I had fitful dreams that night after Rafe escorted me back to Alastair’s apartment door. He had the Uber wait downstairs; his daughter Harlow wasn’t too pleased with the delay. Rafe made some remark about how the West Village had changed in the 30 years he had been away, living in Silver Spring, Maryland and running his father’s architectural firm after he died in the late ‘90s. I thanked him for the ride share (he wouldn’t let me pay my half of the fare) and we awkwardly stood outside the door before we gingerly embraced and bid farewell. After pushing the button for the elevator, he turned around.

“Since we exchanged numbers, do you mind if I call you sometime? We’re both going to be in the city through Christmas—”

“Of course, Rafe. Alastair will be back next week. We should all get together for drinks—”

“I’d like that. It’s been, what, 25 years since I’ve seen Al? When you came to the wedding with Alastair, I could tell he was smitten with you, even though you said he was just a work friend. You never had a shortage of people smitten with you, Joey—”

The elevator doors opened.

“It was nice to see you again, Joey. Good night.” I waved and the doors closed.

Thirty minutes later, I lay in Alastair’s bed, staring up at the Pure White ceiling, unable to fall asleep. I prefer to keep a night light on (Alastair likes absolute pitch darkness). The ceiling turned into a projection screen as images from my childhood flickered across it. Bumping into Rafe and his daughter and sharing that brief cab ride triggered a mixed bag of memories. I slowly drifted off and dreamt.

Rafe and I were best buddies from the time we first shared a sandbox until my father’s alcoholism started to endanger his position as Director of Structural Engineering at Rafe’s dad’s increasingly successful architectural firm. And there were problems at home too. Dad’s roving eye and numerous dalliances with women in the office (single and married) was breaking up his marriage. Too often Erica and I were helpless witnesses to late-night rows and shattered crockery.

Serendipitously, the problems my dad had at work and my parents were having at home didn’t seem to affect Rafe and me. We walked to school and back together, had most classes together, and did what most little boys did together: ride our bikes, collect baseball cards, played sports appropriate to each season, and talked derisively about girls, especially those with tempting pigtails.

There were rare times when Rafe would ask me to dress up in my mom’s clothes, as silly as they looked on me: blouses covering me like full length dresses, high heeled shoes making me waddle unsteadily, floral pattern scarves that enveloped me like a Bedouin, clip on earrings dangling to my shoulders, lipstick smeared in a wound shape… Normally, it was spurred on by Erica, who was my little shadow. Rafe claimed he never asked me to play dress up, only agreeing so as not to spoil Erica’s playtime with her older “sister.” But I could tell from the look in his eyes that he enjoyed my little modeling sessions, nevertheless.

Mom and dad caught us unawares once. We usually held our little shows in the garden shed out back of the house. Rafe would nervously keep an eye out for my parents but they never chanced on us…until the one day my father came to the shed to retrieve our lawn mower. Mom had finally gotten him off the couch, drinking beer and watching another ballgame on TV, to trim our lawn which was starting to resemble the African savannah.

When mom arrived to see what was holding up my father’s impersonation of a lawn care technician, her jaw dropped and her hands tugged at her hair. Dad ripped the blouse off me and tore the colorful scarf almost in half. He slapped me hard enough to knock me out of mom’s high heel shoes. I almost fell on top of Erica but Rafe caught me just in time.

“Is that what your queer son sneaks around the house doing? Don’t tell me you didn’t know about this!” Mom started crying but dad was more concerned with another possible complication. He turned to Rafe and said, in an even tone of voice, “Rafe, kid, don’t go telling your dad about this. He doesn’t need to hear about Joey’s perversion. Okay? Mum’s the word.”

Rafe gave him a confused look. “Mr. Prentiss, we’re just playing around. You can blame me. I…I asked Joey to show me how he and Erica played dress up. I won’t ask him again. I promise.”

“I’m not blaming you, Rafe. If anyone’s to blame, it’s his mom. Always coddling him and turning him into a girl. Wipe that shit off your mouth, Joey! I’m sick of looking at you. All of you!” He stomped out of the shed, grumbling and waving his hands.

“What about the lawn?” mom asked the floor through sniffling tears. “What about the lawn?”

Unwilling or simply unable to address the matter with us kids, mom acted as if nothing had happened. The only hint that the thing had occurred was when she mowed the lawn herself, talking to herself as she pushed the mower around in circles. My father, predictably, forgot about the incident in his usual alcoholic haze and was away from the house “working late” most nights anyway. Still, Rafe and I avoided visiting each other’s houses for a good week and a half just to let matters fade from front page status. Then, for a while, everything returned to normal.

It was late summer. A month before Rafe and I would start middle school. We were 13. Well, actually Rafe had just turned 13; I wouldn’t turn 13 until December. Puberty had arrived with smoke and thunder for him within the year but I was still left waiting at the station. Along with the physical and emotional changes that came with this new stage in life, Rafe became more interested in athletic activities (which I reluctantly participated in just to remain close to him) but also, devastatingly for me, in girls.

Rafe’s current obsession was skateboarding, this new to the East Coast craze that every kid was taking up. His new pastime was spurred on by his father’s gift to the village of Port Jefferson of a skatepark annex to the local playground. A skatepark my dad nominally engineered as well.

Rather quickly, Rafe became one of the best skaters in Port Jefferson for our age group in the few months since the skatepark was officially christened by Matthew Metheny, our village’s most famous resident, one of that year’s finalists for the prestigious Pritzker Prize, awarded annually to the most brilliant architects worldwide. I remember my father, at the ceremony, hiding his bloodshot eyes behind Ray Ban sunglasses, suppressing an urge to upchuck his breakfast all over his rumpled midnight blue pinstripe suit.

Rafe and I both entered the skateboarding competition in August, registering in the under 16 age group. For a lark, my father took a great interest in my entry in the competition and spent weekends coaching me at the skatepark, rain or shine. Sometimes he even forgot the flask of cheap vodka in his pants’ back pocket. Sometimes. Although the alcohol on his breath made listening to his skating tips a trial, I was thrilled to have his undivided attention, free of his usual sneering putdowns about my “queer” tendencies. The truth was that I learned more about proper technique from Rafe than I did from dad. Rafe would just nod whenever my father “corrected” where he placed his arms or the amount of bend in his knees.

The day of the big competition, my father was cheering me on from the benches on the far side of the park, sitting with Rafe’s dad, Mr. Metheny, his boss. For one of the few times in my life so far, I saw him beaming with pride as he gave me a thumb’s up. I hoped I could at least end up on the medal stand but would be happy if I didn’t finish in last place.

The under 16 group went first. Three rounds of 45-second timed runs, graded on “overall impression,” not specific tricks, would serve to determine the two skaters in the final round. I survived the first round, doing the most elementary moves without a notable mis-step. Of course, Rafe achieved the highest score. A lot of girls from our recently graduated sixth grade class had come out to cheer him on. Rafe shyly waved to them as they applauded loudly. I watched him gain a little strut in his step as I fiddled with the long, unruly tresses beneath my helmet.

In the second round, I decided to add the most difficult trick dad and Rafe had taught me. On the way up the side of the course, I would jump off the board and turn in the air, landing back on it as I switched it around on the way back down the curving wall. I had finally mastered this move after weeks of practicing it. It was quite a shock to me when my feet didn’t find the board and I tumbled hard onto the floor of the course, my ankle buckling painfully. In between screams from me, I heard the crowd gasp and Rafe running toward me, flipping his helmet off, shouting for help.

“Joey, hold on. We’ll get you to a doctor. Hold on,” Rafe cried as he took hold of my shoulders. I didn’t want to make an embarrassing scene but the pain was unbearable. I hid my wet face in the crook of Rafe’s arm as I whimpered. Mr. Metheny had caught up to Rafe and was leaning down to look at my ankle. My dad had his hands on his hips, an angry look on his face.

“Stop crying, Joey. Be a man for once. You’re making me look bad. Didn’t we practice that move a thousand times? How could you fuck that up?”

“Shut up, Ross. His ankle might be broken. It’s starting to swell up pretty bad.”

“There’s a clinic a couple blocks away, dad,” Rafe said.

“Where are we gonna find a stretcher?” my father asked, reaching for the flask in his back pocket.

“I’ll carry him. You’re not that heavy, are you Joey?” Mr. Metheny carefully lifted me into his arms and the three of us, counting me, Rafe, and his dad, double-timed it to the clinic, leaving my father standing by himself, still fumbling for his flask. As we left the park, the concerned faces of the crowd swam in my fading consciousness. I must have blacked out from the pain.

It turned out my ankle wasn’t broken, just a really bad sprain. Rafe made it back to the park to finish up the competition. They had suspended play because of my injury. Of course, he dedicated his gold medal to me. The crowd, I’m told, applauded his gesture. I was on crutches when we started school some weeks later. Rafe started spending a lot of time with Kelly Richards, allegedly helping her out with algebra. It was a difficult time in our relationship. And Mr. Metheny never thought the same about my father after that summer.

Saturday morning, I was shopping for a Christmas gift for Alastair’s mother. We were going to spend Christmas Eve and Day at her house in Westport, Connecticut. I had almost decided on a turquoise Peruvian alpaca wool pashmina shawl wrap with 4-inch fringes when my phone notified me I had received a text. It was from Rafe.

Sally Metheny Novello lived with her husband Martin in an Upper West Side luxury apartment on the 27th floor overlooking Central Park. Martin was a semi-retired attorney specializing in trademark law. You can see he’s done well in his career. Because getting around in Manhattan is much easier by subway, I hopped onto the 7th Avenue line and rode the train to 72nd Street. I arrived at Sally’s doorstep a little before 7 and announced my presence by ringing the bell underneath their apartment number.

Rafe opened the door with a wide smile and an excited greeting. I handed him the two bottles of a dry Riesling from the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York that I’d picked up that afternoon. He took my coat and waved me into Sally’s well-appointed home.

“Sally’s in the kitchen. Dinner will be served in 15 minutes, she tells me. Let me introduce the brood to you.”

They were all seated in the living room. The television was on with the sound turned down. Some college basketball game.

“Joey, this is Martin. Of course, he looks a lot different than when you met at the wedding—”

“Thirty years will do that, Rafe. You look past your prime too. Hello, Joey, good to see you again. Happy holidays.” This started the round of handshakes.

“And this is Jordan, Sally and Martin’s son. His lovely wife Glynnis. And the twins over there watching the game, Billy and Bryce.” The twins, who looked to be middle school age, waved but otherwise kept their eyes glued on the TV.

“Where’s Harlow?”

“In the kitchen, helping her Aunt with the food. Sally’s a great cook. I’ve been telling her to get a cookbook published—”

“I’m surprised you don’t have a cook and a maid at least. Most of the people in this building probably do.”

“Sally worked until Jordan’s sister Patty was born. She actually likes being a domestic goddess. She’s house happy.”

“Is Patty in the kitchen too?”

“She’s in Paris right now. Covers European politics for Foreign Policy magazine. Sometimes the online sites will pick up her features if it’s a big story. You don’t read that kind of stuff, hmm?”

“No, I’m more of a cartoon strip reader—”

“Joey has a graduate degree from Columbia, Martin.”

Sally and Harlow walked into the living room. Surprisingly, Sally quickly embraced me. She held me at arm’s length and clucked her tongue.

“My god, you’re still gorgeous. I’m eight years older than you but you don’t look a day older than Glynnis here.” Glynnis’ mouth opened in shock but Jordan gripped her arm to keep her from retorting.

“You’re too kind, Sally. It’s good to see you again and you’re selling yourself short. You’re still that beautiful girl I remember sitting by our pool all those summers so long ago.”

“Gran, we’re hungry. When’s dinner?” The twins asked in unison.

“I told you we had a guest coming over and dinner was going to be a little later than usual,” Jordan remonstrated his sons. “You guys had a big lunch at Shake Shack. You’d think that’d hold you over for a while…”

“Harlow’s setting the table right now.” Harlow was standing behind her, smiling at me and Rafe in turn. “Harlow? Harlow, set the table. Please.”

A few minutes later, as we walked the short distance to the dinner table, one of the twins, I don’t know if it was Billy or Bryce, sidled up to me and whispered, “So, Harlow told me you used to be a man. I’ve got five bucks she’s pulling my leg.”

“She’s wrong. I’ve always been a woman.”

“I knew it! Who’d believe you were ever a guy?”

“Who’s up for dessert? Homemade pecan pie cobbler with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. Your favorite, Jordan.”

The twins practically jumped out of their chairs with excitement. Rafe, seated to my right, laughed.

“I don’t know where they put it. It’s great to have a fast metabolism like them. I’m afraid I’ve succumbed to middle age spread myself…”

“You look fine, Rafe. The hairline’s a little higher but you’re still a hunk—”

“Nice try, Joey. I’m an old man. My son and his wife are expecting. Baby’s due in February. They’d be here for the holidays but travel’s kind of difficult, you know. But just think about it. I’m going to be a grandfather soon.” He shook his head.

“Joey, can you help me in the kitchen?”

“Of course, Sally. Lead the way. Excuse me, everyone.”

When I entered the kitchen, Sally was already cutting up the cobbler into squares and placing them on dessert dishes.

“Pour out seven cups of coffee, please, Joey.”

“Sally, why did you really invite me for dinner?”

“Rafe told me you’re engaged. Where’s the lucky guy?”

“He’s in LA for a weekend management meeting. Alastair should be back Monday night or Tuesday morning.”

“I remember Alastair from Rafe and Sarah’s wedding. Good looking young man. Very well-spoken. Wasn’t he married to that movie star?”

“Lulu Brooks. They split up about six years ago.”

“Show business people are very unstable. But you know that.” She turned to me, put down the knife, and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. “Do you love him? Or are you feeling the years going by and you fear being alone?”

“Sally, you’re not my therapist. What’s it matter to you? You’ve never had a high opinion of me, as I recall. You called me a fag, a pervert, a homo, a tranny…and those are the nicer names you called me.”

“There’s vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Help me spoon it out and top off the cobbler. Put two scoops on the two for the twins. They’re insufferable but I can’t help spoiling them.” She turned back to me. “I’m sorry if I called you those things. I’m a boomer. We didn’t know about gender dysphoria—is that what it’s called? My mom thought you were “corrupting” Rafe’s morals. My dad liked you though. He thought your problems stemmed from your dad’s emotional abuse. Maybe that’s the case,”

“Like I said, you’re not a therapist. Not even an amateur one.” My voice got a little heated. “Thanks for the dinner. Give the twins my dessert.” I turned to walk away when Sally gently grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t go, Joey. For Rafe’s sake, stay. Hear me out. I’m not your biggest fan, I’ll admit to that. But Rafe has always loved you. Bumping into you yesterday at the airport, he was the happiest I’ve seen him since Sarah passed. He’s here through the holidays. And I assume you are too. Could you see your way to spending a little time with him? When you’re married to Alastair, the last hope he has will have died.”

“I thought this was all settled thirty years ago. I told Rafe I could never be the person he needed me to be. Would he have Harlow now? Would he be two months from being a grandfather?”

“Please consider it, Joey. Rafe means the world to me. I hate seeing him so miserable. You say Alastair’s not back until Tuesday? Martin knows Bob Wankel, the CEO of the Shubert Organization, and he can easily get Rafe two tickets for “Some Like It Hot.” It just opened this week! It’s sold out for like months in advance.”

“Rafe can ask me and I’ll see. That’s all I can promise, Sally. A lot of water has gone under the bridge.”

“That’s good enough, Joey. Just give Rafe a chance. I know you still feel something for him.”

“Hey, guys, the natives are restless. Where’s dessert?” asked Harlow as she popped her head into the kitchen.

“It’s coming. We better bring these out, Joey. Harlow, make yourself useful and put the cobbler on this tray. I’ll bring out the coffee.”

“Hey, dad, it’s snowing.” We all gathered around the large windows facing Central Park. One of the twins (again it was either Billy or Bryce) asked their father if his old sled was still in the apartment. When he was told that Sally had probably thrown it out years ago, the other twin asked Martin if they rented sleds in the park.

“I don’t think we’re getting more than a dusting, boys,” countered Rafe. “Not enough for sledding. Barely enough to make a decent snowball.”

“It’s starting to come down harder, dad,” Harlow interjected. “Maybe you should call Joey a cab now before the traffic gets bottled up.”

Taking his phone out, Rafe started dialing. “Harlow’s right. Better safe than sorry.”

Ten minutes later, as Rafe helped me into the Uber, he shielded his eyes from the falling snow and shyly asked me if I had any plans for the next day, Sunday. I shook my head.

“Keep tomorrow night open. I’m working on tickets for “Some Like It Hot”…if you’d like to see it with me.”

“Call me. Good night, Rafe. I had a good time. Tell Sally she should write that cookbook.” I closed the car door and waved to him through the glass. He stood there, oblivious to the heavy snowfall as the Uber drove away. Finally, I turned around in my seat, somewhat troubled by everything that had transpired that evening.