by Damian Bloom
My stomach squeezes into a painfully tight ball. Suddenly, Adam’s chest is not so full of pride anymore, either. “Me? Oh, I really wouldn’t be a right match for your grandson.”
Grandma Hattie laces her fingers together and shifts in her chair. “You’re not straight.” It’s an observation, not a question.
Adam sets his jaw, and his beard bristles. Flustered Adam is such a rare view that I’m close to cheering Grandma on. “Uhh…no, I’m not.”
“And you’re crazy for him,” she adds, pointing in my direction. “That’s for sure.”
“Grandma!”
She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t born yesterday. There’s so much sexual tension between you two that it’s gonna frizzle my hair.” She sips her tea like she hasn’t just left two grown men speechless. “Now, I know you’re not dating because Luis wouldn’t keep such big news from his Grandma, would you, Luis?”
I can’t think of anything to do but nod.
“Adam, dear, the way you look at my nephew…I haven’t seen that look in a man’s eye since my dear Archie passed away, may he rest in peace.” Adam shakes his head but looks away. His tongue must be itching to contradict her. “Besides, I’ve known this boy since his very first breaths, and I’ve never seen him smile the way he smiles at you.” She fires me a stern look. “At least when he thinks I’m not looking.”
With one hand, Grandma pats Adam’s forearm. With the other, mine. “Don’t feel bad, boys. I’ve read thousands of love stories over the course of my long life. It would be quite embarrassing for me not to recognize love when it’s under my nose, wouldn’t it?”
Adam’s eyes only graze mine in passing, but when they do, it jolts us both like lightning. My heart swells up with hope. Here I was, thinking Grandma would instinctively hate Adam because he’s bound to break my heart. But not only does she seem to like him, she believes he loves me. Never have I ever wished this desperately for her to be right about something.
Grandma’s eyes squeeze down to slits, deep crowfeet cutting into her face. “So what’s the issue here?” Now, her voice is nothing but strictness. “You think my grandson isn’t good enough for you?”
Adam’s jaw squeezes tighter. Through gritted teeth, he shoots words out like bullets: “Not at all, I think Luis is amazing—”
“Then you’d better snatch him up while you’ve got the chance. ‘Cause once this boy gives his heart to someone, that thing’s lost for good.”
This shuts everyone up and hangs in the air like an ominous prophecy. Suddenly, the tea’s less sweet, the pie lodges in our throat on its way down. Adam and I struggle to finish them nonetheless, while Grandma Hattie remains apparently oblivious to the awkwardness she’s created. She smiles openly and kindly and asks again and again if there’s anything else she can bring us. I can only stand the tension for roughly thirty more minutes, and then I stand up, claiming that Adam’s got somewhere he needs to be.
I send him to the car first, and I fall behind. “I think Grandma might have a book I want,” I explain. “You go ahead.” When he’s dismissed, his chest quivers with relief.
There is no book. I only need this time to corner my grandmother. Hanging back in the doorway, I lay a hand on her shoulder and lower my voice. “So you don’t think he’s the one who breaks my heart?”
Since I relayed her vision to her, we’ve often talked about my concerns for the future. She’s been encouraging, while not entertaining hopes of her vision not coming true. Today, however, it’s almost like she’s forgotten all about her prophecy. I wish I could pretend I made it all up.
She giggles. “Don’t be silly, Luis. That man is too far gone.” Shoulder to shoulder, we watch him, one with contentment and hope, the other with repressed but no longer deniable love. “He’ll never hurt you if he can help it.”
Adam doesn’t ask me about the book when I join him in the car. I don’t think he ever believed there was one. Either way, he seems to have more pressing issues on his mind. “What your grandmother said,” he begins as soon as my butt hits the leather seat. “It’s not—” Adam clears his throat. “I mean, I’m not—”
I tap his arm. “It’s okay. I know.” I don’t deny anything she’s said about me, because she wasn’t wrong and I don’t want to lie to Adam.
“Any other stop?” He asks, visibly more at ease as we begin putting some distance between us and Grandma Hattie’s house. “Or can we go home?”
Home. I check his expression. He either doesn’t realize what he said, or he didn’t mean anything by it. I mean, it is his home. Still, my skin tingles.
“Yeah, let’s go home.”
23
Adam
Russian Vine has covered one side of my house for as long as I’ve owned it—a greedy, devilish plant, ever-set on gaining territory. But every year, in fall, its leaves ripen into the most stunning browns and oranges as if to make up for it. Eventually, they all fall, but new ones grow in spring. And life simply goes on.
“What are you doing?” Luis rubs his sleepy face. Worming his arms around my torso, he presses his cheek into my chest and gives me a forceful squeeze. “You weren’t there when I woke up.”
Outside, in the chilly fall air, he finds me clutching a steaming cup of coffee and staring at a wall. I fold one arm around him and savor his warmth. “And you panicked?”
He leans back and sticks his tongue out. Then, he directs his attention to the house. “Woah, this plant looks amazing. How’d it grow so big?”
I chuckle. “Try keeping it from growing. They call it Mile-A-Minute plant for a reason.”
Fortunately, I like the wild air of this wall, smothered as it is in the climbing plant’s intricate patterns. But, frustratingly invasive and prone to outgrowing its welcome, I know from personal struggle how big of a pest Russian Vine can be. It’s worth keeping an eye on for sure.
Luis hooks the collar of my sweater with a finger and tugs at it for my attention. “Why are you having a staring contest with a plant?”
I sigh before warming myself up with another sip of coffee. “I just felt like having my coffee out here today.”
This is only the partial truth. Yes, I felt like having a side of fresh air with my coffee this morning. But I was also restless. So I aimlessly circled the house, trying to make sense of my feelings, until I stumbled over this beautiful sight and stopped to take it in.
I tried to imagine the wall free of the vine but found it difficult. Although I know it’s there underneath, I can’t even glimpse the bricks that hide beyond the leaves. It’s crazy to think this plant wasn’t always like this, but grew to insane proportions over time, conquering and smothering the wall that had served as its support.
While these thoughts crowded my mind, Luis still slept inside the house, cocooned in my sheets. He, as well, sowed a barely noticeable seed one day—the first time he looked into my eyes, the first smile he directed at me. And it grew. It sprouted, it blossomed, it grew sticky tendrils that coiled themselves around my heart and squeezed. Gradually enough to go unobserved, but quick enough to incapacitate me in a matter of months.
With Luis in my arms, grinding my teeth is all I can do to keep my eyes from watering. Is this how it happened for the wall? It woke up one morning to realize there’s no inch left of it not overtaken by the vine? Because when I opened my eyes, an hour ago, and they fell on Luis’s angelic sleeping face, and my entire body ached with the fiery desire to coop him up inside my arms and protect him for the rest of his life, I knew. I suddenly felt the overgrown mess inside of me—stronger, denser than it ever was or than I ever thought it could be. I feel my heart bound, girdled by Luis. It’s him who stretches to my gut and sets it ablaze, him as well who climbs up to my throat and squeezes it shut. It’s like he’s invaded every single part of me. If someone sliced me open, Luis is all they’d find.
A life without him now feels like a gruesome dystopia. I promised myself I would never feel this way again, goddammit. What a terrifying realization—t
oday of all days.
“Earth to Adam…” Luis pokes a finger into my side.
I wade out of the swamp of my thoughts back to reality. “Sorry, what?”
“You’re really lost in thought today, aren’t you?” he asks, studying my face. “Is everything okay?”
I laugh it off and shake my head, and, despite how little I want to talk about this, I say: “On a very similar morning, five years ago, I found out I was getting divorced.”
Luis’s mouth whistles with a sharp intake of breath.
“Best day of my life,” I assure him.
Concern etches a thin line into the soft skin between his eyebrows. “Really?”
“Really.” I press the hot brew to my lips, then Luis has a sip as well. “I’d rather live a harsh reality than a beautiful illusion. At least she set me free.”
He shivers. I assume it’s from the cold, so I let him hold onto the warm cup while I wrap my large frame more tightly around him. When he smiles, he reminds me of a freshly-fed Hector.
After a moment’s silence, he makes the face he makes whenever he struggles to think of the correct way to breech a delicate topic. “Would you ever remarry?” he finally asks.
A scoff slips out of me as spontaneously as the answer that follows it. “Absolutely not.” For the past five years, this answer has lived on the tip of my tongue.
Luis gives a barely perceptible nod. He could have predicted my answer. Still, his face darkens with shadows I pretend not to understand. “What do you want from the future?”
A wind stabs through the flimsy fabric of my pajama pants.
“More of right now,” I say. Of course.
“Nothing more?”
Holding Luis close, I begin to sway to inexistent music. “I’ve achieved everything I wanted from life, Luis. I’ve got my own house, I’m successful at the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted to do…I’ve got you and Hector. What more could I possibly wish for?”
“So I’m part of your future?” Luis asks, tilting his head for a better view of my face.
I shrug. I know it’s not the romantic gesture Luis would appreciate, but it’s the most honest thing I can think to do. Because it’s so painfully unlikely—Luis and I are already running on borrowed time. We’re treading on an ancient wood-and-rope bridge that’s frayed down to a fine string, with a bottomless canyon below our feet. “Of course I want you in my life.”
“But you want everything to stay the same forever.”
“Yes.”
His shoulders slouching, Luis grimaces like he’s hurting. “And what if I want to marry someone?”
“I told you, I never want to stay in your way.” Picturing Luis with another man guts me. “As soon as you feel like you want something else, you’re free to go chase it. And I’ll accept it.”
“And you think we could still stay friends?”
“I hope so.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think there’s no way you’d ever want to try it out with me? A relationship?”
Goddammit. I’ve suspected this for some time. Despite having had this conversation already, I’ve been scared Luis might be entertaining hope of “maybe someday…” This is no good.
“Relationships mean promises, and I’ve seen how easily promises are broken. I once made grand promises, and they were made back to me, and I’ve seen what that did to me and someone I believed I loved. It made us hate the sight of each other. I don’t want to think it could do the same thing to us.” I lay a hand on Luis’s chest and feel his heart flutter like the wings of a trapped bird.
Sometimes, Russian Vine can cause serious damage to a structure, slithering its curious tendrils where they don’t belong. In such cases, it’s best to catch its nefarious tendencies early and chop it down. After removing every trace of it, you dig out its roots, and you reduce the irritating plant to a troublesome memory.
“I’d rather lose you and be left with the beautiful memories we’ve created than have you and lose our magic.”
24
Luis
Not all words taste and feel the same. I don’t know if it’s a universal experience or it’s just me. Some words float off the tongue, light with their casualness—a friendly hello, a fleeting goodbye. Others drag, they sag. When you spit them out, they either slam against the person they’re directed at, or they fall to the ground like dead weight. They’re ugly and hurtful but sometimes necessary. Others, still, bubble and crackle. They’re sweet and giddy. That’s how “Good morning, Adam” feels when I kiss him awake. That’s how “You look gorgeous” sounds coming from his mouth, even if I’m wearing the same uniform he sees me in every day, and my hair’s a mess.
Until the age of twenty-three, I thought I’ve tasted and felt all the different kinds of words there are. But as days swirl by like colored leaves carried by a gust of autumnal wind, I’m increasingly aware of three pesky little words I’ve got no idea what to do with. Most of the time, they sit lodged in my throat. But on other days, when Adam waits for me to come back from work with a perfectly sweetened cup of tea (one teaspoon and a half) and a back rub, when he surprises me with the book I skimmed through in the bookstore before deciding it’s wiser to save up some money, or he scoops me up from the laptop when I fall asleep mid-scene, putting me to bed with whispers of, “You’re working too hard, but I’m so proud of you,” the hold of the three words on my throat feels more like a chokehold.
I love Adam.
I feel it in the pit of my stomach, in my bones, and the depth of every cell in my body.
What I never knew about love is how it burns to be expressed. I find myself reaching for him constantly, without thinking, to touch and stroke and kiss and hug. Because I love you presses on my shoulders, and I’m terrified of letting it past my lips.
One night, it jolts me awake. I hear it slip out in a half-sleeping daze, and my eyes fly open immediately, my heart racing, thumping in my ears. But Adam is asleep, oblivious to how, mere inches away, I burn for him.
So I crawl into his arms and hang onto him and seal my lips shut. And lock the secret inside my heart for another day.
But my feelings for Adam are not the only thing I’m struggling with these days. I can’t seem to move forward with the book. The ending eludes me. So much has happened for my heroes—they’ve come so far, yet somehow not close enough.
Most of my writing nowadays consists of staring out the window, wondering how I’ll tie up all the plot’s loose ends. But then again, how will I do it in my own life? You just never know what will happen, do you? And happy ever after isn’t a guarantee for anyone.
At the opposite end of our writing table, Adam’s been having much better writing days than me, running his fingers over the keyboard so effortlessly that you’d think he’s been struck by divine inspiration. And as I admire him, deeply steeped in the creative process, I allow myself to think up fairy tales. Ones in which telling him I love him wouldn’t mean our little bubble of undefined affection popping—ones where he’d feel the same.
It’s a cold day at the end of November when I get to Adam’s house to find him giddy and secretive, like someone who’s planning a surprise. He welcomes me at the door, raking his fingers through his beard. “I’ve got something for you.”
Even before I can take off my jacket, he covers my eyes with his hands and pushes me forward. I know his house so well at this point that I figure out where we’re headed, even without seeing. We turn into the living room, and he drags his hands back to reveal a brand new Macbook on our writing table, tied with a glossy red ribbon, bow on top.
“What’s this?”
“Your new laptop.”
“Oh, Adam. I can’t accept this. It’s too expensive.”
“Come on…” He rolls his eyes and strides over to the table, stopping behind my chair. “What’s the point in being a bestselling author if I can’t even splurge on stuff like this?”
“You sho
uld spend it on yourself, not me!”
“I’ll decide what to spend my money on, thank you very much,” he says, turning his nose up to the ceiling. “I choose to spend it on what makes me happy. And you make me happy.”
I swallow hard and stare at Adam as my heart goes crazy. I make him happy? What’s that supposed to mean?
Pointing to my old laptop, which has been pushed to the side, he clears his throat of any trace of his previous words and says: “Besides, I did it more for myself than for you. That old thing is so damn noisy—I’ve internalized its whirring at this point. It gives me nightmares, I can hear it even when it’s off. I can’t keep going like this.”
When Adam sits down, I join him at the table. He runs his palms over the shiny surface of the gadget. “As a writer, you’re glued to your computer. What if that one crashes one day? God knows its glory days are over.” He shudders. “Trust me, I know all about technical disasters, but I learned that lesson the hard way.” His eyes light up with care and kindness, and the sight is hard to take. “You deserve to work on something more reliable.”
Taking my hand, he pulls me onto his lap, and the kiss that follows inebriates me. I must admit that plays an important part in convincing me. So I give in and accept the present, thanking Adam a few dozen times. In truth, I love the laptop, and writing without background noise might be nice for a change. But the fact he would do this for me…My chest roils uncomfortably, trying to make sense of the emotional overload. And that’s what I’m left to deal with for the rest of the day—especially in the evening, when Adam goes out with his agent.
Although we’ve known each other for a couple of months already, this is the first time I’m alone in his house. It feels strange, but also right. Hector seems totally comfortable with my presence. By now, I’ve learned the ins and outs of this house. It almost feels like a second home.