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John Rich’s Garfield collection had tripled in size since his mother had seen it last, from maybe thirty or forty pieces to well over a hundred. It took up the three long shelves built-in to the southern wall of John’s apartment and featured large items like plush dolls that were almost as big as John, to small things like a set of Garfield shot glasses. Spying on her out of the bathroom, John heard her mutter “unbelievable” and “junk.” Kudos to his mom for walking into his apartment last night, murmuring “Oh no” at his shelf of Garfield stuff, and then waiting an entire twenty four hours before beginning her critique.

“Now, John, don’t you think this is all a bit much?” she called over the hissing of his radiator. John ducked back into the bathroom. “The volume of these items? This sheer mass of things? Mounds of plastic. Broken, sticky pieces. Some of these things are junk—I did not say all of it. Calm down.” She appeared in the tiny mirror in his bathroom. “Are we not treading dangerously close to hoarding?” 

“It’s not hoarding,” John replied. He raked down a cowlick. He’d gotten a fresh haircut just to sit in the audience and watch Tyler Hughes perform. He had also agonized over his outfit before settling on a dark grey suit, a burgundy scarf that draped over his shoulders and hung down to his waist, and a chocolate-brown tie. If he could only find this tie. Choosing and locating the right tie was why he was late for almost everything. “It’s a collection.”

“Collections are organized,” said his mother, “collectors organize their trophies along the lines of size, value, year acquired, place of origin—”

“Exactly, this is organized,” said John. He pointed at her with his comb. “The stuff I like is closer to the front.”

John grinned into the mirror. His mother rolled her eyes and disappeared.

John and his mother had looked exactly alike, up until John had turned fourteen and puberty hit him like an auction lot of vintage Garfield clocks. They still had the same round face, the same blue eyes, and the same protruding dinner-plate ears—though John’s mom covered hers up with a big cloud of bushy, grey-streaked, browned hair. He could create a doodle of his mom by first drawing a doodle of himself, then surrounding it with waves of brown hair and carving two dagger-like eyebrows over the big blue eyes, with a big line in the middle. John called this line The Ridge. It appeared whenever she read something, or observed something, or thought about stuff, which was all the time. So, over the last six or so decades, The Ridge had deepened and now rivaled the Grand Canyon. 

“John,” she continued to protest, as John emerged from his bathroom on the hunt for his tie. “I’m merely suggesting you cull—”

“—No,” said John. He looked under a sketchbook, turned around in a circle, and looked, again, under the same sketchbook.

“See?” she said, “it’s the emotional attachment I'm worried about. That’s an early sign of hoarding.”

“I’m emotional because you called my stuff junk. That’s my life’s work.”

She grimaced, horrified. “Life’s work? What on earth are you talking about?”

“I'm saving up,” said John, now, rummaging through his closet. “I'm thinking of starting a museum and education center for Garfield. It'd be free, but you would have to get branded to enter? And make a pledge. And sure there would be some light tithing.” He looked over his shoulder to catch his mom rolling her eyes again. “Hey, lady, they're gonna interview you when we drink the Kool-Aid out of those Garfield shot glasses, you know.” He did his best Susan Rich impression, sighing, “Where did I go wrong—” 

“—how on earth,” sighed his mom, “did I raise such an irreverent goof?”

“You are goofball numero uno.” He made a stupid face, crossing his eyes and sticking out a tongue. And despite herself, John's mom snorted, shook her head and the Ridge melted away.

While he searched under the air mattress where he’d slept last night, she continued to appraise the Garfield collection. Suddenly, his stomach did a flip. Anxiety snaked through his insides. When Tyler had invited John to see his show on Broadway, his knee jerk reaction was to include his mother, the one person who would not only enjoy it, but also experience it with a crystal clear lens. Now, he regretted it. He could see it now—his mom sitting there, Ridge forming between her brow, and tearing Tyler to shreds by intermission. 

Susan Rich had been writing criticism of visual art, performance, and literature since before John was born, always with the precision of a surgeon, the scrutiny of a jeweler, and the disapproving gaze of a judge on the bench. Even Geoffrey Brenner revered her work—one thing that made John hate him less. John did not need for his mom to become a fan of this revival of Sunday in the Park with George; she did not need to become a fan of Tyler Hughes. She just needed to think it was…fine. Or even okay. She needed to think Tyler was okay. Even a glimmer of approval would let John look back at this hopeless crush years from now with a piece of mind—he wasn’t delusional; his mom saw it too. Tyler Hughes was actually kind and talented, and John was not just idiotic and shallow. The smallest acknowledgment from her would do. A nod. Or a “huh.” or a “well, he was certainly entertaining.”

She leaned back against John’s drafting table in a gray houndstooth coat, with a black scarf pulled around her neck, arms crossed, frowning at her next victim: a cowboy Garfield with a hand up in the air, riding on a rocking horse. What would the art world think of Susan Rich if they could see her now? She was wearing the same outfit as her author’s photo for her last book of critical essays, the tiny fog-colored book on Cindy Sherman and feminist art in the 1970s. But the background on that author’s photo was the provincial cemetery near John’s grandmother’s house in Pennsylvania. Behind her now was a wall of grinning orange cats. There were at least three Garfields on skateboards. 

 “What do your guests say?” she asked suddenly. “No one questions your sanity?”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Guests?”

“Your friends,” she explained impatiently, “and your prospects.”

John’s eyes narrowed even more. “Prospects?”

She sighed. “Your lovers, John.” 

“Lovers? Plural?” Why did everyone assume he had pull? The last time John dated two guys at once, he broke things off with both of them because he had a panic attack. “Ugh, God—what are you talking about? Please never ask me about my lovers.”

“Well, my apologies,” she said. “I assumed you were living the life of a young artist in New York.” His mom's voice always got airy and innocent and condescending when she trapped John in conversations like this—ones where she demonstrated that she knew something that John did not. In this case, it was the ample knowledge of a true bohemian New York City lifestyle, instead of whatever Disney-adult life that she assumed John carried on.

“You know, when I lived in Brooklyn, before I met your father, every art person or musician was social and queer and sexually active. We did everything. Anyone…” When John found his tie, he would strangle her and then hang himself. “But maybe this particular form of mania deters that.” She pulled at the cowboy hat on the wide-eyed grinning Garf. It would not come off. She picked up the salt shaker. “I do like non-commercial pieces. This has humor, I can see why it’s front and center.”

“Tyler gave that to me.”

She turned to him. And not only did the Ridge disappear, it was replaced with something else. If John had to draw it, he would put a tilde where his mom’s mouth should’ve been. “Oh. Tyler Hughes?”

“Why are you making that face?”

“What face?”

“This one,” said John. He twisted his mouth into a tilde.

“Oh,” she said slowly, looking over the salt shaker, that same airy voice of superior secret knowledge. “It’s nothing.” She replaced the salt shaker. “Did these come together? Who is crafting these? Your tie.”

She picked up the bowl and sitting behind it, was his tie, folded. He lunged for it, and threw it around his neck. They were already late. “Clyde Fotheringay’s daughter made that one,” said John, “as a going away gift.”

“Well maybe keep these,” she said, turning it over her fingers, and placing it next to the salt shaker. “This has merit.”

They made their way downstairs to catch a taxi, and as John watched the water drops slide against the car window, he thought of his very large orange collection. When John stopped drinking, the collection had grown. It was a simple rerouting of funds. It was a stunning revelation that being a functioning alcoholic had taken him away from his true passion—hunting down rare Garfield merchandise. Plus, if he could get out of work, the money would help fund his trip to the Garfestival, a big meet-up that changed cities every year.

Suddenly, the cold wet air of Manhattan in December was replaced by a dry breeze from Palm Springs—the location of the next Garfestival—and in this warm daydream he was dating Tyler Hughes. They grinned at each other as they strolled into a three-star hotel, the two of them deeply in love and lost in some joke. But Tyler’s laugh curdled into a light awkward chuckle as he saw how his boyfriend lived: ratty tie-dyed Garfield T-shirts. Garfield Trivia. Pin the tail on the Garfield. Warm lasagna in a pan. Revolting, all of it. And just then a wave of awkward, pimply, Garfield enthusiasts shuffled towards them like zombies, arms outstretched and faces filled with lopsided glee at this incredible celebrity in their midsts. They descended upon Tyler, moaning, “Jaaaacooob Raawww… We loooved…The trilogy!” As Tyler turned to flee, he knocked John’s suitcase of plush dolls open. 

Garfs scattered everywhere. Tyler glared down at them. “Jesus, mate, how many dolls do you have?” 

John fell to his knees, sputtering, clutching them to his chest. 

“I told you not to come with me,” he cried. “You don’t know these people! You don’t know my friends! This means something to us!”

Then Tyler would freak out and rush out the automatic doors, but not before casting one last scornful look at John and taking the 10 right back to Hollywood.

Back in reality, John turned to his mother as they crept up Eighth Avenue. “Okay. What would you get rid of?”

“What?” asked Susan. The Ridge appeared. She leaned up to the driver. “We can get off here, thank you.”

The accoutrements of Broadway sprang up around them: massive flashy banners for current shows, the glint of Time Square, and throngs of dazzled tourists. As they closed in on the 48th Street Theater, John finally saw, for the first time—Tyler Hughes fans in the wild. He had heard them in Studio 6 at City Live and had seen their comments on Cover Sessions, but laying eyes upon a bunch of people excited to see Tyler “IRL” was—well, it did something to John. The excitement was contagious. He was about to see Tyler fucking Hughes on Broadway! An alarming number of giddy fans stood, queued up in Jacob Raw shirts, and some of them wore hoodies from Seaside Lies, the Aussie soap that Tyler starred in as a teenager. The most fervent among them recognized John. When John and his mother stepped into the chilly line, half a dozen people looked over their shoulders with hushed voices of disbelief. John caught two teens gaping at him with mittens covering their mouths. 

John’s mom pulled her scarf around her shoulders, hooked her hand on John’s elbow, and huddled next to him for warmth. John thought she had forgotten his question, as she was busy relaying the history of the 48th Street Theater, but she interrupted herself.

 “Well, I’ve turned into Miriam, haven’t I? A nag. Nana once tried to purge my magazine collection. That’s what she called The Paris Review.” She sighed, and squeezed John’s arm. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Don’t get rid of anything. But, please, just be particular. Salvador Dali collected walking sticks.”

“Salvador Dali was a fascist.”

Again, almost against her will, Susan Rich laughed. “I’ve raised you well. Yes, but kitsch can be an interesting design choice.” 

“Exactly,” said John, elbowing her and grinning, “maximal aesthetic. It’s a choice. It’s camp.”

“Do not,” said his mom, grinning back, “lecture me on camp.”

They had waited all of four minutes when a woman with a walkie talkie found them, and plucked them out of line. She introduced herself as the assistant house manager, wore a black puffer jacket with the 48th Street Theater logo on it, and escorted them through a crowded lobby, as the rest of the audience filtered in from the cold. She led them away to their fourth row orchestra seats, slightly stage left. She departed, but not before she asked John if he wanted something to drink and asked Susan if she wanted a glass of wine. She had to lean in close to be heard over the dull roar of the chattering audience. Susan said they were fine, looked high up at the arching Italian Renaissance seating, around at their primo seats, and began studying the Playbill through her reading glasses. She hummed. Her mouth did that annoying tilde shape again.

“What?” John demanded.

“Oh! Nothing.” Airy, cool, full of veiled knowledge. Infuriating.

John looked down at the Playbill in his hand: Sunday in The Park With George written in tall white serif font at the bottom. On top, the show’s poster depicted Tyler Hughes as George Seurat and his co-star Willa Codd as Dot, hand in hand, stepping through a picture frame. On the stage were blank rectangular slabs that stood tall or laid  flat on the floor. Close to the audience, stage left, was a stool. John watched no less than a dozen people twist around to get a selfie with the stool in the background.

Ever since John was a kid, there was a game he played with his mom when they went to an art gallery or the theater or watched a classic film. His mother didn’t know about the game, and also, John almost always lost. But the game went like this: If they were looking at a work of art, John would scour the work, noting every single detail. Then, later, his mother would inevitably turn to him and ask, “Oh, did you notice—” something. Anything. The cigarette in Jackson Pollack’s Full Fathom Five. The bare teacup handle of Meret Oppenheim’s fur-covered Object. If John noticed it, he won; if he didn’t, he lost. So he took out a mental notebook to scribble out every theme and motif of Sunday. Because this round? He had to win.

But when the lights finally dimmed, the notepad dissolved. John’s stomach flipped again. A roar of applause shook the theater, and a figure stepped out of the wing, and in the blue twilight of the stage, sat down at the stool. Then the lights rose again—gold and hazy—there sat Tyler Hughes, chin up to an adoring audience, stoic, hopeful, pencil in hand. When Tyler spoke, a different voice came out. His Australian accent had disappeared into something thinner and American:

White,

A blank page or canvas,

The challenge? Bring order to the whole,

through design.

Composition.

Tension.

Balance.

Light…

…and harmony.

Then the orchestra came alive with a chime, and it was off to the races.

John did read stuff about the play when Tyler’s issue of The New York Review came out. (It was, admittedly, a hate reading at the time.) Sunday in the Park with George was a play about George Seurat creating his famous masterpiece, Sunday Afternoon on The Island of La Grand Jatte, while his relationship with his muse, Dot, deteriorates. Then the second act time-jumps to the modern day where George Seurat’s descendant struggles both with art as a career and also to connect to his roots. It was a musical about art. Tyler did say that he first watched Cover Sessions as research to prepare for the role.

John’s game strategy imploded the moment the spotlight fell on Tyler. While his mother was probably cross analyzing themes, and picking up nuances, John sat all but slack-jawed watching Tyler move across George Seurat’s studio, paint as George Seurat, and play the stoic genius. But he was funny too—there was a moment when he was on all fours and pretending to be not one, but two of the dogs in the painting. The crowd fell in love with him. John remembered the first time he ever laid eyes on Tyler, up on a rooftop, as he wrestled Bella the TikTok dog. John was completely pulled in. Only when his mother went “huh” or laughed at a joke, would he remember that he was sitting in a theater in Midtown, and not in 1880s France.

The first act closed and John exhaled and turned to his mother ready to compare notes.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she announced. Then added, “wow.” 

John watched her shuffle through their aisle. 

Wow? Sorry, what the hell was wow supposed to mean? Was that a good wow? Or a bad wow? Lady, wow could mean anything!

His mom took her sweet time too, probably aiming the Ridge at some commemorative plaque in the theater or losing her place in line because she was reading Playbill. She did not return until the second act began and the audience’s drone fell back to a whisper.

The second act ended with a final reprise of the act one closer, “Sunday”, a shimmering choral performance where the entire ensemble faced the crowd. Having two dozen people sing at the audience made John freeze with everyone else, skin prickling from the transcendence of it all. By the end of that number, there were two sounds on either side of John. To John’s right were his mother’s inscrutable “hm’s”, and to his left, a young man sniffled and wiped away tears. 

After the finale, a deafening applause that erupted, and John added to it, palms going numb as the cast bowed. And when Tyler stepped forward, John had to keep himself from springing up with some of the Jacob Raw devotees, who hooted and roared as he waved, the last to jog off of the stage. 

And shit, the show was over.

John smiled…and then sat up, frowning. Oh God, the game! Goddammit, he hadn’t paid attention to anything profound. He hadn’t noticed a single detail. He had just gaped at Tyler Hughes for two hours! He scanned his mental notebook—uh, light imagery? Observer versus object relation? Uh…women?

But before the game could commence, the same house assistant appeared at the end of their row, and gave them a little wave. Phew, this would buy John time. When they met her, she said, “I’d be happy to take you to Tyler’s dressing room, if you want to wait there? He’ll be a moment. He takes a while saying hello to fans at the stage door.” 

John straightened up. “Can we watch him? Say hi at the stage door, that is.”

The house manager’s head tilted and a smile spread across her face. “Of course. It’s kind of the show after the show with Tyler. Follow me.”

They ventured out onto the damp sidewalks and touristy bustle of Midtown, and John’s mom was still oddly silent. This worried John. Before he could think, he blurted out, “so, what did you think?” 

The Ridge appeared, perhaps the worst seismic activity to date—the tectonic plates of her eyebrows crashing together. John hated when people said, “Oh, I can’t even draw a straight line!” and he knew his mother hated when people asked her what she “thought.” Or—God forbid—if she “liked” something.

“Think about what?” she sighed. “What did I think of the set design? The stage direction? Of the use of light as a stand in for obsession with the feminine? Or of this portrayal of George Seurat by Tyler Hughes—”

“—of Tyler,” said John. “Yeah, Tyler! What did you think? I thought he was hilarious.”

“Oh.” She hummed. The Ridge receded…and that weird contorted smirk returned.

A thick crowd of people stood in a freezing puddle on the curb, an influx of playgoers jostling to get a better view of the stage door. Each departure of a cast member sparked a chorus of cheers and congratulations; then that cast member disappeared into the anonymity of Times Square. They were done with work. 

 “Hm.” She glanced at John. She let the twist of the tilde unfold into a smile. “Well, I should ask that of you. That was quite the impression. No pun intended.” 

Oh no. John was losing the game already. What on Earth did he miss? “Impression?”

“John,” she sighed, “the entire first act was like watching an episode of Cover Sessions, his mannerisms as he drew. Oh! And as he performed ‘Finishing The Hat’, in particular. And the second half, yes, I’ve only seen your stand up comedy act a few times, I think. But his movements during ‘Putting It Together’? His accent? Sweetheart.” She raised an eyebrow. John stared blankly. “Tyler Hughes likely sees you as some platonic ideal of artist and performer.”

John’s stomach dropped. 

“What?” He didn’t like how high his voice was getting. He scoffed. “No. What? He wasn’t acting like me. He was—” But suddenly, John couldn’t recall. He had been too enamored with the singing, and the way Tyler moved through the canvas, and how enormous his eyes were, even from twenty-five feet away. John looked down at the cloud of wizened brown hair at his shoulder. “Mom, just because a play is about an artist does not mean it’s about me.”

But her voice took on that airy tone again, as she hooked her hand into John’s elbow. She smiled. “Love, I’d be very flattered.”

The stage door fans yelped and waved. Willa Codd, the actress who played Dot, stopped for selfies and autographed Playbills, her brown curls tucked into her baseball cap. John thought of the way Tyler stared as he drew her, how his eyes darted from his sketchpad and back up to Willa. Intense, blank, fixed, cold. Is that how John drew? Had Tyler been doing an impression of him? But he forgot the thought because when Willa Codd disappeared into the Midtown bustle, Tyler Hughes pushed open the stage door.

It was like the burst of raw affection in John’s heart became manifest in the five dozen people who cheered, stood up on their tiptoes, and reached out to touch Tyler. The crush of fans inched closer to the barricade while the theater security sighed, and the fans extended their hands full of sharpies and selfie ready cell phones. A flock of Playbills fluttered around Tyler like a halo.

Tyler had changed out of the George Seurat jacket and dress shirt into a simple black T-shirt with the 48th Street Theater logo on it, and he smiled, his breath fogging in the cold white light of the stage door. He got to work, chuckling and uttering “thank you” over and over and over, tackling as many autographs as he could. 

Just like John had never seen Tyler act. John had never actually seen Tyler with fans before. He couldn’t stop watching. Was it weird that he wanted to pull out his phone and record? A middle-aged woman handed Tyler some sort of gift; a man didn’t want a selfie or signature, but simply shook Tyler’s hand and spoke to him. Maybe John was getting off on watching Tyler being so sweet to so many people, making just the right amount of small talk, thanking them just enough. John kept searching for and then failing to find fakeness. No, this is just who Tyler was—endlessly curious. Endlessly sweet. Endlessly kind.

Dear God, he was in love with him.

John had only been half listening to his mom, who was now explaining a Dan Flavin light installation she saw in Los Angeles, but she drifted off to watch Tyler too. 

“Incredible,” she declared, finally, “he’s extraordinary at this.”

“At what?”

“Connecting with people,” she said. “If I hadn’t just seen him bare his soul out on the stage, I’d think he’d have a career in politics.”

“Yeah,” agreed John, “he’s great.”

Tyler finished up and instead of darting into Time Square, he went back inside. The crowd waved and chimed, “bye, Tyler!” some asking for second selfies. John wanted to wave at Tyler too, but clenched a fist in his pocket.

 “So Tyler is only friends with me because I’m source material?” said John. His mom chuckled. “I’m just feeding his performances? When he wins the Tony for this, do you think he’ll give it to me on weekends?”

“The word is muse, my son. Look.”

The house assistant leaned out of the door and waved them over. John and his mom slipped past a barricade, followed her into the theater. Inside stood Tyler Hughes. 

“Hi, Susan,” said Tyler, shaking his mom’s hand, the fan gift under his other arm, “so nice to meet you, thank you all for making it out, I hope you enjoyed it!” Left to his own devices Tyler might have kept on nervously chattering, but he locked eyes with John. He grabbed his shoulders. “Johnny! Wow, look at that scarf. C’mere.”

He pulled John into an enormous hug, slapping his back, and John grinned, murmuring how great the show was, letting himself sink into it, living in the two-and-a-half seconds where he could hold Tyler. It was so nice to hear his accent again. When John stepped back he poked the gift. It was…a fully knitted Jacob Raw? The doll’s face, white T-shirt, and tiny knit jean jacket were covered with knit-on grease and blood. It was astonishing craftmanship.

“Someone made this?” John laughed.

“Here, keep it safe for me, will you?” asked Tyler, placing the Jacob Raw in John’s hands. He winked, squeezing John’s shoulder. “I will know if you steal it, so don’t even think about it, all right?”

Then, Tyler led them through the house and back to his dressing room. 

“Hope it didn’t get you wet, Susan?”

John frowned. “What?”

“That’s right,” chuckled his mom, nodding, “I was telling John about the last time I was at the 48th Street Theater. That was before he was born. I had a colleague who claimed he was victim to an undeniable trickle of water during a terribly static preview of Cyrano de Bergerac. But for this—No drops, no leaks. Bravo.”

“Am I missing something?” said John. 

“Water drops,” explained Tyler, with a wide smile. He fistbumped a producer as they descended a thin stairwell. “So there was this massive rooftop water tank that collapsed in the ‘50s, and took out the whole north half of the building. They repaired it, but part of the lore of this theater is you can still feel water leaking at times. Mate, it is crazy. It’s happened to me in the lobby, and in my dressing room, and there aren’t even pipes in there. It’s so weird!”

“And if a show is a particular dud,” added his mom, “the audience supposedly gets trickled on. Lovely superstition. Very different from a movie set, I presume.”

From here, Tyler and his mom exchanged every bit of theater and movie set trivia they could come up with, stopping only when Tyler playfully hooted at a man in his fifties in 48th Street Theater hoodie wearing a toolbelt, and did a complex handshake with another woman with a headset dangling around her shoulders. Finally, Tyler pushed open a door with his name on it.

“Here we are,” he said, “home away from home—away from home, I suppose.”

The dressing room was surprisingly small and therefore crammed with stuff: a vanity desk that dimly lit the room, a loveseat covered in pillows, a tiny closet with all of the outfits John had just seen on stage, and a bookshelf and wall covered in fanart and gifts: figurines of Jacob Raw, photos of Sondheim, a painstakingly woven quilt of Tyler as George Seurat. Tyler placed a hand on John’s shoulder.

“May I?” he asked. “Unless you two have become too attached?”

“What?” John looked down. Jesus Christ. He was hugging the tiny version of Tyler to his chest. He practically threw it at the real Tyler. “Oh God. Sorry. Here.” 

Tyler grinned, placing it with the rest of the fan gifts.

“How on earth do you deal with that mob?” asked John. He wanted to pick every piece of fanart up and look at all the little renditions of Tyler’s face in the drawings and figurines. “What do people say to you when they’ve got you at the stage door? That guy had you for a full minute.”

“Oh my God, that guy,” said Tyler, leaning in and whispering to him. Again, Tyler seemed oblivious to personal space, and practically embraced John from behind. “Apparently it’s universal if you have brothers and grew up in the theater: he also had brothers who punched him in the nuts for missing lines—Yup. Knew that would get you.”

John had thrown his head back—losing balance, leaning back into Tyler—his laugh startlingly loud and open and…dorky. It’s like Tyler always somehow unlocked his inner fourteen-year old. “No way.”

“Sorry, Susan,” he said, playing the drums on John’s shoulder, “dumb guy stuff.”

“Hm. Very understandable,” she said. But where John expected a sigh and an eyeroll…he only found a raised eyebrow as she looked him up and down. Then she did that stupid weird smile again. John didn’t have the time to decipher what the hell that was because she turned to Tyler. “Will you be joining us for dinner, Tyler?”

“Ah, I’d love to,” he said, “but I’ve got a plane to catch. Heading home for the first few weeks of year! So I actually can’t stay here long either. But, oh!” He clapped his hands. “John, I’ve got something to show you.” 

And without warning, he dropped to the floor and crawled under the vanity.

“I saw it when I dropped my cellphone back here, but check it out.” Tyler waved for John to join him under the desk. Well, if Tyler wanted him on all fours, John was not going to argue. Tyler turned on the flashlight on his phone and pointed it at the wall. Then John saw it.

“Oh my god. What?” laughed John, shaking his head. “Some Garfield freak was here!”

It was a weird wobbly Garfield drawn with a Sharpie next to a peeling red pipe. He was shoulder to shoulder with Tyler down under the vanity, and he turned to find Tyler gazing at him, the lines around his eyes creasing with his smile.

“What are the chances, right?” 

John opened his mouth to say something, but he’d locked eyes with Tyler. His mind went blank. Tyler kept grinning.

“There’s graffiti?” asked John’s mom from above. “Are we sure it wasn’t Tyler?”

“I wish.” He looked away from John, clearing his throat as he emerged. “I’m assuming it was a kid of someone who had this dressing room. I’ve spent way too much time going through past performances that have been in this theater since they renovated.”

When John crawled back up, he found his mom downright beaming at Tyler. She looked pleased with the proceedings—amused—grinning like a schoolgirl. What was her freaking deal? John straightened out his scarf and narrowed his eyes. Did she…find Tyler good-looking? 

He was, but cookie-cutter good looks never had sway on Susan Rich. Especially men’s. This was because, John had decided roughly around college, that his mother was functionally a lesbian. Like, she was definitely straight and would be too bored of sexual repression and being in the closet, but was, essentially, a lesbian. The only reason she had ended up with his father was that John’s father—a dry, tidy, industrial architect who laughed at the same Eastern European authors and had detailed theories on growing tomatoes— was also a lesbian. His parents were a man and a woman in a lesbian relationship. They wore each other’s clothes.

So it was discomfiting to see this full-blown smile on his mother’s face. He knew it was Tyler’s radioactive Hollywood charm, but John thought she was impervious to such emissions. (John thought he was impervious to that, but look at him now.) But there she was, Ridge invisible, as Tyler prattled on and on about other productions in this theater like a beautiful, lab-grown tour guide. And Susan Rich kept grinning from Tyler to John and back to Tyler.

Then she glanced down at her watch and the Ridge appeared. 

“That’s right, John, your father wanted to know about the show,” she announced suddenly. “I should call him. Right now. Oh, but quick, a picture—you all look great together—No, just you and Tyler, my dear.” She pulled out her phone, and Tyler threw an arm around John’s waist and pulled him close, zero hesitation. “Lovely, lovely! Well, I’ll be in the lobby or outside or wherever they put me.”

She quickly left with a wave. Then John and Tyler were alone. 

Tyler exhaled and slumped.

“I’d want to go to dinner, but I have no further knowledge about this theater or this production, and your mom would very quickly find out that I’m an idiot.” He blew his cheeks out. “Holy shit, that woman’s an encyclopaedia.”

“She’s obsessed with you,” said John. “You have no idea what normal people have to do to get her smile like that.”

Then he didn’t even think; he crawled on the floor again. He had to get a picture of that freaking graffiti. Unbelievable. And when John returned, wiping dust off his knees, he found Tyler watching him.

“Well, we won’t see each other until February? One last episode of The Big Picture, eh?” Audre West Entertainment and Stagehand Productions had agreed, contractually, that John and Tyler would film three episodes of The Big Picture. That’s all Tyler’s schedule could realistically afford at the moment. That plus Tyler’s vacation meant that John would be Hughes-less for over a month. 

John nodded. Think of something else to say or get the hell out of here. Don’t just stare at this…but he was alone with Tyler Hughes, and Tyler looked so very pretty in the gold light of his vanity, heavy arms crossed, wearing a snug black T-shirt anyone could buy during intermission. The silence persisted until Tyler threw open his arms, said, “well,” and ensnared John in a hug. 

It was a long one, longer than the one at the stage door, the kind of hug you give to someone at the airport. John’s breath hitched when Tyler rubbed his back, but he let himself sink into it.

“Co-producer.” Tyler murmured in his neck.

John did his yelp-laugh, but said at a smaller decibel. “Co-producer.”

Finally Tyler stepped back and sighed, cleared his throat, and looked down. “John,” he began. “Well…”

Tyler did that tight smile of his again, and put a hand on John’s shoulder, and left it there. His eyes searched John’s and then dropped to John’s mouth, but he laughed.

“I wanted to tell you that it’s been great working with you,” said Tyler, hand dropping from John’s shoulder,  “on everything. Just lovely. Highlight of my year.”

“Yeah, it’s been really cool,” said John, “Thanks for inviting me. Us to this.” 

“Of course, seriously, thank you for coming, for bringing your mum,” said Tyler, fully retreating. “Don’t want to keep you—Or I can walk you back…?”

“No, it’s fine! I should go,” said John, already half out the door, “thanks. Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year,” Tyler said at the threshold, waving down the hallway. 

John was a few steps down the hall when he swiveled around and backtracked, snapping his fingers. 

“Oh yeah, my mom,” John said, “she thought you were doing an impression of me? As George?”

“Oh, really?” Tyler said leaning in the doorway. “Well, I’ve certainly been influenced. But come on, Susan.” He shrugged. “There’s no one like John Rich.”

“What verdict did you deliver to dad?” said John. 

John had found his mother just inside the stage door, flipping through Playbill. They pushed out into the now vacant sidewalk and joined the crowd moving west and away from Time Square.

“What?” said Susan. And then remembered. “Oh. Yes. I didn’t call your father. But I was going to tell Tyler that I did think the second act was brilliant. The direction was much less precious, perhaps because it was a contemporary setting. And the modern lines work for him, in my opinion. He surprised me. Very talented. I hope I gave you two space.” She waved her hand around like she was swatting away a fly. “I was so caught up in discussing the show, I didn’t think you probably wanted a moment alone.”

John frowned down at her.

“You’re not dating?” she asked.

“What?”

“No need to be coy,” she said. “It’s sweet that you would want to introduce me to a lover—”

“—Why do you keep saying lover? I don’t have lovers just because I’m an artist.” Not the point. “You think I’m dating Tyler Hughes?”

“Not think,” said his mother, “I noticed that you were. Because I can make basic inferences from the wealth of evidence presented to me. I noticed, John, I’m a professional notice-er.”

John’s mouth fell open. Finally, he understood why she had been smirking all evening. When she took a picture of him and Tyler, when she saw their seats, when she picked up the Garf salt shaker back at his apartment. Dear God. “You think I’m dating Tyler Hughes! I am not dating him. Oh my God!”

“Oh,” she said, and then a long pause. She shrugged, her sigh a cloud in the cold air. “Well, he is smitten with you.” And when John stared at her, she stuck out a thumb and rubbed the middle of his brow until John batted her hand away. “Don’t frown like that. You’re getting my stupid Ridge. John, dear, I'm sorry, did we not both witness a grown man crawl on the floor to show you a graffitied drawing of Garfield?”

“Yeah, but,” John protested. Well, when she put it that way. 

Because, actually, that was not normal. John’s warped Garfield-forward mind thought, yeah, obviously, that was a reasonable thing for anybody to do upon discovering a drawing of Garfield. You gotta get on the ground like a goblin and show all your friends. But then John thought about the press of his arms as he held John against his body for a hug. Tyler’s eyes falling to John’s lips… 

“Anyway,” his mother continued, “a suitor who appreciates and maybe even enables your tastes. I stand corrected about your collection…John? Why have you stopped walking?”

Leave it up to Susan Rich to notice everything. John lost this round. And it was a round of the game he hadn’t even known he’d been playing.

Tyler liked him.

“Shit,” said John. He laughed. “Shit.”

“It’s sweet,” said his mom, backtracking to her stunned son and hooking their arms together again. She dragged him along. “Anyway, I cannot believe you haven’t seen any Sondheim. This play he wrote after he got completely panned in 1972. He swore off musicals…”

They made their way through Midtown and John made a decision. The next time he and Tyler were alone, in person, he would ask Tyler Hughes, the movie star, the actor—his friend, out on a date. It was as clear as a stage play in his mind, and the idea made his stomach flip over: He’d be calm and casual. “Would you like to go get something to eat somewhere? Like on a date? With the intention of dating?” They turned the corner onto Ninth Avenue, and John pictured Tyler saying, “Very strange way of asking someone out, Rich, but yes.” His mother talked, and John smiled but did not listen, the rest of the daydream filling in like a pencil sketch on a warm page. ✏️

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✏️ Author's Note Do I want to write warm gooey fanfiction about Tyler kissing John in his dressing room? Absolutely. Will I instead make sure that terrible things happen to John and Tyler in the next chapter? Absolutely.