Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  “What do you think I’m doing? I put my best soldier on the ground, right on top of the situation.”

  “A soldier who’s charming the pants off the wife.”

  One of Aphrodite’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose in challenge. “Once in a great while, temptation can be resisted, I hear.”

  “Maybe so,” he said, noting the triumphant gleam in Aphrodite’s eye, “but do you honestly believe it wise to subject Ruth to Cupid’s charms while her husband’s loyalty hangs by a thread?”

  Hephaestus could have sworn he caught a devious grin flicker across Aphrodite’s face. “I believe the Council will look favorably on the added challenge when evaluating Cupid’s progress.”

  “Which will be a moot point if Cupid fails to get them past their Liminal Point.”

  “Aren’t you the one who keeps telling me to have faith in Cupid? Have you lost yours?”

  Generally speaking, no, he hadn’t, but there was that immediate gratification factor Hephaestus just couldn’t be sure Cupid had mastered. “It’s the mortals who have me worried, my love. If either of them strays, they may never recover. You’d be condemning your son to a life on Earth away from you. Is that what you want?”

  “People heal from unfaithfulness. Look at us.” Aphrodite craned her neck and smiled cruelly.

  How would it serve Hephaestus to admit their marriage was a sham? So instead, he railed. “That’s your solution? Just let them follow their carnal desires and hope they’ll find their way back?”

  “I’m done coddling the boy,” Aphrodite said, with an inflection that sounded all too much like the God of War’s, “and I strongly suggest you do the same.”

  Her barely veiled threat blew an icy breeze across Hephaestus’s heart. He walked soundlessly to their bed, a feat for the big man, picked up the gaiascope, and retired to his workshop to watch his scheme unfold.

  24

  Bro Code

  Pan pounded the heavy bag, his fists throwing off clouds of chalk and dust into the still gym air. The abuse felt good, his need for physical release so intense it almost scared him, but what else could he do? There were only so many boys he could fuck in a day.

  Jagger was always game, but charming as he was, the stripper lacked Cupid’s bright-eyed view of love, and his eyes were the wrong shade of blue, and he didn’t get half of Pan’s jokes. Pan tried to backfill the missing pieces—one from Boy A and another from Boy B—as if he could assemble the perfect mate like some Lego project. But no matter how many parts Pan collected, the picture just wouldn’t add up.

  He needed to be mindful at the gym, especially when his system kicked into overdrive. You don’t pile twice your body weight on the bar and expect to go unnoticed. The uber-jacked regulars knew exactly what a body that lifted 400 looked like, and Pan didn’t have one. Suspicions would be aroused. If this compulsion to punish his muscles persisted, Pan would have to reconsider installing a home gym—ah, but then, he’d miss out on the locker room. Nothing quite compared to the communal, naked lounging in sauna and steam rooms, especially when Pan was cruising for a hookup.

  As spent as he was, the walk back to the locker room triggered a predictable response, an urge Pan had recently stopped resisting though these bathroom tumbles only offered temporary relief. His all-you-can-eat buffet was starving him for what he really craved. At least there didn’t seem to be any backlash beyond Pan’s growing weariness. In a cosmos stirred by capricious deities, “no harm done” worked for Pan.

  Dripping with sweat and body odor and exhaustion, he pushed through the locker room entrance, sniffing out his options like a lion hunting for dinner. Pan’s eye caught on a lean, dark-haired twenty-something who’d bent over to untie his shoes. He had a runner’s body, slim and toned. He would do.

  The boy lifted his head, smiled at Pan, and pumped out an intoxicating bouquet of want. Pan smiled right back and jutted his chin toward the toilet stalls. A warm curl of desire snaked through him as the boy peeled off his shirt and fell into step behind him.

  As they passed the last row of lockers, Pan heard the muffled ring of his phone. No mistaking the “Stupid Cupid” ring tone. Pan darted off course toward locker 134, and the boy, not comprehending, followed him.

  Pan turned and addressed him as if they’d known each other for years. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this call.”

  “Oh.” Still dazzled, the boy asked, “Should I wait?”

  Pan chuckled. “Sure, if you’re not in a hurry.” To sweeten the deal, Pan pulled the sodden tank over his head and drew his hands, at the ends of artfully flexed arms, through his sweaty ginger locks.

  The boy grinned. “I’ll wait.”

  Pan nodded and even tossed in a wink. “I’ll meet you in the shower.”

  “All right,” the boy said, drinking in one last look at Pan’s midsection before turning away.

  Pan grasped the key dangling from his wrist and pushed it into the keyhole. The metal door fell open, and the ringtone blared louder. Shit. How long had Cupid been calling? The workouts were Pan’s one cell-free refuge. Had he overplayed his freedom?

  Pan unzipped his leather gym bag and dug through the clothes until his fingers met metal. He tapped “answer” and slapped the phone against his ear. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Dodged a bullet. “What’s up?”

  “Cheri’s asking about you.”

  “Cheri? She called you?” Here, Pan had thought Cheri got him, was cool with what they had.

  “No, not exactly. I’m at her house.”

  Dread crept up Pan’s spine. “Why would you go there?”

  “I didn’t exactly go anywhere, more like I was driven. Think about it, Pan. I didn’t even know where Cheri lived until she answered the door.”

  “Wait, are you saying your heart-thing took you to Cheri? She’s your next . . .” Bad thoughts came easily to a god who’d witnessed so much evil. “Q, for fuck’s sake, tell me you’re not fucking in love with Cheri!”

  “No. Just Ruthie.” A humorless laugh followed. “It wasn’t my heart this time. It was my car. I swear, Pan, it literally drove itself here.”

  Pan leaned inside his locker in case any mortals were within earshot. “Your car steered itself?”

  “Yes. I didn’t even have a change of clothes with me. I peeled off my coveralls in the driveway, but there’s paint splattered all over my boots, in my hair . . . I’m a mess.” As if a little evidence of a rough-and-tumble workday wouldn’t make Cupid even more desirable.

  A string of curse words fluttered through Pan’s mind, but none met his lips. Q was telling the truth, Pan was sure of it, but that didn’t unfuck the situation.

  “And now you’ve reasoned you’re meant to screw Cheri, so you’re calling me for permission?”

  “I don’t know. I’m confused.”

  “Damn straight, you’re confused. Cheri is mine.”

  Wow, where the hell did that come from? Okay, calm the fuck down.

  Pan pulled in a deep breath, then immediately wished he hadn’t. Locker room air, a thousand times more potent to Pan’s sensitive snout. Dirty socks and smelly pits and sweaty jocks and that ever-present pre-mildew of damp towels.

  Despite Pan’s growing agitation, Cupid pressed boldly on. “I know you and Cheri were together for a while, but the gods must have delivered me here for a reason, right?”

  “It’s a test, Q. They love to test us, remember?”

  “But Cheri’s not my Worthy, and she’s not married.”

  Pan pinched the bridge of his nose, a nervous tic that did little to relieve his stress but helped—marginally—with the stench. “Okay, look, I know you’re unacquainted with the Bro Code, so let me fill you in. A guy doesn’t go sniffing around his best friend’s territory.”

  “Oh.” Cupid’s end of the conversation went silent,
and Pan assumed he was working out the rules. “I think she asked me to call you before we . . . because she wants to know if you still care about her, Pan.”

  “That is between Cheri and me. You need to stay out of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because keep your dick away from Cheri, that’s why. I am warning you, Q.”

  “I’m not blind, Pan. Ever since that night at Versailles, it’s been a nonstop parade of men in and out of your bedroom. And your truck,” he added. And Cupid didn’t even know about the locker room.

  “All of that is none of your business and totally beside the point.”

  “How?”

  “Why? How? What are you, a child?” Wasn’t Cupid supposed to take Pan at his word? “Whatever happened to your fuck buddy . . . Gail, was it?”

  “That’s disgusting, Pan.”

  “Oh, gimme a break. What would you call it?”

  “Over.” A few beats went by before Cupid spoke again, his voice calm, as if he’d assumed the advisor role. “I can’t see Gail anymore. It’s causing problems. But that’s not important right now. What should I tell Cheri?”

  “Hmm, how about, ‘Been nice catching up. Goodbye’?”

  “Fine,” Cupid said quietly.

  “Fine? That’s it?”

  “Yes, Pan. That’s it. You know I’d never do anything to hurt you, not on purpose, anyway.”

  Huh. “Thanks, Q. I appreciate that, and obviously”—an unexpected lump welled up in Pan’s throat—“I feel the same.”

  “I know,” Cupid answered in his trusting, gentle tone. “See you at home?”

  Home with Cupid. That would be a nice change of pace from Pan’s frenetic night-crawling. “Yeah, be there in a bit.”

  Pan kicked off his socks and shoes and tossed them into the locker, quickly followed by his shorts and jock. Strutting like the demigod he was, Pan made his way to the showers and located his bonbon. The boy had a pretty face: interesting, almond-shaped eyes, a nose that blended in without calling attention to itself, and a pair of cherry-pink lips that opened into a wide smile at Pan’s approach.

  A mild wave of guilt hit Pan as he pressed the boy’s back to the tile wall and closed in for a kiss. He’d spoiled Cupid and Cheri’s fun, and here he was, taking all this for himself. But he needed to shower, and someone had to soap all his nooks and crannies.

  That was the right thing to do, Pan convinced his reflection as he gargled and spat. A sated Pan was less vulnerable to Cupid’s allure. By the time Pan opened his locker again, he’d erased his conscience of any residual crumbs of guilt.

  He hummed to himself as he pulled out his bag and set it on the bench. Out of habit, he checked his phone: two text messages. He’d learned his lesson earlier—Pan rarely made the same mistake twice—and before reaching for his boxers, he tapped in his password and opened the messages, both from Cupid.

  Said our goodbyes, went to leave, car wouldn’t budge.

  So much for Pan’s good mood. With a sinking feeling, he opened the second message, sent roughly ten minutes later.

  Cheri’s OK having us both. Guess I’ll be home when the gods allow.

  Oh, hell no. Fuck Q. Fuck Cheri.

  Pan tapped the screen so hard, he felt the aftershocks in his fingertips long after the message was sent:

  DO NOT BOTHER COMING HOME!!

  25

  Kicked Out

  Cupid woke before his 6:30 alarm, slipped quietly out of Cheri’s bed, and showered without waking her. He was much relieved not to have to make conversation with her this morning after a fitful night spent dreaming of fire-breathing, redheaded monsters and herds of angry, wild goats. Cupid’s thoughts were gnarled, and his words could not be trusted. If last night was, indeed, a test, Cheri would have awarded him the highest marks. Cupid could be proud of that much.

  The hot shower was a much-needed gift. Dried paint blobs came back to life under the stream. Thick, yellow snakes slid from Cupid’s hair, shimmied down his body, and slithered into the drain. At least his body was clean. He hastily dressed in yesterday’s underwear, T-shirt, and coveralls. Lucky for Ruthie, her nose would pick up only a mortal’s fraction of his stench; still, Cupid would have to keep his distance today.

  If the gods were displeased, they had left no discernible evidence. (Out of habit born of recent necessity, Cupid had carefully examined his genitals before, during, and after sex with Cheri and noted no anomalies.) That Cupid could drive himself to work without outside influence over heart or steel seemed like a good omen as well. Painting occupied Cupid’s hands but freed his mind to grind over his problems.

  Pan’s text was a worry. He didn’t understand this bro-code concept any better now than when Gail had accused him of taking Zach’s side. When his car wouldn’t leave Cheri’s, and then she so willingly consented, Cupid had assumed any obstacles had been cleared. All Cupid knew for sure was that he’d turned out to be a shitty friend—and to Pan, of all people.

  Pan had never been able to hold a grudge for long. If Cupid could plead his case in person, Pan would see the sincerity written all over his face. After work, Cupid would head home, or what used to be home, and beg forgiveness.

  At four o’clock, Cupid sealed the paint cans, folded his drop cloths, and took Pookie outside to do her business. As the inevitable confrontation drew closer, anxiety bloomed like a welt from a physical blow. What could he say to make Pan believe he’d meant no disrespect? Would Pan even listen? Maybe if Cupid could get Pan to consume enough of those nasty beers he loved so much . . .

  Of course! Cupid would bring a host offering to Pan. Not just any gift, but one that would also weaken Pan’s resolve to stay angry with him. It would have to be something special, an upgrade from Pan’s normal swill. A nice bottle of wine on par with the cabernet Cupid had taken to Mia’s that first time.

  Unlike Pan, Cupid did not have Dionysus’s cellar at his disposal, but luckily, the mortals in Ruthie’s neighborhood consumed remarkable quantities of fine wine. The local shopkeeper was happy to point Cupid to two “perfectly delightful” choices, and all Cupid had to decide was whether he preferred black cherry or tobacco undertones, which seemed like a trick question.

  Something felt off about using Pan’s credit card to buy the gift, but until Cupid finished his job at Ruthie’s, he had no other source of funds. As he signed the slip, Cupid vowed to pay Pan back with his very first sixty-three dollars earned. He set the bottle gingerly on the passenger seat beside him, vaguely wondering if it would help to spring for tulips.

  All of his internal organs seemed to rise into his throat when he turned onto Pan’s street. He started up the driveway and pressed the button on the garage door opener. As the door click-clacked up its tracks, the full measure of Pan’s fury became clear. All traces of Cupid’s workshop—the shelves he’d crafted, his tools, his worktable—had been removed. In their place, in the middle of what had been Cupid’s side of the garage, sat a single green plastic trash bag tied off in a knot. Taped to the front was a lumpy, white envelope with the letter “Q” scrawled in thick, black marker.

  Cupid parked the car in the driveway, stepped out on shaky legs, and plucked the envelope off the bag. Inside was a small key on a plain, metal ring and a folded piece of lined paper ripped from the pad in the kitchen.

  I’ve moved your building supplies to a storage locker at the South Side Apartments. Sleep wherever you want (oh wait, you already do)—anywhere but here. Keep the car. Keep the phone. Use the credit card to buy whatever you need. Do not contact me. I will be in touch.

  Not “good luck” or “I’ll miss you, old friend” or even a goodbye. Not a single indication of any personal connection. Pan would have offered more warmth to a stranger on the street.

  Cupid stood frozen to his spot in the garage, staring at the door leading into Pan’s home, a door he was unlikely to ever walk through
again. So much for working it out. Pan’s truck was here; he had to be inside. Was he listening to Cupid’s movements from the other side of the door, heart beating out of his rib cage too? Or was he settled indifferently on his couch with a beer in one hand and his TV clicker in the other? Gods, how Cupid wished he could jump onto the cushions beside him.

  He hadn’t thought it possible for his heart to break so completely in this new way. How much more did Cupid have to learn about the throbbing organ in his chest?

  Hoisting the giant bag over his shoulder like a thief, Cupid lumbered to his car, swung the bag into the back seat, and closed the door with a thud. He climbed into the driver’s seat and scrubbed his hands up and down his face. Tears stung his eyes.

  The wine bottle mocked him from the passenger seat, the peace offering that never had a chance. No use keeping it for himself. Cupid grabbed the bottle by the neck and forced his body out of the car a second time. He opened the passenger door—what used to be his side—of Pan’s truck and placed the bottle gingerly on the seat. Because the wine was expensive, Cupid drew the seat belt across the bottle and locked it into place.

  Cupid took one last wretched look around the garage, then trudged back to the Prius and closed the garage door. He stared through the windshield at his Earth-home where he no longer belonged. Now what?

  His first instinct said “Mia’s,” but even Cupid could not be that selfish. Mia was the one relationship he’d gotten right (in the end). If the gods were keeping tally—and they always were—Cupid needed to keep that point on the scoreboard.

  He considered contacting Gail, but her home had never been an option before, and it certainly wasn’t one now. Cheri was tempting, but Cupid knew better than to rub fresh salt into that open wound if he hoped to have any chance of repairing his rift with Pan. The logical choice was the hotel where he and Gail had rendezvoused, or any number of other hotels in the downtown area, but the idea of a cold, lonely, anonymous room left Cupid with an ache his heart would not survive.