. . . falls into. Itâs not a good thing.â
There was so much about this explanation that Michael found charming, but he went for the obvious: â No offense ? Like I donât know Iâm fatter than you are?â
Ben chuckled. âWell, yeah, of course you do, but . . . I didnât know if you were aware ofââ
âThe Trench,â said Michael, capitalizing it for extra drama.
âYes.â Ben grinned. âThe Trench from Hell.â
âDamn. That bad?â
âPretty much.â
Roman, their Labradoodle, loped into the room and sprang onto the bed between them. He knew their nightly routine as well as they did, maybe even better. Michael scratched him behind his ear, where dense charcoal hair, despite their best efforts at grooming, was clumped like an old fishermanâs sweater.
âYou donât feel a trench, do you, Mr. Dood?â
âGive Dad a kiss,â Ben told the dog.
Still standing on the bed, Roman accepted this assignment with quiet resignation, dragging a broad pink tongue across Michaelâs ear. How and when Ben had taught him this trick was lost in the mists of time, but it still retained its charm. Roman knew exactly who âDadâ was (at least in this instance), and heâd been known to bestir himself from a comfortable chair across the room, stopping only for a downward-facing fart, before planting a single perfunctory kiss on Michaelâs face.
âWe canât afford a new mattress,â said Michael.
âI know,â said Ben.
Of course he knew. Ben was the one keeping them afloat, the one who had stalled foreclosure on their mountain property in Pinyon City and footed the bill on Michaelâs recent dental implant. Benâs furniture company, thanks to a lone Twitter executive with a passion for tansus was their most reliable source of income. Michaelâs gardening business wasnât exactly belly-up, but it wasnât thriving either. His younger partner Jake Greenleaf had done most of the grunt work lately. Gardeners aged better than athletes, but their bodies betrayed them the same.
âCan you handle the trench a bit longer?â Michael asked.
Ben smiled sleepily and pecked him on the mouth. âLong as it takes, bambino.â He pushed his foot through the sheets, across the very trench itself, twiddling his toes against Michaelâs in an act of reassuring monkey-love.
âIâll lay off the jam in the morning,â Michael told him.
Ben chuckled, then fell silent until he suddenly remembered something. âOhâdid you get the message from Shawna?â
âNo. On the machine?â Lately, like everyone else he knew, Michael had lost the habit of checking the landline. âWhat did she want?â
âDunno. Just said to call her. I figured it was about Burning Man.â
This didnât seem very likely to Michael. âWhy would she call me? Youâre the boss of that.â
âIs that right?â
âI didnât mean it like that. Weâre in this together. I justââ
âWhatever.â Ben was obviously hurt, but his fallen features stopped short of a pout.
Michael felt awful. Ben had wanted this to be a communal effort, a grand adventure that would change their lives forever, but Michaelâs careless words had divorced him from the effort. There were times, he felt, when he didnât deserve this man at all.
âDonât listen to me,â he said, apologizing with his toes. âIâm just a darkwad.â
Chapter 5
HOME FREE
T here was a restaurant near Annaâs apartment in the Duboce Triangle, so Brian took Wren there before their visit. It was a corner place with a French staff, a bistro with an alchemical blend of silk lampshades and dark red walls. They looked out on lush summer sycamores turned rusty under the streetlights.
âSeems like her kind of place,â Wren observed, popping a