by Amy Lane
Blake’s hand, warm and kind, on his knee, gave him heart. “Good,” he said, grimacing. “I, uh… you know. There’s one thing I don’t have to mention.”
His mother’s eyes were blue, but she didn’t look innocent or easily fooled. “I’m getting the feeling maybe you do.” She flicked a sympathetic glance at Blake. “For various reasons. What happened in middle school, honey? What happened that got you so tied up in knots you couldn’t even untie them enough to tell me you were in pain?”
“There were… there was someone in middle school who… you know. Wasn’t nice. And… well, he sort of knew I was gay, and he was…. Uh… it got bad.” Blake squeezed his knee, but when he looked up, he saw grim acceptance rather than approval.
Blake knew he was understating things. Maybe he even knew Cheever was hiding behind words that sounded like the truth but weren’t.
Cheever took a deep breath and captured Blake’s fingers with his own, and then met his gaze and shook his head. He couldn’t do that now. He couldn’t talk about how he’d been Aubrey Cooper’s meat baby, just waiting, sweat dripping between his shoulder blades, hands clammy and shaking, to see if Aubrey would violate his space and his safety and his body.
Blake surprised him then, pulling his knuckles up to his lips like he had before and placing a sweet kiss on the back.
“In your own time,” he said, and Cheever closed his eyes tight, which didn’t help the aching in his throat or chest at all.
“That’s…. I can’t talk about it now,” he said, because he knew he’d fly completely apart if he did. “But I’ll tell Doc Cambridge, and Blake, I promise—”
“Not me?” she asked, hurt.
He searched her face then, for some realization that her boyfriend’s son had raped him—and saw only concern for Cheever himself.
“Yeah,” he said. “Someday, Mama. But… but right now, I’m getting out of bed in the morning and thinking about running or working out or listening to music. I’m not thinking about ways to kill myself in the shower.”
She whimpered, and he knew he’d been cruel, but those were the only words he had.
“It’s a big improvement,” he said, nodding at Blake, who nodded back sadly. “I… I want to keep working toward that, okay? Just…. It got bad. It got so bad. And I let it.”
“You were a kid,” Blake snapped, and Cheever realized he was shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “This hurts you too—”
“I’m a big boy,” Blake told him bluntly. “But I care about you—”
“Good,” Cheever said, holding that knowledge to his heart. “Then you’ll let me tell you and Doc and Mama in my own time, okay?”
Blake’s chin dropped to his chest. “Ah… God, Cheever. I need—”
Cheever kissed him quickly, on the mouth, in front of his mother, and when he pulled back, he saw his mother hiding her amusement behind her hand. Blake was… well, poleaxed was a good word.
“I promise you, Blake Manning, I’m working to be the guy outside the room. And I want him to be good for you. Because you deserve good. Can you trust me?”
Blake nodded dumbly—well, he’d had a shock, it was clear.
“You trust me, right?” Cheever reiterated.
“Yeah,” Blake said, sounding out of it. “Why did you do that?”
“Because he’s the guy outside the room,” Cheever told him. “And you can reject me when I get there, or you can say yes, but you need to know I’m coming. I will get my shit together, and you and me are going to have a chance.”
Blake’s mouth opened and closed, his hazel eyes wandering around the room like a lost child’s.
“Blake?” Cheever said, trying not to let his heart sink.
Blake looked at him with shiny, red-rimmed eyes. “That’s a big promise, baby boy,” he whispered. “I might not be the guy you want to make that promise to.”
Oh. This. “You are,” Cheever said, recovered a little. “But don’t worry. I’ll have my shit together first.”
Blake nodded and gave part of a smile, and Cheever’s mother said desperately, “Blake, honey, is that girl waving at you? Cheever’s friend?”
“Marcia!” Blake stood up then, and Cheever missed his heat, but appreciated that Blake needed a moment to himself. “I promised her,” he apologized.
“Bring her over in a minute,” Cheever’s mom said. She looked at Cheever with meaning. “After Cheever and I have a little talk.”
Blake nodded, distracted, and left. Cheever didn’t miss the way Marcia’s pointed features relaxed as he strode across the room.
“Cheever,” Mama said, voice tough, “you had better not hurt him.”
Cheever looked away from that stiff tableau of Marcia’s parents and Blake, trying to be nonthreatening and charming, and turned back to his mother’s eyes.
“Mama, you know how if you do something stupid you should learn from it?” Oh, he meant this.
“Yeah.”
“If I learned anything from the last two weeks, it’s not to take Blake Manning for granted ever again.”
But she shook her head. “Honey, you do not understand. This is not my first visit to this particular facility, you know that, right?”
Cheever rolled his eyes. “I’m seeing Mackey and Blake’s shrink, Mom. I am aware.”
But she didn’t laugh. “The first time I saw that boy when he wasn’t a magazine clipping or click bait, it was when he was sitting where you are now. He was going to fade into the background when Mackey grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and said, ‘Here, son, you’re a brother now, meet Mom.’”
Cheever bit his lip. God, if nothing else, he was getting an education as to what made Mackey James Sanders such an undeniable force in the universe.
“That was nice of him.”
Mama rolled her eyes. “He wasn’t even trying to be nice. It just was. But I hugged that boy, and I swear, he’d never been hugged before—not by a mom. Watching him become everybody’s favorite uncle these past years has been great—but it’s been frustrating as fuck.”
“Mama!”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. He’s hurt inside. He’s been down here taking care of you and your friend, and all his wounds were freshly peeled open. He’d been crying when he picked me up today. Crying. He won’t even admit it, though, but he is worried. So it’s all brave of you to offer him something when you’re feeling better, but if you don’t mean it, you will hurt him in ways he will not recover from. Our family is his life. Be careful with him, Cheever. I want you to get better. God knows….” She took a deep breath and wiped her face with shaking hands. “I’d give anything to know you were okay. But it’s not fair to ask us to sacrifice that boy so you can heal. Do you understand?”
Cheever bit his lip and nodded. Oh, he did. “I’ve been selfish,” he said, remembering Doc Cambridge’s words. “I think when you’re in pain, you get that way. And I get why you’re afraid. But I’m not dicking with Blake. Please believe me. Have you ever looked at something every day and not thought about it? Like a painting on a wall or a view or a particular color that you used to see and it was just part of the background?”
“And then you look at it and it’s beautiful?” she finished, surprising him.
“Yeah.”
“That’s fine, honey. Just don’t break the painting or mix the color with black.” She sighed and dragged her fingers through her hair. “And don’t look at me like that,” she said, giving a little laugh. “I… I hate thinking of you in pain. I just….” She looked over her shoulder at Blake and bit her lip, then turned back to Cheever.
“He took my place—” Cheever said, finally seeing what his actions had done to his family.
“No!”
He shook his head. “No. I get it. I was… unavailable.” He was a dick. “Blake needed a mother.”
“So do you,” she said, taking his hand and stroking it. Her lips—still full, no cosmetics needed—twisted up. “And now that you�
��re going to let me mother you, that’s no-holds-barred.”
Uh-oh. “That may take getting used to—”
“You’re moving in with the guys when you’re done here.”
Cheever allowed himself a small smile. “You know that fits in with my nefarious plan—”
She shook her head. “You only say that because you haven’t lived there. I’ve been there when they get into their routine—son, you have no idea. I pretty much just gave you to a commune.”
Cheever thought about it—all those kids, places to go, serious moms doing serious mom stuff, Outbreak Monkey writing music and practicing. Mackey had apparently leased the house next door and turned part of it into a recording studio. Music, 24-7.
“Well, if it’s too much, I can find a place to paint,” he said, and then gaped at himself.
“What?”
“I want to paint….” The thought surprised him. He hadn’t wanted to since… well, since his disastrous finals presentation. When Blake was sad, he picked up his guitar. When Cheever was sad, what did he do? A sneaky little voice urged him to go pick up the guitar in the corner of his room like he did when nobody could see—and that bothered him. His entire life, for eight years, had revolved around him picking up a paintbrush or a pencil or some other media every goddamned day. But only now was he thinking about using his… well, it wasn’t a gift. It wasn’t even a talent. It was something he’d worked at. Something that hadn’t come naturally to him, but that he’d fostered. His skill? His occupation?
For the first time in a long time, he was urged to use something he’d trained himself to do as though he enjoyed it.
“I… I thought that was gone,” he said, stunned. “Mackey wrote music in this place. Why don’t I want to make art?”
Heather sighed, and for a moment, the lines of worry etched themselves into her face and she looked every day of her fifty years. “Honey, the school contacted me—or Blake, rather. They have a sort of nervous breakdown policy. When you’re done here, you can go visit your professors and talk about your finals—two of your classes pretty much gave you the grade you’d earned before the test, ’cause you’re a smart boy and got A’s in the first place. The other two professors say they’ll take your final essay when you’re ready—”
“Blake got my laptop. Can I send them?” His degree. He’d worked four years for that damned degree, and he was going to be the first Sanders to get that stupid piece of paper at a school, not online. Kell had made a big deal out of that.
Spending the last two weeks with Blake—who had gotten his degree online, between touring and making music—had made Cheever realize what pretentious bullshit that thought was.
His brothers knew so much more than he did.
“Yeah,” his mother said, nodding. “Blake’s got the information on his phone. But you’ve got one teacher, though—Dr. Tierce?”
Cheever’s heart sank. “Oh God.”
“She wanted to work with you for all next semester. She said she wanted you to get an A in the class, but you had to work for it.”
Cheever groaned again, lacing his fingers behind his neck. “Augh! Really?”
“Is there something wrong?”
She’s only the woman who drove me to a nervous breakdown. Nothing to see here!
“Do I really need that degree?” he asked, feeling pathetic.
“No, Cheever, but you’re almost finished. She sounded really excited about working with you.”
“Of course she did.” Probably looking forward to seeing him lose his shit all over again. Wonderful.
“Think about it, honey,” Mama was saying. She squeezed his hand. “Cheever?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re at a crossroads here. I mean, you were going to be anyway—you were going to need to decide what your life was going to be like after graduation. But you’re at a bigger one now, you see? Not just what your life is going to be like, but what you are going to be like. Are you someone who takes the easy way out and drags the people who care down with you? Or are you someone who does the grown-up thing, even if it’s not always easy. Doc Cambridge isn’t ready to spring you yet, and I think that’s good. I think… I think you need to take this time to do some figuring out.”
Cheever nodded, suddenly exhausted. Blake came by the table, holding Marcia by the hand. She looked about done in too.
“Sorry.” She wobbled, leaning on Blake. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get all weird and emo on you. Just… they kept saying ‘when this is over,’ and they weren’t seeing—”
“You were unhappy before,” Blake said softly. “I heard it, though. You know it. The doc knows it. Here, come meet Cheever’s mama. She cheers about anybody up.”
Cheever met his mother’s eyes and nodded, and his mom turned mom and hugged Marcia like she was made for hugs. Blake disentangled himself from them and came to sit by Cheever like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Honey, I don’t know about you, but I get lost looking for the bathroom here. You wouldn’t want to show me, and then we can stop and get the boys some ice cream on the way back,” Mama said, and the way Marcia smiled, so relaxed, made Cheever proud.
“You look cooked and done,” Blake said kindly, his eyes crinkling in the corners in one of the few reminders that he was older than Cheever by ten years.
“Mama doesn’t pull any punches,” Cheever said, lacing his hands behind his neck again. He turned his head and gave Blake a good once-over, seeing again the bags beneath his eyes and the paleness. “This isn’t easy on you, either,” he said, feeling bad.
“I can take it,” Blake told him mildly, and Cheever sighed.
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t tell me if you couldn’t.”
Blake yawned then, and instead of leaning back in his seat, he put his head on his fist on top of the table. “Cheever?”
“Yeah?”
“I liked that kiss. Don’t second-guess that, okay? I mean, don’t focus on me instead of on getting better, but don’t… you know. Make yourself crazy wondering if you did the right thing.”
Cheever smiled and echoed his pose so they were side by side, thighs touching, triceps touching, chins resting on their hands. “Okay. I may do it again. Promise to tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I’m an addict, Cheever. Knowing when to stop is pretty much my worst thing.”
“I have never, ever had sex with someone I wanted to be with,” Cheever told him, and then blinked, because that was a confession he maybe should have made to his shrink, but it seemed like Blake needed to hear it more. “If I want to touch you or kiss you like that, it’s important to me. I want it to mean something to you.”
Blake let out a little sigh. “It does. My brain’s all muddled now, though. It means something—I just don’t have words for what.”
Cheever smiled softly and leaned closer, taking his heat all through the side of his body. “We’ll start with it means something.”
“That’s fine.”
They just sat there, almost dozing, until Heather and Marcia got back with ice cream. When Blake and his mom left, Cheever hugged his mama and then let Marcia get in to hug her too, and then he moved to Blake.
“You look tired, rock star,” Cheever said softly. He captured Blake’s chin with his fingers then and kissed him again, closing his eyes when Blake opened his mouth and let him in.
The kiss grew deeper, fuller, and Cheever pulled away. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“Get some sleep, Blake. Maybe your brain won’t be muddled tomorrow.”
“Brain’s always muddled around you, boy.”
And with that, Blake and Heather walked out of the visitor’s area, leaving Marcia and Cheever to wander back to their own room, where they both admitted they were looking for a nap.
“Your parents seemed nice.” Cheever yawned, hoping she’d forgive him for the social lie.
“They barely said hi to you,” Marcia said with a yawn of her own. “Don
’t worry, Cheever. I’m a little disappointed. Remember when you were a kid and you thought, ‘Hey, I wish I could be sick just long enough to get everybody’s attention’?”
“No,” Cheever said, feeling dumb. “If I was sick, one of my brothers had to take care of me, somebody didn’t get to work, and that was one day more of ramen noodles and one day I didn’t get hamburger or something for dinner.”
Marcia stared at him. “I honestly forget. I mean, I know the bio and the backstory, but that was a real thing for you. Okay so, when food and rent aren’t a consideration, sometimes, you think, ‘If I could get sick, my parents would stay home and play games with me and make me feel like the prettiest princess and the most special and important thing in their lives.’”
Cheever couldn’t even imagine. “Did that happen?”
“No,” Marcia said, sounding grumpy. “No, it didn’t. Because my parents were pretty sure my raising was done once I turned seven and could dress myself and make my own cereal for breakfast. Anyway, I had one of those fantasies about my parents coming to rehab to see their darling daughter and how unhappy she was, and do you know how that turned out?”
“About the same?” Cheever hazarded a guess, feeling bad. His mother had shown up with life advice and a way for Cheever to fix his education and the promise to be there for him as much as she possibly could and the very credible, real threat to throw him into the midst of his family and make him grow up, but with love and acceptance and support.
He did get to be the prettiest princess for the day.
“Oh, it was worse,” Marcia said grimly. “I got a lecture about being a fuckup and embarrassing the family and about how my degree was going to waste and—”
Cheever looped an awkward arm around her shoulder. “And you’re coming to my brothers’ big dumb house and playing with children. And they can go to hell.”
“Did your mom say that was okay?” she asked, sounding defeated.
“Blake said it, and since he lives there, he gets say.” Cheever remembered something. “I understand that’s how Kell’s wife started living there, anyway. She was Mackey’s friend. He dragged her home and said, ‘Here, she’s good. We’ll keep her.’ And she and Kell fell in love.”