September

By Robert Winter

A May-December contemporary gay romance for lovers of second chances

David James is smart, successful, handsome... and alone. After the death of his lover, Kyle, from cancer, he buried himself in his law practice and the gym. At forty-eight, he is haunted by his memories and walled off from the world. When David injures himself working out, he’s assigned to Brandon Smith for physical therapy. The vibrant young therapist is attracted to David and realizes he needs a hand to get back into dating. What begins as a practice coffee date escalates to friendship, passion, and maybe something more, as they navigate a new relationship in Washington, DC, and the gay mecca of Provincetown.

But David remains trapped behind the barrier of fear and guilt. Will he remain loyal to Kyle’s memory if he moves on? Can he and Brandon manage a twenty-two-year age gap? Brandon thinks he understands David’s concerns, and for him, the answer to those questions is yes. He wants to be with David, and he believes he can overcome David’s barriers. But Brandon fails to account for the world’s reaction to a handsome young man attached to an older, wealthy lover.

David’s memories, Brandon’s pride, and an unexpected tragedy might cost them something very special...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Winter
• Release date: Dec 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781626227705

Robert Winter

Robert Winter is Professor of Music at the University of California, Los Angeles. He is author of Music for Our Time (1992) and co-author of The Beethoven Sketchbooks (California, 1985). Robert Martin is Assistant Dean of Humanities and Adjunct Associate Professor of Philosophy at the University of California, Los Angeles.

Book preview

Part 1

Therapy

Chapter 1

David

We open on a man, forty-eight years old, stretched out on a king-size bed in a room in Washington, DC. The room is large, the man quite handsome, but he is alone. Except for an orange cat, no one else shares his big house.

He sleeps restlessly, occasionally pounds his pillow in frustration, and then drifts back into fitful dreams. For more than two years—at work and at the gym—he has been reasonably successful at exhausting himself so he can get through the night. Something has changed, though, and work and hard exercise are no longer enough.

If confronted he might admit that he has been burying himself prematurely. Perhaps all he was really doing was allowing himself time to grieve, to heal. Now he feels a tug back toward the surface. He’s starting to think that it’s time at last. Time to see what the next phase of his life can hold for him. Time to discover if he can still feel the passion that has been missing for so long.

Maybe time to let someone in, past the walls he has erected.

•   •   •

David dreamt that he and Kyle were diving somewhere. Jewel-colored fish caught shafts of sunlight from the surface and glittered in the cool water. Kyle swam ahead as the beauty surrounding them distracted David. When David looked up, he could find no trace of his lover. He began to panic, and frantically pulled himself through the water as he tried to catch up. He knew, in dream logic, that his air was running out. He could see daylight above, could save himself, but he couldn’t abandon Kyle. He had to reach him….

The alarm went off, and David jerked up in bed, gasping. As reality set in, he looked at the clock. It read quarter past six. Fuck, he muttered as he slammed the edge of his fist on the snooze button.

He lay back down, wide-eyed, but the dream was already fading. Despite having the rest of the king-size bed to claim, his cat Eartha was curled in a ball by his thigh. She didn’t move when he stirred. She was too used to his restlessness. David stared at the ceiling as his heart rate returned to normal. When the alarm buzzed again, he got to his feet and switched it off. Already he’d forgotten most of the dream and knew only that it had been about Kyle. Again.

The oak treads creaked under his feet as he went downstairs, and Eartha padded after him. David took his first cup of coffee of the day into the living room. He liked to stretch there and get himself ready for CrossFit. Laying on his side on a foam roller, he worked his right leg up and down slowly, easing tension and a few knots. Eartha pushed her cold nose against his cheek as he worked, but scampered away as he rolled over to repeat the stretches on the left. Next his calves and then his ankles. He could remember being thirty and running to the gym with no preparation at all.

No one had warned him what it was like to reach forty-eight and to need to get the muscles moving each day. Kyle, a natural athlete, used to laugh at David’s preparations. Kyle was always limber, flexible, and ready to go when he jumped out of bed. David’s chest tightened—had been ready to go.

Twenty minutes later he left the house on a chilly March morning, and his breath puffed in the air. That early only a few cars passed as he walked up Fifteenth Street, turned right onto Church Street, and entered the CrossFit gym. He shook off the last of the dream as he hung his hooded jacket and his keys on a small pegboard near the door.

The usual morning crew was already there, warming up. One of his workout buddies lay on his side, stretching his shoulder with a hard rubber ball. Hey, Terry, David called.

Terry grunted, obviously having found a tight spot. Morning, Davy. Did you see the WOD today? Gonna be a bitch.

David glanced at the dry-erase board, where the coach wrote out the workout of the day, or WOD. Not too terrible, he thought. Three rounds of exercise, measured for time. Fifteen burpees followed by twenty pull-ups and twenty-five sit-ups in each round. He was slower than many of the men and women in his group, but he could get through that workout.

Following a warm-up, the coach, Rebecca, started the digital clock and called out, Go.

Most of the athletes were a lot younger than both Terry and David and flew through the early stage of the routine. One guy, Jack, was a show-off but had the body for it. After he finished his first round, he ostentatiously pulled off his shirt and threw it to the ground. The move exposed his wide shoulders, well-developed arms and pecs, and a light spray of hair across his chest. Torso glistening with sweat, hips hugged by his workout shorts, he was damned sexy, and he knew it. Just recently David had become aware of trying not to look. Geez. He could have a son that age.

David felt a little competitive fire and slammed through the next set of pull-ups as fast as he could. Squeezing his shoulders together, he pulled his chin above the bar, then dropped to full extension. He kipped to build rhythm for the next pull-up. Shoulders and biceps burning, he gritted his teeth and kept going. He quietly chanted, Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

He dropped from the bar, shook out his arms, and then flopped to the ground on his back to begin the sit-ups. His gut burned with the exertion, so after twenty-five, he gave himself a short breather and rested on his back. Two of the men and one of the women were already done.

Steeling himself mentally, he stood to begin the third set of burpees. God, he hated these. Down to his hands, kick out with both feet, execute a tight push-up, spring back to a squat, jump up into the air and clap his hands. Then another, and another. Sweat poured down his face. He called up a mental image of Kyle for strength. He saw Kyle in shorts and a tank as he finished a marathon, exhilaration on his handsome face as he crossed the line after four hours of running. The WOD was nothing compared to that.

David moved on to the pull-ups. As he neared the fifteenth, he felt a strange pain in his right shoulder but he kept working, kipping his body hard to get through.

Then the last set of sit-ups. He panted, abs on fire, almost done. Finally he finished the last sit-up and gasped out, Time. He lay on his back, sweat-drenched against the gym floor as he gathered his breath and his strength.

When everyone was through, Rebecca said, Nice work, everybody. Good intensity. She gave them some instructions for mobilizing their bodies to get ready for the next day’s WOD, and they were done. The following class was ready to take the gym floor. David moved off to the side of the room and grabbed his keys and hoodie. Jack wiped sweat off with his discarded shirt. Terry murmured next to David, Maybe we can get him to work out completely naked next time.

David laughed. Perv. He’s straight.

Terry said, Doesn’t mean we can’t fantasize. Besides, I think he likes to show off a little too much, considering how many of us queers are in the class. And I saw him watching you finish your WOD.

David grimaced ruefully. He probably just wants to see if I’ll have a heart attack so he can use his EMT training.

Terry said, Always with the age shit. You do great here, but you like to talk like you’re a hundred.

I feel like it sometimes. Those burpees kill me.

You got time for breakfast?

David nodded. Sure. That sounds nice.

They slid into a booth in a diner around the corner from the gym. David ordered coffee and an omelet with egg whites, chicken, and spinach as Terry rolled his eyes. I want chocolate chip pancakes with extra syrup, please, he said to the waiter. Then he looked back at David with one brow quirked. How you can eat so healthy after a WOD like that is sickening. What’s the point of working hard if you can’t indulge later?

What’s the point of working hard if you just eat back all the calories? You’ll see. At some point the metabolism just slows down, and you can’t eat everything in sight.

Okay, I’ll eat like a pig until I’m fifty, and then I’ll start starving myself like you.

What have you been up to? David asked.

I had a fun hookup over the weekend, but it was one of those no-strings-attached, on-the-down-low, what-the-fuck things. I doubt he even gave his real name.

And Joe really doesn’t mind when you play around with someone else?

Fuck no. Joe gets off on my stories. We have sex together too, sometimes. But with Joe it’s more… cerebral. He likes hearing about my adventures. Like last night this guy had this great cock that curved to the left…. Terry paused as the waiter returned with their food.

David chuckled. Stop with your stories. I’m not Joe, and I don’t want to hear the sordid details. Besides, I don’t have enough time to jerk off before I go to work.

Terry shoved a forkful of pancakes into his mouth and chewed, looking directly at David with his eyes narrowed. When was the last time you got laid?

Oh God. I haven’t had sex in, well, I don’t even remember, David lied. He did remember. It was the morning of the day that Kyle started chemo. They had both been scared, and it wasn’t particularly good, but they needed some way to connect. After that, Kyle was always weak and ill from the treatment, and the cancer was aggressive. They touched a lot, and held each other in Kyle’s hospital bed—but no sex.

And nothing since Kyle died.

Terry seemed oblivious to David’s train of thought. Although he knew David had lost his lover to cancer, he was aware of few of the details. Well, that’s why you act so fucking old. Get a piece of twink, and you’ll remember that age ain’t nothing but a number.

A big number. A scary number, David said, frowning.

Terry scoffed. "Davy, you know I’m not coming on to you, but you’re hot. Look at yourself, man. You’re sexy, strong, and agile. And you are hung."

Now how do you know that?

I’ve got eyes, right? Those shorts you wear to the gym don’t exactly hide what you’re packing. I saw you doing pull-ups, and that thing was swinging forward every time you hit the bar.

Embarrassed, David focused his attention on his food. Point taken. I’ll start wearing a jock.

No, that isn’t the point. You have a lot of life in you, and a lot to give. And I don’t mean below the waist. Terry grinned. "Or at least, not just below the waist. Shit, I only know you from the gym, really, but I can tell what a great guy you are. I’d better shut up now."

David smiled at him gratefully. Thanks. I don’t always realize when I’m throwing a pity party. I’ll work on it.

Terry forked up the last bite of pancake and chewed thoughtfully. Good.

•   •   •

As he got ready for work, David thought about Terry’s blunt comments. He stepped out of the glass-block shower enclosure and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror across the bathroom. Dropping his towel, he tried to look objectively. Good hair, though it always seemed to lie a little flat. A little bit of gray, maybe. He liked his face; he was often called handsome, though he had difficulty accepting that. Maybe distinguished was a better word, with the wrinkles around his eyes and the glint of silver in his brows. His shoulders were broad and well-defined, and he was proud of all the work he put into them. His chest was nice—not huge and barrel shaped, but smoothly muscled. He didn’t have a six-pack, but his belly was firm and tight. Healthy-sized cock, for which he was grateful. Guys and even a few women had seemed appreciative in his single days, and Kyle had loved it in his mouth.

He turned a bit and tried to see his backside. His ass still looked pretty good, probably from all the squats at the gym. He turned back to look at himself face-on and thought about what Terry said. Hot? Eh. Well, it isn’t like anybody is looking anyway.

Suddenly the self-examination struck David as slightly ridiculous. He said out loud, You were the vain one, but look at me now—ogling myself in the mirror.

The house answered him with silence.

Chapter 2

No Pain, No Gain

At work that day, David became aware his shoulder was tight and a bit painful. While reading through the draft of a legal brief, he found himself rotating it, trying to loosen it up. Some ibuprofen and ice only eased the discomfort. Again, on a conference call in the afternoon, he kept stretching and moving around. He couldn’t find a position that didn’t ache.

A bad night followed. He still couldn’t comfortably support his shoulder. When he began his morning warm-up routine, he suspected he’d injured something. He rolled his neck side to side and gently stretched his left arm across his body, pulling on it to loosen the shoulder. That was fine. Then the right. Damn. He’d tweaked something in there.

He stretched and pulled gently a bit more on his right shoulder. Yeah. Something was wrong, because it really ached. Eartha lay on the couch, topaz eyes on David as he tried to ease the pain. He said to the cat, I have no time for this. She purred at him.

At the office, he was reviewing a draft legal memo with an associate when she asked him, Are you feeling okay?

He looked up from the papers, surprised. Why do you ask?

You’ve been rubbing your right shoulder for the last few minutes, Elizabeth told him.

Was I? I didn’t even realize. I think I pulled it at the gym.

Have you tried ice?

David frowned. It didn’t really help.

You should see a doctor. Shoulder injuries can build up. My brother was a gymnast in college, and he had recurring trouble with his.

Elizabeth left to rework the memo based on his advice. After a moment, David decided to follow hers. He picked up the phone and called his regular internist, Chris McCracken. Is Chris available? he asked the receptionist. It’s David James.

His friend soon picked up the line. David, what can I do for you? David could hear the sounds of a busy practice over the phone.

Thanks for picking up. Listen, Chris, I think I’ve hurt my shoulder, and I’m wondering if I should come in.

You’re still doing that damn CrossFit, aren’t you? I see more injuries from that. Yes. I’ll have them squeeze you in, and we’ll get an X-ray. Two o’clock all right?

•   •   •

David was shown into the examining room, where he removed his suit jacket, tie, and shirt while he waited. Soon Chris rushed in, obviously in the middle of a hectic day. So what did you do to yourself? he asked. He sounded exasperated, but the look he gave David was sympathetic.

It’s this shoulder. David covered it with his left hand and slowly rotated it. It’s really getting painful.

Chris took his right arm and gently moved it up and then to the side. Relax. Don’t help me. Just let me move this arm around. He bent David’s arm at the elbow. Carefully raising it with a hand underneath and on the tricep, he watched David’s face. When David winced, he stopped the motion. Make a fist and push against my hand, he said, holding out his own open palm, wrist flexed back. David pressed and flinched almost immediately. Then Chris repeated the moves with the uninjured arm.

Right. Definite weakness in shoulder strength, and pain is evident in lifting and pulling on the shoulder. I doubt there’s a lasting injury, but let’s get some pictures and make sure nothing is broken. Nina will collect you in a minute and take you to X-Ray. I’d also like to send you to get an MRI. There’s a place downstairs, and I can pull a favor to get you in right away.

Thanks, Chris. I appreciate you seeing me so quickly.

Not at all, not at all. I’d tell you to give up the CrossFit, he said, glancing over David’s torso, but I can tell it’s working for you. He peered owlishly at him. Something to channel your energy, I guess. He didn’t say it, but David knew Chris thought about Kyle.

Chris had been the regular internist for both of them for years. He was the first one to suspect Kyle had a serious health issue. He stayed involved through all the oncology and chemo and everything else. As the cancer progressed, he was a real friend to David about how to deal with the realities of a very sick lover.

You aren’t overdoing it, though, are you? Chris asked.

Well, it’s harder work than anything I did in my twenties. But no. I don’t think I’m overdoing it. I pull back when I need to.

Hmm. Your shoulder may disagree, but let’s see what’s what.

Chris patted David’s good shoulder awkwardly and then rushed off. He was replaced in a few minutes by an assistant who took David to get X-rayed. Then he was directed to an MRI facility a few floors below Chris’s practice. Both procedures complete, he flicked through e-mails on his phone. He dealt with what he could, and flagged others for follow-up back in the office.

Eventually he was shown to Chris’s office, where the doctor brought up the MRI scan on his computer screen. He leaned in to study the image a bit as he hummed. Chris used his mouse to point an arrow at an area in white. That’s your rotator cuff. And this—he jiggled the mouse to make the arrow circle a small area—is a tear in that rotator cuff. I’d say it’s from overuse.

Shit, David sighed. How is it treated? With surgery?

I’d prefer to try a few things before we look at surgery. Ice and rest are important, of course. Lay off the pull-ups or God knows what you get up to in that chamber of horrors of a gym.

What about the pain? Will it go away on its own?

We could try a cortisone injection. My preference, though, would be to start you on some physical therapy first to see if that manages the situation. A dose or two of cortisone is fine, but after that there are some risks. I’d like to see how you respond to PT before we go that route. Chris scribbled on a prescription pad and tore off the page. Here, he said and handed the paper to David. Let’s try therapy for four weeks, three times a week. This clinic is right downstairs and quite good. And I’ll also give you a script for a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory.

Sounds like a plan.

I’m serious about the rest part, Chris admonished. I don’t want you putting any stress on that shoulder until I see you here again in, let’s say, two weeks. And no running either, at least for now. Swinging your arms while you pound the pavement is not ‘rest.’ Understood?

Got it, David laughed. Thanks again for letting me drop in like this. I’ll see you Friday for dinner, as usual.

Chapter 3

Starting Therapy

Brandon finished his early morning run and pressed the stem on his watch to stop the timer. Not bad, he thought—about two minutes off his best pace, but he wasn’t training for a race. Run finished, he headed right to the gym in his apartment complex for a quick weight workout. After that, ten minutes of ab work got his gut burning nicely.

Back in his apartment, he took his shower, then whizzed up a smoothie in the blender that a previous tenant had left behind. Leaning against the kitchen counter, he watched ESPN on his old TV as he downed the shake. The Nationals baseball team was prepping for its spring opener, and the pitcher was doing well in practice. That was good, should be an exciting season. Ah, the kick he used to get running bases in college, sliding into home…. He was dying to go see a Nats game live, but the tickets were too expensive for his budget.

It was irksome how tight a leash he had to keep on his finances. Before moving up from Texas, he’d fallen behind on his student loan debt. Now he had to make extra payments monthly to catch up. He was also recovering from the expenses of his move, the deposit on his apartment, and a busted radiator from urging his junk heap of a car to drive from Texas to Virginia.

His job as a therapist paid well enough and should eventually give him a good living as he gained experience. For the time being, though, nearly every dollar he made went to keep his head above water. Even with a long commute, he could afford only a tiny one-bedroom place in an iffy neighborhood. Rent, food, loan payments, credit card debt, the little bit he sent to his youngest sister for spending money in college, the small amount he tried to set aside in savings—it all ate up his paycheck and left him just a few dollars for some fun.

Brandon grabbed some reusable plastic containers, filling one with a grilled chicken breast and another with some leftover green beans. He set his lunch in a backpack and added his sneakers and clothes for volleyball after work. After tidying up the kitchen and making his bed, he was out the door by half past six.

Soon he was bouncing on his toes, bundled against the March morning chill as he waited for the bus. It took him from Annandale, Virginia, to the Pentagon, where he boarded the Metro daily into DC. His smartphone buzzed with a text from his buddy Ethan.

V-ball practice tonight @ 7:30. Don’t be late. Again.

Brandon texted back and grinned to himself.

K. Any progress with Colin?

Mind your own eff’n business.

Don’t scare him away. He’s got the kickball T-shirts on order for April.

Eat me!

Brandon smiled and put his phone away as the bus pulled up. He’d made some nice friends since he moved to the area from Texas, and they welcomed him readily into their circle. Best of all were the guys who liked sports as much as he did. Between biking, soccer, volleyball, and—when the season started up again—kickball, he had plenty of inexpensive ways to channel his energy. Sex was another good way to burn some of that off. He didn’t get nearly as much action as his new friends seemed to expect him to have, though. It wasn’t that he had difficulty attracting attention or flirting. It was more that he’d like to meet someone special—someone more than a hookup.

At twenty-six, it seemed high time he had a boyfriend. The problem was that most of the guys he palled around with were already paired up or, frankly, didn’t float his boat that way. If they were cute, they were just into hanging out at the bars and clubs. If they were studious or career driven, they weren’t interested in going out with a physical therapist who played and watched sports. So he made do with a nice daily jerk session. Okay, and the occasional Grindr connection when he really needed to feel a man’s hands on him.

Brandon made it to the clinic that morning with about fifteen minutes to spare. Dropping his backpack in the break room, he grabbed his water bottle. Chilly day, huh? he asked Josh, another therapist, while he filled the bottle. Did ya catch the Nats lineup? It sounds like it’s gonna be a good season. They shot the shit for a few minutes as Josh fixed his coffee.

Shari, one of the assistants to the four physical therapists in the clinic, dropped Brandon’s patient files at his work area. She’d placed a short summary on top. He skimmed the list as he drank water to get hydrated for what promised to be a grueling day. Mia Johnson had bad arthritis; she responded well with heat and stretching. Miz Williams—nice woman, but ugh, never did her home exercises. Maggie Cook had been injured in a bike accident two weeks back, and it was time to adjust her brace. A new patient, David James, had a torn rotator cuff.

Hmm. Fresh injury, I’ll wanna start simply. Reading through his patient notes he flexed his hands and thought about various massage strokes or exercises that should help. He was engrossed, and he vaguely heard the door to the reception area open and a baritone rumble. A few seconds later, a shadow fell over his desk and a deep voice spoke.

Excuse me. Are you Brandon Smith? The receptionist sent me back. Brandon looked up at a man who was holding a medical file out to him, and he almost let his jaw drop.

The guy was tall, a little over six feet, and wearing a suit. His hair was chestnut brown with some gray, parted on the left and smoothly combed up and to the back. He had cheekbones like a model. His eyes were such a brilliant green that Brandon wondered for a second if he wore tinted contact lenses. His eyebrows were thick but sharply defined, like upside-down checkmarks. And his full lips would definitely be soft to kiss. Seriously good-looking.

When the silence stretched, the hottie prompted, Umm…, and Brandon shook his head.

Sorry. I was just caught up in somethin’. He gave a big smile as he stood and held out his hand. I’m Brandon. Are you David?

David shook the offered hand with a strong, warm grip. His big mitt engulfed Brandon’s hand and drew from him a slight involuntary moan. David met his eye, and Brandon imagined he saw a little speculative spark there. Yes, I’m available. Though it was wishful thinking that the man would care.

Good to meet you, Brandon. I’m supposed to give you this file. David offered the manila folder again, which Brandon took as he gestured for David to take a seat. He opened the file as he sat down, and studied a screen print of David’s MRI on top.

Rotator cuff. Yeah. Tell me how you tore it.

I guess it was pull-ups. I felt a twinge when I worked out the other morning, and within a day, the pain was pretty intense.

I’ll bet. Rotator cuff tears suck donkey balls. Brandon glanced up from the file and then looked sheepish. Sorry. That was unprofessional. Have you ever had physical therapy before? he asked.

Donkey balls is about the size of it, so no worries. David grinned at Brandon. And no. I’ve been lucky. This is the first time I’ve had anything worse than sore muscles.

Brandon glanced over David’s suit jacket, tailored to show his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Well, obviously you work out a lot. So if this is your first injury, you must have great form.

David chuckled. I doubt that. I’ve just had good coaches that make me careful.

Let’s start with your routine. I can get an idea of what might have led to the tear and what kinda treatment and rehab will work best here. You mentioned coaches?

I’ve been doing CrossFit for about a year now. Before that I always ran and lifted weights on my own.

CrossFit is keepin’ therapists like me gainfully employed. Brandon murmured it, focusing again on the medical evaluation in front of him. He sensed, however, that he’d annoyed David, and he looked up quickly. Sure enough, David had a slightly pissed expression on his face.

I’ve never found anything as good as CrossFit, David said, irritation clear in his tone. It challenges me at a level of intensity that I didn’t manage to achieve on my own.

Brandon held up a hand in a placating gesture. Hey, I’m glad it works for you. I know some people are crazy about it. But understand, I only see the fallout when somethin’ goes wrong.

David relaxed a bit. That makes sense. I suppose it’s all in the quality of the coaching.

Sure. But even the best coach can’t prevent all injuries. It’s inevitable when you train that hard.

What’s the program here? How soon will I be able to get back to it?

Brandon tilted his head and studied the image of David’s shoulder. That’s hard to predict. I’d say we’re talkin’ weeks, not months. David groaned, and Brandon couldn’t help smiling a bit. Look, you’re not gonna lose all that muscle if you rest a few weeks. Let’s get started, and I’ll have a better sense of what we’re gonna try. Okay?

Brandon rose and gestured for David to follow him to a cubicle. It contained a padded table and curtains that he could draw for privacy. I’ll need to get at that shoulder to see what’s what. Take off your jacket and shirt and your T-shirt, if you’re wearin’ one. Just call out when you’re ready. Brandon left David and pulled the curtains around.

A few minutes later, David called out, Ready. Brandon slipped through the closed curtains, and he caught his breath. David had a beautiful body, bared to the waist. His shoulders were broad, with perfect traps connecting his long neck

Reviews for September

[carol420 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I really hate stories that have wonderful, warm, lovable characters that you really want the very best of everything for, and then when it’s all going well...some folks come along and suck the joy out of everything. I was really afraid that this was going to happen to David and Brandon. This turned out to be a beautiful and engrossing story of love and loss. Of coming to a point in life when you feel as though you are facing years of loneliness after a too short period of unbelievable happiness. Robert Winter has written these characters with such depth of feeling that you share David’s sorrow when learning that Kyle, his lover of 15-years, had died after a losing fight with cancer. This story begins a few years later when David meets Brandon as his physical therapist and the attractions is mutual and immediate. They say age is just a number, but they have to wonder could 22 years of age difference be too much and will their friends, on both sides, ruin their still fragile relationship with snide age, and “kept man” remarks? Both David and Brandon have to overcome their fears and prejudices, their feelings of worth, their different lifestyles status, and learn to not let the opinions of any others influence how they feel. All these roadblocks are written in such a way as to be completely believable and understandable. Robert Winter has truly written a love story that flows with honest feelings and understanding of the human heart. It's a story of finding a way to everlasting happiness with the one perfect person who makes you entirely whole. It’s absolutely beyond beautiful. I challenge anyone to get to the part where Brandon reads “THE LETTER” and not need a box of tissues. I cannot find enough words to say how touching this story was and how it grabbed me and held on long after the cover was closed. You can be sure that I will read it again and again, and again. I do that with books and authors that I love as much as I did this one. I believe that September was this author’s first book, (I could be wrong), but I have to reiterate how talented this author is, and how skillfully he entwines our hearts into this story. I have ordered the second book in the series plus one in another of Robert Winter’s series. He has joined my short list of favorite authors. Thank you, Mr. Winter, for this heartbreaking but in its own way, heartwarmingly wonderful experience.