Never a Hero

by Marie Sexton

  His smile grew bigger. His hand lingered on my back, almost moving into a caress. For half a second, I thought he was going to kiss me in front of his mother.

  I was both disappointed and relieved when he moved away.

  The meal was fantastic. Afterward, we all sat around the table, too full to eat any more but not ready to nap yet either.

  “I have an idea,” Truvy said, turning toward June and me. “Why don’t you play for us?”

  “Now?” June asked.

  “Why not? We’ll miss the recital, but at least we’ll get to hear your song.”

  My blood pressure began to skyrocket as it always did when I thought about the recital. “N-n-no,” I stammered. But June was already grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the piano.

  “This is embarrassing,” I whined as we sat down on the bench.

  “It is not! It’s just my family. Besides, it’ll be good practice. We haven’t played in front of anybody but Nick and Amelia. This will be like a dress rehearsal.”

  It was hard to argue with that logic, no matter how much I wanted to. And so we played.

  The first time through, I fumbled more than once. “See?” I hissed at June. “This is a terrible idea!”

  “That was a practice run. Now we’ve worked out the kinks. Let’s do it again.” So we did, over and over throughout the rest of the day. In the end, I was glad. By the end of the night, I could sit down with June and play the song without feeling like I might hyperventilate. After that, the recital seemed marginally less frightening.

  They left around nine that evening, June heading home to her own apartment and their parents for their hotel room. Nick’s apartment felt surprisingly quiet and empty without them.

  “I really like your family,” I said.

  He smiled, his eyes distant but happy, and I knew he was thinking about them. “I like them too.”

  “Your mom’s a great cook.”

  He raised his eyebrows at me, teasing me. “And I’m not?”

  “Your mom isn’t afraid to add salt.”

  He laughed. “Fair enough.” His smile softened. It became something gentle. “I’m glad you were here.”

  My heart skipped a beat, and I ducked my head, unsure how to answer. I’m glad I’m here too. You’re beautiful. Let’s both stop being so lonely. But I didn’t say anything. We sat in silence, both of us staring at the TV, although I wasn’t sure we were seeing it.

  It was ridiculous, the way we were suddenly both so tense. We were side by side on the couch as we so often were, but I felt as if we were poised on a cliff, leaning forward, eyeing the drop. I felt the sweet call of gravity.

  He put his hand on my shoulder. My heart raced as he pulled me close, against his side.

  “Nick?” I whispered.

  “Shhh,” he soothed as he put his arms around me. He stroked my hair and kissed the top of my head. “Just this, okay? I miss it.”

  I closed my eyes and swallowed against the lump in my throat. How could he make me so happy and yet so sad, all at the same time?

  “Is it okay?” he asked. “If you’d rather not—”

  “It’s good. I miss it too.” I settled against him, sighing at the feel of his arms around me. The soft touch of his lips on my hair. He was strong and warm and he smelled so good. It was all heartbreakingly comfortable and familiar.

  Just this.

  It’s enough, I thought.

  For now.

  THE WEATHER took a turn for the worse on the Friday after Thanksgiving, and as the skies darkened, so did Nick’s mood. He seemed beaten, and I had no idea why. He put on a good show for his family, but I sensed the grief that lay underneath his cheery facade. I’d felt close to him in the preceding days, but now he was distant again, although still friendly. I wondered if it had to do with us cuddling on the couch the night before, but I suspected there was more to it.

  Truvy seemed to sense his mood as well, and several times I saw her watching him, her anguished expression matching his. When it was time for them to leave, he held his mother so tight I feared he’d hurt her. I was surprised to see tears on his cheeks.

  “You’re coming for Christmas, right?” she asked him as she wiped the tears away the way any good mother would.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “You know you can bring Owen.”

  He nodded, but I could tell he didn’t feel any better. It confirmed what I’d already suspected—I was only a small part of whatever was bothering him.

  Truvy didn’t have to wonder, though. Truvy knew. “Honey,” she said, reaching up to put her hands on his cheeks, “stop. You’re healthy now, and you’ll be healthy later. We’re going to have plenty of other holidays.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “I do,” she said. She kissed him again. “I’ll see you at Christmas.”

  DECEMBER DESCENDED upon us with subzero temperatures and a wet, heavy snow that stripped any remaining leaves from the trees and brought branches crashing to the ground. Nick and I continued to walk his dogs every evening after dinner, shivering as we hurried along, hugging our arms around ourselves for warmth, but whatever camaraderie we’d shared on Thanksgiving night was gone. I began to notice the way he watched me. Sometimes I thought he was waiting for me to move closer to him, to reach for his hand, but other times he looked terrified. Sometimes, I was sure I saw relief in his eyes when I said good night.

  It took me several days to get up my nerve, but one night as we sat watching TV side by side on his couch surrounded by dogs, I managed to say, “I w-wish you’d talk to me.”

  He didn’t look at me. He barely blinked. His only movement was the slow stroke of his hand on Betty’s head. “About what?”

  “About what’s bothering you.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Is it just because you’re sick?”

  He snorted in disgust. “‘Just’ because? Isn’t that enough of a reason?”

  “But you’ve been so different since Thanksgiving.”

  He slumped, the anger he’d tried to hold against me suddenly gone. “This is always the hardest time of the year for me, between Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

  I could understand that to some extent. “Lots of people get depressed around the holidays.”

  “It’s just hard for me to see my parents and wonder if I’ll ever have another holiday with them.”

  “There’s no reason to assume you won’t.”

  “There’s no reason to assume I will.”

  “Nick—”

  “You don’t get it. It’s not just about me. It’s about them. I was young and stupid and careless, and now I’ve brought this thing—this illness—into my family like some kind of curse. I feel my mother watching me and my father weighing his words.”

  “I think you’re imagining it.” Much as I’d imagined people staring at my missing arm, I realized.

  He shook his head. “I’m not.”

  “Then that’s all the more reason you should enjoy it now.” I took a deep breath and reached out to take his hand. “Why we should enjoy it.”

  He pulled his hand away, and some fragile thing inside me broke. With a single gesture, he’d crushed every ounce of my hope. I hated how much it hurt. “Nick?”

  “You have it backwards. Don’t you see? This is exactly why it can’t work between us. It’s exactly why you should find somebody else. Because I can’t ask you to spend every holiday with me wondering if it will be the last one.”

  “And what about me? I take it I have no say in the matter?”

  His jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer.

  I couldn’t pity him, though. Not this time. I’d accepted his reasoning again and again, but it wore a bit thinner each time. How did both of us being miserable make things right? How was being alone better than being happy?

  I wanted to reach for him. To hold him and kiss him and comfort him. To push against his boundaries until he accepted that I could help him. But I couldn’
t take being rejected again.

  I stood up, dislodging Betty and Bonny as I did.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m tired of watching you act like some kind of martyr.”

  “Martyr?” he said, standing up to face me. “Is that what you think? You think I chose this? You think I’m doing it on purpose?”

  He was angry now, but I didn’t back down. I was tired of giving in. “Do you have some other explanation?”

  “I didn’t choose to be sick.”

  “No, but you choose to let it define you.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand plenty. You say it’s not just about you? Well, you’re wrong. This is about you. It’s about your issues. Not HIV, but your determination to let it dictate how you spend the rest of your life.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I think I do. You’ve used it as an excuse to push me away time and again, but to what end, Nick? For what purpose? Just to prove how noble you are? Well, it’s bullshit. You try to hide behind your family or behind claims that this is all for my own good, but the truth is you’re determined to keep punishing yourself for something that happened five years ago. I’m tired of it, Nick. I’ll be your friend, or I’ll be your lover, but I won’t be the instrument of your self-flagellation.”

  He turned away, hiding his expression. I didn’t know if he was angry or wounded or both. At that moment I didn’t care.

  Chapter Eleven

  AS WE moved deeper into December, dread loomed over me with the black persistence of a cartoon rain cloud, dogging my steps both inside and out. With each passing day, the piano recital drew closer. And so did the visit from my parents.

  My mother called a few days before they were scheduled to arrive. I hoped she was calling to cancel, but no such luck.

  “Your dad told me we have to stay in a hotel.”

  “I only have one bed at my place, Mom. The second bedroom is my office.”

  “Your office? What in the world do you need an office for?”

  “For m-my work.”

  I didn’t need to see her to know she was rolling her eyes. “Really, Owen. I don’t see why you can’t get a real job. We didn’t spend all those months practicing your typing so you could hide from the world. We did it so you could try to fit in.”

  I didn’t bother asking what exactly made my job insufficient. I didn’t bother trying to defend the fact that my second bedroom held a desk instead of a bed. I sat there listening to her complain about every aspect of my life, and I felt myself shrinking, becoming the child I’d once been, barely able to speak without stuttering.

  A hundred times I thought about quitting the recital. I debated the excuses I could make to June and Amelia. I thought of lies I could tell my parents to keep them from visiting, each one more ridiculous than the last. I had the flu. I had measles. My house had been condemned. In the end, I did nothing, and time marched on.

  My argument with Nick continued to weigh on me as well. I was heartsick over him. I saw him every day, and yet he was more distant than ever. I felt as if he’d deserted me. I wanted my fun, confident, flirtatious friend back. I wanted to hold his hand again. To snuggle next to him on the couch. I wanted to melt in his arms and have him kiss me. To take him to bed and give myself to him in every possible way. But I was afraid to touch him, and afraid he’d only push me away again.

  The day before my parents were to arrive, I sat at Nick’s piano, trying to practice. June and I had finished our lesson, and June had left for the night. Nick stood talking to Amelia for a while at his front door. I wondered only briefly what they were discussing. Anxiety kept me from mustering up too much curiosity.

  I concentrated on the music.

  I knew the song by heart now. I barely had to look at the keys anymore, let alone the music. Still, I stared down at the piano with unwavering concentration. “Ode to Joy,” but this didn’t feel like joy. It felt like terror. I wished I knew how to play something mournful. Something that fit my mood.

  I looked up as Nick came into the room. He straddled the bench and sat facing me. It was something he’d never done before, and my fingers missed a note. My heart began to pound, and I stumbled to a halt. I sat still under the weight of his gaze, too depressed to hope for anything.

  “Two days away,” he said.

  “I’m not ready.”

  “Yes, you are. You’ll do great.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of what? Playing in the recital?”

  “That too. But mostly I’m afraid of my mom.” I felt like I’d made tremendous progress since meeting Nick, and I was sure a few days with her would destroy it all.

  When I finally turned to face Nick, I saw sympathy in his eyes. He hesitated for a moment, and then he reached toward me. He brushed his fingers down my cheek. “Whatever happens, I’m here for you. You know that, right?”

  I swallowed hard, suddenly afraid to speak. I took in the sorrow in his eyes and the lines on his face betraying his own depression. I ached for him. After his confession on Halloween, I’d worried that I’d always see him as Nick Who Was Dying of HIV, but the virus had long since fallen into the background where it belonged. It didn’t define him any more than my missing arm defined me. He was still Nick. Nick the veterinarian who would risk his lease to give one more dog a home and who volunteered his services to the local humane society. Nick who was confident and strong and sexy as hell, who ate more broiled fish than anybody I knew and railed against the evils of Halloween candy. Nick whom I loved so much I wasn’t sure how my heart could hold it all.

  But now he was Nick who felt beyond my reach. Nick who would never hold me again, or kiss me. Nick who would never share my bed. And it wasn’t because of the virus. It was because of my ignorance and his ridiculous stubbornness. My knee-jerk reaction to his illness and his goddamn martyr-like determination to protect me, whether I wanted it or not.

  I reached for him, wanting more than anything to tell him I didn’t want to be protected anymore. To feel his arms around me and the solid comfort of his body against mine. But I was too slow. Whether he knew my intentions or not, he stood up…

  And he walked away.

  “I’VE NEVER liked Colorado.”

  That was the first thing my mother said to me as she walked through my front door. We hadn’t seen each other in four years, and that was the best greeting she could muster.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  She shed her coat and handed it to me to deal with. “I thought maybe the Western Slope would be prettier than the Front Range, but they look the same to me.”

  I hung her coat on one of the hooks by the door. “It’s gorgeous here, actually. If you saw it in spring or summer or even fall—” I stopped, realizing my mistake. I’d just made it sound as if it was her fault for coming at the wrong time of year.

  She sniffed, looking away from me. “The traffic across I-70 was horrendous. Really, Owen, I don’t see why you had to leave Laramie at all.”

  “I think it’s charming,” my dad said as he pulled me into a hug. “It suits you.”

  “Thanks, Dad. You found the hotel all right? You’re all checked in?”

  “Yep, no problems at all. It seems like a real nice place.”

  “The first room they gave us reeked of cigarette smoke,” my mom said. “I called and complained, and they moved us to a new room, but it smells as bad as the other one did.”

  My dad’s smile was tight, stuck to his face like a plastic Halloween mask, brittle and unreal. “Well, it’ll only be two days. I think we’ll manage.”

  I ordered dinner in that night. Nick had offered to cook for us. In fact, he’d offered to be with me every minute of my time with my mother, but I’d refused. I didn’t want him to see me with her. I didn’t want him to witness the humiliation and disdain she poured on me with every breath, although he
made a point of coming upstairs to meet them.

  My dad was genuinely friendly and enthusiastic in his greeting, but my mother was characteristically reserved.

  “I hope you’re not too close to him,” she said to me, once he was gone and we were settling at the kitchen table to eat.

  “Wh-why is th-that?”

  “Think about it. A good-looking young man like that, and yet he’s not married?” Her lips twisted in disgust. “He’s probably one of them. The last thing you need is to be mixed up with people who are bad influences in that regard.”

  “He’s a n-n-nice person, Mom.”

  “Well, we know all a boy has to do is pretend he likes you and you’ll do anything. Just like with Jeremy Brewer.”

  My cheeks flushed hot with humiliation. It was so typical of her to throw the incident with Jeremy in my face. Yes, he’d acted like my friend. He’d kissed me and touched me, but when we were caught under the bleachers, breathless in each other’s arms, he’d turned his back on me. Nick would never do that.

  And yet the seed of doubt my mother had sown was there, under the muck of my shame. He had pushed me away time and again. Maybe it wasn’t about the HIV or his ridiculous sense of nobility. Maybe I really was as pathetic as my mother said.

  “What is this, anyway?” my mother asked, looking through the delivery cartons on the table. “It smells terrible.”

  “I thought you liked Chinese food.”

  “I like good Chinese food.” She pushed it away. “I don’t see why we can’t go out.”

  “Owen’s already paid for this,” my dad said. “Anyway, we came here to see Owen, remember? To spend some time with our son.”

  “And we can’t spend time with him and have a decent meal at the same time?”

  “Restaurants are so noisy, Valerie. Especially on Fridays. This is more intimate.”

  It was a nice attempt, but nothing could salvage my dignity. The food tasted like dirt in my mouth. I could barely stand to swallow. Through it all, my dad attempted to make small talk, asking me about Tucker Springs, my work, my friends. No matter what subject we landed on, my mother continued to ooze contempt.