We stopped and faced each other on the narrow and windy trail. I stared deep into his beautiful, fairy tale-like eyes and discovered the soft sides of his emotions. “Are you saying that I make you happy?”
“I’ve always been happy, Chad. But to tell you the truth, you make me happier. I can’t say that I’ve had a better twenty hours in my life.”
I joked, “Even with your sex toys on the raft?”
He laughed and nodded. “Even with Gary and Will.”
I brushed fingers across his cheek, an eyebrow, and leaned my face into his. I kissed him, slowly pulled my lips away from his lips, and said, “I won’t ever forget these hours with you. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I have fallen in love with you.”
“I think I feel the same way,” he admitted. “You do the strangest things to my chest and mind. You’re playing a wicked game with my life, and I don’t understand the rules.”
“Do you mean your heart?”
He patted his chest. “My heart. That’s it.”
We continued our walk together, side by side, and I promised him that I would make him out to be a horrible, charmless, and dogmatic artist who just happened to be filled with an unlimited amount of hate for the world. Honestly, I wanted to tell the world that Finn O’Rourke had probably fallen in love with me during those few hours together, and I had fallen in love with him; a personal story we both felt as a cliché; a certain story I wouldn’t share with anyone among the masses, until now, of course, years after my hours on Haven Island, tucked in the arms of my artist lover.
* * * *
The time had come to return to the mainland and my Prius. My single bag was packed, and Finn made sure I didn’t forget to take the green ashtray he had so generously given me. I wrapped the piece of artwork in clothes, protecting it during my travels to Columbus, and thanked him numerous times for the piece.
After kissing me again, holding me to his chest, he said, “You owe me one thing for the ashtray.”
“What’s that?”
“Another visit. Sooner rather than later, I would hope.”
I promised him I would visit him on Haven Island again.
And he promised me he wouldn’t shoot me with his Colt .45.
Together, we exited his cabin and followed the narrow trail back to the island’s shore and the two flat-bottom boats that were secured in the beach’s rocks. The late October wind tangled us together, and he kissed me again, for the longest time. The loon on the lake wailed, wishing me a safe goodbye.
Finn whispered into my ear, after brushing the tip of his tongue against its earlobe, “Come back here anytime you want. My island and heart are open to you, Chad Best. Always. You’ve changed me. You’ve given me love. I owe you my world and everything about me.”
I wanted to tell him that I loved him, but didn’t. Sometimes, it just felt too soon to say those special words. Instead, I told him, “Thank you for liking me, Finn.” And then I joked, “And thanks for being the best monster and villain on Lake Erie.”
He chuckled.
I chuckled.
And then he squeezed me against his hulking chest and said, “You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”
I thought of the article I had to write, Kade in Columbus, my job, and other things that grounded me to the city in Ohio. “Thanks for the offer, but I have roots at home.”
“I understand. No problem.” He helped me with the flat-bottom boat, manhandling it into the lake’s water.
I climbed inside the boat with my single bag, sat down, and found the oar. I waved goodbye to him, and he waved back. Then he and I pushed the boat out of the shallow water, into the lake, toward the mainland and far, far away from Haven Island and the man who had unconditionally changed me forever as well, one that I had unintentionally fallen for, under his nostalgic spell.
I rowed slowly, sure of my action. The bow of the boat lifted in the current, dropped, and lifted again. The chilly wind licked against my face, concentrating on my cheeks. I smelled pine on my clothes, mixed with the comforting scent of Finn O’Rourke.
A sadness swept over me, losing Finn until I would see him again. When could I get back to his island? Every fiber in my body felt overcome with the blues, and I couldn’t smile. Nothing felt right about leaving Finn and his island. But it had to be done. I knew that. Finn knew that. Reality couldn’t be escaped.
One hundred yards on the lake, the boat rose and fell on the waves, and rain started to fall out of purple-blue clouds. I looked over my right shoulder and saw that Finn still stood on the beach, watching my departure. A sick sensation of longing and loneliness swirled within my gut, and my heart thumped chaotically under my ribs as he waved to me, wishing me a healthy and safe goodbye.
I continued to row, confused about my twenty-plus hours with Finn O’Rourke. I couldn’t make heads or tails of our emotional connection. My heart felt as if it was being dragged through emotional mud, and I didn’t know why. Something within me, the place between the good thoughts of my mind and the essence of my soul, felt at a loss. Strangely, I sensed that I had grudgingly abandoned Haven Island and its owner, but didn’t really want to leave. Loss filled my center and caused me to stop rowing. Morning thunder swelled in the distance, forecasting another rainstorm.
I whispered to no one but myself, “What are you doing, Chad Best? What are you thinking? Keep rowing. You have no place on the island. You’re overreacting to your short stay and interest in Finn. Just keep rowing.”
The flat-bottom boat continued to bob up and down just as my mind had. During that frenzy of motion and emotion, it continued to rain. Wind and fresh sprinkles splashed against my forehead and bare neck, soothing my confusion, and caused me to feel less frazzled and unsure about my short stay on Haven Island. Everything about me became choppy, similar to the lake’s waves and current. An undertow had formed within my gut and mind, which left me to think unclearly, lost inside the small boat, on the lake’s surface. I tried to keep my composure, busy rowing.
Flashes of short scenes played out in my skull. My imagination had run away from me. I started to recap the hours I had spent with Finn: our emails shared back and forth; arriving on his precious island; almost getting shot in the back of the head with his Colt .45; walking with him to his cabin in the woods; his eyes devouring my naked chest; taking a tour of his cabin and barn-like studio; the continuous interview I had purposely put him through; becoming overwhelmed with his ashtray gift to me; experiencing the underground glass tunnel that he had created by his bare hands; our long string of vodka nightcaps and more conversation; sleeping next to him all through the night and making love to him in the morning; our breakfast date; the walk over Duskin Trail; climbing into his tree house and looking over the lake; and saying goodbye to the artist, feeling broken-hearted and lost, unsure of my decision to return to Columbus and…
My mind became a whirlwind of confusion, and my heart thumped in a state of bewilderment. I couldn’t stop thinking about Finn O’Rourke, under his hex, feeling as if I was being controlled by him. My mind floated to his comments about being an autumn cliché with him: something simple and so sweet. Man meets man, and they fall for each other during such a short period of time. Man battles himself, unsure of his reality and if he is making the correct decision in his life to return home, or circle back to the island and be with the one he has unmistakably grown affections for.
I had fallen in love with Finn O’Rourke. I couldn’t deny that in my heart and soul. The man had rocked my world for all the right reasons, opening up to me and welcoming me into his life. He had somehow, someway, become my lover, all in a matter of hours. My heart couldn’t prove otherwise. And nor could my thoughts. Finn had caught me in an emotional trap of sorts, wooed me, made love to me, and…
Kade Supine entered my thoughts and told me, Turn the boat around. Head back to the island and get your man. Stop the banter. Live this out. You and I both know Finn’s a good man. He’ll make you happy. He’ll t
reat you like a prince. The two of you can live a happy ever after life together. We know that, Chad. So stop with the dramatics and row back to a new life, back to the man you found in the rough, and be happy, for years to come, for an eternity, or whatever it takes. Do it. Just do it. Listen to me, Chad. It’s now or never. Now or never. Now or never.
I whispered out loud to the lake, wind, and autumn, or anything that listened to me, “We can’t have sex anymore, Kade. No more buddy sex between us. We’ll always be friends, though. Always. I want to be faithful to the ashtray artist. You get that, right? You understand that? Answer me.”
I get it, Chad. We’re friends. We’ll always be friends. Now, stop worrying about us and get your ass back to the island. Go…before the storm comes.
Kade left my head, but only temporarily, and the dimming sun tried to bleed through the gathering clouds. Another autumn storm approached, but I didn’t mind. The sprinkles started to turn into a steady rain, but not a downpour. I felt refreshed and didn’t know why. One could have guessed I was being baptized in a sense, changed—I really couldn’t know for sure, and didn’t, but it certainly felt like it.
“What do I do? Am I capable of making this decision? Is this what I want? Is the artist who I want? Do I really love him? Am I in love with him?”
Yes! Kade barked in my thoughts. Stop being a fool. It’s always what you wanted. This is your reality. The here and now. This is life, so grab on to it and take the biggest swing. Ride it while you can, before you can’t ride it at all.
Overcome by my own emotions, I dragged the single oar into the lake’s waves, and the boat started to turn to the right. I paddled some, dragged the oar again through the water, and felt the boat spin, doing a one hundred and eighty degree turn. Before I realized it, the boat headed away from the mainland and toward the island. And I started to hurriedly row with the single oar, floating overtop the lake, battling the waves and new storm.
Finn stood exactly where I had left him on the beach. He waved at me, but I was too busy to wave back. I continued to take long strokes with the oar and grinned from ear to ear. My heart felt as if it would explode in my chest with excitement. I started to sweat, careening over the lake, busy with the rowing, and continued to smile.
Row, Chad…row. Don’t stop now. You can’t stop now. Go and get your man, Kade coached, cheering me on.
Deep inside my chest and mind, I knew I wouldn’t be leaving the island for quite some time. Finn O’Rourke had me for the taking, and I had decided with Kade’s help to be a part of the artist and his world, for years to come, as men in love, partnered.
I continued to row…row…row.
Life was good.
Great.
THE END
20 Days of Tuck
Kenito, always.
Chapter 1: And Then I Fell
August 3, 2014
The Lake Erie Martini: 1/2 Part Dry Vermouth, 1/2 Part Sweet Vermouth, 6 Parts Rye Whiskey, 1 Twist Lemon Juice, 1 Lemon Twist.
There was ruckus in the Tudor. No, it was more than ruckus. It was like Armageddon was happening. Warheads sounded as if they were going off. China was attacking Mill Street. North Korea was being bitchy again. There was banging, a loud crack, and…I thought the ceiling was going to fall in on the Tudor around me. Who knew what was happening?
Miss Kitty was screaming at the top of her lungs, “Oh no you don’t! You are not bringing that piano in here, mister! No way in hell! Get that out of your mind right now! I don’t care if you perform with the Mastery Orchestra of Western Pennsylvania or not! There will be no piano in this house!”
I put my writing aside, a very boring review of Cutter Steven’s obscure novel Grace is High, and walked across the attic room, down its center, and climbed through the window to the right; the only entrance and exit to my cheap abode. Yeah, it was probably an illegal setup for Miss Kitty to rent out the room when it didn’t have heat, a door, or a stairwell, but whatever. I was twenty-five and could handle it. Who couldn’t at my age, right? Surviving was what life craved, and that was exactly what I was trying to accomplish.
I was true. There wasn’t a stairwell from the attic to Miss Kitty’s side yard. Nor did one plunge down into the house from my room. Instead, there was an aluminum ladder, and a line of bull rope that hung down from the window that was used a backup safety system, which hung out of the window like that pretty diva’s golden hair in Rumpelstiltskin. Challenging? It was. But it was worth the rent, which was only two hundred bucks a month, not a dime more, and I had all the privacy I needed.
It wasn’t the easiest life, though. My best gal, Frankie Marchetti, worked at the Mill Diner, and she fed me for free. Milt, another friend, let me use his shower (and sometimes his jock-body for sex, which is another story for another time). And Mom did my laundry when I dropped it off at her house on Tuesday afternoons. Mom lived two blocks away from Miss Kitty’s place. The three of those people were special in my life and treated me like a king. Without them, I was nothing, no one, zilch. And I loved them for what they did for me, helping me through life when I was a starving author, attempting to craft mystery with the working title, Red Martini Massacre.
The aluminum ladder was slick with summer humidity. I attempted to climb down its thirty rungs with about as much skill as a penguin, almost fell the three floors down to my death, grappled rungs with blood-pumping fists, and started to scream like a little school girl, loud and clear.
“Do you need help, guy?” a strange voice asked from the burned-out grass at the bottom of the ladder, next to the willow tree and garden that was infiltrated with pansies.
Who was down there? A terrorist? Miss Kitty’s favorite pizza boy? Her nephew, Peter, who visited like…never? I didn’t know. What I did know was simple: the voice was sexy and deep and sweet and masculine and gentle all at the same time, pure music to my ears.
My grip loosened and I was going to fall, unable to reach the bull rope; so much for an emergency save. My two-fisted grip was loosening and my feet were dangling in midair. Panicking, feeling my heart race and my head thud, and sweat brimming on my forehead, I yelled, “Can you catch me? Please, dear God, catch me!”
And then I fell.
* * * *
The dude who caught me was big, red-headed, and smelled like greasy hamburgers, which I didn’t mind. He was hulking with mounds of developed muscles, grinned from ear to ear, and showed off his pearly whites. He looked about twenty-four as he cradled me in his gym-arms like a little baby. He said, “You’re safe now, man. That could have been a mess.”
“How safe am I in your arms?” I asked, dizzy, confused, but loving his arms wrapped around me.
He was quiet for a second, contemplating my question. Then he said, “I’m not sure I know how to answer that.”
“Of course you do.”
“No, I don’t.” He shook his head, kept smiling, and said something about putting me down, which I agreed to (boo-hoo for me). Then he added, “You’re the guy who lives in the sealed-off attic.”
My heart thumped with chaos from almost dying. I nodded and replied, “The one and only.”
“You’re the book critic.”
“And writer. I’m Micah Berk.”
“Yeah, Miss Kitty told me that.” He checked out my looks, which entailed bright blue eyes, a slim body, five-ten frame, and thick black hair with a sweeping wave over my eyes.
“And you are?” I sounded snobby, above him, but really didn’t mean to.
“Tucker Martini. Everyone calls me Tuck.”
We shook hands.
“Your last name is the alcoholic beverage?” I asked, curious of him, and unable to remove my stare from his solid frame.
“Better that than Tucker Meth or Tucker Ebola, right?” he joked.
I laughed. “I guess so.” I was nervous, adrenaline-filled, and unable to think straight. Then I said, “Thanks for saving my life. I could have been killed.”
“Any good man will save another man’s life.
”
Although it was twilight out, smeared with the edges of night, something twinkled green in his eyes. It was just the way the evening sun floated into and over them, a quick and enchanting action that maybe caused me to like the man at first sight.
“So, you’re a good man?”
“I’d like to think so. Most men call me a great man.”
“We all like to think of ourselves as great men.” I didn’t know what I was saying. Words were spilling out of my mouth without any construction or thoughts.
At the front of the Tudor, Miss Kitty was yelling for him, calling out his name and asking where he had run off to and what he intended to do with his piano. He grabbed my hand, walked me to the front of the house, and heaps of chaos.
Chapter 2: You’re Adorable, Micah Berk
October 6, 2015
The Following Year
Miss Kitty said, “I have a surprise for you.”
“What kind of surprise?”
We were in her kitchen, downstairs from the attic, and enjoying morning coffee and pineapple Danishes that she picked up from the local bakery during her morning walk. Miss Kitty was on an exercising kick and was trying to eat foods that were better for her, minus the martinis she enjoyed every night before bed, and Danishes for breakfast. She sat on one side of the breakfast table positioned between us, and I sat on the other side. The Danishes were delicious, sticky, and soft, just the way we both liked them.
“I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you, Micah. What kind of friend and landlady would I be if I did that?”
I rolled my eyes and said, “I’m twenty-six now and can handle it. Don’t you think I’m too old for surprises?”
She shook her head between bites of Danish and admitted, “We are never too old for surprises, darling. Don’t ever ask that again.”
The conversation changed to the mystery I had gotten published, Red Martini Massacre. Henderson and Reed Publishing had picked up the three hundred page novel and was planning to publish it in hardback the next spring. I was excited about the book, the money I was going to make from it, and was already anticipating positive reviews from the literary critics.
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