or evasive. "Can you come tomorrow afternoon? I mean, at
least to finish up the terms of your bequest to Scott."
    Walter said, "I like the 'at least.' "
    "God," Gordie said, "I don't know. I just—"
    "Oh sure you do," said Walter. "No 'just' about it." He stood and
leaned across Gordie's desk. He grasped Gordie's arms and pulled him
toward an embrace. The desk was wider than he'd thought, so their
faces barely touched, but Walter could feel it: that Gordie still ached to
kiss him, that it wasn't already a thing in the past, an impulse spent.
    Gordie pulled away. He said with delight, "Whatever you do, don't
come around this desk. You have to go now. I've got someone coming in
five minutes. I have to . . ."
    "Calm down?" said Walter, and they laughed. At the door, The Bruce
looked tremendously annoyed, as if their joking were infantile.
    "No Jiminy Cricket from you," Walter said in a low voice after
Gordie had closed the door behind them. "I will not own a dog who
thinks he's my conscience, got that?" He paused to scratch The Bruce on
his neck and behind his ears. T.B. pushed back against his fingers. So
kinetic with joy that he could not bear to wait for the elevator, Walter
clipped on T.B.'s leash and made for the stairs. They trotted down all
seven flights.
    In the square—it was market day again—he led The Bruce down the
lane between the vendors' tents. For the dog, he decided on a beef
empanada from the pastry man (T.B. consumed it in two noisy gulps);
for himself, roses.
    "Those," he said. "I'll take those."
    "How many?" said the girl.
    "The whole caboodle. I'm feeling rich today."
    Wielding twine and scissors, the girl hoisted the roses from the bucket
and bundled them together. Before she hooded the blossoms with tissue
paper, Walter leaned in quickly and touched his face to the petals.
Plush and blousy, the roses smelled like a church prepared for a fancy
wedding—potent, ecstatic, sacred—but they were a radiant orange, the
color of torches, not of veils and modest lace gloves. Quite a different
kind of vow.
    The affair—that's what it had been, after all, though thinking in such
terms made Walter wince—lasted two and a half months. It took the
claustrophobic shape of passionate meetings in Gordie's office (without
that prudish chaperone of a dog) and furtive weekday lunches in Chinatown,
Hoboken, Yorkville, Long Island City—places where Gordie was
convinced nobody would know them. Walter didn't care; he liked to
think he'd be happy if they were "discovered." For most of that time,
neither of them mentioned Stephen, and Walter began to let himself
hope that Stephen had decamped (perhaps Walter was the grand consoler!)
or been dismissed (Walter was the love of Gordie's life!).
    Such wishful oblivion lasteth not forever; Walter knew that. He had
been determined, however, that the breaker of the pact would be
Gordie—and it was, though Walter was the one who blew his cool. It
was the week before Thanksgiving week (the biggest week in the year
for guilt trips). They were holding hands under the table at a romantic
but oddly macho restaurant on the New Jersey side of the Hudson; out
the window, from afar, they could see the rump of the Intrepid. The
food was Low Italian, so dependent on bread and pasta and cheese that
it made Walter's Place look like a Weight Watchers clinic. The clientele
were mainly men, most of them wearing polyester shirts, wide shiny
ties, and navy blue suits with garish buttons.
    Gordie poked his lasagna as if it might contain a booby trap. Walter
was contemplating his veal chop with ardor, though he did not want
to remove his hand from Gordie's, which he'd have to do to cut the
thing. He was wishing that he, too, had ordered pasta