Heart Knot Mine

by Lily Velden

  “Mitch,” I began, following him onto the grass and reaching for him again, not ready to give up on him. “I’m still the same Noah who can’t sing to save himself, the same Noah who dinged your car when you tried to show me how to do a parallel park. The same pesky younger brother who trailed around after you and Miranda. The same guy who stood by you as your best man at the altar. What turns me on in the bedroom doesn’t change any of that. It doesn’t change who I am.”

  “I said don’t touch me,” he exclaimed, shoving me in the chest.

  I stumbled backward, shocked at the revulsion I heard in his words and felt in his touch.

  “Mitch—”

  “You’re not that guy anymore. You’re not my little brother. I don’t know who you are. Wait. Yes, I do. You’re a pervert. A cocksucking, butt-loving pervert. What you like… what you do is unnatural. That makes you a pervert.” He glowered at me, his voice rising in both pitch and volume with each sentence.

  The look of disgust on his face didn’t bring me to my knees. It didn’t fill me with shame or guilt, and for one brief but glorious moment, I enjoyed the thrill of triumph at my acceptance of myself. For the first time, I truly knew I had nothing to feel ashamed of or apologize for. The strength that sureness gave me flowed through me, making me stand tall and hold my head high.

  “Pervert? Unnatural? Well, then, Mother fucking Nature or God—take your damn pick—are perverted and unnatural because they fucking made me this way. And tell me, big brother, while we’re talking about what is or isn’t natural, how come it’s okay for a heterosexual couple to engage in those acts, but not two men? Do you think less of Miranda when she’s being unnatural and sucking your dick or taking it up the ass? I mean, neither of those holes, after all, is the one nature designed especially for your cock!”

  “You little shit,” he yelled, lunging for me, but I was too quick for him.

  Mitch was built for strength, not speed. He was a good four inches taller than me and outweighed me by fifty pounds. He took after my father in height and build, whereas I was more like our mother. Had his fist made contact with my jaw, I had no doubt I’d have been down for the count. His old football coach had always said running into Mitch was like running into a brick wall. He was right. Mitch was a big wall of muscle, but speed had never been his thing. I, on the other hand, had always been into track and field and martial arts. I might have lacked Mitch’s brute strength, but I was more fleet of foot.

  And so I dodged and threw his hypocrisies back at him, my anger now overriding my hurt. I ignored with ease the sane voice in the back of my mind that told me my words, no matter the truth they held, would only antagonize Mitch further.

  “And what about that nice little porn collection of yours, brother? I seem to recall quite a bit of girl-on-girl action among them. Two lesbians getting it on for your viewing pleasure doesn’t upset your sensibilities of what is or isn’t natural? How odd.”

  I ducked and sidestepped, avoiding his balled fist. We circled each other, both of us breathing hard. Part of me knew he was too angry to listen, but I was beyond being able to stop myself. I was too upset at his rejection, coming so soon after Robert’s, to discipline myself. And too disappointed in his attitude to be able to rein in my taunts. I wanted to hurt him, the way he’d just hurt me.

  “I remember a vid or two with a bit of anal action too. But that’s okay, isn’t it? As long as there’s a set of tits to go with the butt loving, it’s all good. ’Cause that’s what makes the difference. There has to be a set of tits to go with the cocksucking and anal sex. Those tits make everything natural! Do you even realize what a hypocrite you’re being?”

  “You’re nothing but a queer fucking pervert,” he hissed, ignoring my truths. “I want you out of my house and away from my boys before you infect them with your sickness.”

  Something inside me snapped.

  I felt it. I heard it.

  It was like a gun going off in my head.

  It sent me barreling into Mitch, taking him by surprise. I had him down on the ground, pummeling him, connecting with his eye, his jaw, before Miranda’s screams brought me to my senses. I scrambled to my feet and stepped away, giving my head a shake to clear it. Without another word or glance in Mitch’s direction, I turned and walked away, muttering a quiet apology to a weeping Miranda as we passed by each other—she on her way to her husband’s side, me on the way to their front door and out of their lives.

  LYING ON the bed, my hands clasped behind my head, I ignored the sting of the cotton against my grazed knuckles and stared up at the ceiling of my bedroom. My worst fear had come to pass—I’d been rejected by my brother. The same brother I’d hero-worshipped as a kid. The same one I’d looked up to and whose footsteps I’d followed in until I’d matured enough to forge my own path.

  I felt hollow.

  Empty and hollow.

  My eyes stung, but no tears came. I was alone. Truly alone. I had no one. No Robert and no family, for as surely as I knew night followed day, I knew Mitch’s rejection meant the loss of Miranda, Ricky, and Jared as well.

  Regardless of my sense of loss, I couldn’t bring myself to regret my words or my actions. At least, not yet. Perhaps tomorrow I’d regret letting my hurt and anger get the better of me, making me lash out. For the moment, I felt justified. Mitch had failed me. Failed me as my brother, and as my friend. His love and acceptance came with conditions. To have his affection meant I had to conform to his idea of who I should be. He hadn’t even tried to understand and accept. He’d made no attempt to let go of his prejudice.

  The front doorbell chiming brought me out of my head and away from the tangled thoughts chasing themselves within it. I sat up, swiveling my legs off the bed and glanced at my bedside clock: 11:00 p.m. A small flutter of hope spread its wings in my belly. Perhaps it was Mitch coming to tell me he was sorry. That regardless of my sexuality, we were still brothers, and he loved me and wanted me in his and his family’s life. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that if he asked me for it, I’d forgive him. I might not like or agree with what he’d voiced, but it didn’t change the fact I loved him.

  The chime sounded again and I hurried my step to answer it. I threw open the door, disappointment knocking the wind out of me when I saw Miranda, instead of Mitch, filling my doorway.

  “Can I come in?” she asked, her voice wavering.

  That she was upset was obvious. Her normally pretty face was blotchy and puffy, her eyes red and swollen.

  I wanted to reassure her, but my disappointment had robbed me of my voice, and so I merely stood aside and waved her in. I led the way down the hall to the kitchen, and still with no word having passed my lips, poured her a glass of water. She took it from me and raised it to her lips while I busied myself by pouring another. For a split second, I wished it was a tumbler of Booker’s. I could have done with its life-affirming fire.

  As she placed her half-empty glass on the counter, I watched while she took a deep breath. It seemed to give her the courage she needed, for in the next moment a torrent of words spilled from her like floodwaters overflowing a dam. Most of what she said flowed past me, like water through fingers, but one phrase, repeated several times, hit me again and again, like flotsam striking me as it rushed by. In time he might forgive you.

  In time he might forgive me?

  With each jab of that phrase, I flinched.

  In time he might forgive me?

  I held up my hand, halting her rush of words.

  “Miranda, I’ve said and done nothing for which I need forgiveness. I don’t agree with Mitch’s worldview. I see and feel no shame or guilt in being who and what I am. I am as I was born, as I was meant to be. If anything, it is he who should be seeking my forgiveness for putting conditions on his love. He’s the one who should be feeling ashamed and sorry for his prejudices and his intolerance. So if that’s all you’ve come to say, then it’s time for you to leave.”

  “But—”

  “There
is no ‘but,’ Miranda. I am what I am. I didn’t choose to be gay. I didn’t ask to be. And I refuse to believe that something I had no control over, something I was born with inside me, is wrong or unnatural. I will not deny who I am to keep Mitch happy. I won’t sacrifice my chance at happiness to appease him, nor apologize to him or anyone else for being true to myself.”

  Without another word, I turned and headed back up the hall. I held open the door, steeling my heart against her tears as she turned and threw her arms around me.

  “I love you, Noah.”

  “I love you too, Miranda. And the boys too, but I think, for the time being at least, this is good-bye.”

  16

  OVER THE course of the weekend, I began the task of resuming my life. I did my laundry, I shopped for groceries, though I didn’t need much in that department with what Miranda had already done, and I went over my notes for my Monday morning lecture.

  Sunday evening found me at the Redhead, parked on my favorite stool, slouched over the bar in such a way a wave of déjà vu nagged at me.

  I sipped on my beer, absently rubbing my fingers over the polished surface of the bar top, lost in my thoughts. It seemed to me my life had come a full circle. Nine months earlier I’d sat on the very same barstool, feeling lost, lonely, and depressed. And here I was again, feeling pretty much the same. But now, I not only had no love in my life, I also had no family. Because Mitch and I had always been so close, the friends I had were more of a social nature or work colleagues; certainly there wasn’t one among them I’d consider confiding in. I really had no one. If there was any truth in karma, I must have been the biggest asshole on the planet in my previous life, because I seemed to be paying for it in spades in this one.

  Being a Sunday evening it was quiet, and for that I was grateful. I wasn’t up for making a happy face at anyone. Unfortunately, it also meant there was more time for Seth, my ever-faithful bartender, to make conversation.

  At first he made small talk, but then, not knowing how it would affect me, he began chatting about Robert.

  “Your professor guy had a thing for blonds, I reckon, and damn,” he joked with a small laugh as he polished a glass, “I never knew we had so many gay guys coming here. Your professor never struck out. Fast worker, too. Wouldn’t mind knowing what it was he said to them, because it worked a charm every time. Perhaps you could ask him for me. Maybe I could adapt it for scoring with the ladies!”

  Every sentence hit like a blow to my guts. I’d suspected as much—Robert was Robert, after all—but it still hurt to be faced with cold hard fact.

  I couldn’t make some lighthearted reply. I couldn’t reply at all. It was all I could do not to throw up on the bar top as pictures of Robert having his cock sucked by one stranger after another flitted through my mind like an obscene video clip.

  “Hey, Noah, dude, for someone who’s just arrived home, you don’t look too happy about it,” Seth observed as he polished another glass and eyed me sympathetically.

  It was the sympathetic look that tipped me over the edge.

  Internally, I rolled my eyes at myself in the way I’d always done when the hero did it in the movies—I confessed all to the bartender.

  I PAUSED in front of the door to my office, taking a moment to prepare myself. A quick glance up and down the hall told me I was alone, which was a relief. I didn’t want to have to explain to anyone why I was hesitating to enter my own office. And it was my office. I had to remember that. As if needing reassurance, my gaze moved to the discreet brass plaque spelling out my name in plain block print: Noah Daniels. Mine. My name. My office. Robert had merely had use of it for one semester. SAIC was my domain, not his. Taking a deep breath, I turned the handle and let myself in.

  At first glance it was the same as it had always been, and exhaling in relief, I stepped with more confidence farther into the room. I headed for my desk, but when I was within a pace or two of it I came to an abrupt halt. It was as if I had a safety harness about my chest and someone behind me had yanked its cord.

  There, on my desk, partially hidden by the computer monitor, was a bottle of Booker’s bourbon.

  I stood frozen to the spot, my gaze glued to the bottle as if it were a magnet and I a filament of metal.

  To my shame, I began to shake uncontrollably and gulped for air like a man starved of oxygen. The whole time a voice in my head screamed logic at me. It’s only a bottle of bourbon. He’s just one man. You’ll get over him.

  It took me quite a few minutes, but I finally got myself under control and continued on shaky legs around the desk, then seated myself in my chair. For another minute or two I eyed the bourbon as if it were the enemy—a viper which might strike at me at any moment.

  Gritting my teeth and feeling impatient with myself—what was I? A man or a mouse?—I reached out and, using my thumb and forefinger, opened the small card secured by a ribbon around its neck. Sure enough, it was from Robert; a brief note welcoming me back.

  I grabbed the bottle by the neck with one hand while using my free hand to open the file drawer on my left. Unceremoniously, I dropped the bottle in and closed the drawer.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, as if I’d dodged a bullet, I scanned my desk. I whimpered.

  There, where it had always been, was a photo of me with Mitch, Miranda, and the twins. A stab of pain knifed through my gut. I couldn’t look at the photo. With one hand I opened my top drawer, and with the other, I grabbed the edge of the frame and placed it facedown in the drawer, then pushed it to the back where I wouldn’t be able to see it.

  Swallowing noisily, I reached over, still a little shaky, and switched on my computer. I barely registered the scrolling white text on the black background, using the time it took for my PC to boot up to compose myself, or perhaps more accurately, to castigate myself for my weakness. Only the shifting colors on the monitor to that of the log-in screen drew me back to the present.

  No sooner had my screen filled with all the familiar icons of my desktop than I saw the blinking orange box by the Skype icon on my toolbar, telling me I had five messages.

  They could only be from one person.

  I lowered my head to the desk in defeat.

  STANDING BEFORE the crowd of predominantly eager faces, I delivered my lecture to the first-year students. It was a lecture I’d given before, but even without that, the subject matter itself was so familiar to me I could have imparted the information in my sleep.

  Just as well, as my inner self was definitely not focused on the issues besetting artists working in the arena of public art.

  “Noah, perhaps it’s best to forget him.”

  Seth’s parting words of the previous evening echoed in my head while my voice spoke of minimalist sculptor, Richard Serra, and his protracted legal battle over his site-specific work, Tilted Arc.

  Forget Robert? How could I? Was it even possible when I could still feel him from the ends of my hair to the tips of my toes? He was in the blood flowing through my veins. He was in the marrow of the bones that held me upright. Even his unspoken words were as shouts in my ears. Nor did I need for him to stand before me to see him; his image was tattooed on my brain. On my heart too. Forget him? It would be easier to forget my own name.

  I listened to myself as I gave the lecture, silently amazed at the gulf between the man I’d been to the man I’d become through loving Robert. The students, of course, had no idea of my transformation and asked all the usual questions.

  And I answered them.

  Answered them in the same way I always had.

  It felt odd, like donning a long-forgotten coat found in the back of the closet.

  I STARED at the screen, feeling hollow and alone. My in-box was empty. Logically, I shouldn’t have expected anything else. It was, after all, my new e-mail address, and the people who had predominantly used my old address had been Mitch, Miranda, and Robert. Most of my colleagues and acquaintances used my work e-mail. Still, logic was fighting a losing battle in my one-m
an pity party.

  I raised my glass to my mouth and took a sip of the red wine, swirling it around before letting it seep down the back of my throat. Mentally, I debated whether to check my old address. Was I up for it? There would be mail in that in-box. Of that, I was certain. I just wasn’t sure if I was strong enough to deal with seeing Robert’s name repeatedly in the list. Just the sight of his name was enough to feel like someone had twisted the knife that seemed to be permanently embedded in my gut. In the three weeks since I’d arrived back he’d inundated me with messages—at least one a day, and as many as three. Skype was the same. I’d ended up closing the program so I wouldn’t have to see the growing number of unread messages waiting for me. Thankfully, he stopped e-mailing me at work after the first week.

  I felt bad for ignoring him. I hated knowing that something I was doing was hurting and upsetting him, but I just couldn’t handle reading his platitudes or participating in shallow chitchatty conversations. I loved him. He didn’t love me, or at least not enough to be willing to try a relationship with me. Knowing that, what else was there to say? I needed some space if I was to have any hope of moving past my feelings for him. For the gaping wound that currently was my heart to heal, I needed time. I’d told him as much in my farewell note. Why couldn’t he understand that?

  Before I could second-guess myself, I logged out and typed the first few letters of my old e-mail into the address bar, and before I could change my mind, I hit the TAB key and typed in my password. Closing my eyes, I said a quick prayer that there would be an e-mail from Mitch or Miranda and none from Robert. I opened my eyes and swallowed painfully.

  No mail from my brother or Miranda.

  About ten from Robert.

  I wasn’t sure which hurt more.

  I’d really thought once Mitch got over the initial shock he’d call or something. That we’d talk. His silence was deafening. The pain of it grew with each passing day. How could he cut me out of his life for something, which, in the scheme of things, was so small and inconsequential? A person’s sexuality was, one hoped, not their defining characteristic. It certainly wasn’t mine.