If It Aint Love

The morning light pierced through the tulle curtains, and the soft sunlight illuminated a lazy smiling face, both of which suggested that Whit's luck might not be over yet.

"Are you staying overnight today?" Peter asked. "I have an appointment tonight, but it's only going to take me an hour at most."

"Is there anyone else waiting for you at Homeless Home?"

Peter feigned anger, but the teasing in his eyes made it less effective. "It's just a banquet hosted by an acquaintance. I'd rather not go-but you know what it's like on such an occasion."

"I really don't know, but you have the final say." Whit sat up. "I've got things to do anyway. If I can find out where I lost my clothes."

"Let me lend you a set."

Whit wanted to protest, but at the moment he really didn't want to go back to the laundry that was long overdue.He followed Peter to the dressing room opposite the bathroom, and then froze at the door.In addition to the blazers—at least a dozen—there were several neatly arranged cabinets of shirts, ties, gloves, shoes, and hats. "I hope you'd better have enough suitcases."

"Enough to take most of the clothes here to the second-hand clothing store." Peter handed him a shirt. "Maybe a little small for you."

Whit didn't care about such little things.Just like putting on that pajamas set last night, putting on clean clothes is a joy in itself.Looking at the reflection in the mirror, he seemed to return to a long, long time ago in an instant, when he still thought that the whole world was in his hands.He wanted to pick up the pieces of that world and put them back together.The first thing to do was to go back to the office and make Hadley look him straight; maybe he'd see the old Whit.Stud, the journalist, not the bereaved dog who's been haunting lately.Then he would figure out how to write a story—any subject matter.He had to repay Peter for giving him the suit.

When Peter came out of the fitting room, Whit pulled him to the mirror and leaned on his shoulder. "We look really talented." He reached for Peter's chest and straightened Peter's tie. "It's only been one night and I don't know myself anymore."

Peter turned his head and smiled at him, "Come downstairs and have something to eat."

Whit laughed too. "Jesus, I owe you enough."

"You don't owe me anything. I'm happy to have someone I know take over my suit."

"Actually, you have already met those people. Those who are penniless, homeless, and hopeless." Whit pressed Peter's forehead. "I was one of those thousands. Now you are too." Then an idea occurred to him. "Are you going to sell all these suits?"

"I'll keep two or three for myself. What's the matter?"

"A dude I know at a homeless house, Jimmy Westbrook, he's been on and off, usually not--but he's got a great opportunity recently. He's going to talk to his boss tomorrow I'm thinking maybe..."

"Can I borrow him a suit?"

"Then let him come here and clean up. Guess I've never noticed before how refreshing it is to clean up after being homeless for so long. And he won't take your help for nothing .He can pay you back, no problem."

"What else is wrong?"

Peter just asked casually, but Whit couldn't hold back his smile. "He's got a girlfriend, and if he gets the job, he'll probably marry her. I just think he needs a little pep talk."

"Bring him here. But you have to tell him first that I don't want anything in return. Before we get kicked out, we can figure out how to make the best use of this place."

Whit laughed. "Us?"

Peter looked a little embarrassed, "If you want to stay."

After they breakfasted on leftover chicken from last night and made an appointment for dinner together, Whit left the sunny Gramercy Park to let go before the sun evaporated the night's sweet dreams. Bo.He walked toward 43rd Street, feeling like he had the whole world in his hands, and he knew it wasn't just a hot shower and a new suit of clothes; waiting to be sneered at by Hadley wouldn't bring him down. "Good morning, Charlie."

"Look who's coming?" Hadley looked from the newspapers spread out on the table to him. "To hell with it, Stud. Did you bet that dollar on a fast horse?"

Whit laughed, and sank back into the leather chair, feeling more at ease than ever. "You can say that. Do you still have the article I gave you yesterday? I thought of a new angle to enter—"

"Forget about that stuff, I've got another job for you that will put a few extra bucks in your pocket. Assuming you still need the income," Hadley gave Whitt another suspicious look, and went on Say, "Winston Michaels has the flu and can't get up."

"Poor old Winnie. You want me to visit him?"

"I want you to take his job for tonight."

Whit sat up straight. "Are you kidding me. You want me to befriend those people all night? You know how I hate those occasions. And what if it's raining? I can't afford a cab, let alone a monkey costume."

Hadley snorted. "Vinny said you could wear his tuxedo. Do you remember where his office is?"

"Could you stop for a second? I don't know anybody there--and I don't want to get involved with them. What kind of bullshit can I write?"

Hadley thought for a moment. "At least you can ask around to see if there's anything good about Dorrington—"

"My God, Charlie, put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger and you're done. Dorrington isn't the first to come up with this trick. There are a lot of people like that these days. Is he interested? Just because he makes money? Or because he's annoying?"

"That's right. That man put countless employees out of business, stepped on their backs to the top, and then fell to the bottom in the blink of an eye. If you do this, you don't think there is any story to write, boy, you are not what I know Whitt Stade. That Stade wrote a hurricane report last year that made the mayor shake his hand, and people still keep mentioning his eulogy for Rogers. I know you are having a hard time, But if you can write something, write something good, you're done."

"I don't see what else there is to write about Dorrington," said Whitt. "Since every paper in town writes about him as a man of all kinds, maybe he lives up to his name—"

"Then look at it from another angle. See if the son of a bitch has any inhuman virtues. Talk to his friends, he's bound to have a friend or two, and maybe they'll be at the party. And His kids talk too—”

"His kid?" Whit frowned. "What's so good about a schoolboy—"

"You're wrong. Dorrington was married a long time ago, and divorced not long ago. The kid has grown up and is working with his father. Call him Patrick, I remember." Hadley frowned, " Or Peter? Peter Dorrington, the second Dorrington. The eldest died shortly after birth."

Whit was speechless in shock, but he immediately brushed off the first association.There are at least hundreds of Peters in the world, no, there may be hundreds in New York alone.This coincidence means nothing. "Where does this Peter Dorrington live?"

Hadley shrugged. "I guess the Gramercy Park property is pretty much in the hands of the bank. The kid is probably in a shelter, if he has any relatives to take him in."

Gramercy Park.Whit tried to take a big breath, but his lungs refused to cooperate. "I'll think about the report, okay? I have to go first." He stood up and stumbled towards the door.

"Don't forget your monkey costume," Hadley called after him.

The journey back felt longer than the trip to Lexington, and by the time the park came into view, he had counted himself down countless times.I didn't expect him to be so dull—whether by the standards of a reporter or an ordinary person.Yes, tons of bad news has turned him into a cynic, but who isn't?He's so addicted to being normal again that he doesn't even spend a second trying to piece together the puzzles Peter has handed him.Peter almost cried on his shoulder, and he encouraged Peter to cheer up, never thinking that the other party's tears might not just be from a failed business or a seized house, but from a more irreparable loss.

"Damn."

Peter's house is still magnificent, with a unique architectural design that perfectly integrates building materials such as bricks, stones and cast iron, but after knowing its history, it can't help but cast a shadow in Whitt's eyes.He rushed forward and pressed the doorbell.In terms of their original intentions, knowing each other's names was indeed more than enough. Before he slept with this man, he knew each other far better than expected.Why does he have to feel that he is the number one bastard in the sky now?

When no one answered, he rang the doorbell again.Then to confirm, he pressed it a third time.He couldn't wait at the door.It didn't help to blame himself all day long, so he went back to the old way, and wrote Will.Rodgers' reported approach to the investigation.Before he spoke to Peter again, he wanted to learn as much as possible about Dorrington's life.

But at sunset he regretted it.There is nothing good about inquiring.The ex-employees he interviewed all said in unison, only remembering the bourgeoisie Gerald.Dorrington is a hard-hearted cold-hearted.Dorrington did not hesitate to engage in illegal activities in order to restore the decline of his career, but it was too late, and he added a sentence to his sentence-although he was not blessed.Whit wondered if he could ever hear good things about the man from anyone, it would be his son.Whitt made another trip to Gramercy Park, but again came to nothing.He could only give up and set off for Edmund.Chesterfield's flat on the Garden Route, ready to spend a miserable hour there, just for the sake of the cheque.

Whit stood by the alcove, watching the guests gleaming through the brightly lit halls, pausing every now and then to exchange pleasantries.He had only taken off his coat here 10 minutes ago, but he was already starting to wonder if today's trip would be of any help.He'd never understood why the public was interested in people who only had to worry about their outfits for dinners.Asking a penniless man like him to follow behind the rich man's buttocks is to sprinkle salt on the wound.

But when he thought of Peter, Whit also felt that perhaps not all upper-class people were gossips—it was just that in the mansion in Chesterfield, he couldn't see anyone who could prove his point.Uncomfortable in his ill-fitting tuxedo, he decided to narrow down his targets to those who seemed to be the most hearsay, so he could get away early.As soon as Michaels had gathered enough material for his column, he would sneak back to Lexington, where he could spend the rest of the night with Peter, if he was lucky.

He was fully prepared to test the water temperature at the end, and looked back and forth among the well-dressed guests, trying to find the person who was most likely to be in the mood to chat with him, but at this time the hostess, Mrs. Chesterfield, recognized him first. out he came. "I suppose you're from the Times."

"You see it from this tuxedo?"

Mrs. Chesterfield seemed amused by him, but Whitt realized that she just thought it was a more appropriate response. "Henry told me," she stretched out her slender catkin, pointing casually at the door, it seems that the gatekeeper has his own set of standards to judge the continuous stream of guests. "I am sorry to hear that Mr. Michaels has fallen ill."

She wasn't the only one feeling sorry. "He had the flu, that's why I had the honor of taking his job." Whit's tone didn't sound ironic, and he couldn't help applauding himself. "But I have to rely on your help, Mrs. Chesterfield, I don't know anyone here..." But it didn't take long for the words to turn into lies.He felt a sudden urge to have a glass of champagne.Maybe two glasses is right. "Peter."

Mrs. Chesterfield looked back, and when she looked back she raised an eyebrow at Whit, but kept a polite smile on her face. "I'll just say, why does the Times have to send someone tonight. If you want to interview Mr. Dorrington, please do your best not to cause any commotion. It might be unthinkable for a newspaper salesman like yourself, but he Suffered enough already--didn't it?"

Whit wanted to laugh; it was obvious to her that Whit was a long-tongued idiot. "Peter and I are friends, ma'am. Please excuse my excuse."

Maybe calling him "friend" was an exaggeration, but he didn't care.Her patronizing attitude just backfired.But Whitt was not terrified, so Lady Chesterfield followed him, apparently determined to make sure that her carefully crafted fairy-tale kingdom would not be tainted by conflict or tragedy.Whit ignored her as much as possible, and walked towards Peter at a faster pace under Peter's gaze.Peter's blue eyes widened at first, and then he changed his solemn expression to a joyful smile. The big emotional gap attracted a lot of curious attention.Even so, Whit was delighted.Maybe it's not just happy, after all, just seeing the other person's smile makes his heart beat faster.He also smiled back, "I didn't expect to see me here, did I?"

Peter, looking radiant in a well-crafted tuxedo, extended a warm hand to Whit. "Should you stop following me?" His tone was pleasant.

Mrs. Chesterfield came forward unsteadily, grabbing Peter's arm as if it would protect him from the evil press. "Peter, I have to apologize to you. I didn't know this gentleman from the Times would come all the way here."

She had misunderstood Peter's words, and Whit understood.Peter's smile added confusion, and he looked at Whit suspiciously. "The Times?" he asked in a low voice, in disbelief. "Are you a journalist?"

Whit wanted to stare at Mrs. Chesterfield.He had planned to make it clear in a more tactful way. "I am. But I didn't know—"

"Of course." Peter put on another smile, but it was more bitter. "You're a reporter. It all makes sense. I'm a fool to not see that."

Mrs. Chesterfield said alertly, "Peter—"

"Don't worry about it." Peter glanced at the champagne in his hand, as if he only remembered its existence now.He drank it all in one gulp, setting the glass on a passing waiter's tray. "Excuse me, okay? I'm not in the mood to chat with anyone right now." He brushed Whit's shoulder and left without looking back.Whit turned to catch up when Mrs. Chesterfield caught him by the cuff and stopped him.

"I won't let Henry ask you out," she said, "I think you should know where the door is." She let go. "You'd better think about tomorrow's papers, Mr. Stud. I won't stand people talking nonsense just to get us in trouble."

Whit snorted coldly. "With all due respect, ma'am, I really don't know who else is interested in you."

Whit complied with her and walked towards the door without hesitation.He was wandering on the sidewalk, and after a while he saw Peter hailing a cab.He ran and nearly hit the car. "Peter, don't go, talk to me."

"Of course you want to talk to me." Peter signaled the driver to wait. "What do you think there's anything else to talk about?" he said to Whit, blushing. "Your papers have turned everything about my father's life into a New Yorker—no, all American dinner talk." Every mistake he's ever made, right up to the night he..." Peter looked away, taking a shaky breath. "Let me tell you a story too." When he looked at Whit again, he no longer tried to hide—Whit noticed that he couldn't hide—the sadness in his eyes. "Why don't you write about how he raised me up alone after my mother died? How he moved his favorite chair into my room so he could sit there when I couldn't sleep Hugging me? How did he sit like that all night, lest I wake up from nightmares? He would take me to the toy store to buy presents, and we would wrap them by hand and send them to the orphanage after dinner, so that Christmas is no longer an unbearable holiday for them, why don't you tell everyone about it? I guess you don't think it's sensational enough, so you'd rather write about how he fired the man who dozed off at work, and How to cut wages when a company is on the brink of bankruptcy."

Whit was speechless and could only look at each other.Peter stared at him contemptuously. "Everyone says he's penny-pinching and clinging to company profits. But he's just taking the money to buy books for the library in his hometown. He may be a heartless guy on the surface—and sometimes he is—but he He's also an honest man. He wanted to do good, but he did a few wrong things, and that's it." Peter's eyes watered. "Why don't you..." He took another trembling breath, "Why don't you just go to hell and forget it."

"For heaven's sake, Peter, I didn't know—"

But Peter was already in the car.The taxi drove away, and Whitt's heartfelt defense fell back into the depths of his throat, never to be heard again.If the current situation can get worse, he really can't imagine there is any room for it.Worry and exasperation prevailed back and forth as he walked to Gramercy Park with mixed feelings, but Peter's house was in darkness.He knocked on the door, but there was no answer, so he walked around a few times; no matter where Peter went, there must be a warm bed waiting for him.Whit tried the doorbell again, again in vain.He didn't know why he still didn't give up.He and Peter had only known each other for a day, so why should he have a bad conscience?There is obviously no debt between them.