by Rowan Shaw
To defuse the tension, Héloïse winked at me, though her face remained dead serious.
"We can try to wash it off," I suggested, scrutinizing the large, black letters.
Florian shook his head. "What if that makes it worse? Changing that door is going to cost me a bundle. I don't have that kind of cash to waste right now."
"I'm sure this can be cleaned. Why don't you ask your insurance? Just file a claim."
He nodded and let out a long sigh. "You're right. But then their fees will rise. How is that going to help me?"
I grabbed his shoulder. "Florian, what's the point of having insurance if you never file a claim?"
"Actually, you need to call the police," Héloïse said.
Florian looked at her, horrified. "Nope. Nuh uh."
"Uh, yes," she insisted.
"My business will be ruined. What if the news gets wind of this?" His eyes seeped with despair.
"It might be a good thing, actually, if the local media hear about it," I said.
"How?" He raised his hands, exasperated. "How could that possibly be a good thing?"
"You'll get full support from the LGBT community, you know that. And our allies might help as well, just to prove they don't condone such bigotry."
Florian clenched his jaw, his gaze hardening. "I think we both know things aren't that simple."
Seeing him so defeated made my heart ache. I couldn't comprehend his lack of faith in other people's goodwill, but then I remembered that when Florian needed support in his life, everyone had left him and kicked him to the curb. How could he trust that anyone would stand up for him now?
Chapter 37
FLORIAN - EIGHT YEARS EARLIER
After retrieving my wallet, I ran out of the shelter, deflated. I didn't feel safe. Sure, they had food and a cot for the night. But someone had stolen the little money I had left, and when I confronted the guy, our fight didn't end well. I could already feel my skin swelling from his hits. He gave me the creeps, too. I didn't trust him not to knife me in the middle of the night, so I scrammed. He had stolen twenty euros from me. There was no way to get that back. I only had a bit of change left.
Fleeing the shelter meant spending another night on the streets. That wasn't any safer, but I'd have to take my chances. It was pouring rain, too. I was drenched within seconds of leaving that damn place. The sun had already set. It was dark out, and I was shivering from the wind.
I wondered what it'd be like to sleep out there when the winter came. I would probably freeze to death. Somehow, that thought brought me peace. I was tired of living.
I shuddered from the cold breeze and tightened the front of my denim jacket over my chest, breaking into a coughing fit. Then I smelled my armpits and let out a groan. I reeked. I wouldn't be able to clean up anytime soon. I took out my remaining coins and counted two euros fifty cents. Shit!
As if on cue, my stomach growled like a damn tease, so I walked to the train station. Maybe I had enough dough for a sandwich or something small. Maybe I could stay there for a while to dry out. Maybe I could even sleep on a bench and no one would say anything. Right!
I dragged myself there, my stomach aching when I saw the pastry shop inside. An automated voice on the speakerphone called for the passengers of some train headed to Rouen, and a part of me wanted to say "screw this" and take a train to nowhere-land and disappear off the surface of the Earth. I swallowed my self-pity and checked the prices of the sandwiches. Three euros fifty. Fuck me! I couldn't ask anyone for money. The place was nearly empty this late at night.
My stomach growled as if to punish me, so I told it to shut the hell up; it wasn't getting fed tonight. I asked the man behind the counter for a bottle of water, which cost me almost all I had. Then I found an empty bench and lay on it, using my backpack as a pillow. The bench was hard and uncomfortable, but I started falling asleep when a guard came and told me to leave.
I sighed and went back on the streets. The rain had finally let up, but I was barely dry. I shuddered and coughed, then walked until I found a bus stop. It was only a matter of time before I'd get kicked out of there too, but I was so exhausted, I lay down and fell asleep immediately.
"Hey," someone called in my ear the following morning. "Wake the fuck up, punk!"
The person nudged my shoulder with the toe of their shoe. I sat up quickly. It hadn't taken long to develop strong survival instincts after landing on the streets. I could never sleep peacefully. I ran my eyes over the large white guy with salt and pepper hair who was still snarling at me.
"You're taking all the space. I don't pay taxes so fuckers like you can monopolize our benches. Someone should gas your kind like rats. Fucking bums!"
I gathered my backpack and left. I didn't need to get in trouble or have him call the cops. I didn't protest or defend my own pride. I scrammed, then dragged my feet until I found an alley and let myself drop against the wall. I wanted to cry, but no way was I stooping that low. I blinked against my burning tears and cursed under my breath. I needed to take a fucking piss, but after buying water last night, I didn't have enough money left for the bathroom.
I needed to keep a few cents to try and call Enzo again anyway. That was more important than my full bladder. I counted the coins in my hand again and decided Enzo was the priority, so I left the alley and headed toward the one phone booth left in the city. Damn everyone and their cell phones! It was almost impossible to place a call when living on the streets. The one booth was a mile away from downtown.
I was so tired and hungry, I felt faint. It was like my stomach was eating itself and feeding on the little energy I had left. I was panting by the time I grabbed the receiver and inserted a coin in the slot. Thankfully, I remembered his phone number by heart.
"Allô," a woman replied after a few rings.
I froze. I was obviously delirious from the hunger and fatigue.
"Allô," she repeated.
"Maman?" I croaked.
Shit! I'd called my parents by mistake. I was too worn out to think. I wanted to hang up, but I was so exhausted. Maybe if I groveled, apologized, and promised to be straight, they would take me back.
"Florian, is that you?"
"Maman, please come pick me up," I begged, kicking my last ounce of pride to the curb.
A long pause followed. I needed her to reply fast. I didn't have enough dough for a long call. "I'm sorry for what happened. Please come get me."
"Have you acknowledged your faults?" she asked in a cold voice that froze me all over.
I wanted to lie. I wanted to tell her I'd never even loved Enzo anyway. I wanted to tell her I was straight.
But I couldn't.
The words caught in my throat.
"Maman, please, it's cold here. I'm so hungry."
"Do you agree to be straight from now on?" she asked. "No more pretending to like boys just to upset your father?"
"Who's that?" I heard my dad ask in the background.
"Your son," she replied. She didn't say "our" son. She didn't want me anymore. The rejection hurt.
There was a long pause. My dad must have grabbed the phone from her because he spoke next. "You are right where you belong, Florian. This is the life meant for queers. Change your ways while you still can because Hell will be so much worse than what you're going through right now."
I highly doubted Hell could be worse than this. And since when was my dad religious anyway? He never even went to church.
"Papa, please, I'm sorry. Please come get me. Please."
The dial tone answered me.
"Papa!"
The automated voice told me I needed more money for the connection.
"Papa!"
I hung up the phone and slid down the glass of the booth, bringing my knees to my chin. I couldn't fight the tears anymore. I was so tired.
Chapter 38
ENZO - NOW
I looked down at my cell and bit my lower lip.
"Why the pouty face?" Patrick asked.
&n
bsp; I shrugged without a glance at him.
"He hasn't returned your calls yet?"
I shook my head. "Or my texts."
"He's busy, obviously. It'll take a while to clean up that mess. Maybe you shouldn't be texting him every five minutes."
I glared at him and pursed my lips. "I'm not."
"Oh please! You think I don't know you?"
Patrick let himself drop by my side on the couch. He was elegant as ever since he'd come here right after work, wearing his professional black suit and white button-down shirt.
He scratched his black hair into a mess and locked his sharp green eyes on mine. "Do I need to cancel my date tonight?"
I stared at him. "You have a date?"
He leered. "Yes, and he's hot as fuck. Thank you for asking."
I huffed. Of course he was! I knew Patrick's type: tall, muscular, slightly tanned to dark brown skin, and well-hung.
"It's our third date, actually," he signed.
Okay, now I was interested. "Third date?"
"He fucks like a god."
I clicked my tongue, but he never even batted a lash.
"Oh, come on, mon lapin. Don't be so coy! You know I don't wait till the third date to taste the merchandise. I don't have time to waste."
"There's more to life than sex."
"Not in my life, mon chou. If he can't fuck, I need him out ASAP."
"You've met a lot of them who weren't good in bed?"
He let out a long sigh that said it all. "Those who like to play alpha and only think about themselves, for one. And then, the straight ones who mostly just want their dicks sucked. Those ones always want to top, too. They can't get it through their skulls that just because I'm gay doesn't mean I bottom."
"There's nothing wrong with bottoming," I signed.
"I didn't say there was, mon coco. But I sure won't bottom for some self-entitled bitch who thinks he's gonna play the man in the equation. Whatever the fuck that even means. We're both men fucking, aren't we? They don't want to bottom, they're not welcome in my bed."
"Why do those guys even sleep with men if they're straight? I don't get it." Call me naïve, but since I'd only been with Cyrille and Florian, I was a bit out of the loop when it came to the dating scene.
"Don't ask me. They run like scaredy cats after the act, too. Like they didn't enjoy taking my dick up their ass!" He huffed at that and rolled his eyes while crossing his legs at the knees.
"So you do manage to convince them to bottom?" I signed. "Even if they're straight?"
His smirk grew.
"I still don't get it. Do they come up to you and just tell you they're straight and want to try it? Or do they claim to be bi or something? Is that why you hate bi guys? Because bi guys aren't like that, you know. I mean..."
I didn't want to explain how phenomenal sex was with Florian, but it wasn't just casual sex the way Patrick described it.
"No. That's why I prefer to call them straight. They're not the real deal."
I nodded, though he still hadn't told me what the problem was with him and bi men.
"I take it sex with Florian has been good?" he signed with a tiny grin.
How could he tell?
I didn't reply. I didn't want to go there, especially since I had a strange feeling Florian and I might not last after what happened to his business and how freaked out he was.
"So?" he insisted.
Ugh! "The best I've had."
"Really? Better than Cyrille, huh?" His lips expanded into a lopsided smile. "I thought Cyrille was mind-blowing."
"He was. But there was a connection missing."
"Finally! Thank you, God!" Patrick steepled his hands and looked toward the sky.
"You don't even believe in God," I tsked at him.
"Well, with miracles like this, I might need to rethink my views. So you're finally over that jackass?" He laughed in that superior air of his that always got on my nerves. "I never thought I'd see the day. I need to call Florian and thank him for fucking Cyrille out of your head."
"Do you always have to be so crude?"
"Do you always have to be so coy?" he shot back, his green eyes twinkling.
"Well, that's why you love me," I signed and gave him a fake angelic smile.
Patrick chuckled and shook his head. "That and because you're the only guy who's never tried to jump my bones."
"Always so modest," I joked.
"Fake modesty is unbecoming, mon chou."
I had to give him that.
I flashed him a quick look when my phone beeped then grabbed it off the table.
Florian: Sorry I haven't been around much. Trying to deal with the disaster over here.
I typed quickly.
Me: I just want to know you're okay.
Florian: I'm okay.
I waited for more, but no other word came through. Did he really expect me to believe everything was fine? He'd been avoiding me for three full days and now this cryptic message?
Me: Can I see you? I want to help.
Little dots appeared. Then they stopped as if he was erasing his message. Then they came back on. Disappeared again. Came back on.
Florian: Now is not a good time.
I stared at the text and blinked.
"What is he saying?" Patrick asked.
I didn't reply. I kept staring at the screen, my stomach curling with a sense of déjà-vu.
Me: Okay. Take your time.
I swallowed as I waited for his reply, but after a few minutes, I realized he was definitely avoiding me.
Chapter 39
FLORIAN
After talking to the police at Héloïse's insistence, I had the nasty surprise of running into some journalists stationed right in front of my office.
"Do you have a moment to talk, Mr. Beaudry?" the man asked, followed by a woman with a camera.
I was going to tell the journalist to shove it up his ass when Héloïse stomped her foot behind me. I barely had time to open the door when she invited both of them inside.
I pulled her to the hallway. "What d'you think you're doing?"
"We need their help."
"No, we do not. The last thing I want is everyone to know I'm bi."
She folded her arms over her chest, scowling. "This isn't just about you, you know? My job is on the line, too."
I pointed my finger at her face. "I already lost two employees in three days, Héloïse. Right when the tourist season is about to start."
"Who cares? Their loss. You'll find other employees. You need the exposure."
"You already forced me to call the police. Now this!"
"What happened was a hate crime, Florian. People need to know."
"No, they don't."
I was fucking terrified. How could she not see that?
She pursed her lips, then batted her long eyelashes at me. "Please. Give it a chance to work."
A chance to fail and sink my business, sure.
"The other employees might not want their faces blasted all over television. Have you considered that?"
"They don't need to get involved."
I side-glanced at the journalist, who wasn't so stealth about eavesdropping, then let out a sigh and gave a nod. "Fine."
Héloïse didn't move. She had that peculiar look on her face. I could tell she meant to say something but was weighing her words carefully.
"What?" I asked.
"You should consider using your past. This is your chance to expose the ongoing homophobia in this country."
"My past?"
"Yes, what happened to you and Enzo."
I stared at her, my mouth dropping. Had she lost her fucking mind?
"Out of the question. I'm not dragging Enzo into this." Actually, it was probably safer for him to steer far away from me from now on.
Chapter 40
ENZO - EIGHT YEARS AGO
I awoke to a foggy cloud blurring my brain but tried to force my eyes open. My mom was sitting by my bed. She stood the mo
ment I blinked, though my lids were like lead, refusing to stay up. In my daze, I felt her grabbing my hand for a squeeze. Everything was silent around us, peaceful, without a single sound. When I looked at her again, she gave me a tiny smile, then I took in my surroundings. I was in a room so cold, the ambient air gave me goosebumps. The walls were white, and there was a needle plunged into my vein, attached to an intravenous bag hanging from some kind of rack.
My mom mouthed something I couldn't hear. The silence around us swallowed even the tiniest sounds.
"What's going on?" I asked, but my voice didn't come out of my dry throat. I swallowed hard and tried to talk louder.
Nothing came out. I started to panic.
My mom squeezed my hand again and went to her seat, where she grabbed a white slate and a marker then wrote something down that she raised to my eye level. I read the words, though I could barely focus through my horrible headache.
Enzo, calme-toi!
How could she ask me to calm down? I couldn't talk anymore. Why was everything so silent?
"Why can't I talk?" I shouted as loud as I could. "I can't hear myself talk!"
Mon chéri, please calm down. Stop yelling.
"You can hear my voice?" I asked.
She caressed my hand, but I must have shouted loud enough to make a racket because a nurse came running into the room. She stared at me, then talked to my mom. I had no idea what she was saying. My heart slammed into a race. I couldn't hear a thing. The nurse looked at me and came by my side to check the monitor. No one was answering my questions. I wanted to yell at them that I couldn't hear. My mom wrote on her board again.
Enzo, mon cœur, wait until the doctor gets here. She can explain everything.
Explain everything? I wanted to know now.
I wriggled in my bed. I wanted to tear out the needle from my arm, but the nurse grabbed my wrist and shook her head. She said something, but from her lips, I only caught, "Calm down."
I was panicking more and more each time someone told me to calm down. I couldn't breathe. Why wouldn't they tell me what was going on?