by Alexa Land
My new friend Trevor came and visited me twice a week during that month, like clockwork. I’d tell him I didn’t want company, and he’d simply say, “I know,” before sitting beside me and putting his arms around me. He didn’t try to get me to talk, and he didn’t offer any advice. He just hugged me. It was better than therapy.
At the end of a month, when my feet were healed enough for shoes, he came and visited me one Saturday morning and said, “Come on. It’s time you left this apartment.”
“I don’t feel like going out,” I told him.
He rummaged through the suitcase that I’d been living out of and handed me a sweatshirt. “I know,” he said. Then he waited for me to put it on.
“I’m serious, Trevor. I don’t feel like socializing.”
“That’s not what we’ll be doing.”
I stared at him for a few moments, then sighed and pulled on the sweatshirt, before sliding my feet carefully into a pair of sneakers. I pushed my glasses further up the bridge of my nose and asked, “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He held my gaze steadily.
We rode a bus across town, then walked half a block to a small warehouse. The little white sign above the door said ‘Lunch with Love.’ I looked at Trevor and asked, “What are we doing here?”
“We’re helping,” he said simply, and held the door open for me.
There were four or five people inside, and everyone knew Trevor, greeting him warmly. He introduced me, and then led me to a stool at the end of a long, stainless steel counter, which was loaded with supplies. “Since it’s probably painful for you to stand very long, you can sit here and put the meal kits together. Like this.” He pulled a few components from the various boxes, showed me how to assemble the bento-style tray and bundle the plastic cutlery in a napkin, and put the whole thing together.
“Yeah, okay,” I murmured, and went to work. It was repetitive, but soothing in a way. I got into a good rhythm, and soon stacks of assembled kits lined the counter. I kept going until I ran out of supplies, then went to find Trevor.
He was in the big, industrial kitchen with Sadie Jones, sautéing vegetables in a huge skillet while she assembled green salads in little to-go boxes. Sadie smiled when she saw me, then came around the counter and gave me a hug. “Hi, Hunter,” she said. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“You too. I, um, finished with the boxes,” I said, gesturing over my shoulder.
“In that case, you can chop zucchini,” Trevor said. “There a barstool over in the corner, you can pull it up to the counter.”
I did as he said. There were fifty pounds of zucchini to get through, and I washed it all in the sink, then stacked it up on the counter and sat before a big, scarred cutting board. I wasn’t much of a cook, so I asked Trevor how he wanted it sliced. He came over to me and cut one up rapidly and efficiently. I picked up a knife and got to work, emulating his movements.
The next couple hours passed quickly in the kitchen. Two hundred and thirty hot lunches were assembled in the boxes I’d put together, then packed in special insulated carriers. Eighteen volunteers arrived around eleven-thirty and loaded up the meals into their vehicles, then headed out into the city, along with Sadie and a couple other people that had been cooking.
Trevor and I worked with the remaining volunteers to clean the kitchen, and only when it was spotless did my companion finally pull up a chair and sit down beside me. “How do you feel?” he asked me.
“Tired, but good.” I actually felt better than I had in weeks.
“Glad to hear it.”
“How did you know I needed this?”
He shrugged and said, “It always makes me feel better when I volunteer here, I was hoping it would do the same for you.”
“It really did help. I’ve spent a lot of time dwelling on things lately, and this took my mind off…well, pretty much everything. It felt good helping other people, too.”
“Do you want to come back tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday. Are they open?”
He nodded. “Seven days a week, three hundred sixty-five days a year.”
“I want to keep doing this,” I said.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“It’s quite a coincidence that you volunteer at the same charity I chose for my public appearance.”
“No it isn’t.” I glanced up at him, and he grinned at me. “That’s how I heard about this organization. I’ve only been in San Francisco a few weeks, and found myself with some free time after your event in the Castro, and so I looked into Lunch with Love. I’ve always enjoyed cooking, and I like what they’re trying to do here, so this seemed like an ideal place to volunteer.”
“You’re a better man than me. I tend to just help out with my checkbook.”
“That counts. It’s not really an option for me, though, so I give my time.”
“Are you still working for Jamie?”
He nodded. “I’m still bussing tables, and hoping an entry-level position opens up in the kitchen. I’ve been doing a little work with River, too, the caterer from Christopher’s gallery opening. He’s a brilliant cook, but kind of a disaster when it comes to running a business.” Trevor grinned affectionately, in a way that made me wonder if there was something going on with the two of them.
“What brought you to San Francisco anyway?”
He sighed, the humor draining from his features, and said, “I helped my underage cousin Melody run away from home when she got pregnant, to stop her dad from beating the crap out of her. We came to San Francisco to find my estranged father, hoping he’d help us, but we couldn’t track him down. Meanwhile, my uncle, Mel’s dad, is absolutely furious with me for helping her run away, so I can’t go home again. Incidentally, he’s the person who raised me, since my mother’s been in prison for the last fourteen years. But that didn’t stop him from swearing he’d hunt me down and kill me.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah, my family’s awesome,” Trevor said. He tried to keep his tone light, but there was heartbreak in his sky blue eyes. “Oh, and here’s the kicker: three weeks after we got here, Mel met some guy and went off with him. So now here I am, waiting for her to come back, with about twelve dollars to my name.”
“I can’t believe she did that.”
“Actually, I can. The way we were raised…well, Melody’s always going to latch on to any guy that shows her a little affection, because there wasn’t exactly a lot of love to go around when we were kids. It scares me to think about her future, about the jerks she’ll end up with just because they throw some attention her way. I mean, she’s only seventeen and pregnant already, and the baby’s father is a complete thug. He was another reason we left Sacramento, and I hope to God he doesn’t track us here.”
“Sacramento? You didn’t run very far.”
“I know, we couldn’t really afford to go much farther. Besides, we figured the best place to lose ourselves would be a huge city. It certainly worked for my father.”
“I’m sorry about all you’re going through, and I want to help. I wish you’d kept the money I tried to give you.”
“I’m not really a big fan of hand-outs. That was nice of you, though,” he said. “I managed to make rent on our crappy little apartment, I need to hang on to that so Mel can find me if and when she comes back. There’s not much money left over for luxuries like food and electricity, but hey, I work in a restaurant, so I won’t starve. That catering job with River holds a lot of promise, too. If it pans out, I’ll be just fine.”
“No wonder you were stealing cookies.”
“They were for Melody, macaroons are her favorite. That was actually the day I came home and found a note saying she’d taken off with this guy she’d just met.”
“You must be worried about her,” I said.
“I am, but all I can do is wait for her to return. And I’m pretty sure she will as her due date gets closer. She was really scared about going through childbirth a
lone, and I promised I’d be there for her.”
“Will she call and check in with you?”
He considered that, and said, “Well, she might try to call me at the restaurant.”
“Why there?”
“It’s not like either of us can afford a phone. But who knows if she’ll think to call. Melody tends to be pretty wrapped up in Melody.” He shook his head and added, “That was all a really long and awkward answer to your original question. Sorry to dump so much on you.”
“I’m glad you told me what’s going on with you. And if you ever change your mind, my offer of help stands, whether it’s money or a place to stay or whatever you need.”
“I appreciate that, Hunter.”
“You’d do the same for me.”
“I would.” After a pause, he changed the subject by saying, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Whatever happened between you and that Brian guy? Are you still together?”
“Oh…no. That ended.” I looked down at my hands. “He left me.”
“Why?”
“I assume he got sick of all my shit. I mean, he got shot because of me. He must have realized I was the last thing he needed.”
“Wait a minute. It sounds like you really don’t know why he left.”
“Sure I do. I mean, in the short time he knew me, he had to put up with a lifetime’s worth of drama. Two lifetimes. Why would he stick around?”
“That doesn’t make sense. What did he say when he broke up with you?”
“Nothing much.”
“No?”
“He just…he didn’t want me.” Tears prickled in the back of my eyes, but I wasn’t going to cry. I’d done way too much of that these past few weeks.
“I don’t believe that.”
I glanced up at Trevor. “Why not?”
“Because I saw the way he looked at you, Hunter.”
“How did he look at me?”
“Like you were the most important thing in the world to him.”
“But I wasn’t, because he left me.”
“It sounds like you have no idea why he left, or what was really going on with him. You really need to go have a talk with him.”
“I doubt he’d want to see me.”
“Go anyway.”
I thought about it for a while, then said, “I guess I could do that.”
“Good. I just don’t buy the idea that he suddenly decided there was too much drama, especially after the situation with your stalker was resolved.” Resolved…that was one way to put it. “Why would you accept the breakup without question, Hunter?”
I shrugged and said, “I guess…I guess it didn’t surprise me that he didn’t want to be with me, not after all I’d put him through. Plus, I was dealing with so much right at that time. I guess all I could do was accept it.”
“Come on,” he said, getting up and pushing in his chair. “Walk me to the bus stop. You need to go to Brian’s house before you head home, so you can talk about whatever happened between the two of you.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Trevor and I hugged goodbye before we boarded buses heading in opposite directions. After I sank onto the lumpy vinyl seat, I pulled out my phone and texted Kieran, asking once again how Brian had been lately.
Fine, came his reply. He’s been really busy with physical therapy, counseling, and some house projects.
When was the last time you saw him? I asked.
Actually, I haven’t seen him since we got back from Santa Cruz, Kieran replied. That’s how busy he’s been. But I text him a couple times a week.
Something about that didn’t sound right, and I frowned as I slipped the phone back in my pocket. I got off the bus in Noe Valley and walked two blocks, ignoring my aching feet, then stood on the sidewalk, looking up at Brian’s house. My frown deepened. All the curtains were drawn, and a few old flyers stuck around the front door made the house look abandoned.
I went up the steps and knocked, and when there was no reply, I pressed my ear to the door and listened. “Brian?” I called.
Nothing. I decided to take my prying one step further and went to the edge of the little porch, leaning over the railing, then peered through a gap in the curtains. The living room was dark, but I could see right through the dining room to the kitchen, brightly lit with its wall of bare windows.
There was a body on the kitchen floor.
When I yelled Brian’s name again, the figure didn’t move. I ran to the door and rattled the knob, but it was locked. “Oh God,” I murmured as I raced off the porch and around the side of the house. I had to scale a tall wooden fence to get into the backyard. It barely slowed me down. I tripped and fell as I took the back steps three at a time, and didn’t bother to get back to my feet, scrambling the last bit of distance on my hands and knees. The back door was locked, too. I flung aside the doormat and grabbed Brian’s spare key, the one he’d hidden there after the night we met, when he’d locked himself out. I shoved it in the lock and twisted so hard, it was surprising that it didn’t snap in two.
As soon as the door swung open, I dove for Brian’s prone figure. “Please don’t be dead. Please, please, please,” I chanted as I grabbed his arm and rolled him over onto his back, then pressed my ear to his chest.
His heartbeat was strong and steady. And he reeked of alcohol.
I dropped into a seated position and stared at him as I tried to catch my breath. He was drunk off his ass at two o’clock in the afternoon, and he was a total mess. His clothes were stained and dirty, his hair disheveled, and he sported a thick beard that was probably about a month old.
“Holy shit,” I said to his unconscious form. “You’ve regressed right back to your former self.” I leaned against the kitchen counter and watched him sleep it off for a while, then looked around me.
The kitchen was completely trashed, every square inch of countertop covered with takeout containers, beer cans, and liquor bottles. I reached up and pulled a receipt off the counter, frowning at it. “Really? There are liquor stores that deliver?” I muttered, then returned the receipt to where I’d found it.
I was still sitting there on the floor, watching him and debating calling Kieran, when Brian woke up suddenly. He’d begun snoring a little in the past couple minutes, and abruptly, he sat up with a loud, really flattering snort/snore combination, looking all around him, obviously disoriented. When he noticed me sitting a few feet away, he just blinked a couple times, then looked around again and grabbed an almost-empty bottle of Wild Turkey from the floor.
He tugged off the lid and tossed it on the worn linoleum, then tipped the bottle back, about to guzzle its contents. “Oh, hell no,” I said, lunging forward and grabbing the bottle out of his hands.
“Holy fuck!” he cried out, scampering backwards until he hit the cabinets opposite me. “You mean you’re real?”
“What the fuck did you think I was, a hallucination? And if you say yes, I’m shoving you in the back of a cab and driving you to the nearest alcohol treatment facility.”
Brian was clearly still drunk, and he knit his brows together as he tried to work out an answer. Finally, he came up with, “No?”
“No what?”
“No, I didn’t think you’re a loosination?” He slurred, holding my gaze as he said that, eyes open wide, like a little kid who was trying to get away with a lie.
I rolled my eyes and got to my feet. “You smell like booze and armpits. Come on, you’re getting a shower.”
“Why you mad?” he mumbled, trying and failing to pull himself into his wheelchair before giving up and sitting back on the floor.
“Because I grew up with an alcoholic father, Brian, and it fucking pisses me off to see you doing this to yourself.”
“Sorry.” He looked contrite.
“No you’re not. And look, I know you were shot, and that probably totally exacerbated your PTSD and all that. But shit, turning to alcohol, Brian? You should be talking about that
with your therapist, not drowning it in a bottle.”
“Nope. No more ther’pist.”
“What? Why not?”
“No point.”
I knit my brows, then crossed the room to his chair and locked the brake. As I held it steady by the handles, I said, “Come on. Try again.”
He climbed up onto the chair awkwardly, eventually flopping down onto the seat, and I pushed him down the hall to the bathroom. “No cold shower,” he said when I parked him beside the tub. “I hate that.”
I sighed and stared at him for a long moment, then muttered, “Fine.” I put the stopper in place, and began drawing him a warm bath.
When I turned toward him again, he tilted his head and said, “What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You never look like this. Just on the night I met you, but that’s it.”
“You know, you’re in no position to judge people’s appearances,” I told him. “I bet I can guess every meal you’ve had this week from the stains on that t-shirt.”
He looked down at himself, then said, “Gross.”
“It is gross.”
He looked at me again and said, “But you’re so handsome. Why are you hiding behind the big glasses and the messy ponytail and the ratty hoodie? Where’d Hunter Storm go, with his designer everything?”
“Hunter Storm doesn’t live here anymore. There’s just Hunter Jacobs now, and he couldn’t really give a shit.” I turned back to the tub and watched it fill, then shut the water off and said, “Can I trust you to do this on your own, or are you so damn drunk that you might pass out and drown?”
“What a bad way to go, a grown man drowning in a bathtub,” he said. “You’d hafta make up a story, tell ‘em I went some cooler way, like skydiving or something.”
I grinned a little at that, despite myself. “And who exactly would you be trying to impress with this fake skydiving accident?”