by Rachel Kane
Mason nodded. How well he remembered.
“…and then today, not being able to touch you, not being able to kiss you, because Roo was there, even though you were right beside me—”
He felt the tension inside himself coiling tighter and tighter, desperate for something, anything to signal that it was time to let the barrier down, time to say what he needed to say to Liam. His whole body was poised on the edge of the truck seat, like it wanted him to spring into action, although whether it wanted him to flee like mad or leap onto Liam, wasn’t clear. Maybe he wanted both in equal parts.
Instead he did neither. He drove, taking the path that had become so familiar to him; how many times a day had he driven out to Cooper’s Folly while Liam had been gone? Passing it, hardly even turning his head, knowing no one was there, yet unable to resist a little peek, a glance, just to remind him of the man who had gone.
They didn’t speak. There would be time for words. Clearly Liam had something on his mind. But he couldn’t speak here. Maybe it was the metallic clanking of tools in the toolbox, or the scent of machine oil and sawdust in the truck’s cab. Maybe he just wanted to be on neutral ground. Mason couldn’t ask, he could only drive them forward.
This deep part of himself wanted to take Liam right here, on the graveled path up to the house. Something primal and violent, made of thrusts and groans and unspeakably wordless pleasure. His whole body ached for it, especially when Liam walked ahead of him, and he saw the man’s ass, tight and round and bathed in moonlight. It was a crime to have it tucked away in clothing, when it could be here, in Mason’s hands.
He understood that Liam needed to speak. Understood that it couldn’t be hurried, either. Liam was practical. Methodical. If he had something to say, he was going to take the time to make sure he said it correctly.
Never mind that it left Mason in utter suspense. That it left him with all these feelings he couldn’t act on, a freeze-frame of desire and lust. He’d lasted this long; he could give Liam a few minutes to collect his thoughts.
Liam climbed the porch, and rather than looking like the proper owner of the house, he looked vulnerable here, a sacrificial victim to the house’s hunger. It was just so huge, and seemed to have an ancient air far older than it should, like it was older than Superbia, older than America.
The man before him went through the physical motions of thought. He blinked. He swallowed. He reached out a hand and touched one of the great windows shaded by the porch. The glass, wobbly and uneven, squeaked softly beneath his fingers, as though Liam were touching a living thing.
“Is it all melting?” Liam asked. “Old houses, old windows…I read somewhere that over time the glass just melts, gets thicker at the bottom. It’s strange though, because you never see it totally melted away, so that there’s no glass left at the top anymore. Still. It’s what time does, right? It goes on and on, and you lose track of it, and when you’re finally able to pay attention again, you’ve changed. You’re a different person than you were…and maybe you find you aren’t suited to the world anymore.”
It was not what Mason expected to hear. Of all the things he’d prepared himself for—I came back to say I’ll never see you again, I came back to say I’m moving here, I came back just for you—of all of them, he had not expected to hear this sadness in Liam’s voice, this strange weariness.
“It’s not true,” he said. He reached past Liam and placed his palm flat against the cool glass. “The melting thing. It’s a myth. It’s just how they used to make windows. You’d make this cylinder of glass, and then you’d slice it and make a sheet of it. It’d be uneven, so you’d put the thicker part in the bottom. It’s not melting. It’s nice and sturdy. These windows will last a thousand years, if nobody breaks them.”
He could have kicked himself because he knew Liam wasn’t talking about the glass at all, he was talking about his own life, and Mason should’ve responded differently, should have found something poetic to say about how Liam was suited to the world—
Except that Liam turned to Mason and said, “Really? You just ruined my metaphor, you know.”
“I’m sorry. I know you were making a bigger point.”
He laughed. “Yeah, a big, self-pitying point. And then you go and wreck it by implying that time hasn’t destroyed me.”
“Trust me, from where I’m standing, time hasn’t laid a finger on you.”
“You’re very kind, and luckily there’s not a lot of light out here, or I would show you my wretched crow’s feet. But look. When I was back home I realized…I’m still not over Richard. At least, I don’t know whether I am. And life is so complicated, and I don’t want to be unfair to you by asking for something with no strings—”
“I don’t care about strings,” said Mason, and in this welter of emotions he couldn’t even tell if that was true. “But seriously, I also don’t want to stand in your way. If there’s a chance of you getting back together with Richard—”
The look of surprise on Liam’s face caught Mason off-guard.
“Oh…oh god, Mason, did I not tell you? No, when would I have? There’s no getting back together with Richard. He’s… He passed away.”
Was it selfish that Mason’s heart sank when he heard that, when he understood that tonight, there would be no physical closeness between them? Richard, whoever he had been in life, had just stepped between them in death, just as assuredly as if he were standing here between them now, arms crossed, glaring at Mason the interloper.
“Damn, Liam…how much loss have you been through?”
Liam laughed again, but this time it was a hollow sound, a laugh like one of the empty rooms of the mansion, echoing and haunted.
19
Liam
In some sunlit afternoon past, there might have been chairs on this wide porch jutting towards a lush lawn and well-tended driveway, a drive that didn't allow weeds and vagrant flowers to push up and interrupt the sharp lines suggesting progress towards a reward, the reward being one's time here at Superbia Springs. After a long journey, perhaps the first thing you wanted was to take a seat on the porch, and look back over where you came from. Sitting back, accepting the offered drink, eyes half-closed against the sun.
It didn't feel like a long journey to Liam. It felt like a treadmill, the same steps repeated, always coming back to the same place over and over, no matter how fast you ran. The journey of a thousand miles, halted before its first step.
"Richard," he began, and then said nothing else, because for him, an entire lifetime was wrapped up in that name. Richard was subject, verb and object. He had done, and been done unto. He had Richarded himself throughout Liam's once-hopeful life.
"Yeah,” said Mason, and it was not a question, not a probe. He sat next to Liam, their feet dangling off the porch like boys' feet, just enough distance between them for Mason not to seem too forward.
"I thought I was going to have the perfect life, you know? You don't know. You weren't there. But trust me. It was going to be perfect, and I deserved it. That's what I thought. I was dating this guy, and he was smart, and funny, and cared about me. And he got me through the stuff with my dad. He really did. He was at the funeral with me, he saw what was happening when my dad's so-called friend showed up. He kept me rational. It's stupid to think about rewards, I know, but after going through all that with my dad, I thought Richard was my reward. Thought the white-picket-fence life was waiting for me, just on the other side of marriage. We got married. We started making arrangements to have a kid. We were serious. So, so serious about making a new life, something that wouldn't have all the secrets my dad's life did."
"Your mom was okay with that? The pain must've been pretty fresh for her."
"Yeah, it was hard for her, but she loved Richard. Judah liked him. Noah vetoed him, but Noah never thinks anyone is good enough for me. I think they all saw how much pain I was in over my dad, and were ready for something to heal me, and we all thought that was going to be Richard. I certainly did.
I trusted him, Mason. That was my mistake."
"Oh, hell."
"He didn't cheat! Don't get the wrong idea. His lie wasn't the same as my dad's lie. Not as complicated. In some ways, that made it worse."
Mason shifted on the porch, and Liam could tell he was trying to think of all the ways a lie could be worse. He looked so protective of Liam. Looked like he might stand in front of him to fight off any other liars that would come their way.
"What did he do, though?" he asked finally.
"He lied about his heart," said Liam. "He'd been having odd pains for a while. We assumed it was his stomach. I mean, we were both busy people, and if you have a high-stress job and grab your lunch from a food truck and wolf it down, your stomach isn't going to thank you. So we tried Tums and herbal teas and H2 blockers, and finally I sent him off to the doctor. It seemed like he spent a really long time at that appointment, but I figured they were just being thorough. I mean, I couldn't think about it a lot—I was in charge of preparing Roo's room, getting all the baby furniture set up, in addition to my job. I was busy, and I trusted him to get whatever this was, taken care of.
"And he said he did. Came home, gave me a big kiss, said he was going to be fine."
"But he wasn't fine."
Liam shook his head. "No. No, he wasn't. What he didn't tell me was that the reason the appointment took so long was that his doctor did an EKG. You know, where they monitor your heart, all the wires—”
"Yeah, I know what one is."
"They found an arrythmia. He had an electrical problem and it was affecting how efficiently his heart beat. They prescribed some pills for it, pills I found later. From what I pieced together afterwards, the pills weren't effective. But by the time he realized that, we had Roo, and our lives had really started. We were so busy! I always think I'm busy now, when she's nearly two, but back then it was constant. Rush, rush. Bottle to diaper to pediatrician appointment, wrapping her up for warmth, unwrapping her to cool down… And always afraid, right, because I'd never been around babies before, I was so scared I'd do something wrong. And I guess, with all this busy activity, I didn't notice Richard's decline. I kick myself every day for missing it. The way sometimes he'd go pale and lay a hand on his chest. I'd ask if he was okay and he'd assure me he was. But he wasn't. He wouldn't go back to the doctor. He was determined, I guess, to power through it so he could be there for me and Roo. Knowing him, he thought he'd get back to the doc once things calmed down at home, and get better pills, and that would be it.
"Or maybe he thought his heart wasn't important enough to bother with. Maybe it was a false confidence that it wasn't a serious condition. I don't know, because we never talked about it. I didn't know there was anything to talk about—after all, I still thought the thing that had sent him to the doctor was his stomach! I'd just tell him to quit eating nachos for breakfast!"
Mason looked so serious at this. Concerned. Liam recognized the look, and felt a quailing of despair. Mason was about to take Liam's side, the way others had, not understanding how much this was Liam's fault. Before he could say a word, though, Liam jumped back into his story:
"When it happened, it was quick. Quick and devastating. We were taking Roo to the park, and he collapsed. Just…folded up, and it was the strangest sight. Like, at first you think he's doing a trick, then you realize he's falling, and then you realize he's not putting his hands out to catch his fall, no, he's just going to hit the ground, and then you know something's wrong. I tried doing CPR. The ambulance came, and they tried to get his heart started again. Got him to the ER, and they tried. Later on, the cardiologist told me his heart muscle was just too tired to keep going. It had been racing so hard, for so long, it had just given up. And I felt like he was talking down to me, felt like it was the kind of story you told a child, but I kept that anger inside. It wasn't pragmatic to yell at the doctor who had just tried to revive your husband. But at that point, I realized just how alone I was. I was standing in the ER with Roo in one arm, and everyone politely ignoring me so I could have my breakdown in peace. Can we call anyone? was the only interruption to me just…just…falling apart. It was so humiliating."
"My god, Liam. That's terrible. I can't believe he didn't tell you. How could he not? What was he thinking?"
"No, no, no! See, I knew you were going to say that. It was obvious that's the tack you were going to take. But let me stop you right there, Mason. Richard's death was my fault, and that's what haunts me back in the city. Every building, every street, tells me I'm a murderer. There might as well be blood on my hands."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Mason reached for him, but Liam pulled away.
"I'm talking about blame. Responsibility. We were married, Mason. We had sworn to look out for one another. And I ignored him. Totally ignored him. Was willing to believe his symptoms were just stress, just heartburn, because that fit into my comfortable, cozy picture of us. I was the practical, level-headed one, and he was the sweet one who took things a little too hard. So I didn't ask questions. Didn't probe when I should have."
"Are you out of your mind? He had a new baby, and he didn't tell you he might fucking die? That's not your fault!"
"It is!" Liam's voice was loud, yet deadened by the humidity in the cool night air, like yelling into a blanket. "I should have known! Men lie, Mason, that's what I should have been thinking about. When he wouldn't help me put together the crib, when he wouldn't walk with us all the way to the park, when he asked me to get up in the middle of the night when Roo would cry… I should have wondered what was going on. Should have questioned him. Should have assumed he was lying to me, but I didn't, so that's my fault."
"What a twisted way to look at it," said Mason, but kindly, gently. Somehow the distance between them had halved, and Mason's arm encircled him, pulled him closer. "It wasn't your fault. That's not how this works."
"You don't know how it works. You've never lost anything."
"That’s not true, but it's also missing the point. The point is, you'd already been hurt by one person's deception. You hadn't even had a chance to heal from that, before someone else's lies hurt you. And you were busy. Damn, I can't imagine having a little kid like that, and being able to think of anything but the kid. You've seen new parents, I know you have. They're wacko. They're suddenly in charge of making sure this little bundle doesn't get hurt, making sure it eats, making sure it grows, and it's nonstop work, 24/7. No offense to Richard, but you had other things to focus on. He should've said something. Or gone back to the doctor. Or... Come on, Liam, you can't blame yourself for that!"
That last sentence was muffled, from Liam pressing his face into Mason's shoulder. "It feels so bad," he said. "It just hurts. I don't know how I'm going to go back home. I'm going to lose my job, I'm going to lose my apartment, then Roo will be homeless, and I—"
His words were cut off by the power of Mason's arms, clutching him close, one of those big, strong hands rubbing his back.
"Shhh…it's okay," murmured Mason.
How could he argue with that? It wasn't going to be okay, nothing was ever going to be okay, but the best you could do was keep your head down, be practical, do the things that needed doing. There was no time to feel anything. He certainly didn't have time to feel this. There were jobs that needed completing, tasks before him. In the words of that old poem, miles to go before I sleep.
Yet part of him defied that businesslike grief. Part of him wanted to fight it, because he knew it was unfair. He'd been cut off from so much since Richard died. He'd lost touch with their mutual friends. If it weren't for his family sweeping in to help, he might've lost touch with the whole world.
And now there was Mason. Was he willing to cut him off as well? Let him be another victim to this all-consuming grief, this power that hovered like a strange shadow, ready to turn everything gray and dark?
There was more to say, there was so much more to say. Warnings and omens and portents, to explain how Mason had been mystically tie
d to Liam's life of failure and loss and death. Liam was poison.
But somehow before he could open his mouth, Mason's lips were on his, so when he opened them to speak, instead he was just returning a kiss, the opposite of an argument, the opposite of what he had meant to say, and yet Mason was making a compelling case, with his mouth, with his hands, brushing the hair away from Liam's face. Their tongues met, and it was so familiar and foreign at the same time, the taste of Mason, the warm slickness of his kiss, the way he probed so carefully, so gently, but with a power behind it like he might at any moment take Liam's breath away.
Which, Liam realized, was something he wanted badly. Had wanted, all this time.
He wanted someone else to be in charge for once.
Wanted someone else to be the protector, the practical one, the one who kept everything together, because he'd managed not to fall apart all this time, and the strains and cracks were starting to show.
Mason's arms would not let him go. He would not let pieces of Liam fall to the ground like a broken statue. He pulled him closer, kissing, rough stubble against smooth cheek, lips finding not merely lips, but chin, jawline, throat, the pulsepoint of Liam's own strong heart.
"I know it won't fix anything—"
"Shh, shh—"
"I'm not asking—"
Mason made clear that no words were necessary for this. He didn't need Liam to explain anything. Merely needed to know he wanted it. And Liam had made that clear. If nothing else, the hardness pressing against his jeans was plenty of signal. So stiff, with nothing touching it, no stimulation except the thought of Mason climbing over him, plunging into him.
No more sitting on the edge of the porch. Mason gently pressed him downward, until he was lying there, looking up, seeing Mason, seeing the ceiling of the porch, shrouded in darkness. The whole great house looming above him like a giant lover staring down.
The memory of desire, when it is over, makes one forget things like buttons, waistbands, zippers; the memory-body moves like it is unrestrained, like in a dream. But in the present moment of desire, every obstacle, every button, is a reason for hunger to grow even sharper, and that's how it was now, watching Mason untuck Liam's shirt, watching him work the buttons, Liam wanting to beg him to hurry, but also captivated by the seeming slowness of it, the methodical flip of thumb and index finger to push the button through its hole, letting it disappear into the shirt, and then, by magic, more of Liam's chest appeared.