by Anyta Sunday
He believed it anyway.
Tirone patted the seat next to him, beckoning Gillian over. "I like you sitting next to me," he said so softly that Karl wouldn’t have caught it had he not been a) on Tirone’s other side, and b) listening. A pink tinge crept up Gillian’s cheeks. She lowered her gaze, and there was definitely a little smile there. Was she into him? Interesting.
As dinner progressed, Karl studied them. The way they joked and wound each other up. Karl looked to Paul, who was piling up empty plates. He’d intended to throw him a what’s-going-on-between-them look, but the question disappeared as he found Paul’s large gray eyes already on him. Intent, focused. Karl held his breath as long as they shared their gaze. Now his heart tripled along. Even his palms grew clammy. All because—
Because it—this—them felt so important.
Paul cracked up and chucked a napkin at Tirone for spewing the funniest anecdote of Gillian and him on a bus to a business seminar. Even Sue lost a little decorum as she giggled. Everyone laughed, and so did Karl. But his had nothing to do with the joke.
And everything to do with how wonderful, how alive, he felt.
Charlie and Timothy spoke in hushed voices, curling their hands together as if planning on mischief. Karl got up and cleared some more plates, following Paul into the kitchen.
"It’s going well, so far, I’d say." Paul scraped the greasy leftovers into the bin and passed the dishes to Karl to stack in the dishwasher. Each time, making sure their fingers touched.
"Agreed. Say, what’s up between Tirone and Gillian? Felt like there might be something going on there?"
"Felt it too. The only ones oblivious are the two themselves. And Charlie. Maybe. Even Timothy chuckled and asked if they were going out."
Karl tested the chocolate and mandarin sauce to go over the walnut-lemon pie. Smooth. Not bad. Hopefully the others would like it. Reading him, Paul came over, inching a little closer than friendly. "Everything you’ve made tonight has been incredible, Karl. The best Thanksgiving meal I’ve ever had."
"Agreed!" Gillian’s chipper voice concurred. In a not-so-graceful move, Paul lunged toward the fridge. Thankfully, Gillian didn’t seem to think the resulting stumble suspicious. If Karl didn’t know what the fear of getting caught was like, he would’ve thought the scene comical. Okay, maybe he was chuckling inside. A little. But, damn, it was too cute!
"I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to make a cranberry sauce like that," Gillian continued, "but in any case, I want the recipe."
"I’ll email it to you."
Paul fiddled around in the fridge (who knows doing what, he didn’t need to be in there), shut the door, and left. Gillian leaned back against the counter top. "Whatever it is, you do him good."
Karl took off the pot lid and stirred, frowning at the brown liquid to cover for the smile he felt pushing its way forward.
"It’s just . . . It’s been so long, actually, I wonder if I’ve ever seen him in such a good mood."
Karl shrugged. "I don’t think that necessarily has anything to do with me."
"Yes, it does," Gillian insisted. "You’re the only variable that’s changed in his life. I’ve been thinking about it more and more—it’s like he’s found a best friend. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Tirone and I love Paul, he’s a close friend, but, well, we were Laura’s friends first. But you . . . yeah, you and him didn’t have to be friends. But you are, we all see that." She grabbed the wooden spoon from him, wiped a finger through the sauce and licked it off, but her gaze remained focused on something invisible in the air. "Mmmm. He’s more relaxed, laughing more, jokey . . . I’m just glad for it. Thankful, too." Looking down, she realized the wooden spoon remained in her grip. "Oh!" She gave it back to Karl. "Oops. Reflex. There’s something about me and chocolate."
Karl laughed. Yep. Gillian was great. All the greater for thinking he might be part of the reason Paul was smiling more.
He passed her the pie. "Take that out. I’ll bring the sauce."
Karl placed the jug in the middle of the table. Sitting down, he scooted over, just close enough that his elbow knocked against Paul’s occasionally. Such a little touch, but each time hit him like an addictive rush. And though Paul kept his gaze ahead or at his pie, his eyes lit up a moment or he smiled. Best. Thanksgiving. Ever.
Everyone, including little Charlie, was clutching their gut by the time dinner had run all its courses. Karl crossed his fingers there wouldn’t be a birthday repeat. And that it wouldn’t be him starring the show.
Way past his bedtime, Paul decided it was time for Charlie to get to B.E.D. Before the monkey went down, Gillian and Tirone said their goodbyes.
"I don’t want to go to bed! I’m not tired."
Paul rushed a: "See you sometime next week!" and chased after Charlie.
Karl found himself wrapped in a Gillian sized hug. "Send me those recipes. Don’t forget."
"Lovely seeing you both again, Sue, Timothy," Tirone said, shaking their hands.
Sue nodded. "Likewise. Don’t wait so long to visit us next time. We like it when Laura’s . . . " she stopped, collected herself with a little lick to her bottom lip, "friends pay their respects."
Timothy stepped closer to his wife, patting her arm. The life and buzz zapped out of Gillian, she paled and her gaze dropped to the carpet. Tirone smiled, promised to visit Laura’s grave over the weekend, and cradled Gillian to his side as they left the apartment.
Karl, Sue and Timothy trundled back to the table. None knew a single thing to say. Maybe he could excuse himself to clean up. Or would that be rude? Hurry up, Paul. Come on. He risked a tentative smile, but the light mood that had aired the evening had rapidly thickened.
Karl scratched the back of his neck. "How long are you staying in the city?"
"Paul has organized us a room here at the hotel for a couple of nights. After that we go back."
"Is it a long trip?"
"Four hours, depending on traffic."
Silence. The awkward kind.
"Karly!" came Charlie’s screech.
He stood up, pointed toward the sound. "Better see what he’s up to." He tripped over a chair, quickly straightened it and dashed out of the room.
"He’d like a bedtime story," Paul said when he reached the boy’s bedroom. "But I said only if you felt like read—."
"Absolutely." Karl took a stack from the bookshelf. "I’ll be out soon."
Charlie yawned one page into the first book. "Stay awake, little buddy, we’ve got a load of books to read."
He nodded, but by the end of the first story, Charlie was out to it. Karl gently set the books on the shelf and snuck out of the room.
Karl heard upset voices as he approached the lounge. He hung back in the kitchen, cleaning things up, but it was hard not to overhear. All right. A part of him was curious.
"It’s just not right. It’s incomprehensible. How could people throw a party in a cemetery?" Sue’s voice hitched and rose. "They stuffed plastic cups between the flowers we planted and the gravestone. And there were even used—used . . . " Karl could only imagine what she’d been about to say, the thought disgusted him too.
Timothy spoke next, and the sadness in his voice formed a lump in Karl’s throat. "There’s not much we can do for Laura now, except give her the respect she deserves. It hurt very much to see . . . "
A sigh. Paul’s? "I’m sorry to hear that."
"And people are forgetting her," Sue chimed in, her voice slipping in an agony that stunned Karl. He stopped cleaning the Culinary Heaven pan. "Even our friends. They don’t mention her anymore. Almost like she never existed."
"Sue, love, Paul would never forget Laura. He loves her like no one else. He’s done good by us all. He’ll always be there for her. It’s okay."
"I’ll go clean up her plot tomorrow morning," Paul said, a hollowness to his tone.
A pause. "No need, Paul. Sue and I scrubbed it the day we got the call, and we checked up on it yesterday."
"Bu
t you should go anyway," Sue said. "Laura would like that. I planted her favorites, some marigolds."
Karl rested his head in his hands as he heard that. Marigolds wouldn’t survive the winter, no matter what they did. His gut twisted until he needed to burp. How was Paul doing right now? —Karl didn’t even know Laura.
Didn’t even know her. Paul rarely said anything about his marriage. Karl didn’t even know what she looked like. Where did he have her pictures? What did he do with all her things after she passed? Were there still things in each room that held a memory for the both of them? He swallowed, thinking again of Paul’s watch.
Karl couldn’t bear to hear any more of what they said. He shuffled off to his room and came back with music blasting and earphones on, trying his best to get back that numb feeling he’d had about Laura’s death before. It hadn’t meant anything to him. Yes, it was tragic, but he’d never felt any pain. But now—
Now, hearing pristine Sue broken, he couldn’t help but wonder how much pain Paul held bottled up inside too. That hurt the most by far. Paul was a wonderful man; Karl didn’t want him hurting inside.
And truthfully, though he despised himself for the thought, he hated that there was someone special enough that they had the power to break his heart.
Paul schlepped into the room. Karl yanked the headphones around his neck and stepped toward him. They met each other’s gaze. Paul’s lashes struggled to hold back tears. Oh God. Karl went to hold him, but Paul shook his head, blinked rapidly, little drops splashing with it. He twisted suddenly and left.
Music still burst out the headphones. He pulled them off, clutching tight. Like, what the—? He loosened his grip. He understood. Really. Paul just needed some space. It’d be fine. Absolutely.
Yeah, it’d all be fine.
Just fine.
13
Honest Truth
KARL COULD HEAR him through the wall. Maybe he strained to do it, but it was an unconscious sort of straining. At least, that’s what he told himself. There was no way he could sleep through it. The last two hours trying had been a ridiculous waste of time.
It was just—just blah, he couldn’t pin it down. But Paul’s pacing, then the music he put on—not too loud, but the beat, fast and heavy—it bothered him.
Okay, maybe he could sort of pin it down. He’d never seen Paul this worked up. He wished it would stop.
And he didn’t like the feeling it gave him. Like his stomach was a wet cloth and someone was twisting it—hard. There was a little bit of sickness, too, and it had nothing to do with Thanksgiving dinner.
He shifted onto his other side, tugging the sheet with him, and stared at the bathroom door. A part of him thought to wear his earplugs to bed, but he couldn’t do it. Although it plagued him, he had to listen. Each time the music faded, he tensed, waiting—hoping for Paul to turn it off. A sign he was going to bed. But each time, another song would start.
He really didn’t like that Paul was hurting and alone.
But Paul needed the space. Karl held his breath as the music ceased; he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. A creak. Footstep, perhaps.
No new song. Good. Karl let out the breath in almost a sigh. He bunched up his pillow and mashed his head into the puffy middle. Please sleep now, Paul.
Karl closed his eyes. Only to jerk them open at a hiccupping sob that lingered in the stillness of the night.
In a single lunge, he was out of bed and crossing the room. Through the bathroom, and into Paul’s room. He paused mid-step. What was he doing? The moment fleeted by, and he continued across to Paul’s bed, finding himself climbing up and wrapping his arms around a shaking Paul.
Paul resisted, pushing at Karl’s chest, mumbling inaudibly, but Karl instinctively tightened his grip, until a struggling Paul fell against his chest and submitted to the embrace.
Karl stared at Paul’s fingers. For the briefest moment, he imagined the sensation of them paving a way up his arms, through his hair, enough to elicit a moan. Now they shook. Paul's whole body rocked in a silent cry. There were no tears, no glistening streaks down his cheeks, just a blank stare, unfocused. A crumpled picture in his hand. And that shaking.
"Hey-hey," Karl cooed, rubbing Paul’s back. He still wore the shirt from dinner.
Paul’s foggy breath hit the hairs on Karl’s chest, quickly turning cold. He should have grabbed a T-shirt. What? Stupid thought! He shifted slightly, so they were a fraction closer and Paul’s breath skimmed shy of him.
He peered at the picture. But it was too difficult to see properly, crushed to Paul’s fingers. He made out a smile. Lips full and large, just like Charlie’s. A little light streamed from the gap in the curtains that never were fully shut, giving a sheen to Paul’s hair. His hand wandered up Paul’s back and threaded through the soft, short locks.
Karl hummed, unsure what to say. "Um . . ." Really. What could he possibly say? "If you need to talk, I’ll listen."
Paul tilted his head slightly, his gaze slowly focusing. He pulled out of Karl's arms, and this time Karl knew to let him.
Paul backed up and sagged against the wall, staring at the picture in his hand. "I c-c-could . . . c-c—" he gave up, and Karl imagined the blush that forced its way to Paul's ears.
"It's okay, Paul, take your time. Just breathe. I like hearing you breathe."
A nod.
Karl cuffed Paul's foot, extended out in front of him. He pressed gently, feeling Paul's uncertain twitch and wishing he hadn't. He gave it a gentle pat and let go.
A rhythmic beat pumped from speakers. Karl jumped, eliciting an unsettled smile from Paul. It quickly disappeared. "Hidden track," Paul said, staring over Karl's shoulder to the speakers. "Our favorite band when we were at high school."
Paul was talking. That was good. Now to keep it going. Uh—"Did you ever go to a live concert?"
He shook his head, his eyes glazing again.
Karl hesitated to pluck further at the conversation. "So . . . "
Paul breathed out deeply. "I can't talk about her right now, Karl. But," his voice fell to a whisper, "I just need a bit of time . . . "
A shiver raced over Karl's body. Nothing to do with the cold. He stared down. The burn on his wrist almost shimmered in the moonlight, reminding him of his first Paul dream. "Um, okay, do you want me to go?"
Paul sat still for a moment. Frowned. "No . . . but I can't take anyone touching me right now." Paul tugged at the comforter, setting it free from under him. He threw the material so it folded on Karl's lap. Karl lifted it, covering his cool shoulders and chest.
"Thanks." Too choked up, it came out a mumble. He tightened his grip on the material. Could smell Paul on it. Paul didn't want Karl touching him. Karl kept his face straight, not to give away his inner pout.
"It's not that I—I don't want you touching me. I just . . . I can't. It's fucked up. I need—need to go see her in the morning."
Karl nodded. "I can look after Charlie—"
"No." Paul met his eyes for a moment, then cast them on the comforter. "I mean, Sue and Timothy want to take him out for the day." The words came out strangely bitter, and Karl wondered if there was something he missed.
"Oh, okay."
"Come with me?"
Huh? He hadn't expected that. How could he be both puzzled and relieved? "Of course."
Neither him nor Paul said anything else. Once the music came to a final stop, Karl slipped off the bed, meeting Paul's gaze, nodded, and then returned to his bedroom.
Not that he could sleep. Tossing and turning, the night crawled by. Breakfast and seeing Paul again had his heart taking occasional leaps into his stomach. If it kept up, he'd get the frigging runs. Jesus, if this was what the day would bring, he'd better eat a bunch of bananas. That or take an antacid.
* * *
Settling on a hot shower to take some of the tension, Karl tried to keep the last night out of his mind. Emphasis on tried. The running water reminded him of Paul's tearless sobs, the smell of the s
hampoo, somewhat floral, of dead marigolds, the heat—of how cold he'd felt sitting on Paul's bed.
Karl rummaged to find some black clothes, something appropriate for the day. Charlie's laugh echoed down the hall. The boy had his mother's smile. Did he know that? Pants on and shirt fast wrinkling in his hands, he sat on the edge of the bed, the smile, Charlie, and Paul in the forefront of his mind.
A small knock on the door.
Karl threw on his shirt, not caring one sleeve now pleaded to be ironed. That hardly mattered. How could such trivial things ever matter? How could he even notice?
Another knock.
"Yeah, just a sec."
Karl opened the door, expecting to see Charlie, but a much bigger man dominated the doorway. Paul kept his line of sight on Karl's sleeve. Yeah, the crinkly one. Damn, he should have ironed. "Timothy and Sue just picked Charlie up."
Okay?
"Well, it's a three hour drive, so we should get going . . . "
"Yeah, okay. Breakfast on the road then?"
Paul's shoulders slipped down a notch and he nodded, daring a quick glance at Karl's face. "Thanks."
The simple thanks seemed to extend beyond the flexibility to eat on the go. Holding on to that, Karl grabbed his wallet, keys and cell, and followed Paul to his BMW.
Inside, Paul placed his iPod in the console and turned on some music. Not loud, just enough that they didn't have to talk. Which was good. He didn't know what to say anyway.
Karl snuck looks at Paul's profile in the corner of his eye every few minutes until they were well out of the city.
Actually, it really sucked. Even if he didn't know what to say, he liked hanging with Paul in comfortable silence, as much as he liked spilling crap they'd never again remember and laughing about it.
Then again, Paul didn't put the music on to avoid talking. He just needed to think. If he was really listening to the music, his thumbs would be tapping, or his knee would jerk in time to the beat—like they'd done all the times before. Yeah, the music hadn't anything to do with Karl. Paul just had lots on his mind: Laura and what happened to her grave, Sue and Timothy's hurt, and probably the fact he couldn't spend today with Charlie like he'd planned.