Sorry this has taken so long, but thanks for your patience! Your comments are always appreciated.
It was hardly an offer that Peter could refuse. The ever-scheming Rick, his agent, conspired to get him what could only be considered a first rate assignment: to go to Milan to walk for the one of the annual shows during his spring break.
Wow. How did he do that?' Peter thought. I'm a nobody in this business. If I can do the winter coats for a catalog, I'm lucky. But this is stuff at the top of the profession. Why me?!'
"You're a lot better at this than you think you are," Rick had told told him on the phone. "We both just live in the boonies, so it isn't easy to get you exposure."
"I'm not a veteran, Rick, but I know that walking isn't that difficult, and I've done enough to get by," Peter replied. "But obviously I don't do a lot of it. So what else do I have to offer these folks?" he asked, oblivious to the obvious as always.
"Peter, you've really got a special look. Over and over I tell you that but you just never believe it."
It wasn't like it was the first time he had heard this from Rick, but his defense mechanisms always chalked it up to Rick's own self-interest, a point his Dad had raised with him early in this venture. Half of his Dad's caution was undoubtedly true, and half, as Peter later realized, was to make sure that he kept a level head about the whole business.
"But it's going to be all pros there," Peter protested. "I might just look like the rank amateur that I am."
"Well, Peter, there are different skill sets in this business. And you do have to be able to walk and carry yourself in a confident and self-assured manner down the runway, with lots of people looking at you and camera flashes going off. But most of that stuff can be taught," he answered, then continued in what was for him a very serious voice.
"You, however, have the gifts that can't be taught. And my job as your agent is to make sure that as many people as possible see that you have those gifts."
"Well, it does sound like an opportunity, no question," Peter replied. "But I need to ask Marty and see what he thinks."
Privately grumbling, Rick shook his head and replied in a perfunctory way. "Of course, do what you have to do. But I need to know in two days, by the end of Friday, OK?"
"OK. I'll let you know as soon as we talk and come to a decision."
As he punched and ended the call, Rick did his usual fuming. Peter was by far the best looking guy in his `stable' and was really about the best piece of model material that he had ever seen. He had naturally sharp features which seemed only to improve with time, and his recent weight training had given him just the right amount of muscle definition and size without getting overly bulky. He was a model for a model.
Why this intelligent guy couldn't see this, he never understood. Maybe his skeptical Dads caused it, or his boyfriend; who knew? Of course, once Peter committed he was totally reliable, not like a lot of the flakes in the business. But the fact was that this guy made him sweat over every big decision drove him crazy.
But little did he know the extent to which Peter's own thoughts had been rapidly evolving.
A Few Nights Before
`The weight doesn't seem like it's in the right place,' Peter thought to himself. He wasn't sure if he was still sleeping or he was awake, but there was just a certain way that the bed felt when Marty vas lying next to him. But it didn't feel that way right now.
He was so sleepy that just opening his eyes felt like a struggle, let alone turning over his whole body. Luckily he was already facing in Marty's direction. He cracked open his eyelid and right away and noticed that Marty was sitting up in the bed, his body blocking the light from the nearby window.
"Are you OK babe?" he asked, quickly rousing himself.
"Oh...did I wake you up?" Marty responded, looking down at him as Peter struggled to get up.
"No, but I just..." he paused, yawning. "No, but...um, I just woke up and noticed you. Are you ok? "he said before sitting up next to him, then coughing slightly.
"Do you need some water?" Marty asked. Not waiting for an answer, he got out of bed and went to the bathroom, bringing back a cup for Peter.
"Here," he said, handing it to Peter as he got back into his side of the bed.
"Thanks," he replied, taking a sip before setting it down on the nightstand next to him. "So are you OK?" he asked again, his hand rubbing Marty's back.
"Yeah, I'm fine. I guess I couldn't sleep so I was just sitting here, thinking."
"About what?"
The bed shook ever so slightly as Marty adjusted his weight. With his arms wrapped around his knees, he was almost in a fetal position but sitting up rather than on his side. Because there seemed to be a full moon out that night, Peter could really only see Marty's silhouette against the glass.
The voice that replied was very soft. "You know, Pete, I hope that I can do all this."
Straining his neck try to catch Marty in better light, Peter looked into his face, clearing his throat before he spoke. "What do you mean?"
Marts didn't meet his gaze, but continued to look straight ahead. "I hope that I'm good enough to support us. I know when we're married and have family that I heed to make a living for all of us, you, the kids, the whole family. I want to do it and need to do it. I just hope that I can do it."
"What makes you think that?" Peter asked, positioning their shoulders together to gently rub up against him.
"Nothing in particular, I guess. Just a general anxiety. I mean, Bik and Robert both told me how nervous they sometimes are. They both work a lot, but even Bik says you can't really control what happens to you sometimes. You just hope for the best after working as hard as you can. But what if stuff doesn't work out and my family is depending on me?"
Even though there was only moonlight available, Peter could see his jaw muscles clenching.
"I'm not sure that there is any way out of that kind of anxiety, Mart. Like you said, Bik and Robert both have it. But in the end I guess that they just accept that doubt and get on with it. There aren't any guarantees."
"I know. That's the part that I have to get over."
"It is," Peter replied. "And I think, in the end, that it's really not unusual to feel this way. Lots of things can happen. But you have go into it thinking that it will work out. That you believe in yourself," he continued, "and maybe more importantly that I and others believe, in you, too. I sure know that true for both of them. And I know it's true for you, too. That I believe in you. I always have and always will."
"I know you do, Pete. That's what keeps me going," he replied, nudging him back. "But I can't control everything. You know..." he continued, pausing to look out the window. "Sometimes I think about my mom and dad. I look what happened to my mom after my dad died. I don't blame her for what happened, Pete. But I'm sure she had lots of dreams and hopes and goals. And look what happened to her."
Reaching over and wrapping his hand around Marty's shoulder, he gently pulled his body close. "Yes, she did have tough times after that. You all did, your mom, Angie and yourself. It wasn't good for any of you. But look how you and Angie turned out. In spite of everything, I think that she is proud and happy about both of you." Peter said. He'd only met her a handful of times since they had been together, but enough to form some of his own opinions.
"Were we just lucky?" Marty asked, looking at him.
Peter dropped his head. It was a simple question but he wanted to think about the right thing to say.
"I don't think that you can ever know for sure what you did for yourself or what came from the breaks you had. But I do know that all of you, including your mom in her own way, worked hard to get you where you've gotten. But you especially."
Marty let out a breath of air. "It's interesting that you include my mom. I used to think that Angie and I were sort of left behind in her efforts to just take care of herself. I was angry about that, I mean her dating all those ...guys ...and all... but she really was trying to make a difference for us all. Maybe not in the best way, but she was trying in what ways she knew," he said, shifting his weight and continuing to gaze out the window.
It still astonished Peter how forgiving that Marty could be about that event. Even now he was clearly getting better, Peter still felt that he had to be careful about getting on top of him during sex.
"You all did stuff that you thought would make a difference. You and Angie worked hard at school, went after scholarships, and played sports, all that sort of stuff. Neither of you moped around and just accepted things. You didn't wait for luck to happen to you."
"And I met you," Marty answered as he gently bumped into him again. "Was that luck?"
"Initially, I guess that was luck. But what happened after that was a lot of choices, like when you came over to my apartment to check up on me."
"Gosh, I'll never forget how you looked. I really gave you a shiner!" he said, smiling.
"I won't forget you, either. Gosh, you looked stunned. I really didn't feel it much, but when I saw the look on your face, wow..." Peter replied with a slight laugh before he coughed again.
Marty's head rotated away from the window to look directly at Peter, the shift in his body weight causing a tremor on the bed. "Are you coming down with something?" he asked.
What Peter wanted to say was always the same: `No, it's nothing just a little cough.' Though he gave up on those pointless denials a long time ago, he still tried to keep Marty from worrying.
"My throat is a little bit sore, but it's still winter and you know has dry the air is."
While Peter was speaking, Marty's hand went to his forehead." Hmmm... You feel warm up here. Have you felt tired?"
"Maybe a little yesterday. I was kind of sluggish when I worked out, but maybe that was just my mood or something else." As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he was doomed.
Marty reached over to the nightstand and turned on the light, then got of the bed and went over to the wall and turned on all the overhead recessed lights. Where the room only a few seconds ago had been a dark cave, lit only by the moonlight streaming through the windows, it now felt more like an operating theater. And the doctor was about to start his examination.
"Move your head over here so that I can see in your mouth, OK?" Marty said. He had tried to be a good observer of Peter's most serious illnesses, especially during their first Christmas when Peter caught pneumonia, and he continued to apply the lessons as time went on.
Peter scooted up on the bed and positioned his head beneath the modern recessed ceiling light illuminating the edge of the bed
"Open wide," Marty ordered.
"Oh, boy!" Peter said, running his tongue around his mouth.
"Save it for later," he responded, trying to stifle a smile. "I want to check this out before I stick anything in here," he said as he peered down Peter's throat. "Hmm... It looks pretty red back there. Does it hurt at all?"
"Uh...it's a little scratchy, I guess," he replied after Marty pulled away. "It didn't seem like this when we went to bed, but it has gotten a bit worse. I'm not real sore, I don't think that it's anything serious. Maybe I'll get some throat lozenges in the morning."
Marty sat back on the bed. "It's actually pretty red back there. You don't have a morning class tomorrow, so you should sleep in. I'll get you some lozenges and maybe some cough syrup, too."
"That's cool. Thanks," Peter replied. "I'll go to the gym later. I'm kind of on a roll and I think if I can keep on..." His voice trailed off as he caught Marty's scowl.
"I'll put it this way," he replied. "When I come back from my seminar, we'll take another look. If the throat isn't as red and you think that you feel better, well... maybe. But if it doesn't look better, then we've going to the infirmary," he said as he playfully closed Peter's mouth, pushing up his jaw with his left hand as he pushed down his head with the other.
Peter sighed.
"Gosh, babe. I know that you are trying. You're in the best shape of your life. We just have to keep our eye on some of the plumbing and everything will be ok," Marty said, now massaging the jaw he had just closed.
Peter bumped up against him and sighed. "I'd give up these so-called `good looks' if I could just get healthy and not worry about all this stuff." He rested there for a few moments, shifting his body weight onto Marty as he remembered something.
"By the way, Rick emailed me today. He says he might have a nice surprise' for me during spring break," Peter said as he sat up on the bed again.
Raising his eyebrows, Marty turned and looked at him. "I've never been a big fan of that guy's `surprises.' You never knew what he's up to."
"Yeah, I know," Peter replied, still leaning into him. "But we'll see what he says. I told him I wanted to push hard for jobs these next couple years, and then I'm done. So it looks to me like he's not wasting any time."
"Well, he raved about those professional shots you had taken a few weeks ago. Maybe that quick trip to New York and all that money we spent was worth it."
"That was the first time that I ever paid a first-rate pro for shots. I can't believe that he took a couple shirtless ones, too. But I guess that's why I'm doing all this working out, so we'll see it all pays off."
"It's paying off for me already," Marty said as he reached over and tweaked Peter's right nipple.
"You can keep it there," Peter said, gently grasping Marty's wrist, keeping the warm hand on his chest.
"After we get you checked out tomorrow we'll see about that." he replied as he gave him a peck on the cheek.
"Tease!" he called out as Marty crawled back out of bed to turn off the lights. As soon as Marty had gotten back in bed and pulled up the covers, Peter slid himself over next to him.
"Are you still feeling nervous?" he asked, his hand reaching under the covers to gently stroke Marty's arm.
"To be honest, I'm not sure if I'll ever really shake this feeling. I wonder if anyone ever can. Your Aunt Hanna always seems pretty calm, but I'll bet that she has her moments, too."
"I know that's true," Peter interjected, "She just covers it up better than Bik and Robert."
"But she doesn't get incapacitated by worrying. She just plunges ahead. And I guess that's what I should do, too."
"I agree,'" Peter said as he leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. "I agree."
"Well, do you want to do it?" Marty asked as he skewered a piece of chicken from the skillet and brought it over onto Peter's plate for dinner.
There was no question in Peter's mind that he wanted to do the shoot in Milan. Not that it would be fun. Just the opposite!
For one, he wasn't exactly confident that he could compete at that level. Most of the guys doing that stuff were pretty much full-timers or as close to it as they could manage. They'd spend most of their time at the gym, going to interviews, networking or anything else that would advance their careers.
Secondly, Marty couldn't go. It would be too expensive to fly him over to Europe on relatively short notice, and for only a week at that. And Peter would be busy full-time with rehearsals, fittings, shows and all the other activities that happen during a major event like this, at least according to what he had heard. The fun trip would have to wait for another opportunity.
But knowing Marty's concern with how things would go in the future, it was a good time for him to make a good chunk of money at a prestigious job that would help probably him get other good work, at least if he did well. The more he felt he could give Marty some peace of mind on the financial front, the better he felt about it and the more sure he was of his decision to go. He just didn't want to make this part of the reasoning too obvious to Marty.
"Yeah, I'm seriously considering it. I just wish they'd pay for a spouse or significant other to go," he said.
"We'll have our chance," he continued after he took the first bites of his meal. "It's a pretty good career opportunity that a lot of guys would die for, so I should really appreciate that. But it's just a job and a work opportunity right now for me, and a pretty good one at that. So I think that I should maybe just do it."
They continued talking about the pros and cons during dinner, pretty much along the lines of what Peter's initial impressions were. Even the one that he hoped Marty wouldn't think about.
"By the way, Pete," he said, looking at him after they had cleared the table. "If you don't feel comfortable going out there for any reason, don't feel like you need to go. You'll have other opportunities here, you know that. Whatever you want to do, we can make it work."
"It would be a lot easier if it was here, especially if you could go. But I'll get stuff out of it besides the money, it will be a cultural adventure and all that. And it should really open up other doors, too, like I said, so it's a good investment," he replied, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. But he already knew that it would be no fun without Marty there.
He put his hand on Peter's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Just a long as you feel ok and it's not too much of a burden. Like I said, we'll manage, no matter what happens, OK?"
Peter nodded his head in the affirmative as he leaned over into him. "As long as we both believe that, we will," he said as he kissed Marty on the cheek.
Aside from the fact that it took so long to get through British customs that he almost missed his connection to Milan, the trip was not as bad as he had feared. Marty had packed him a food kit for the flight, with a ham and cheese sandwich in an armored plastic container, along with enough protein bars, cashews, and other high-carb snacks to last him until he got to the hotel.
He brought along a book and picked up a New Yorker magazine at the airport bookstore before the first leg of his flight (his Dad's recommendation, `lots of long articles') and was about as prepared as a newbie international traveler could be. The only piece missing was Marty.
So the first thing he did when he arrived at his micro-sized hotel room was to Skype back home. The call only lasted a few minutes before Marty insisted that Peter go to bed and get some sleep, as even on the computer screen he could tell that Peter as clearly exhausted.
But Peter did have enough energy to chuckle when Marty attempted to kiss the camera as he said good bye. It looked like his lips were going to swallow the small screen!
In spite of the fatigue, he wasn't confident that he could actually get to sleep very easily. He realized more than anyone that having Marty around seemed to be the only antidote for his insomnia, and they had hardly apart since sophomore year. But just skyping must have done some good, not to mention a timely shower, and he was able to conk out only a few minutes after putting his head on the pillow.
On his way in to the first day of work, he made only one wrong turn in the convoluted alleyways of Milan, but it was enough to make him barely on time. So he didn't have much of a chance to mill around and talk with anyone else before the organizers led them from the front lobby back into a large theater-type hall where they were all ordered to line up in front of the stage.
The Diva Designer and her assistant slowly walked down the row, the aggressive assistant checking off names after barking out his questions. The models were all still in street clothes, but Peter could tell that it was a special group. To a man, they were all pretty lean, erect and carried themselves with confidence, or at least gave a convincing facsimile of it.
They questioned everyone in English or Italian, and the assistant seemed to have little patience for any confusion resulting from his own heavily-accented English. The slightest delay was met with conspicuous eye-rolling, a raised voice or other conspicuous displays of contempt. Just the kind of behavior that his Dads had told him to expect. But he was on a mission and would put up with whatever was necessary to get the job done and get paid.
The assistant would often make a guy turn around so that he and the designer could get a 360° view of his body. Sometimes he'd have them walk, but even more often he'd make them take of their shirts, with the excuse that swimwear and also underwear might be in the collection. The Diva was mostly business and very matter-of-fact but the assistant, an industry veteran to whom she often deferred, had a more spiteful, not to say lecherous, edge.
"Do you understand me?" the assistant yelled at the guy next to Peter when his first question was not answered in a nanosecond.
Though Peter had not exchanged a word with the guy, it was clear that he was nervous even before the team approached. He was about the same height and build as Peter, and probably a couple of years older. His lean neck betrayed each nervous swallow.
"My English... ist not..." he stammered in a heavy German accent.
The assistant cut him off. "The contrast that you signed said that you could speak English or Italian. And it looks like you speak neither. Is this true?"
The guy was now sweating under then inquisitive. He clearly didn't understand any of the questioning but responded quietly in German.
"What?!!" The assistant snapped back, raising his voice for maximum humiliation.
"He said he can understand some of what you are saying, but he's not as quick as the other people here," Peter interjected, finessing the guy's response to save him more embarrassment. He wasn't sure be should get involved, but at the same time he didn't like how the assistant was trying to bully the guy.
Miss Diva pulled her assistant aside for a moment, then the two of them stood together in front of the nervous model. The assistant said "let's see what you got underneath that sweater and we'll decide if it's worth it to find out your name," he said, doing a pantomime of pulling up his shirt as he spoke.
The guy was so nervous his hands started to shake as he still couldn't understand what they wanted. But Peter quickly translated for him and he rapidly pulled his loose-fitting cotton garment over he's head.
It was the meat rack again, as she looked him up and down. He had a swimmer's build, his abdominals prominent but not overly defined, a smooth and lightly-muscled body above his narrow waist.
"OK. That's enough. Take off the wedding ring and you'll do fine," she said, the first words that Peter had heard her say. He didn't know if there was a particular German word for "Wedding Ring," but he said "Hochzeit" (wedding) and pointed to his finger as if pulling it off and the guy seemed to understand.
He remembered this Wedding Ring issue as another contract stipulation, and was pleasantly surprised that at least one guy was actually married. This line of work always had the reputation of being a `swinging singles' business so it was a relief to see that there was another guy at least somewhat like himself.
The assistant let out a gasp of air, just to let people know that he was irritated with the slight delay. Not that it wasn't clear already.
"Name!" he finally barked at the guy.
Peter didn't give the assistant another chance to embarrass him and quickly translated. At least that was an easy one that he know quickly.
"Max Schroeder," he replied.
The assistant checked a box. Then he turned to Peter.
"You want to babysit this guy for the next couple days?" he asked. Peter heard some of the other guys chuckle, but the condescension only got him pissed off. His way of protesting was to say they would "work together" and not even acknowledge the sarcasm of the remark before he quickly translated what they were talking about for Max.
But then the assistant began quizzing Peter about himself. "Before we start giving you jobs, I guess we should check you out first, no?" he asked, his eyes studying Peter's face. He thought that he heard the Diva say "nice" under her breath, but was now getting nervous himself so couldn't be sure.
"What's that in your ear?" the assisted asked, his finger rudely jabbing in the air at Peter's head.
"It's my hearing aid," he replied, not trying to be defensive or belligerent, a difficult task as it sounded more like a challenge than a legitimate question. But this job was no longer just for pin money. There was a lot more at stake now and he could no longer indulge his pride.
The diva seemed to sense the tension. Not that it mattered to her, but she had her own agenda, too.
"Can you do without it when you walk?" she asked.
It was in a less aggressive way, so Peter felt some relief. "I can... manage that, he replied then took a deep breath. He just hoped he had done the right thing but there was no turning back now.
"Thank you," was all she said as she nodded for her assistant to continue.
After getting Peter's name the assistant then said coldly, "the shirt."
He was wearing a long sleeve t-shirt, and, like the German guy had just done, quickly pulled it over his head and dropped it on the floor, his hands flat at his sides.
Peter could never tell if he had made progress in the gym or not. Because of his digestion problems, he had to eat like crazy to gain even a little bit of weight and not burn it off in the workouts. And despite the scene that Jeff had made in the cafeteria, and Marty's encouraging comments, he was usually focused more on the inside plumbing issues, what really made him healthy, and not on the surface stuff. But it was clear to everyone else that there was a payoff here.
Peter's months of workouts had given extraordinary definition to his relatively slight frame. Each abdominal ridge cast a sharp shadow accentuated by the harsh stage-type lighting, the hard stomach overhung by the sharply defend pecs capped by larger than average, deep maroon nipples. He wasn't overly veiny, just smooth and cut, with just one single vein prominently running across each stretched bicep.
Even though the assistant had been in the business for decades and had seen loads of good bodies, he could still not completely mask his reaction. For a moment, his tongue actually moved across his lips and he stopped breathing. A nudge by the Diva got him going again.
"You'll do," was all he could say before the Diva directed him along for the grilling of the next specimen.
After a morning of introductions, explanations of the designer's work, and announcements of the next four days' schedule, lunch finally arrived and the group was herded into a huge off-stage wardrobe room where space had been cleared for a long buffet table lined with different kinds of Italian and international food. While most of the guys put salads, fruit, yogurt or other healthy or low-calorie fare on their plate, Peter loaded up with pasta, bread, and even took some dessert. Just like his `training table.'
Since he really hadn't had a chance to meet many of the guys, he was a little anxious about finding someone to talk to or even sit with during lunch. But he had only stood alone for a moment when he was approached by the guy he had translated for.
He spoke, of course, in German, and seemed to speak very fast and have an odd accent, so Peter had to struggle a bit to understand. But the guy picked this up and immediately slowed down and carefully enunciated.
"I wanted to... thank you for what your did for me earlier. . . . That vas very kind. You didn't need to do that so I appreciate it very much." He then held out his hand. "Max Schroeder"
Peter quickly put his fork on the plate and shook hands with him. "I remember your name, Max," he replied. "I'm Peter, Peter Kovar... I'm glad to meet you." He said, then wiped this mouth with a napkin that he had stuffed his pocket. It was partly to make sure there was no food hanging from his lips, but mostly to delay and collect his thoughts and translate his rusty German.
"By the way, it was no trouble at all. Anyone would... have... done that." He was stuttering a bit, but thought that he was making himself understood.
Max smiled at him, but at wasn't about his language skills. "I'll be honest, Peter, it was certainly trouble for some people. Not everyone would do something like that in this business."
Peter the noticed that Max was probably in his mid to late 20's. He seemed a lot surer of himself now that they had gotten through whatever model cuts were going to be made. "Huh? I don't understand." he replied, a confused look on his face.
Max just smiled again. "Before the big shots showed up I was talking to the guy who ended up on the other side of me from you. He's from Hamburg and as you could tell from when they went around, he speaks decent English like everyone else. But it didn't surprise me that he didn't make any effort to help me."
"Wow... this is more desperate...what's the word...cutthroat...extreme than I thought," Peter replied, searching for the right word before pausing and looking down at the ground. "But I don't care what these guys think. I've just got a job to do and then I'm done." He blurted out more then he actually wanted to, but didn't have enough command of the language to be subtle.
Max was bit surprised at the directness, even for a German. But he clearly understood Peter and returned a knowing look. "Me too, Peter."
He then paused for a moment himself and looked directly at Peter. "Do you mind if I ask you a question about your hearing?" Peter was OK with any kind of question, but was a bit perplexed, as he knew that it was generally out of character for Europeans to ask personal questions. Unlike the free-flowing attitudes of many people back home.
"Sure, but I can't guarantee that I'll have a good answer," he responded.
"The reason I'm asking is that my daughter, Sabine, is also partially deaf in one ear, too. My wife and I are always looking for treatments, whatever we can do to help her. I thought that maybe you would have some insight," he said.
Peter was happy to oblige. "Well, as you probably know, everyone is different. It depends on the cause. In my case...I was born a couple months...what's the word... prematurely. It affected my hearing and also my..."
Max put down his sandwich and started talking before Peter could continue. "So was she!" he interrupted, excitement in his voice. "My wife was in a minor car accident, it wasn't much and she was ok. But it somehow caused labor to start."
He went on to describe the circumstances of what had happened, the other effects it had, and their continuous searches for treatments. As Peter listened to him describe the surgeries, medicines and therapies that she had to go through, it all seemed so familiar.
"You want to know something? I only do this job for one reason, Peter. For her. For Sabine. It's all for my family. That's the only reason that to put up with this shit. If we can figure out the best path for her and can afford the treatments, then this is all worth it." He was speaking rapidly and Peter had to ask him to slow down again.
"Sorry, it's just that..."
"I understand, Max. I would be the same way." Peter responded. "I know what you mean. I only do this for my family, too," He hesitated for a moment before telling him about Marty and their plans. After all, he hardly knew him. But in the spirit of trying to live his life openly, he told of his plan to work and put Marty through Business School before starting a family.
The answer from Max was, to Peter's relief, outstanding.
Ausgezeichnet!' It was the German equivalent of Good for you!'
There wasn't time at lunch to do much more talking. The assistant had just returned to herd everyone over to Hair and Makeup for a preliminary assessment. Max said he had heard that they might make them all blonds, which Peter thought could be fun. Then he and Marty would match, at least for awhile.
But the two of them made arrangements to meet that night for dinner after they each made their family calls.
After they had finished their dinner at a small Italian restaurant adjacent to their hotel, Max pulled a bulging backpack out from next to his seat and put it on his lap, retrieving a couple of manila file envelopes.
"Peter, I hope you don't mind, but besides your nice company, I wanted get some information from you, about the different treatments you had for your hearing," he said before pausing.
His hands were resting on the folders, not moving at all. Peter looked at him in a questioning way, wondering why he had stopped.
"I'm sorry Peter. I really shouldn't have brought along all this stuff. It was very rude and presumptuous of me," he said as he started to return the well-worn folders to the backpack.
It was now clear to Peter why Max had already staked out largest two-person table in the restaurant. Before Max could finish, he stretched his hand and pressed it on top the remaining folder, fixing it to the table.
"Max, I'd be very happy to talk with you about this and share what I know, especially if it would help your daughter," he said, his hand still firmly pressed on the folder.
"Are you sure, Peter? I mean, this is really rude of me. I mean, I feel like I'm intruding, not to mention having misled you. I should have asked you earlier."
"Yes, absolutely. I'd much rather do this than talk about... our friend the assistant or walking or hair and makeup... or any of that stuff," he said, smiling back at Max but seriousness in his voice. "I'm actually very happy that you ask me and trust me. Please... go on," he said.
Returning the other envelopes to the table, he neatly stacked them to the side then paused again.
"You know, Peter, this whole situation, with Sabine, and you, is very ironic. She is a beautiful little girl. I say that as a father, of course, and I admit that I'm somewhat partial," he said, a smile from earlier in the meal returning to his face. "But we've had many people approach us for her to appear in commercials and catalogs in Europe for her sweet looks. These are people who, as you saw today," he said, alluding to the performance of the assistant, "are completely unsentimental and venal and only driven by success. So even without any influence from us, she does well. But it's so meaningless. I mean, she's such a pretty girl, but on the inside there are big things that have gone wrong with her, the hearing being the worst. The healthiness (Gesundheit) is just an appearance. It doesn't speak to the reality."
"And, to be honest, Peter, you're the same way. I'm not sure that you have any idea how the other guys reacted when you walked in the door."
Peter gave look a confused look, like what Max had seen when he thanked Peter for rescuing him in the model review. Max just shook his head, smiled again, and continued.
"Every one of them stared, even me, but you didn't notice."
"I was kind of rushed and all, you know, I almost got there late. I wasn't... paying any attention."
"Peter, you really are exceptional. Being straight, I can say this objectively, but you have a great look for this business. Your face is very sculpted, you have deep-set eyes, a narrow waist and wider shoulders, nice muscles, everything, a total package. And it's clearly real, not surgical."
"Well, I do work out, I mean I didn't get this body naturally."
"How much time do you spend in the gym?" Max asked, a smirk on his face.
"Maybe an hour and a half a day, maybe five days a week, including cardio. My boyfriend has me do some pretty good workouts."
Max laughed. "Most of these guys probably spend three hours a day, besides the time spent in surgery and therapy. You just have it naturally, Peter. It's a gift."
Peter let out a deep breath. "Well, as you said about Sabine, it's not a reflection of true health," he replied. Then he told Max about his problems keeping on weight and all the carbs that he needed to eat.
"Sabine is the same. Peter, so I understand. You're so much like her," he said, looking directly at him.
"And you're a lot like my Dads," Peter replied. "I can tell that you worry. You even have files and folders for stuff like they had. When I think back...it makes me feel bad what they had to go through for me," Peter replied, his head now bent down, staring at the table.
Max didn't raise his eyebrows when Peter said `dads,' plural, but the irony quickly went through his mind. The only person who stepped up to help him that day was gay and raised by two guys. But Peter didn't make a big deal out of it and neither would he.
"Hey," Max said, reaching over and shaking Peter's arm. "You do what you need to do as a parent, Peter. I do it, your dads did it and you'll do it when you have the kids."
"Believe me," he continued, "the only burden is watching your child suffer and knowing that you can't do anything about it. But work or an intrusion? It's nothing at all. I'd gladly sacrifice anything for my kids. Anything. And so would you."
When they later left the restaurant and he thought about Max and his daughter as he strolled home, Peter's thoughts momentarily returned to Marty's anxiety about the future.
What would it hold for them? Marriage is the easy part. The hard part is what comes after.