by Beau North
“You were always handsome as the devil, you know. You still are. Now you look handsome and dangerous.”
He caught her wrist and held it, away from his face. The warmth of her skin, the smell of her, it was enough to drive him mad.
“Why did you come here?”
“I came to see you. And now that I’ve seen you, I’d like you to make love to me.”
“I don’t want your pity.”
“Good, because I don’t have any.”
He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Finally, he asked, “Good lord, why?”
She smiled and slipped a hand inside of his robe. She still kept her fingernails long. They scratched lightly at his skin, pulling at the coarse hair on his chest.
“Because we might have been awful at most of it, but we were always good at that.”
Her hand trailed lower, teased the waist of his pajamas. He closed his eyes for a moment and shuddered.
“And because I’ve missed you.”
He sucked in his breath as her hand slipped below the drawstring, finding him hard and hot and ready. She grinned. “And I think you’ve missed me, too.”
He swallowed. “Let’s go to my room.”
She shook her head and squeezed, making him gasp. “No, I don’t think so. Right here.”
“Abbie—” He said her name helplessly. Can’t you see that I’m not that man anymore. Can’t you see what has happened?
She answered by taking his other hand and putting it to the soft weight of her breast. His thumb grazed the peak without his even thinking about it. She sucked a breath between her teeth.
“Shhh. Touch me, Richard. They didn’t take all of you.”
Those words were the last crack in his reserve, and it was like no time had passed. They tore at each other, limbs and mouths and clothes falling everywhere. He yanked her dress up to find her wonderfully, scandalously bare underneath. His long fingers delved into her slick heat, making her throw her head back, calling out his name.
With a grunt, he hoisted her up, her legs going around his waist as he pinned her back to the wall. There was no time for lovemaking, not just yet. Right then, he could only answer the savage demands of the flesh, and as he drove himself into her, he felt a spark of something he thought he’d lost. Their thrusting bodies were the bridge from his past to his present. They didn’t take all of you.
She was right, of course; he was still strong and virile and, in that moment, wonderfully alive. Leave it to me to be saved by my cock. He very nearly laughed at the thought until Abigail moaned, her fingers digging into his shoulders. After that he stopped thinking altogether.
After the first time, he carried her to his room. They did make love then and took their time. He lay back and took her hips in his hands, loving the feel of their slow, athletic rocking. He touched every bit of her he could, sitting up to taste and suckle her breasts, to suck her lips between his teeth, capturing the moans that rose up from her throat. She came first, in a series of short, breathless thrusts, their bodies clapping together. He was close enough that he could take her hips and buck wildly against her until he felt the shuddering oblivion of his own climax. By the time they collapsed onto the mattress, the sun was setting, painting the city in shades of orange and dusky purple.
“Abbie,” he said, his breathing still ragged. She curled up beside him, her head on his chest.
“Hmm?”
He stroked her hair, now loose and tangled and utterly beautiful. “Why did you come here, really?”
She laughed. “It’s the funniest thing. Your friend was the one who told me you were back.”
Richard frowned. “Charlotte?” He thought for a moment. “Did she ask you…?”
Abigail sat up on one elbow and looked at him, eyebrow cocked.
“Did she ask me to come here for a good old-fashioned rutting? No. She told me you were back. She told me about…you know. I didn’t decide I wanted the rest until I actually saw you. Even with this”―she fingered the strap of his eyepatch―“you’re still catnip to me.”
“I’m sorry, you know. For the way I acted with you.”
She smiled her crooked smile. “I wasn’t much better. Hell, I was such a great girlfriend, I sent you running into war.”
“It wasn’t you,” he said―and meant it. She fell silent for a moment.
“Was it…was it her?”
He didn’t need to ask who she meant. He shook his head. “No. Nobody but me.”
Darling,
So sorry to duck out on you like a thief making off with the silver. I’ve got a busy week ahead and, well, why complicate things? I’m glad I came to see you. You are still a beautiful lover, maybe even more now than you were before. You remember last night, it was very late, and we were talking and falling asleep, nodding off only to wake up and answer the other’s question before dozing off again? You asked me then if I’d ever loved you, but we both fell asleep before I could say what I really thought, that you never needed my love. In fact, I think you liked me all the more because you didn’t love me, and that’s all right. I’m not a girl to get carried away with emotion, as you know, especially not love. And how could I? You were a stranger, a man who wore his disguise so well he thought it was his real face. You “went native” as they say. The only times I thought I knew you, saw you, was when you were inside me. And yes, to give your question its belated answer—I loved you then, in those moments. But it would inevitably build to its usual conclusion: explosion, eruption (that’s the word; it always was like Krakatoa with you, darling. When you came it was positively violent and, my god, I loved it every time) and immediately after, the mask would slip back in place. The unreachable eyes, the condescending smile, all before you’d finished panting over (or under, or behind) me. I didn’t love you then. I might have even hated you a little, so that’s something, I suppose. I’m not saying this to hurt you. I wanted to tell you that I see you, well, more of you anyway, than I did before. The mask has been replaced by an altogether flimsier model, and that’s just fine. I might not love you, darling, but I like you a whole hell of a lot, and that counts for more in my book than something as irrational and uncontrollable as love.
Kisses,
Abigail
Richard smiled as he read the note, left on the pillow next to his. It still smelled faintly of her perfume. He felt better than he’d felt in years, and it hadn’t been just the sex (though that had been exceptional). It was as if an unseen weight had been lifted off his back. He stood and stretched, tucking the note into his nightstand for safekeeping. Abbie. They’d never be more than they were to each other, but he found that despite all his prior claims, and despite her own unwillingness to concede to the emotion, he’d come to love her, in his own way. He wasn’t bothered or upset that she’d slipped out while he slept. He expected nothing and demanded nothing of her. He simply loved that she was, and that she’d seen past all his self-misery to find that he was still in there, somewhere. It wasn’t a cure; he’d learned well enough from Elizabeth that love couldn’t cure anything but loneliness (and not always that). Not a cure but a salve, a balm that soothed the pain long enough for him to understand he needed help.
He dressed, checking that the patch was firmly in place before making his way downstairs to find Anne and Charlotte sitting at the breakfast table, chatting over the newspaper. Charlotte looked up at him and smiled.
“Good morning.”
He bent and placed the briefest of kisses on the crown of her head. How would he begin to thank her for what she’d done for him? “Good morning, Char.”
Anne handed him a cup of coffee. “How was the show?” he asked.
“It was wonderful,” Charlotte said before Anne could answer. “Gene Kelly is the most incredible dancer.”
“He does fill out a pair of trousers,” Anne mused. Richard’s brows rose.
“What?” she said innocently. “Just because it’s not my preference doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a nice caboose.”
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Richard laughed and shook his head. Charlotte swatted her playfully. “Anne, really.”
“Don’t be mad, Ducks.”
“Oh, I’m not. In fact, I might even agree with you.”
They fell into a lively, slightly-too-ribald-for-breakfast conversation. Richard sat sipping his coffee, watching them with a smile on his face. He knew that his life was far from perfect, but in that moment, with the morning sun pouring in and the sound of female laughter echoing through the room, life felt very fine indeed.
21
BEN
March 2, 2003
Annapolis Medical Center
Annapolis
By the time he got to his third session with Dr. Francine Pryce, Ben could identify her habit of toying with her old-fashioned cat-eye spectacles when she was frustrated. Or maybe she was just bored.
“You’ve mentioned your father quite a lot,” she observed, adjusting the glasses again. Dr. Pryce didn’t take notes. She sat opposite him, legs crossed, hands loosely folded in her lap. The therapist’s office was done in tasteful blues and greens, the shades of sea glass. A vase in the corner held long, brown twigs that made Ben think of hungry, grasping fingers. He found his eyes drawn to it again and again.
“I’m writing a book about him,” Ben explained. “About our family.”
She nodded as if she’d expected this answer. “What made you decide to do that?”
Ben shrugged, ran a hand through his hair. It was getting too long. He didn’t want to be mistaken for one of those sad older men clinging to youth by wearing a ponytail.
“I don’t know, really. I quit my job. I have to do something.”
“Why your father?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, from what you’ve told me about your mother and her partner, that in and of itself, could fill a book. Two gay women raising a son in an era when it wasn’t a widely accepted practice?”
“I wasn’t aware it had become widely accepted since then.”
Her eyes lit up. “Exactly my point! You’re the scion of one of the oldest and most prestigious families in this country, who was raised by two women who love each other. I imagine that would have quite an impact on equal rights activists in states where gay marriage is still illegal, including New York.”
“I’m sorry. Are you suggesting I use myself as an example that kids from same-sex families turn out okay?”
She shook her head. “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m only wondering why you’re choosing to focus on one side of the story.”
“I guess I’m trying to solve something,” Ben admitted. “Dad wasn’t an easy person to parse. He was really closed off, you know? I thought that by digging into his life I could learn more about him.”
“Is there anything specific you’re hoping to find?”
“I guess I just want to know how he dealt with it.” Ben made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “You know, all this.”
Dr. Pryce laced her fingers together, shifting in her seat. “You mean how he dealt with his own post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“He managed somehow.”
“Have you considered that his trauma was the reason why he was closed off, as you said?”
“I mean…it makes sense, I guess.”
“And you’re not worried about being closed off to the people in your life? What about this woman, Keisha?”
Ben allowed himself a moment to think of Keisha, feel the ache of missing her.
“She’s the reason I’m here.”
Dr. Pryce smiled at him. It was the smile of someone about to share a secret.
“It is good that you’re here, but I think we can delve into your own experiences without using past examples as a shortcut to having a functional life, because function alone isn’t enough. Function does not equal fulfillment. So I’ll give you some homework. My goal for these sessions is to guide you through various methods for coping with traumatic experiences, including good mental hygiene. What I’d like to hear from you next time is what your goals for these sessions are, besides trying to get back into your girlfriend’s good graces.”
Ben felt a pang of guilt. She was right.
“Ah. Okay. You got it, Doc.”
She stood and he followed suit, gathering his coat.
March 25, 2003
Annapolis
The soles of his sneakers slapped against the hot pavement in time with the song in his head, the name of which he couldn’t quite place. It was old and folksy, something he’d heard on one of Elizabeth Darcy’s albums. I wish to the lord I’d never been born, or died when I was young. In Ben’s opinion, people didn’t give bluegrass music enough credit. It might sound plinky and antiquated, but bluegrass was dark.
He’d been thinking a lot about his father, and the Darcys. The time he’d spent with Tom had been illuminating, emotional. Necessary. They were two grown men who’d never been fully able to square the image of their fathers with their own experiences. The Richard Fitzwilliam that Ben had known had been a laconic man who preferred evenings out on the deck, smoking cigarettes and watching the boats slide across the bay as the sun went down. He certainly didn’t fit with the image of a deeply romantic, globetrotting playboy whose little black book was as hefty as the yellow pages. And Tom…Tom Darcy had never known if his father had truly accepted him for who he was. Ben thought it heartbreaking, the years they’d lost to uncomfortable silence. Ben had lived with mystery, but Tom had lived with an agony of uncertainty. Do you think he knew? Tom had asked him after too many whiskey sours. About me? The not knowing had shaped him, changed him. Who might he have been had he known how Will Darcy really felt about his son? Ben had invited Tom to come down and visit for a while, offered him a chance to help Ben with his research. He only hoped Tom would take him up on the offer to learn more about their family.
His lungs burned as he turned onto Farragut. The incline was gradual, but he felt it in his calves and his quads, a trembling ache that would later make his legs feel like rubber. The running was getting easier, and his therapist thought it was good as long as he didn’t over-do it. You are predisposed to developing addictions, based on what you’ve told me about your family history and your own history with alcohol. Moderation is a good thing, Ben. It was wise counsel he supposed, but he loved the way he felt every tendon and joint when he ran. It was exhausting, painful, but he knew that he was alive and present in his own body.
He felt a surge of triumph as he came to the top of the grade, where Farragut intersected Rowe. The light was still red, so he jogged in place to keep himself moving. He watched the cars rolling past, their drivers thinking about their day, or the night ahead, what’s for dinner, who’s getting laid, how long is this red light going to last?
Bang!
Ben knew, he knew, in his logical mind that the sound he heard to his left was nothing more than a car backfiring. A simple mechanical blip. It really didn’t sound like anything but a car backfiring, but it startled him in such a way that he felt himself transported back, back to that day he wanted to forget, the day that was still featured on television news almost every night. His chest constricted, a hard knot of pain pulling tighter and tighter with every breath. His feet—so agile only seconds ago—faltered. The ground is moving. Ben knew it wasn’t the same sickening feeling of the earth rising up under his feet while over a million tons of steel and concrete, glass, paper, and flesh came crashing down behind him, but logic was entirely divorced from feeling in that moment, and he stumbled, arms pinwheeling for balance, somehow finding his feet before tipping into traffic. He grabbed the light pole like a drowning man grasping at a life preserver. I can’t breathe! The thought shot white-hot through his mind. Black spots bloomed like mold across his vision.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” someone asked. There were hands at his elbows. Ben couldn’t move, couldn’t respond. His fingers froze, bent at strange angles.
“Is he having a stroke?”
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��I don’t know. Call 911!”
“Hey, hey, you’re okay, man. You’re okay. Just breathe.”
Ben tried to remember what his therapist told him about anxiety attacks. Deep breaths. Close your eyes. Acknowledge that this is a panic attack.
He repeated the last bit over and over in his mind. Slowly, he felt the knot in his chest loosen. The trembling gradually subsided as Ben continued to take deep breaths. When he realized he wasn’t dying, other voices began to encroach on the repeated mantra. He opened his eyes to see faces, black, brown, and white, looking down at him with identical expressions of concern. He was also surprised to find that he was lying down on the strip of grass to the left of the sidewalk. Don’t think about how many dogs have pissed here.
“I think I’m okay,” he managed.
“Like hell you’re okay,” a familiar voice said. The crowd parted, and there was Keisha, in a perfectly pressed uniform, unrolling a pair of latex gloves.
“Keisha?”
She turned toward the crowd. “All right, ya’ll break it up. Thank you for your help. We’ll take it from here.”
He nodded and thanked the people who’d stopped to help him. A few seemed reluctant to leave him but were persuaded by Keisha’s lemon-faced partner.
“What are you doing here?”
“I saw a bunch of people huddled around a rich white man lying on the ground. I thought I’d see if they needed help.”
Ben snorted. With considerable effort, he sat up.
“Careful, B&E.”
“I’m really okay.”
Her eyebrow lifted in dry disbelief. God, he’d missed her. “You look like a fish belly, and you’re shaking like a leaf. I’m staying with you till the ambulance gets here.”