After, they discover they actually like each other. They occasionally hang out. Carlos gets it -- he has a boyfriend too, away, studying Interior Design in Boise, of all places. Sometimes they hit the Crashdown, which has an unfortunate aliens-have-landed theme but an overabundance of shirtless gyrating men that make up for it. Carlos usually hooks up with someone, but more often than not Justin is content to spend the majority of his time under the strobe lights, working out his frustrations with a snap of the hips and a roll of the shoulders.

Justin spends an hour or two of his Sunday afternoons wandering through Central Park. He takes his sketchpad. Sits under a tree and watches the play of light on the leaves. He gets his best ideas in the park.

He likes these places -- but mint tea and apple butter will never take the place of bitter coffee and day-old lemon bars. Regurgitated disco just isn’t the same without guiding another’s hips to keep the beat. The endless expanse of Central Park can never compare to his parkette back home.

The little square of green sits half a block from Brian’s place. Justin remembers finding it one day, back when he was what Brian called “the teen stalker” and what he mentally refers to as “seventeen and stupid”. Brian had brushed him off somehow. He doesn’t remember the particulars, but really, when wasn’t Brian brushing him off in those days? He was walking down the street, most certainly not crying, absolutely not, but perhaps sniffling -- his allergies must have been acting up -- when he stumbled upon the little island of green grass tucked behind an overgrown bush and a sagging wooden fence. Two or three trees, a couple of benches, an oasis amidst the sea of converted factories and warehouses.

Justin discovered that the bench situated closest to the road actually offered a view of Brian’s building. And if he leaned way back into the street, willing to risk getting his head clipped neatly off at the shoulders by oncoming traffic, he could even see Brian’s windows.

His parkette made stalking just a little bit easier.

Justin sometimes thinks that he can trace the evolution of his life through the scratches chipped by his nails from the black wrought-iron bench. Here, waiting to see if Brian would have a change of heart and follow after he’d kicked him out, and formulating a plan to run away to New York when that didn’t happen. There, trying to decide what to do when he believed Brian had kept him around out of guilt, turning his face up to the rain clouds for a sign. There, feeling dirty and dishonest and a cheat. And there, there, yes, Justin closes his eyes and remembers hands scrambling for purchase as Brian pushed inside him, oblivious to the march of cars mere feet away.

Deno’s and the Crashdown are his, but he shares them with all of New York. Woody’s and Babylon and the Liberty Diner are his, but he shares them with Brian and Michael and Emmett and the rest of his family. The parkette is Justin’s alone, and it will always be special.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Brian says.

Justin shakes his head free of memories. “Time to go?”

“Everything’s loaded,” Brian nods as he pulls Justin to his feet.

“Okay,” Justin says. He takes in the tiny square of grass, the misshapen trees, the wildflowers struggling to survive in the patch of dirt near the back fence. Then he resolutely turns his back and lets Brian lead him through the gate.

They have a house to move in to.