St-st-stuffed

by Anyta Sunday

  Karl could barely process anything. Paul's last words still hadn't sunk in. Charlie yelped something down the hall. And Karl faintly caught Paul telling Gillian they'd talk later. That he needed a bit.

  As Gillian responded, Charlie raced into the kitchen, throwing his arms around Karl's legs.

  But Karl had frozen. Couldn't respond. Could barely think.

  Then wham! The weight of Paul's words hit him.

  Had they just broken up? He let out a whimper at the piercing stab slicing through him. He blinked, letting tears splash as he did.

  "Karly? Karly? Are you all right?"

  The kindness—the gentle care—in his tone and expression was too much. Made him think more of what he was losing. He couldn't grasp it. He yanked out of Charlie's reach. Grabbed for the car keys, before remembering he didn't own a car anymore. Not like he could just take the Volvo now. He found his jacket and jerked it on.

  Charlie kept calling after him, more and more panicked. But so was Karl. He had no fucking clue what to do right now. Had he just screwed up royally? Fuck!

  "Karly, Karly, where are you going? Karly?"

  Karl spun around. "Why do you always call me that!"

  Charlie's bottom lip jutted out, tears filled his eyes. "S-s-sorry." His breathing shuddered. "K-karly sounds l-like Charlie. Thought it meant . . . we're friends."

  Karl's shoulders dropped. He wished the universe would suck his scum, bully existence away, and spit him out on a planet of shit.

  "I'm sorry, Charlie," was all he managed to say, before he opened the door to the party to make his way through the crowd to the exit.

  Nobody paid him any attention, except for Charlie, who held onto his sleeve. The boy's grip slipped though as Karl reached for the handle. But his little voice carried perfectly to Karl's ear.

  "She-sha, she-sha, stay, Karl."

  But the door shut on Charlie's wish.

  It panged inside Karl, and he sobbed. He hated he'd hurt Paul. And he hated it even more that he'd just taken away the little monkey's magic.

  21

  Don't Give It Up

  HE SHOULD TAKE a deep breath—sidestep the drama he felt building inside of him. The urge to run back up there and demand—yes, demand—they stay together. Paul wasn't the only one with a stubborn streak. If he could just hold him down. Make him listen. Change his mind . . .

  Fuuuuuuck!

  He kicked at the three inches of slushy snow on the sidewalk, spraying it high and wide. Not giving a damn that guests walked past on their way into the Pomodrolly. They didn't own the sidewalk, so fuck 'em.

  He stomped down the street. No clue where he was going. He didn't have his wallet, clothes . . . anything except for his phone and, would you look at that, ten bucks in his pocket. He stuffed them back in, hard enough to jab his thigh. Whatever. He deserved it.

  The way Charlie had looked at him. The pleading in his eyes, the tug of his sleeve, his wish . . . Karl stopped abruptly at a don't walk light, grinding his teeth together. He hated that it told him what to do. Hated that he had to wait for the line of cars to chug their way over the intersection. Hurry up!

  Not that he had a place to be. He just needed to keep moving. Run even. Escape the images of Paul and Charlie. Escape the sound of Paul's voice—'can't see you.' The hurt, disappointment.

  The cookbook fell in slow motion in his mind. The hours of care he'd taken to write it in the best handwriting he could, hoping Paul would love it. He wished he could have grabbed it before it hit the floor. Maybe everything would've worked out all right if it hadn't fallen. If he'd have been quicker and lunged, he could have caught it. Saved them.

  He'd been too slow. Too goddamn slow.

  He rested his throbbing head on the cold pole. Even this chunk of metal had his memories spinning. Charlie licking the ramp outside with hotel and nearly peeling a layer off his tongue. Karl laughed suddenly at the picture, eliciting a brow raise and a cautious step back from a woman walking her dogs. He laughed harder, and then wham, it twisted into a gut wrench that made him want to puke.

  Walk.

  He did so with reluctance. Dawdling, to the annoyance (hopefully) of cars waiting to turn.

  Was this how Will had felt when he'd quit them? Did he know this pain inside? Except it wasn't really pain, it was hollowness, emptiness. The inability to see how he was meant to keep going.

  The stray visions of a car running him down just enough that he got hurt came to mind. What if he ended up in hospital? Would Paul come see him, forgive him, take him back?

  Or, if a child darted into the street, he could rescue him or her—show the world he was a good guy. Would Paul give him another chance then?

  Get. A. Grip! Calm, man. Calm.

  The sigh he let out hovered in a cloud in front of him, dissipating only as he walked through it. Across the street a bright flag rippled in the wind. Coffee. Café. It whipped again, as if beckoning him there. He had enough cash. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. He could grab a drink. Then think how to proceed—

  Shit! He'd have to start looking for apartments, and—What would it be like, living without Paul and Charlie?

  Another gut twist.

  Karl pushed his way inside the café. The dry air hit the back of his throat and made him cough. His cell buzzed. No, he just couldn't take talking to anyone one right now. Unless . . . He whipped it out, checking the caller ID. Oh, Gillian.

  He slipped it back into his pocket, slid the measly ten dollar bill across the counter and ordered a cappuccino. Ten dollars. How this whole thing started. If he hadn't chased after Paul that day at the market. Hadn't abandoned his stall, he'd never have been fired. He'd never have looked for jobs in the city. Never would have met Paul.

  Or Charlie.

  Of course, he'd fucked up in the beginning, though. And now he had a second time. Things had come full circle. The end. Failed again.

  Almost twenty-eight. Couldn't keep a job at a salad stand. Couldn't hold on to the best thing he'd had in his life.

  Truly, he was as pathetic as they came. At least, before, he’d retained the delusion he was a chef. He'd had something to hold on to. Now all he had was the dream of becoming a cook, of being a part of a family—Paul's family. And he was slowly waking up from it.

  A vacant sofa chair sat nestled in the corner, the window hard up against its side. Karl slumped into it. A newspaper left by the previous user was stuffed down the side of the arm. He pushed it away, then grabbed at it. Today's date.

  The hollowness in his gut seemed to echo as he flipped to the jobs section. Scanned over them. Just like he had then. What had he thought? Girl Friday. A walk in the park. Yeah, right. And yet it was—in that it was the best thing he'd ever done.

  He chucked the paper to the floor. There was nothing to circle this time. And remembering wouldn't change anything. Besides, he didn't need a job. He had the insurance money from the Lamborghini. And his courses started soon.

  At least he wouldn't be back to two-minute noodles.

  Phone in hand, his fingers moved over the screen and he pulled up his email. Why? No clue. So it made it look like he was doing something. Nothing new. Last message was an update from Will. He'd be there in two weeks but wouldn't be bringing anyone. Didn't work out. Said he was off to study abroad at the end of the month.

  Christ. He wished Will was there right now. He really needed to know at least someone cared.

  A lump built in his throat. Charlie. Charlie still cared. Karl felt hot tears build up, and he looked out the window in a vain effort to distract himself.

  A fine car settled into a park in front of him. Out hopped a young man, nicely dressed. He kept scouring the buildings. It was like he was looking at himself on the day he had his interview with Mr. Hyte. Number 106. Taken a while for him to find.

  Better luck to you, Mister.

  He sat, stupidly staring at his phone screen for who knew how long. Close to an hour, perhaps. Then it buzzed again. Karl sighed but found himself rea
ding the message.

  Meet me. We need to talk. I'm coming down now. Gonna grab some stuff for you, okay? At the Honda in ten–Gill.

  The bigger part of him didn't want to go, but the smaller part couldn't be ignored. What did she have to say? What else had Paul told her? Curiosity had to be quenched. He left the store and walked back with both anxious and anticipatory steps.

  He rested against the Honda, thankfully a bit away from the hotel. Looking down at his soaked sneakers, he didn't notice Gillian coming up to his side. Suddenly, arms engulfed his waist. Then she spoke, "Come on, Karl, jump in. It's all going to be okay. You'll see."

  Okay? Hardly. Still, he moved into the car and buckled up. Then, resting his head back, he closed his eyes as they journeyed across town, only opening them as they jerked to a stop at a red light.

  Gill looked over at him, and he wondered if she hadn't made the stop rough on purpose. "Okay, I'm just going to come right out and say it. I've suspected something between you for a while. I've been pretty sure ever since Thanksgiving. But even before that, I don't know, I just thought . . . The night we first met, when Tirone let it slip you were gay . . . well, I wasn't very surprised. I caught a look you and Paul shared as you both steadied the waitress's tray. So I had an inkling. It's not that anyone would have really noticed, but I did—I know that look. It's the same one I'm constantly giving Tirone." Here she sighed. "Anyway, I kept an eye out for it since then. Once I started looking for it, well, it sort of became obvious."

  "Did you get a chance to talk to Paul?" It was the thing he most wanted to know. How was Paul now? How was he taking things? Would he be all right? And even more, was he missing him?

  "Yes. I dragged his angry ass to the bedroom and that's where I spent the last hour. I don't know how much of what I told him he accepted. He was upset. Kept trying to apologize to me. I told him he had nothing to be sorry for. Really”—and here she caught Karl's eye—"I think you two make a wonderful couple. He's not been as happy as he is with you around for a very long time. Tirone and I have been wishing for this, for him to move on. Laura would have wanted him to as well. Her probably the most."

  Gillian drove down the narrowing streets. "And, Karl, I'm glad it's you."

  Karl briefly shut his eyes again. "But it's not me anymore, Gill. And that . . . " fucking hurts, he finished in his head.

  She didn't say anything for a bit. "So quickly?"

  Karl frowned. What was she trying to say? "So quickly, what?"

  "Coming to an end. Because from where I stand, I wonder if it's really even started."

  "He told me to leave, Gill. It's over."

  "Yeah, he said that and no doubt it hurts for sure, but Paul didn't mean you should leave his life." She pulled into her driveway and locked onto his gaze. "We're—me, you, Tirone, Paul, everyone—we're all bound to fuck up, make mistakes, but with a bit of patience and understanding—forgiveness, we can get over those things. Paul was wrong this time. He's overreacted. If you love him, you'll work it out. Just don't give it up, Karl."

  Karl's breath stilled. Because in that moment it was his pop speaking through her, he was sure. Just don't give it up.

  He pondered and let the words sink into him as he made his way inside the cozy home. Gillian dropped a small bag of his stuff. He expected to see a change of clothes or something. It surprised him to open it and find the cookbook inside, along with a picture Charlie had drawn.

  "He did that for you while I was with Paul," Gillian said. "He asked me to give it to you and to tell you," she bit her lip and looked away, "he said to tell you he's sorry for calling you Karly. And asked if he promised never to do it again, if you'd come back."

  Karl's eyes watered as he looked at the picture. It was of him, Paul and Charlie. All smiling.

  Quickly, he excused himself to the bathroom, where he rested his head against the door. He had to escape, so Gill didn't see him cry. He kept as quiet as possible, the tears salty on his lips. He could hear Gillian shuffling around on the other side. Charlie's picture crushed a little at the edges, gripped in his hand. He tried to smooth it out again.

  Splashing water on his face and taking deep breaths, Karl readied himself to come out again. He had his hand almost at the handle when another set of steps creaked over the floorboards. Then came Tirone's voice, clear as a bell. And pissed.

  "You just up and left the party? Without a single mention? Is that the way we're going to fight this out now?"

  "Shit, Tirone, you scared the hell out of me. Should've knocked."

  "Knocked? Since when do I do that with you? What is going on here, Gillian?"

  Karl backed away from the door. Best to stay in here. Still, it was impossible not to hear their argument.

  "Nothing."

  "That's a load of crap, and you know it." Then his voice softened, and Karl heard the strain in his tone. "Talk to me, babe. I need to know what to do to make this better."

  "I'm afraid you can't. And now isn't the best time—"

  "Dammit." A pause. "What happened in the last week? The last thing I remember is getting in a taxi, coming here with you, and me, the drunken one, tucking you into bed. How have I done something wrong? God, I can't say how much I hated that you walked out of Paul's place just now without a word. I ditched his party to follow you."

  "Tirone, not now, can we just wait a bit—"

  "Yes now, Gill. I want answers."

  "Look, the reason I left the party without saying anything to you is because I was caught up trying to help out Paul and Karl."

  "Did Paul come out to you?" Tirone asked, his tone swiftly switching.

  Karl shook his head in disbelief. Really, were they that obvious that everyone knew? And when Tirone had been suggesting Paul to go out on a date—what, had he been fishing? Guess they'd both been playing that game.

  "Oh, I see," Tirone said. Karl didn't fail to miss the hurt in his voice.

  "It wasn't that they told me specifically, it was accidental, and we should keep this entirely to ourselves until Paul has spoken to us again. But, yeah, the cat's out of the bag."

  "Good. They can finally get it together then. But Gillian, back to us. Why can't we?"

  "Can't we, what?"

  "Get it together. This last week you've been cold to me, haven't returned my texts, or picked up your phone . . . And I don't understand. For months—help, coming close to a year now—I've wondered if there wasn't something else going on here."

  "Something else?" Gillian's voice almost squeaked at the end.

  "Is it just me, then?" Tirone said, and sounded disappointed.

  "Just you, what?"

  "Gill, you mean so much to me. I've never felt like this before. To me you're more than a friend and workmate. I'm closer to you than I am to my own family. I love you."

  A pause. Gillian's sigh. "I know. I love you, too, Ti."

  "No, Gill, I'm in love with you. And I thought—hoped—you might be with me, too. But this last week, fuck! What did I do wrong?"

  A chair scudded over the floor. "Say that again, Tirone Marshal."

  An extended pause. "Gill, I'm totally in love with you."

  A sudden sob filled the air; even through the door it was sharp. The next bit came out with a bit of a whine, but the relief was clear. "Why the hell did you keep apologizing when we kissed that night, then? You kept repeating it: No, should never have done that. Sorry, Gill. Won't ever happen again. We aren't like that together."

  "Stop hitting me," Tirone said, his voice now tinkering between amusement and uncertainty. "I said it because you looked so shocked and mad. I didn't want to ruin our friendship. That comes first—and back then, after I did that, I don't know, I thought things would get weird between us. I was trying to salvage us. But, since then I couldn't help but watch you closer, and I thought, maybe, actually, you do like me, that way . . . But this week I'm lost again, and I can't stand it, I just need to know. Do you?"

  A silence. A pretty long one, and then: "Does that answer
your question?"

  Karl couldn't help a smile. Requited. He'd thought so all along. Sorta. Hoped for it, anyhow. Paul would be cheering if he'd heard this.

  Paul. And gone was the momentary reprieve, the hollowness rushing back. Fuck, what was he doing? He was acting like this was all over. Gillian was right. They'd barely begun and at the first major fuck-up they were going to give up? No.

  Shit. His first reaction was right. He should've gone back up there, demanded they sort it out. Don't give it up.

  He looked at the picture again. The smiles. The three of them. He owed it to them both—them all—to try harder. Paul was going to have to listen to him. Even if he had to belt his wrists to a chair and gag him.

  Yes. He would do it. And right now.

  He stepped purposefully to the door and yanked it open, startling a Gill-draped Tirone.

  Her arms were linked around his neck and her cheeks flushed red. She looked over his shoulder at him. One look at his face, and he knew she knew. Of course she'd probably guessed this would happen—why else pack him no clothes? "Keys are at the door," she said. "Go get him, honey."

  Karl grabbed the bag with the cookbook and put the picture inside, flashing a small smile at the two. He strode toward the entrance, Tirone's voice slowly dulling with each step. "What, he was in the bathroom all that time? Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I Tried . . . " But Karl didn't hear anything more.

  Wet shoes came back on. Keys slipped off the hook. Outside, the sky was on the cusp of darkening. Cool air whipped his hair, and he sucked it in. Refreshing, it gave him more motivation. He crept over a patch of ice, then slid down the slight incline to the Honda. Snow dropped from an overhanging branch onto the hood of the car and his head, some slugging down his shirt over his back. The world telling him to get a move on. Small reprimands for almost giving up too soon. Nature's slap in the face.