by Bryce Taylor
Chapter 1 – Hello Again
Chapter 2 – Dinner
Chapter 3 – Goodbye
Chapter 4 – Party
Chapter 5 – Let’s Do It
Chapter 6 – Let’s Fall in Love
Epilogue
Chapter 1 – Hello Again
A glimpse of a figure, sitting at a café as I'm walking past. Her back to me. My breath catching in my throat. Sudden pain in my chest. Heart clenched. Instant recognition.
Jo.
How do I look?
Christ.
Maybe it isn't her.
It is.
Unmistakeable.
Nerves hitting. Gravity gone. Floating. Lips numb, trying to form words.
"Hey," I say, in her direction, standing by her chair, to her side. At the corner of her eye.
Grey eyes looking up, incredulous.
"Meg?"
Not pleased to see me precisely. Maybe just surprised.
Getting up.
No longer taller than me.
The same height.
Folding me into strong arms. Arms that I had always imagined would feel like that. That feel as if.
Shut up, Meg.
You aren't fifteen anymore.
Letting me go.
The faintest smell of stale sweat as if she has been to the gym and hasn't yet showered. No. She is in business clothes.
She looks embarrassed. Sitting back down. Travel bag at her side.
I'm being an arse.
Stretch my face into an awkward, unused smile. My face heating. Blushing.
As if. As if I'm fifteen.
"Hey Jo, long time no see," I say inanely. It has been a long time. Still, though. You'd think the first words out of my mouth would have been more meaningful.
She isn't replying. Like she wishes she were anywhere else.
Like she has remembered I'm gay and she is a very married and very capital G, God loving Christian.
She had said it didn't bother her before. When we were friends. When I came out to her. Before I left town and everything in it.
"I should get going," I tell her, checking my watch. Fuck. I am late. Not that I want to leave. Right now, I'd do anything to stay.
As if fifteen was yesterday. Not over a decade ago.
"Oh no," she says, reaching out her hand towards me, stricken, "I'm sorry, don't go, I was surprised to see you is all."
"Can I get you another coffee?" I ask, remembering my manners for once, the smile on my face painfully genuine.
I can see she is going to say no.
"Still drinking lattes?" I ask. As if I could have forgotten that. Coffee with her after church on Sundays. "I'm sure I owe you one."
It's more like fifty. A hundred. She never let me pay once even though she was a poor college student. Even though in high school I had a good part-time job and no expenses at all.
She smiles, her face transformed.
"Sure, a latte would be lovely," she says.
I love, love, love that she can say the word lovely without irony.
By the time I return my nerves have doubled. Tripled. I don't even know. Jeez they hurt. I've grown out of nerves a long time ago. When I realised I just couldn't care less what other people thought.
I congratulate myself on not spilling either coffee. I don't quite trust myself to drink mine though. I might wear it. I will wear it.
Or choke on it.
I look over at her. Take her in.
She hasn't changed at all.
Same terrible dress sense. Cheap white button up shirt, probably polyester, black pants, also polyester. I peek to the side. Battered unattractive flats. Her entire outfit probably cost less than my underwear. Hair pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. No makeup. Eyebrows that have never experienced wax or tweezer.
She looks great.
Amazing.
She isn't beautiful. Erratic curly brown hair. Freckles. Strong face. Wide mouth. But, oh, the intelligence behind those grey eyes. That razor-sharp wit. Her ability to bare her soul. Without fear. Enough charisma to be memorable. To be magnetic.
To me anyway.
I have the overwhelming urge to make her smile. Not the half-hearted 'thanks for the coffee' smile this is twisting her lips now. The 'stop saying wildly amusing things that I shouldn't be laughing at' smile. The one I used to be able to make her smile all the time, inappropriate comments at bible study, a raised eyebrow at just the right moment in church, an in joke.
I'm staring.
She is drinking her coffee and staring right back at me. She never could or would pretend that someone isn't doing something stupid.
"Sorry," I say.
"You look great," I add awkwardly.
She raises an eyebrow.
I blush.
Again.
Fuck.
She doesn't tell me I look good. She never did feel the need to follow social conventions.
FYI, I do look good. I know I do. The girl at the counter smiled and quirked her eyebrows at me. Checked out my narrow designer suit, my shirt opened three buttons, a glimpse of neckline, brogues. On point. Not like in high school when I genuinely thought a fashion choice was cargo pants paired with a skate branded hoodie.
Jo is still watching me. I don't even know what to say.
We have nothing in common. Our Venn diagram would be two circles in two different rooms.
She is reaching across the table, a hand extending towards mine. In all the time we knew each other she'd never deliberately touched me once. Inappropriate for a bible study leader to touch a student. The occasional brushes sitting next to each other at church beyond thrilling.
I always sat next to her at church. Of anyone I came out to, she should have had the most cause for concern. Did have the most cause for concern.
As her hand gets with a few inches of mine I twitch before I can stop myself.
She immediately withdraws it.
"Sorry," she says, a slight frown creasing her brow, "I know you don't like to be touched."
It's true. Not from her. She could. Shut up Meg. But strangers. People I'm not friends with.
Only she would come out and say it outright, though. I can't imagine any of my friends being so blunt as to mention my obvious personal space issues so directly.
"I was going to ask to see your tattoo," she says in explanation.
Oh, good god. My tatts. There is something, one more thing, I didn't have when I left home, left the church and my family, my friends at eighteen.
I've never thought about it, I never intended on going back.
She is pointing at the tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of my suit.
At least that one is safe. It's a sketch of one of Da Vinci's flying machines. The Day of the Dead piece surrounding it, though. I'm not sure what she is going to think about that. It fully covers my entire bicep. The theme of the images are decidedly unchristian. I don't think I can show her the sketch without a luridly coloured skull getting in the way.
She has a look on her face though. Curiosity and keen interest.
I wordlessly take off my jacket, lay it across my lap and carefully roll up my sleeve of my shirt, the cuffs of jet black pressed Italian cotton softly compliant, folding. I show her, palm out, wrist exposed.
She smiles. She likes it. My heart pressed between pincers. Smiling back at her.
I'd always got my tattoos for myself. Rewards. Memories. Manifestos. Now I wonder if there is one I could get for her. To make her smile.
She reaches out. Stops. I catch her eye. Nod. Go ahead.
Most people admire the watch on my wrist first. Those in the know. My favourite watch for work, one that set me back a pretty penny. A Patek Philippe Calatrava. A vanity piece.
She isn't o
ne of those people.
She is tracing a finger over the ink. Wildfire following. My heart racing, preparing to run or to fight. It doesn't know yet.
I don't know what the hell is going on either. I'm feeling the familiarity of this. Our thing. As if we haven't been parted. Her ability to make me feel comfortable in ways no one else can. Uncomfortable in ways that I like too much.
My fingers are trembling and I am hoping to a god I don't believe in that she doesn't notice.
She glances up and sees the look on my face. I'm biting my lips together. She snatches back her hand as if she has been burnt by the flames under my skin.
I don't know if I should apologise. After all an apology is an admission of guilt.
I scrabble around for a safe topic to talk about.
"How is work?" I ask her. No doubt she still works for one of the many Christian aid organisations that go into countries to tell starving kids with no hope that God has a plan for them. It was the whole reason she studied law. And theology. To do God's work. Her love for God knows no bounds.
"I got fired," she says matter of factly.
Oh. What the fuck do you say to that?
This is Jo, I remind myself. I can say exactly what I'm thinking. No need to stumble over the requisite things. The 'oh, so sorries'.
"Who were you working for?" I ask curiously.
"Stand With The Lord," she says.
I smirk. I can't help but sense the capitalisation. I thought hipsters were self-aggrandising wankers. Christians have that covered to far loftier heights. Full disclosure; I've been called a wanker hipster by more than one person.
"Shut up, Meg," she says, grinning.
Those dimples. My poor heart.
I give her a 'come on' look.
"Yeah, alright," she says. Agreeing with me. It is a wanker name.
"So," I ask.
She shrugs. "Have you heard of 'His Light'?" she says.
Who hasn't? The scandal has been in and out of the papers for months. I have heard far more of it than that because it was my company that was given the job to try and recover the data that they tried to get rid of.
Oh, shit. Two plus two equals some serious conclusions.
"You were the whistle-blower," I say. I'm seriously impressed. It would have taken quite the analytical mind to join the dots. We had a hard enough time when we knew what we were looking for and a whole team of data specialists and forensic analysts.
There is no doubt in my mind that it was her. She would never see corruption and not say something about it. I knew she would be a great lawyer.
She nods.
"They fired you for that." It's not a question. Of course, they did. Fucking arseholes. I bet they released statements condemning and forgiving His Fucking Light at the same time as kicking her out the door. The duplicity that is so finely honed by Christians in power.
I grin at her. Cool. I bet those sanctimonious bastards had quite the shock when the Feds turned up at their doors.
A shrug. She looks away. A crease in her chin.
"What are you doing now?" I ask, gently, trying to move on. Not liking this. Jo looking like she might cry.
A small breath, exhaled with force. Looking me in the eye. No. She isn't going to cry. She is stronger than that. But she is hurt. Bruised.
"It's a small world, you know?" she says.
Right. So, unemployed.
I reassess her. Her bag. Her clothes. No jewellery. Not that she ever wore much.
"Where are you staying, Jo?" Firmly. Evenly. Because I'm furious. I have a horrible feeling about her answer.
Where is her fucking corporate lawyer, goodie two shoes husband?
She indicates the building across the road. The shelter. Her eyes locked with mine.
"Mark?" I ask calmly. Jaw clenching.
"We are divorced," she says with equanimity.
"You divorced him?" I ask before I can think. Before the fallacy of that theory can hit me. She isn't the kind of person to do takesy backsies on 'till death do us part'.
"No," she says and takes another sip of her coffee, "he divorced me."
I'm delighted and I want to kill him. Jerk. No doubt there was some bullshit about her not submitting to his authority. I grin inside. Bet it was because she didn't ask him before tipping off the ombudsman about all that shit going down at His Light.
I'm rubbing the edge of my hand against my upper lip, the way I do when I think I'm being clever. My tell, that my friends use against me when we play poker.
"You know my company has a spare apartment at the moment," I tell her after a moment. I don't. But I can put the guy who is supposed to be staying there tonight in a hotel.
She is looking at me like she doesn't quite believe me.
"It's the time of year," I tell her shrugging, "nothing happens after Christmas. It'll be free for at least a few weeks." All lies. Because apparently our schtick where she tells the complete unvarnished truth and I lie, lie and lie some more hasn't gone stale in the twelve years since we last saw each other.
A day like this. In a cafe. Drinking our last coffee. Telling her the truth. Finally after three long years of friendship, the truth. Her face too full of acceptance. Leaving before the sharpness of truth could cut me deeper. Before I divulged more than I wanted to.
I can see that she wants to believe me about the apartment.
I've been there. I know what it is like to long for a hot shower. A couch. Your own bed. With clean sheets. To not wake up wondering what that noise was.
At least I had a car. Friends who put up with me and put me up too, now and then. At least I was eighteen and hadn't anything to lose.
I don't need to ask. She has lost everything.
"Don't be a dick," I tell her sharply, "aren't we friends?"
She nods.
"Good," I tell her. Settled.
Now I just need to get the apartment ready. Crap. It's not like that is going to be obvious if I start making phone calls. Have the cleaners even been through?
"I just need to go the bathroom," I tell her. "Back in a sec."
She narrows her eyes. My hatred of public toilets apparently remembered also.
Fine.
I pull out my phone.
"What are you doing now?" she asks. Her voice brittle.
"Calling a car, I'm not planning on walking there," I tell her sharply. The minimum; surreptitiously messaging John. Telling him he'll be staying at the Four Seasons instead. Lucky him.
"I didn't say yes," she says, looking annoyed.
I rewind in my head. She didn't. It was kind of implicit though.
Shit.
She laughs at me. "You are still so easy to game," she says. "Of course I'll stay. Thank you."
Christ. She kills me.
"Ha ha, you are so funny," I tell her grumpily.
"Aren't you going to drink your coffee?" she asks. Watching with interest as I finish ordering the car through Uber.
I down the coffee in one mouthful. My mouth curling down involuntarily, it's worse than the not-great coffee I was already expecting.
Raise an eyebrow. She finishes hers too, a half-smile on her face. The car pulls up as we stand. A black Lexus. Shiny. I wave at the driver, take her bag, put it in the boot.
Go to get in the back with her.
Except she is in the front seat. Talking to the guy. Complimenting him on his car. Bonding over shared experiences in Syria. Speaking briefly in Arabic.
She thanks him sincerely when we get out. As if he isn't getting paid to do this.
"How does that work?" she asks.
"Uber?"
She shrugs. Apparently, she hasn't heard of it.
"It's an app that lets you order a car on-demand, or a ride share or whatever," I tell her.
"And you don't pay?" she asks.
I swallow a laugh. "It's all online," I tell her.
She nods, thinking about this.
"That's clever," she says.
She looks
up at the building we are standing in front of.
"Here?" she says, eyes on the gleaming glass and steel edifice.
She is having second thoughts. I know she is.
"Jo, you can stay here or it can stay empty, I don't give a shit," I tell her firmly.
I do give a shit. So much so that it hurts.
Her lips pressed together.
"Look, if I get a down market apartment free, I'll be the first to let you know," I tell her wryly.
She laughs. "I'm being an idiot, I'm sorry," she says.
I grin back at her. "Come on."
The concierge hands me the spare key card and I suddenly feel ashamed at the marble foyer, his expensive suit, the flowers, the leather couches. The overall opulence.
I'm glad the apartment is the worst in the building. One bedroom, no balcony, at the back, over the alley. Awareness that I have an embarrassment of wealth.
We stand in silence in the lift. Down the hallway. To the door. I hand her the card, fingers brushing. Tingles racing up my forearm.
She opens the door, I follow, her bag still in my hand, switching on the lights.
"Wow," she says, looking around, poking her head in the bedroom, the lounge, the kitchen.
I smile at her. "I should go," I tell her, dropping her bag in the lounge. I don't want to, but I know how much she must be wanting a shower. To wash clothes. To sleep. She isn't going to do any of those things with me here.
"Oh, are you sure?" she says, looking only a little disappointed.
"Yeah," I lie, can't help but ask, "I'll see you later?" Hopeful. Too hopeful.
"Of course," she smiles at me, pulling aggressively at my heart. Scrambling my brains. So much so that I've left, got to the lift and back to the lobby before I think.
Realise that if she is staying in a shelter she doesn't have any money either. I have no idea how I'm going to solve this problem with tact or diplomacy.
I go back upstairs to face the music.
Knock on the door reluctantly. Oh, shit. She could be in the shower.
I wait. It is too late to leave.
She opens the door. Her hair is down but otherwise, she is still in her clothes.
I swallow. "Hey."
"Hey," she says, skips a beat, "that was sooner than I was expecting."
There isn't a good way to say this.
"Give me your bank account details," I tell her bluntly.