As he navigates his way through the crowd, I can’t help but notice how good he looks. The other night, I thought his body looked amazing in a suit, but I was wrong. His dark wash jeans pull tightly across his legs and showcase his firm ass perfectly. He’s wearing a black and grey striped polo. I laugh when I notice he’s not wearing his sling. That’s one thing I picked up on the other night. Even though I only know him casually, calling Dylan stubborn is most definitely an understatement.
When he finally finds me, I can’t tell if he’s happy or not. As he walks toward me, most of the frustration I felt with Austin melts away. A smug smile takes up residence on my face and I chuckle a little when I see the same one mirrored on Dylan’s face.
“How’s the arm?” I tip my chin at his sling-free shoulder.
He rolls it, only wincing slightly. “Better, thanks. Doctor said I just need to take it easy, nothing was re-torn or anything like that.”
Knowing he’ll be back at the gym sooner rather than later makes me happier than I’d care to admit aloud right now. So I go with a simple, “That’s good,” instead.
“So how’d you manage to get Adrian McIntyre and Troy Davidson to make an appearance? Those guys are pretty big names.” I ignore the insinuation that this event is too lame to draw championship level fighters.
“They’re good friends of mine, actually. We all used to fight together.” I watch as the realization dawns on him. I’m not conceited enough to think he would have known who I was when we first met, but it’s nice to see that he remembers my name.
“Wait. You mean . . . are you the Conner Michelson?”
Hiding my face with my hand, I shake my head back and forth more out of embarrassment than out of denial. “Yeah, that’s me,” I finally admit.
“No shit!” It’s odd to see Dylan excited, especially when all I’ve seen of him is moody and injured. Then his face changes as another piece of the puzzle falls into place. “You said you used to fight. What happened?”
Just because something has come to be the defining moment in my life doesn’t mean that everyone I meet remembers it like I do. Not wanting to get into that gem of a story right now, I opt for deflection. “I had to stop.” There’s no misreading the icy chill to my words.
Just as a stagnant silence begins to surround us, Dylan breaks it. “So how’s the night going?”
“Really well, actually.” The iciness is replaced with pride. It’s finally setting in that this is real and that I might actually make something of myself.
“That’s great,” he responds awkwardly. “I’ll let you get back to everything. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.” Before he takes more than one step away from me, I grab for his arm to pull him back to our conversation.
“Why did you come?” I’d wanted to ask it since he walked up to me.
Dylan shoves his hands in his pockets, staring down at his feet as if an answer will just magically appear. It takes him more than a few seconds to spit out an answer. “I wanted to say thank you for helping me the other night.”
“I only did−”
“No,” he cuts me off. “Let me finish, please.” I nod and he continues. “You weren’t supposed to be gay.”
I laugh. “They say it’s not a choice, you know.” Sure, I make a joke out of it, but to be honest, his confession confuses me a bit. “Care to clarify.” Extending my arm to the side, I move so that we can sit at the table Austin and I just vacated.
We sit and this time, and when my knee bumps with Dylan’s, I do not pull it away.
Neither does he.
“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” he confesses, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs a few times.
I hold my finger and thumb apart in front of my face. “Maybe a little.”
He laughs, leaning forward across the table. “You weren’t supposed to be gay. I was going to sign up for the gym and just look. Reid and I were going to come here a few nights a week after work and I’d get my fill of staring at you and then I’d go home.”
“I think that’s the most honest thing anyone has ever said to me.” Dylan’s bluntness knocks me off kilter. My almost-career was filled with people trying to talk me into this-thing or that-thing, to sign this-contract or that-one. Even my agent had an agenda of his own. I became so jaded, I never knew who to believe.
“I’m not big on being lied to” he admits, and I file that away in the back of my brain. “Anyway, that’s why I was . . .”
“A jerk.” Without really thinking, or applying any kind of filter, I fill in the blank for him.
“I was going to go with asshole, but your version is much nicer.” We share a laugh.
“So, can I ask you something I’m still kind of confused about?” Dylan nods, a smug grin on his face. “If you liked what you saw, why did my being gay complicate things and turn you into, oh, let’s go with your word this time, an asshole?”
“Probably for the same reason me not being with Reid turned you into the same thing.” He’s quick with the comeback, which is accompanied by an arched eyebrow. “Care to explain that one.”
Shoving my sleeves up an inch or two gives me enough pause to come up with some kind of response that doesn’t totally sell me out, but at least allows me the opportunity to be honest. “You weren’t supposed to be single.”
“Oh.” His single word response puts us both on the same page.
“Yeah, ‘oh.’” I shoot him a look as another server passing champagne interrupts us.
When she turns away, I play on the “he likes honesty” card. “Now that we both know I’m gay and you’re single, what should we do about that?”
It’s impossible to deny the attraction between us. From the moment I met him, even in passing a week ago, I haven’t been able to shake him. I haven’t wanted to shake him.
“Nothing.” His response is immediate.
After huffing a laugh across the table at him, I pitch my voice a touch lower. “Nothing, my ass, Dylan. I don’t know what your deal is, just as much as you don’t know mine, but we’re going to figure it out. You came here tonight . . .”
“I came here to apologize. That’s all,” he defends.
Calling his bluff, I say, “No, you didn’t. And I’m glad you’re here.” He looks surprised. “How’s that for honesty?” A stilted silence threatens, and I notice Rachel approaching with someone wearing a press badge. “Have dinner with me. This week sometime.” I stand from my chair, and bend so that my lips are close enough to his ear for me to lick it, if I wanted to. “That wasn’t a question, so don’t even think about saying no.” Dylan nods and I feel like pumping my fist in the air like I’ve just won a fight. Of course, I don’t have time for that, because Rachel is at my side the second I move away from Dylan’s ear.
“Conner, this is Kirsty Flemming, from the Elmira Daily News.” Rachel is bouncing with excitement. “She’d like to do an article about you and the gym. Do you have a few minutes to sit for an interview?”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Michelson.” Kirsty weakly shakes my hand and offers up a sexy smile. I restrain myself from rolling my eyes as she arches her back slightly, pushing her breasts forward, offering them up like some kind of sexual sacrifice. Rachel notices it, too and shoots me the “deal with it” face she’s perfected over the years.
“I’d love to talk, Ms. Flemming. Let me just say goodbye . . .” But when I turn my attention back to the table where Dylan is supposed to be, he’s gone.
Chapter Eighteen
May 25, 2015
I look down at the phone vibrating in my hand, laughing at what I know is yet another text message from Reid. My suspicions are confirmed when I tap on the notification.
Don’t even think of not showing up.
Since I’m only a few minutes away, I don’t even bother responding. Walking into the Memorial Day barbeque less than five minutes late will be enough to shut him up. Since Lucy, Maddy’s adoptive Mom, just had
Maddy’s graduation party at her house, Reid reserved a lakeside picnic area for today so that we could all get together.
After grabbing the groceries from my car, I walk over to the site. Music is playing; food is cooking; Braden is digging in the sand.
“You made it.” Reid sounds shocked.
“Will you chill the fuck out? Just because I’m running late doesn’t always mean I’m not going to show. Okay?” Playfully, but also to emphasize my point, I shove the six-pack of beer into his hands before squatting down next to Braden.
Before long, Reid and Bryan have a volleyball net set up. With my shoulder still not being completely healed, I choose to sit this one out. Braden is sitting in his booster seat on the picnic bench next to me, making a complete mess of himself with some cheese doodles.
“You look like an orange monster, buddy.”
“Raa-raa!” Braden mimics what a typical monster response would be. Hands up, fingers curled, in the standard “I’m gonna get you” pose and everything.
“Dude, you’re too much.” I laugh as he crams another fistful of doodles into his already packed mouth.
“Uh huh,” he mumbles, but that’s his standard almost-two-year-old response to everything. If you ask him if he wants to go to the park, you get an extra enthusiastic “uh huh,” but even if you ask him about eating a mud-pie, he’ll say the same thing.
“So what’s new with you? Got a girlfriend, yet?” I nudge him on the arm conspiratorially.
“Mommy.” He smiles up at me, orange-dusted face and all. Reid must have trained him on that one.
“Me?” I pretend he’s asked me something as he nudges me back. “Nah, no one.” For the first time since Shane, I almost add, yet. That thought catches me off guard.
Braden bops in his seat to the beat of the music. I sing along with him, clapping my hands when he does the same.
When the song ends, I grab the container of baby wipes at the edge of the table and attempt to clean the kid up, at least a little bit. “So your daddy’s been on me to call this doctor.” Braden tries to lick his fingers clean of the cheese doodle left overs and I let him—there aren’t many simpler pleasures in life than licking cheese doodle dust off your fingers. He grabs my face, squishing my cheeks together, a serious look playing across his pudgy face, as if he’s really taking this all in. He nods and I continue, “I called her last week and I have an appointment tomorrow. It’s kind of scary.”
Braden shakes his head, saying “no, no, no, no” to the scary reference. “No, not like a monster, little buddy. Just new, I guess. It makes me more worried than scared.”
“S’okay.” The little bugger smiles at me and plants a big, wet sloppy kiss on my lips—cheese doodle crumbs and everything.
I swipe my face and then his with a baby wipe and pull him onto my lap. “I hope you’re right, B. Let’s just hope it’ll all be okay.”
We both sit there for a little while longer. Watching Maddy and Reid, Melanie and Bryan, and Lucy and Evan, goofing around as they play their game of volleyball, restores my faith that maybe, just maybe, things will turn out a little more than okay.
Tuesday on my lunch break, I sit in Dr. Baker’s waiting room. Knee bouncing in nervousness and everything, I’m not really sure what to expect. Scenes from every dramatized psychology session play on a loop in my head. Me lying on a couch with the doctor furiously scribbling notes in her file. That’s so not my scene. I’m not sure if my own counseling background makes me more or less nervous, but it’s affecting me nonetheless.
When my nerves get the best of me and I’m just about ready to jump ship, Dr. Baker opens her door and waves me over, calling my name. “Hi, Dylan. It’s nice to meet you.”
She holds her hand out to shake mine. “Dr. Baker,” I greet her. She’s tall and slender with bright blue, compassionate eyes that crinkle in the corner as she smiles at me. Glasses cover those kind eyes, only adding to the level of comfort and trust. I’m not a very good judge of age, especially when it comes to women, but the mostly grey hair at her temples suggests that she’s at least in her early fifties. Something about her immediately puts me at ease, something maternal and caring. Instantly, I can see why Reid would feel comfortable enough to meet with her.
We move into her cozy office. Books, some textbooks, some literature, line every imaginable space on the wall. I’m relieved when, instead of a full sized lay-down-on-me-and-tell-me-your-deepest-darkest-secrets sofa, I find two plush armchairs facing one another. There’s a small table set to the side of one with a box of tissues sitting on top of it.
I guess that’s where I’ll sit.
I push back in my chair, rubbing my hands over my thighs in nervousness. “Uh, well, I . . .” I stammer. She smirks at me; this is obviously not her first rodeo. If I was in the other chair, I’d probably be laughing as well.
“Why don’t we start small?” She smiles at me as she crosses her ankles, sinking back into her own seat. “Tell me a little about what you do for a living.”
I chuckle. “My job is very similar to what you do.” She shoots me a confused look before I clarify.
“I’m a counselor for Gay-Straight Alliance. My group and I work with local middle and high schools to present seminars and group counseling sessions.”
“That’s quite impressive, Dylan. You must be proud of your work.”
“I am. Very proud in fact.”
“Is that something you always wanted to do?” Dr. Baker leans back as she clicks on her pen and opens her folder.
“Not always. I mean I guess I always enjoyed helping people, but it wasn’t until after my freshman year of college that I made the decision.” Something about her puts me at ease and I don’t even realize I’m opening up about my past as I’m doing so.
“Did something spark the idea?” She’s good. I’ll give her that much credit.
I rub a hand over my face. Propping my ankle up on my other knee, I relax in my chair and make the conscious decision to just open up already. Eight years is too long to keep it all bottled up. Honestly, I have no clue how I’ve made it this long without a major breakdown. “My boyfriend committed suicide.”
Immediately, she clicks her pen closed, and slides her folder onto the table. After taking off her glasses, she pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head subtly. “Wow, I wasn’t ready for that,” she admits, straight-faced. After regaining the composure she seems to have lost, she asks, “How recently?”
“Just under eight years ago.” The words fly out of my mouth, seemingly unaware of how desperate they sound. A snicker slips out of my mouth as I rub my hand over my face. It’s a nervous gesture, not one that’s meant to be dismissive or mean. I think she understands that, because as I try to regain my composure, she waits patiently, wordlessly.
Without missing a beat, she keys into my body language, the one that screams of unease and guilt. “You blame yourself.” It’s a statement, not a question.
I’m caught off-guard by her straightforward approach. Stuttering, I spit out, “Well, uh, yeah, I mean I guess who wouldn’t, right?” It comes out defensive. Anger broils as she glances over my shoulder to the clock hanging on the wall behind me.
I catch the glance, play it off as if nothing has transpired. She wants me out of here. I’m being difficult and she wants nothing to do with me, or she’s at least frustrated with me. I’ve seen the same situation play out too many times in my own office—not that I’d ever dismiss a kid who was in need of real help, but I’ve seen them deflect and avoid to no end.
That’s pretty much what I’m doing.
I decide to cut her some slack and cut out of here early. After looking down at my watch, I get up and make my way to the door. “Look, I should go. Maybe this isn’t working.”
“Do you want it to?” she asks, her words bouncing off my back as my hand rests on the doorknob.
Memories of Shane overpower me. His smile. His eyes. The feel of his hand in mine, of his lips against mine, of his body cu
rled against mine. I know he’d want me to get better. I’m not serving him any kind of justice by just existing. Being able to forgive myself is going to be the only thing that will let me move on and maybe possibly be happy once again.
Sighing and raking a hand through my hair, I turn on my heels and walk back to my seat. “Yes,” I answer definitively. “I do want it to work.”
Her smile is subtle, but it’s one of victory. She’s won and she knows it. Pulling her folder back onto her lap, she clicks open her pen once more and jots down a few notes. “Okay, then. Let’s start from the beginning.”
Dr. Baker and I spend the rest of the session talking about before Shane and I started dating, about how my family was a huge support system and Shane’s wasn’t. Before we get into any of the serious stuff, our time is up.
She leaves me with one last thought that swirls around in my head. “Dylan, we can talk about your past as much as you’d like and I obviously want to know where you’ve been, but the more important part, and the part I want you to think about until our next appointment, is where you want to be.”
After closing her files, she offers me a sympathetic look. “You’re a smart man and an experienced counselor. You know that no matter how much we talk about it, you’ll never be able to change what’s already happened. But if you let me, we can figure out how to change where you are. If you let me help you, I can help you get where you want to be.”
We make arrangements for an appointment next week. Walking out the door, the bright sun blinds me. On the short walk back to my office, I think about her parting words. Where do I want to be?
Eight years ago, most days, I felt like I was barely breathing. Getting out of bed and showering every now and then was a major feat. Receiving a letter at the end of the fall semester of my sophomore year telling me that I had one more semester to pull my grades up before I got kicked out was my first motivation. I wasn’t going to let Shane’s death be in vain. I was going to fight my hardest to prove that his memory could live through me. But, getting over Shane’s death was all superficial. I graduated college, got a job, helped others, but never helped myself.
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