by Неизвестный
Are we through?
We have to be, I reason. Whatever Kent and I once had is gone now, isn't it? I went further than flirtatious talk over breakfast, hidden hands thrust beneath clothing, kisses on the couch and a blowjob in the barn. Last night, with Luke? How can Kent and I not be through after that?
But here in the bright light of dawn, what happened last night almost seems like a dream. Wonderful, heady, the type of dream so amazing, so real, that your heart aches to find upon awakening it isn't true. But this one is, I tell myself. I look at the tousled sheets that kept Luke close to me while we slept, I look at the daisy and the shirt on my floor. I could open the bedroom door, glance down the hall to see him curled up on the couch but the truth is that boy is real. What we did last night, what we felt, is true.
And what about Kent? a voice inside me wants to know. He's real too, isn't he? Larger than life when sober, heart of stone, but he's sheltered me these past two years, fed me, clothed me, fucked me in some semblance of affection, if not love. Am I ready to discard all that?
With a pang of regret, some small part of me thinks maybe last night was a mistake. No, I tell myself, nothing with Luke is wrong -- but maybe I should've held back, maybe I should've waited until I had worked everything out with Kent first before I moved on. I have to tell him about Luke, today, now, right this minute. I have to tell him, Look, this is how it is ...
And how is it, exactly?
I love Luke. I know this with every pore of my being, he's a dream I never want to wake from if I can help it. I love his hands on my body, his lips on mine, his eyes that hold such desire and naked lust when he looks my way that my mind simply overloads. He loves me, he said it first thing this morning, he loves me.
That contrary voice inside of me whispers, And doesn't Kent?
He's never said the word out loud.
So what, that means he doesn't? I shake my head to clear it, I don't know the answer to that. I don't know how I feel about him any more, or where things stand between us. In Luke's arms it all seems so easy, my emotions are drawn out in black and white. Last night I was so sure that I had to leave, there was no other choice. But the morning sun casts shadows of doubt over my feelings, and grey uncertainty clouds my mind, smudging my resolve. I could go into the kitchen now and glance out the window, see Kent in his black cowboy hat, and fall for him all over again. One look at Luke asleep on the couch and I'd be lost for him, too. So who is it I really love?
Cautiously I open the door to my bedroom and peer out. One of Luke's feet sticks from beneath the blankets on the couch but he doesn't snore so I can't tell if he's asleep or not. Please don't see me, I pray, tiptoeing out into the hallway. I need a few moments to myself to figure out what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling, what I'm going to do next, and those violet eyes would only make the decision for me.
Down the other end of the hall, Kent's bedroom door is ajar -- he's up, probably out in his market already, watering the plants. Without alcohol to dull his senses, would he see my guilt written plainly across my face? Would he take one look at me and just know I didn't sleep alone last night? Would he care?
I need a shower to wash all the doubts away. But when I click on the light, the bathroom is too sterile, too white, so damn bright that it hurts my head. In the shower stall, the hot water sears my skin. What am I doing here? Playing with fire, dangling Kent while I fuck around with Luke, all this clandestine shit, I'm just begging to be burned. What if Kent wasn't so drunk last night? How could I have had sex with him knowing Luke waited for me? Would I have gone from one to the other like a common whore?
Look what you've done, I tell myself. I hate that voice, the one inside my head. In the stark bathroom, it's loud enough to drown out the shower's rush. How can Kent live without you? He'll drink himself to death and it'll be your fault. You bitch that he doesn't love you but do you really love him? For who he is, not who you want him to be? You've made him into one of the guys in your magazine ads, a two-dimensional caricature of what you think a cowboy should be. Of course he can't live up to that. No one could. You don't love him ... how the hell can you expect anything in return?
I don't know. How can you love Luke? that voice continues. If you paint him in the same light, how can you love someone who doesn't really exist?
I don't know. I tell myself it's different with Luke, he's different, it's real what we have together in a way it never was with Kent. Luke's searching for something in me just the same as I'm looking for that cowboy in him, isn't he?
I'm not so sure anymore. Around me hot water rains down like brimstone and I don't know who I love, what I want, I don't know shit. I sink to the tiled floor, my weight bringing me down, and I burrow into my arms, pull my knees to my chest, make myself as tiny as possible and still the water stings me, it beats my face and stains my flesh. One or the other, I have to choose.
I can't have both.
PART 4
Luke finds me curled into one corner of the shower. I don't even realize he's there until the water cuts off and he drapes a towel around my shoulders, helping me to my feet. "Marcus, what's wrong?" he wants to know, rubbing the towel down my arms, my legs, my chest. Concern laces his violet eyes, tightens his mouth into a thin white line. "Talk to me," he pleads as he dries me off. "Are you okay? Are you --"
"I'm fine," I whisper, but my words are lost in the rasp of the towel on my skin and I don't think he believes me, anyway. He wraps the towel around me, holds me close, won't let me go when I try to pull away. "I'm fine," I assure him, my voice strengthening. His arms tighten around me and in that moment, my mind is made up. Like the sun breaking through an overcast sky, my mind clears for the first time in days. With Luke here with me, I really am fine. You win, I want to say but don't -- I couldn't begin to explain what all I've been going through inside since he came into my life. But the battle's over, Luke has won, whether he knows it or not, because he came for me, him, and Kent did not.
Drying my hair, Luke holds the sides of my head so I have to look up at him, and he won't let me look away. "If everything's fine, then what's the matter?" he asks. He punctuates the question with a kiss right between my eyebrows.
"I'm just ..." I sigh, fisting my hand in the towel, wiping my eyes. "I've got to tell Kent," I admit. My voice is muffled by the towel in front of my face.
Luke holds me, his arms giving me the strength I need and I lean against him, so warm, so dry, so safe. He feels so safe to me. "What are you going to say?" he asks. That's a good one -- I don't know. "Marcus?"
"It's all my fault," I say. Luke shakes his head but the words tumble free, I can't stop them. "It's all my fault, I'll tell him that, and I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry I don't love him anymore. If I ever did." I know I did, I had to have, once. "But I'm with you now. He has to see this. He has to know."
I sink into Luke's arms and hide my face in his shirt, where he smells clean and wonderful, and I let him hold me close, I let his hands on my back calm me. I'm not sure how long we stand like this, in each other's arms in the middle of the bathroom, but I don't want to move, I don't want to lose this, lose him. I want this moment to last forever.
In my bedroom, I dress quickly in jeans and a faded t-shirt. Luke sits on the bed in his boxers, watching me, listening. "I'll talk to Kent," I say, more to myself than to him, trying to boost my courage. I can do this. "I'll say look, this is how things are, and he'll listen." He hasn't been drinking much yet, he'll hear me out. It'll be alright, I tell myself. He has to have seen this coming.
I lead Luke out into the hallway, the house around us quiet. Far off I hear the sound of running water -- Kent already hosing down his plants, he must've left the kitchen door open if I can hear him from here. Dread rises in me, I don't want to do this, I don't want to say a word ... I reach out behind me and Luke catches my wrist, entwines his fingers with mine. "You sure you want to tell him right this minute?" he asks.
I nod. I have to tell him now, before the customers arrive. While he
's still sober. I don't have to say the words, Luke nods as if he's thinking them himself. "I just want you to be ready," I say, and he nods again. I'm not sure what's going to happen, if Kent will get angry and throw us out, if he'll at least let me pack, I just don't know, but I want Luke to be prepared for anything.
"Do you want me to come with you?" he asks, giving my hand a comforting squeeze.
To be honest, I'd love for him to be by my side, it'd put my mind at rest and make this whole thing that much easier, but it wouldn't be fair to Kent. None of this is fair, really, me falling for this wonderful boy beneath his roof, kissing on him and sexing him up when my lover's at home. Ex-lover, I remind myself, but it doesn't make me feel any less guilty. If Luke comes with me now, Kent will think we're ganging up on him, and I don't want that. I want this whole thing over with as quickly as possible -- I want this to go smoothly, I want us to part as friends.
I hope we can part as friends.
Shaking my head, I tell Luke, "No, it's okay." With a nod back at my bedroom, I ask, "Just get dressed, please? In case."
He nods and as he releases my sweaty hand, I wipe it on my jeans. "It's okay," he assures me, kissing my cheek. His hand on my back is so comforting, I just want to lean into his touch and never resurface. "I'm here for you, Marcus," he says. His lips crush mine in a velvet kiss. "I love you."
I can do this. With him behind me, waiting for me, I can talk to Kent. I must.
Pointing towards the living room, where he slept, I ask, "Can you get the sheets off the couch?"
Luke nods. "Sure."
Suddenly a million chores buzz through my mind, things that need to be done before I leave, things Kent won't think to do on his own. "Run them through the wash," I tell him, and Luke nods again. "My clothes, too, the dirty ones. And the towel on my floor."
"Okay." Ever eager to please, Luke rubs my back as he watches me closely. "Anything else?"
"I just want things neat here," I tell him. I don't want to leave a mess behind. There's a part of me that somehow hopes that if I tidy the house and get it in order, then maybe things will go smoother with Kent.
"I know," Luke assures me. "I'll clean up. You just go talk to him, okay?"
Okay. I can do that. "Can you get a few of my things together?" I ask. I hate the worry eating at me, I hate this indecision, this not knowing. "I mean, just in case --"
"Sure." With a quick kiss, Luke grins and says, "You're stalling."
I give him a wan smile and nod, determined. "I know." He gives me a slight push in the direction of the kitchen. I let my feet take over from there.
At the screen door, I look out and see Kent in his market, hose in hand, black jeans, black hat, bare tanned back. From here he reminds me of those silhouettes some people have in their yards, black cutouts of a cowboy leaning against the side of the house, arms folded, head ducked down, one knee up like he's just waiting. Waiting ... I get the feeling Kent's waiting for me, he knows what's coming, he has to know. The flirtatious looks, the coy words, the laughter -- how could he miss that? How could he not know what Luke is to me?
Coffee, I think, it's ingrained in me, I bring his coffee. Because it buys me some time, I brew a quick pot, and as it percolates, I play out the coming scene in my mind. I'll take him a cup, like I do every morning. With a nonchalant shrug, I'll shove my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans, rock back on my heels just slightly, stare out at the plants or the road or maybe even further, out to the horizon, where a thin haze blurs the boundary between earth and sky. I'll clear my throat so my voice is sure and strong when I tell him we have to talk. We have to talk -- that's how it always starts, doesn't it? The beginning of the end.
He'll know what I want. In my mind, I believe it's that easy, he'll turn and see the look in my eyes and just know that we're through, I won't have to say the words. I won't have to tell him that Luke is a better lover than he is, I won't have to cuckold him with any intimate details. Maybe he'll wish me luck, me and my boy. Maybe he'll dig out the money in his back pocket, peel a few twenties off the roll that I know he's saving for drink, shove the bills into my hand and shake his head when I try to give it back. Hell, while I'm dreaming? Maybe he'll drive us into town, why not? Drop us off at the bus station, get us tickets to the coast, I'll surprise Ally with a knock on her door and this time tomorrow I'll be introducing her to Luke. See? I think, imagining the look on my sister's face when she finds I've brought an honest-to-God cowboy with me. Found one after all.
Daydreams, that's all they are. I'm stalling again. The coffee's brewed -- I pour a steaming mug and drop a few ice cubes into the hot liquid to cool it off. Then I take a deep breath, another one, a third ... will they help? I don't feel any steadier, and my hand trembles when I pick up the mug, I have to hold it in both hands so I don't splash the coffee. I hear Luke in the shower and tell myself I can do this. I have to.
Mug in hand, I push through the screen door and step outside.
I stumble barefoot over the gravel but Kent doesn't look up as I approach. I don't expect him to. Coming up behind him, I hold the mug out like I always do. "Your coffee," I tell him. I have to bite back all the other words I'm aching to say.
He takes the offered drink without looking my way -- he doesn't see me, I don't exist for him. It's just the plants and the hose and the road ahead, the steaming java that warms his face as he gulps it down. I wait until he lowers the mug, then clear my throat. We have to talk ... I know what I have to say, I know the words, but they won't come free. "Kent?" I ask. I hate the trepidatious quiver in my voice.
He doesn't answer, no surprise there. Just a tilt of his head to indicate he's heard me at all. Water keeps streaming from the hose in a steady rush that rains over hibiscus flowers and potted rhododendrons, holly bushes, marigolds. Kent has a way with plants that never ceases to amaze me -- he can eke beautiful greenery from the dry desert sand, orchestrate foliage in this bitter sun, paint this cracked landscape with his palette of flowers and vegetables, but he can't touch me that way, he can't make me bloom ... is that somehow my fault? Is there something wrong with me -- am I just as blind as he is in this relationship? "Kent," I sigh. This time he sort of almost turns to me, I can see him looking from the corner of his eye. "We need to talk."
Here's where he tells me he knows, he's been meaning to say something to me. I fool myself into thinking that my heart is hardened against what's coming, I'm prepared. He knows I love Luke and we part as friends, that's the script I'm reading from right now.
Only he must be on a different page or something, because with a lusty sigh he throws his head back, downs the rest of the coffee, then sets the cup on a nearby vegetable stand so hard that I can hear the ceramic rattle over the flow of water. "Marcus," he says, weary and old, "if this is about last night, I don't want to hear it."
Last night -- Luke in my bed, loving me, holding me, did he know about that? Before I can ask, he hurries on, exasperated. I haven't been awake a full hour yet and already he's fed up with me. "You know how tired I get," he tells me, spraying the hose over his plants. Not once has he ever turned that playful spray onto me. He's never seen the cool water plaster my t-shirt to my chest, harden my nipples, trickle down my arms and darken my jeans. "I work out here in the hot sun every day and all I ask for is a little time to myself in the evenings to unwind, you know, kid? I've got needs, too. You can't expect me to put out all the damn time."
He's talking about sex. Somehow he's convinced himself that I was the one who wanted it last night, I was the one who pressured him into dropping his drawers in the hallway, and he thinks I'm mad because he fell asleep before we did anything. "Maybe later," he's saying, still not looking my way. "We didn't connect last night and I know you're pissed about that, but it happens. You can't screw all the damn time, Marcus. You have to start thinking with the head on your shoulders and not the one between --"
"It's over," I say, interrupting him. He stops in midsentence, a frown already tugging at his lips, and I
close my eyes against the fear and sorrow warring in my heart. "Kent, I'm ... I'm sorry."
"Over." He says the word like he's never heard it before. I nod but I know he doesn't see me, I don't have to open my eyes to know he's still frowning out over his damn plants. "Marcus --"
"Over," I repeat, and the word echoes in me like a nail hammered into the lid of a coffin, over. "Between us. I'm ... Kent, I'm sorry." I don't know what else to say. "I just -- I don't think this is what I want." This meaning you, I add silently. Maybe if I'm lucky, I can play this off like I'm just an unsatisfied lover, I won't have to bring Luke into it at all ...
But Kent isn't stupid, he knows what's going on, he has to. I'm fine for two years -- a little disgruntled, perhaps, a little under-loved, a little under-appreciated, but at least I was more or less satisfied. Then Luke shows up, I'm jacking off all over the place like a teenager in heat, mooning and fawning over the boy and now I want out? "It's him," Kent says, disgusted. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, hoping this will all go away. The water cuts off and I can feel the heat of his gaze on me, how many beers has he had already today? With something that almost sounds like a laugh, he mutters, "I should've seen it coming."
My lower lip trembles and I promise myself I won't cry, but when I look at him, I see disbelief in his eyes, mingled with a pain I put there, and I feel tears clog the back of my throat. "I'm sorry," I say again, as ineffectual as that sounds, but I am, God I am, so damn sorry I've hurt him like this. Reaching out, I touch his arm. "Kent --"
He jerks away from me and my fingers curl into a useless fist. "I thought he was nothing to worry about," he spits -- my own words thrown back at me. How long has it been since I said that? And even then I was lying, I knew I wanted Luke, I knew I needed him the same way I need the sun to live, the air to breathe. "I thought you said he'd move on soon enough. How long have you been lying to me, Marcus?"