Free Basketball Jones by E. Lynn Harris Page B

room—people took notice. It didn’t matter if they were gay, straight, or suddenly confused. Maurice had charmed Cullen with his quick wit, but I sensed from the beginning that Maurice thought he was stepping out of his league by pursuing Cullen. He went to D.C. every chance he got, taking rooms in the best hotels since Cullen told him he still lived with his parents and couldn’t have overnight visits. Sometimes when I wassupposed to pick him up at the airport I would get a call from him telling me he’d decided to stay another night. When I asked Mo how Cullen was in bed, he told me they were waiting until they made a commitment before engaging in sex. Without asking I knew this was Cullen’s decision and not Maurice’s. He always told me that he had to check out the sex before he would allow himself to become emotionally involved with any man.
    In late August, Cullen surprised Maurice by showing up at his town house, suitcases in tow, and confessing his love for my friend. I had never seen Maurice happier and for the first month I believed Cullen was in love with Maurice. I kept on believing that until one evening when I was invited to the house for a cookout. Maurice was tending to the grill when Cullen made a pass at me. Something I never shared with Mo.
    So I wasn’t totally surprised when I found Maurice sitting in a dark house at his dining room table, candles flickering, drink in hand, distraught because after spending all day preparing a two-month anniversary dinner Maurice discovered that all Cullen’s things were gone. He had been told by another friend that Cullen had moved in with a local television anchorman who was a little better-looking than Maurice and had a fatter checkbook. Making matters worse, it was Maurice who had boasted to the television personality how great Cullen was in bed and how blessed he was.
    Cullen didn’t leave a loving note or make a phone call about his departure but texted Maurice a few minutes after he discovered he suddenly had more closet space. And though it has been over five years since the incident, I saw something change in Maurice that night, even though he called me the next day with his voice full of laughter, acting as though Cullen Hartwell never existed.
    I’d been tied up the better part of the morning in a meeting with Brad Pitt’s Make It Right Foundation, presenting some design ideas. The board was excited about my proposals and told me they would get back to me after Brad and his donors had a chance to look them over. Maurice, of course, had no idea where I was and needless to say did not like to be kept waiting. Whatever he had to tell me was urgent enough for him to call three times in two hours, so I phoned him the minute my meeting ended.
    He picked up on the second ring. “Where have you been?”
    From his jubilant tone, I knew right away that his urgent news had to be good.
    “I was visiting this agency I’m thinking about doing some volunteer work for,” I replied, more defensively than I’d intended. “I just picked up all your messages at once and was afraid something bad had happened. What’s up? Is everything okay?”
    The smile in his voice was audible. “Oh, old friend of mine, things couldn’t be better. I have some delicious news. Are you sitting down?”
    “No, the meeting just ended, and I’m still in their office. Hang on while I step outside.”
    I waved a quick goodbye to the executive director, as she stood to the rear of the hallway speaking with a colleague who was getting her signature. With Maurice on hold, I passed behind the receptionist seated at his orderly desk in the small but immaculate lobby, where half a dozen would-be tenants waited for appointments, and exited the glass door.
    I stopped at the curb, where I laid my portfolio over the top of a public mailbox and removed my sport coat. “Hey, Mo, I’m back,” I said, beginning to roll up my sleeves. “So what’s the bignews that’s so important you