by Jay Hogan
“Well for starters we’re here, aren’t we? Surprised the shit out of me. I mean, let’s face it. You’re a bit… ah, spiky…”
He cocked an amused brow. “Spiky?”
Nah, I wasn’t gonna touch that. “… and you could’ve apologised over the phone. You didn’t have to do the whole coffee thing.” I waited, but he just sat there looking flinty and gorgeous. Fucker. He was gonna make me do this the hard way. Well, okay, then. “Just don’t hit me for a minute, okay?”
“No promises.” He took a mouthful of his drink.
“You say you don’t date much,” I continued. “And then you tack on ‘obviously’ like I should just understand that. Well, I don’t. I get that you have this—” I waved my hand around. “—condition? That you need to be up close and personal with bathrooms on a regular basis….”
An almost grin cracked his face before he swallowed it quickly, but I’d seen the chink.
I continued. “I genuinely want to understand.” The simple truth of that surprised even me. “If you don’t want to explain, then fine, we’ll go our separate ways, though I personally think that’d be a shame. Why not educate me? I promise to keep my dickheadishness to a minimum.”
This time I did get a smile and I felt like I’d won the fucking lottery.
He pushed his coffee cup aside, leaned back in his chair, and eyeballed me. “You’re an odd one, Caleb Ashton.”
I grinned. “That has to be a step up from a dickhead, right?”
“A smidgeon.”
My grin widened. “A smidgeon, huh? I’ll take that.”
He laughed and ran his gaze slowly over my face. My cheeks heated under the scrutiny, but I didn’t move a muscle.
He leaned forward to rest on his elbows. “First you tell me what you know about Crohn’s disease.” There was a decided edge to his voice. “You must have looked it up… if you’re as interested as you say you are.” He leaned back again, arms crossed.
If I wasn’t being tested, I’d eat my fucking hat.
“Wow. Tough crowd,” I half joked. “Did I look it up? Yes. But when I started reading, I realised I’d prefer you told me. It read like it’s different things to different people and the websites mostly just give worst-case scenarios.”
“How do you know that’s not me? A worst-case scenario?”
I held his eye. “I don’t. But I figure I’d rather hear that from the horse’s mouth so to speak. It didn’t put me off, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m here, aren’t I?”
He considered that for a minute. “But you read something. So, CliffsNotes?”
“Is this a quiz?” I tried to joke.
He didn’t answer.
Fail.
I sighed. “Fine. Crohn’s disease. Cause, unknown for certain but there are the usual suspects: genetics, autoimmune responses going haywire, and environmental stuff like infections and such.” I paused.
He nodded. “Go on.”
Really? I thought that was a pretty good effort from memory, and I was about done jumping through his hoops to be honest. “It fucks with your bowel and you have to shit a lot. Satisfied?” I sat back and threw my hands up in the air.
For a second he just stared at me, and I thought for sure I’d blown it. “Shall I just leave now and save you the bother of dropping my arse?”
Butterflies rallied in my stomach as Drake seemed to give the option genuine consideration for more than a few seconds. Then his face cracked into a wide grin and he laughed, loudly. It was the sweetest goddamn sound, and I couldn’t help but join in. After a minute he drew breath and wiped his sleeve across his eyes.
“Well, fuck me, Caleb.” He was still chuckling.
I cleared my throat and took a moment. Go big or go home, right? “If I were ever lucky enough to have that opportunity—” I eyed him pointedly. “—I do understand that it may not be as straightforward as I might be used to.”
His smile vanished and he simply stared at me, part horrified, part embarrassed, and part something I couldn’t quite read. I was tempted to apologise but held back. He needed to know I’d read enough to understand that part at least, so I held his stare, careful to keep my expression neutral. After what seemed like an hour but was likely less than a few seconds, his shoulders relaxed, and I released the breath I’d been holding.
“You don’t know half as much as you think you do, detective,” he said with a forced smile.
“I’m not pretending to, Drake. I’m only asking that you explain it to me.”
He dropped his gaze, finished his kombucha, and leaned back in his chair. “I was diagnosed at seventeen. Could’ve been onto it a year or so earlier, but name me one teenage boy who wants to sit down and discuss their embarrassing toileting details with their doctor and parents present. It was stupid, of course. The earlier you get diagnosed, the more chance you have of inducing remission and controlling the advance of the disease. Trouble is, you’re so fucking embarrassed and usually barely managing to cope as it is that you put it off, hoping it’ll just get better on its own. Add being a teenager to that and… yeah, never gonna happen.
“My mum forced the issue when I lost so much weight my jeans were hanging around my ankles. I’d taken to doing my own washing so she wouldn’t see the blood stains and occasional other delight on my underwear. She was freaking out because she thought I was anorexic, if you can believe it. In the end I was lucky. I got diagnosed correctly right off the bat, lots don’t. But my GP was onto it and I got good referrals right away.
“After all the tests and procedures were in, they started me on medication, and I met with dieticians and support people. Spent two months in hospital and another three at home but I got it under control. Other than the odd mild flare-up that I mostly manage at home, last week case in point, and one bad one that needed a longer hospital stay, I’ve been pretty much in remission since.”
“That’s a good sign, right? For the long term?”
He nodded. “But it’s not all sunshine and roses. With Crohn’s, remission is in the eye of the beholder and the majority of us aren’t lucky enough to ever have it disappear completely. There’s types of remission, like clinical remission, where there are no outward signs of the disease but the insides are still dodgy, and histologic remission, where the bowel lining actually heals and there’s no active inflammation, and… well, you get the point.
“But for us dweebs having to live with this shit, for the most part remission simply means no hospitals and manageable day-to-day symptoms, a bit of diarrhoea and pain, some minor flare-ups, and maybe some arthritis….”
“Arthritis?”
“Yeah, go figure.” He dragged a hand across his jaw. “About a quarter of us get fucking arthritis as a free upgrade with our standard Crohn’s package. Probably to do with some immune reaction, or so they say. To be honest, no one really knows a lot about any of this for certain, which really inspires confidence, right? So, yeah, remission basically entails a better quality of life but mostly the disease is still there in the background, chewing away, just waiting for the opportunity to break through and send us to our knees.”
I winced. It sounded fucking miserable.
Drake caught the grimace and shrugged. “Hey, on bad days it’s no Easter parade, that’s for damn sure. Stress, infections, missed meds, the wrong food at the wrong time, and sometimes just for no goddamn reason at all, it’ll flare, and all hell breaks loose on your insides. Sometimes it lasts for a few days, sometimes weeks, sometimes months. And some poor bastards live with it like that their whole damn lives. Not sure I could do that….”
I got the message.
He continued. “The doctors were really upfront about the fact it wasn’t curable and there could be complications and surgery down the line. Shit like bowel resections and ostomies hover and threaten our futures like fucking grim reapers.”
“Ostomy? That means needing a bag, right?”
He nodded.
Jesus Christ. “That must’ve b
een scary as hell for a young kid,” I said.
“Bloody terrifying. As if you didn’t have enough anxiety over your body as a teen. But useful too. Knowing what I might face in the future woke me up really fast to keeping with the program. It’s a great incentive to keep as healthy as I can. Gives me a fighting chance of staying in remission and avoiding all that.”
“Still… holy crap.” I felt myself flush. “Excuse the pun.”
He laughed. “Pretty much.”
“Are you still in remission? You mentioned being unwell last week.”
He waggled his hand side to side. “I think so. Not one hundred percent sure to be honest. The drugs I take generally work well for me. Some people stay in remission without drugs, but my one attempt to go drug-free was… let’s just say, less than successful. But the drugs come with their own issues. I thought I was in for a major flare-up after that Saturday when… well, you know…. Stress is one of the worst things for me. But things settled, luckily.”
Shit. How to feel like a total douchebag in one easy lesson. “No wonder you hated me.”
He shrugged. “You weren’t to know. Anyway, enough. It sounds bad, and on some days, it feels like that too but mostly I do pretty well if I stick with my health plan. I have fun, I have a great job that I love and good friends. Loads of people deal with a lot worse. So….” His gaze slid off me as if he was preparing for me to leg it as quickly as I could now I knew the nitty-gritty.
Think again. I wasn’t going anywhere. “Is your family local?” I asked.
A spark lit in those chocolate-brown eyes as they darted back. “Some.” He grinned. “Got a younger brother here, married with a baby on the way, and an older sister in Auckland, married with two kids. We see each other a fair bit, monthly dinners and shit like that. Thankfully enough grandkids to keep me safe from the evil eye for a bit. Mum and Dad are big on family. There’s Irish and Fijian on my mum’s side a couple of generations back, and my dad’s grandfather was an Australian-born Korean who then married a Kiwi and moved here, which only makes us your typical Kiwis, right?” He smiled brightly. “They have a farm just north of town.”
“Dairy farmers?”
“Organic horticulture and specialty cheeses.”
Ah, modern hippies. Hence the protester son. I couldn’t help the telltale smile.
He smirked. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re only half-right. Yes, we’re all pro-environment, ban the bomb, save the whales, greenies to the core, but it’s been a more recent thing, and for that you can blame the Crohn’s. My diet’s pretty strict, by choice. It’s no magic bullet and lots will tell you that diet is often unrelated, but nearly every Cronie I know….”
I snickered. “Cronie?”
Drake chuckled. “I know, right? Anyway, most of us have a list of personal trigger foods we avoid. Me, I just try keeping it to organic as much as possible, no coffee or tea as you know, plus no alcohol. That really is a no-no for me, sets me cramping something fierce. Low fibre, low spice, and some go gluten and dairy free, but for me they’re fine.
“My parents and I spent a lot of time figuring that diet out. They had a small beef stock venture just south of the Bombay Hills, but when the shit hit the fan, so to speak, with the whole Crohn’s thing, they sold up and invested in a certified organic property up here. It was an amazing thing for them to do… for me.” He shrugged and smiled fondly. “But that’s families for you, right?”
I thought of my own family all off doing our own thing and hardly ever catching up, and felt a small surge of envy for the closeness apparent in Drake’s. Or more accurately I was off doing my own thing. So, yeah, about that.
Drake continued. “The rest of the activism grew out of my wanting to live as cleanly as I could, not just the food side of things. When they can’t point a finger at any one cause, everything is suspect, right? I know it sounds obsessive, but everything I can do to minimise possible triggers means less time spent on pain meds and in the bathroom. A Crohn’s flare sucks big time. It’s kind of a no-brainer.”
I huffed. “Sounds like a full-time job.” I made a mental note never to whinge about small personal challenges again.
“On bad days it is. But mostly it’s just about forming habits and sticking to them. Sucks for spontaneity, dining out, and travel, but the alternative is way worse, believe me. Still, enough about me. Let’s talk about you. Family in town?”
I took the hint and stopped with the twenty questions. “No. Mine are in Auckland too. Dad’s a quantity surveyor and Mum runs an alterations business from home. I have one younger brother with his own café in the city that he runs with his wife, and the cutest little spitfire of a niece, Lexi, who’s six going on sixteen and promising many ulcers for her parents in years to come. We’re not as close as you guys seem to be, but we get on well enough. Listening to you makes me want to make more of an effort to get down there more often but… yeah.”
He nodded and things fell quiet between us for a bit as Drake suddenly felt… preoccupied. I glanced over to the counter, wishing someone would change the damn music. I was well over the angst-ridden playlist he had going on and I didn’t think it was exactly serving me well here. Drake’s gaze drifted over my shoulder to the door and I got the sense our time was done.
“So….” He pushed his cup aside.
And there it was.
“Thanks again for agreeing to the coffee. It was—” He bit back a smile. “—well, great, actually.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” I summoned my best pout. “I can do nice. I’ve even been known to be fun, on occasion.”
He laughed freely. “Really? Shocker.”
Before I could rethink it, I pushed our empty cups aside and reached for his hand across the table. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t return the hold either, just dropped his gaze to where we sat linked together. I’d take that.
“I’d like to do this again,” I said, heart pounding in my ears. And what was with that? Something about this man hooked my interest big time. I couldn’t explain it, but I just really, wanted to get to know him better. And, oh boy. Carmen was gonna give me so much shit.
Drake squirmed in his seat and I sensed he was a sparrow’s fart away from running for the hills depending on what I said next. He opened his mouth to answer, but I got in first. “I really like you, Drake Park, spikes and all. No pressure, though. We can make it another non-date, if you’d rather. Just get to know each other better.”
Non-date? As in no sex, no cost-benefit ratio, just talk? Holy fuck, I’d lost my mind. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. A barrage of angsty guitar riffs rattled my eardrums. What the fuck was with this damn music? I mean, seriously.
Drake had said nothing in response, still staring our hands. Then he looked up. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Caleb.”
My heart dropped in an instant, and in that moment, I realised two things. One, how damn much I wanted to spend more time with this guy, and two, I’d pretty much been expecting him to say yes. A little encouragement, a little coaxing maybe, but of course he’d agree in the end. I mean, who wouldn’t want me, right? Fuck. As it turned out, not so much.
It stung my ego, sure, but more than that, I just felt incredibly sad. As if I’d lost an important opportunity. I blew out a sigh. “Can I at least ask why?”
His eyes closed for a second, then opened with a more guarded expression. “My life is… complicated. You said it yourself, managing my disease can be a full-time job and that’s on top of my other job. It’s not easy. Being with me is not easy, something I’ve been told on more than one occasion and by better men than you.”
Ouch. I winced.
He looked abashed. “Shit, sorry. I really didn’t mean that how it came out. All I’m saying is I don’t live a normal life. I try, but there are a lot of ducks I have to get in a row each day to stay healthy and that shit tends to stifle even the best intentions. I’m not a hermit. I did date. I even had a solid two-year relationship t
hat fell to pieces after a flare-up, and it fucking nearly killed me.” Drake’s composure stumbled a little and he took a minute to draw breath.
Someone had hurt this man, and I found myself wanting nothing more than to take names and hunt them down. He hid the wound well under steely dismissal, but it was there and angry red at the edges.
A few seconds later and his expression lost that brittle edge, his gaze becoming pensive. “In all honesty, it’s hard enough keeping things together without adding a truckload of grief, disappointment, and all the self-recrimination that comes when a relationship crashes and burns,” he said. “I learned the hard way that I can’t afford the physical cost. I can’t do that merry-go-round. Besides, you don’t strike me as the relationship type.”
Yikes. Nail, meet hammer. It must have shown on my face because he breathed out an almost disappointed sigh.
He said, “I’m right, aren’t I? So, how many long-term boyfriends? And I’m talking six months or more. One? None?”
I swallowed. “Define relationship.”
He snorted and threw up his hands. “I rest my case.”
“Okay, okay. I admit I haven’t been interested in that level of commitment in the past but that doesn’t mean I can’t do it.”
Drake’s eyes rolled so far back in his head I was surprised they didn’t drop down the collar of the man sitting behind. “Very reassuring,” he said drolly.
“There have been one or two guys,” I protested, but even to my ears it sounded weak. “I just doubt they fit what you’re really asking.”
“Let me guess, friends with benefits?”
I must have blushed to my damn roots.
“Thought so.” He sighed. “Look, I’m not judging you. There’s nothing wrong with a healthy and active sex life. God, I actually envy you, but I can’t do the whole casual, open, let’s just have fun thing. At the risk of sounding corny, it’s me, not you.”
“Yeah, I might’ve taken a wild guess on that,” I deadpanned. “But you’ve turned me down twice already, looking like a third, and yet here I am. Don’t ask me why cos I don’t freaking know.”