Better Than People

by Roan Parrish

  Jean was lovely and funny and expressed such delight to hear about his work in illustrating that she jollied him into speaking about it in more detail than he usually would.

  “Simon used to love a picture book about...what kind of dogs were those, dear?”

  “Shepherds,” Simon said.

  “Yes, shepherds. They lived in an old amusement park and would roam through the overgrown tracks of rollercoasters. It was quite beautiful.”

  “Merry-Go-Hound,” Jack offered. “That’s a great book.”

  “Yeah, but I never got why it was called that when the dogs were shepherds,” Simon said.

  “Psh, publishing,” Jack said by way of explanation. “‘If it rhymes it climbs.’ The charts, you know?”

  “But...it doesn’t rhyme,” Simon said.

  “It rhymes with merry-go-round—never mind.”

  “Teaching their kids the wrong dog breeds,” Simon muttered seriously and Jack squeezed his knee under the table, then left his hand on Simon’s thigh. After a minute, Simon rested his hand on top of Jack’s and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  When Jack looked up, Jean was watching them with a knowing look.

  “Shall we have dessert?” she asked brightly, standing to clear the table. Simon jumped up to help her, gesturing for Jack to stay seated. He glared at his leg.

  “Soon, you bastard,” he muttered to the cast. He had a doctor’s appointment the next week to check in on his progress.

  “Now, this I made,” Jean said, setting a coffee cake drizzled with icing in the center of the table. She cut pieces for each of them and Jack noticed that she’d cut his significantly larger than either of theirs.

  “That looks amazing,” Jack said, mouth watering.

  “I thought someone whose favorite cookie was oatmeal and liked snickerdoodles might enjoy something else with cinnamon and sugar.”

  “Wow. Yeah, I love cinnamon stuff. That’s really smart. I see where Simon gets it from.”

  Simon groaned, Jean winked, and Jack took a bite of the cake, sighing in bliss as the tastes of brown sugar, butter, cinnamon, and walnuts burst on his tongue.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Simon

  When Simon had arrived at Jack’s an hour earlier, shaking out of his skin with anxiety over their dinner with Charlie, Jack had decided that the most logical course of action was to screw him to within an inch of his life as a distraction.

  Now, Simon lay flushed and sated across Jack’s bed, head on Jack’s thigh, Jack’s fingers combing through his hair.

  “What if we had a signal?” Jack asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “If you can’t talk. What if you gave me a signal and I could... I dunno. Give Charlie a signal to stop talking to you? Or whatever you want.”

  Reality broke over him like a wave, the blissful warmth and safety of the language of their bodies drowned.

  Simon turned his head to rest his cheek on Jack’s hip, feeling the jut of bone, strong beneath sensitive skin.

  “The signal would be when he talks to me and I can’t fucking answer,” Simon said. “And he’ll stop talking to me all right.”

  “Sorry,” Jack said tightly, and Simon added guilt to his roiling mix of emotions.

  Simon shook his head. It wasn’t Jack. It wasn’t Charlie. It was him. It had always been him. He tried to find the words to apologize but they wouldn’t come. And somehow, after they’d been so intimate, to not be able to say something so simple to Jack hurt worse than it usually did. Why was the language of touch so much easier?

  But since it was, he used it instead. He reached for Jack’s hand and twined their fingers together. He kissed Jack’s knuckles and kissed his stomach. He kissed his chest and his throat and then he placed a final kiss of apology on his lips.

  “Simon, I...” Jack’s voice was tentative. “We don’t have to go. I want you to be comfortable.”

  I’m never comfortable, his internal voice snapped. But it wasn’t true. He’d been perfectly, blissfully comfortable five minutes before. And not just because of the hot as fuck sex. Because in Jack’s arms, in his own desires, he could lose himself.

  Was there a way to do the same with Charlie? Not the sex, obviously, but a way to find a work-around. Another mode of communicating. Maybe not right away, but if this thing with Jack continued...maybe...?

  Over the years, Simon had tried so many things. He’d tried glaring, tried smiling, tried a name tag that said Don’t talk to me, which people had thought was a joke. He’d tried learning German in the hopes that another syntax might come out easier. It didn’t, and even if it had, German speakers weren’t thick on the ground in Garnet Run, Wyoming. He’d tried sign language, chat rooms, internet support groups, pen pals. He’d tried therapy, astrology, and alcohol.

  But over the last few years he’d stopped trying. Stopped trying to change. And he’d started to try and enjoy his life the way it was instead. Starting his business. Planning to get a dog. He’d begun to try and accept himself. Begun to try and accept that he might have limitations but it didn’t mean he couldn’t also have joy.

  Meeting Jack had felt like the rainbow at the end of the storm. A chuck under the chin from the universe saying he was moving in the right direction. And Simon refused to fuck it up. Refused to let this one thing about himself unravel this beautiful gift he’d been given.

  No fucking way.

  Simon shook his head and sat up.

  “I want to go.”

  Jack looked for a moment like he might argue, then he nodded at whatever he saw in Simon’s eyes.

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Charlie lived a ten-minute drive away and aside from Jack’s directions, they were quiet. Simon did multiplication in his head in an attempt to keep out any what-ifs. He was struggling through 128 times 267—Simon wasn’t actually terribly good at math—when Jack said they were there.

  The house was clearly a work in progress. A central part looked mostly completed, but to each side raw wood framed in new structures.

  “Wow, he’s made a lot of progress,” Jack said. “I haven’t been here in a few months.”

  He caught Simon’s hand before they got out of the car.

  “Simon. Look at me, please.”

  Simon looked into dark blue eyes that had become so familiar to him. Jack had a few days of copper stubble glinting over his jaw.

  “No matter how things go with my brother, it won’t change anything for me. You know that, right?”

  Protests crowded one another out in Simon’s head.

  “I love my brother, but I—” He bit his lip. “Just, you can not talk to him and have five panic attacks and I’ll still—I won’t—”

  Simon had never seen Jack at a loss for words before. He squeezed Jack’s hand and watched his eyes go soft and unsure.

  “I want you,” he said simply. “All the time. I... I care about you so much. Please tell me you know that.”

  Simon only vaguely registered that Jack was squeezing his hand so tight it was slightly painful. All he could focus on was that soft, needing look in Jack’s eyes. The look that said he truly wasn’t sure his feelings were understood. And maybe reciprocated.

  But Simon did know. Everything in the way Jack acted around him showed him that.

  “I know,” Simon said. “Me too.”

  A slow grin brightened Jack’s face.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Then Jack was kissing him, tender and hot.

  “Good,” Jack said fiercely, pressing their foreheads together. “That’s good.”

  * * *

  Jack was a large man, but Charlie was massive. He looked like the sized-up xerox of Jack—a bigger, rougher version. When he reached to shake Simon’s hand, though, his grip was firm but g
entle.

  “Hi, Simon. I’m glad to meet the guy who finally dragged this grouchy ass out of his self-imposed exile.”

  “Hi,” Simon said. But it came out thin. His ears were buzzing and his throat felt so dry he could hardly swallow. He was too nervous. He had known he would be but refused to capitulate and now here he was, standing in front of the brother of the guy he lo—

  Just as his heart began to race, the largest cat Simon had ever seen ambled into the room. It was black with gray markings, fur-tufted ears, and a huge bushy tail. It rubbed its face against Charlie’s leg and meowed, a sound like tearing metal.

  “This is Jane,” Charlie said as Simon bent down and offered his knuckles to the cat.

  Jane. Apparently being bad at naming animals ran in the Matheson family.

  Jane eyed Simon for a minute, then deigned to butt her head against his fist.

  Simon wanted to sit on the floor with her, cuddle her tight to his chest, and bury his face in her luscious fur. He didn’t think that would go over too well with Charlie or with Jane, so he stroked between her ears and avoided looking up.

  “Meatloaf?” Jack asked, sniffing.

  “Spaghetti and meatballs,” Charlie said.

  “Yum.”

  “You’d eat anything,” Charlie said lightly.

  Simon thought of the horrid tuna casserole and grimaced.

  “Hungry?”

  The question lingered in the air long enough that Simon realized it must have been directed at him. He nodded and stood up, giving Jane a final pat to the top of her fluffy head.

  On the table was a comically large bowl of spaghetti and meatballs. The things looked the size of Simon’s fist and he would’ve bet they were the same recipe that Charlie used to make meatloaf. This was clearly a man accustomed to cooking hearty food for people who ate a lot. Was this how it was when Jack was young? The two brothers sitting down to devour a huge serving bowl of food like Lady and the Tramp?

  “You’re an animal person too?” Charlie asked. Simon nodded and smiled.

  “When Jack was little he used to lure chipmunks inside with birdseed and try to keep them as pets.”

  Simon thought that was adorable, but Jack rolled his eyes.

  “They liked me,” he said.

  “They liked your birdseed. And to burrow under the carpet until the door opened again and then run out and leave you thinking they’d died somewhere in the house.”

  Jack muttered like he was still resentful about it.

  “So what do you do, Simon?”

  Simon’s heart rate picked up. He went to step one: logic.

  That is a completely normal getting-to-know-you question. There is nothing to be worried about. You know the answer to this question. You’ve answered it a hundred times before. No problem.

  “G-g-graphic d-design,” Simon got out, then clamped his mouth shut.

  “He’s so good, bro. Hey, you should have him do a new website for the hardware store.” Jack turned to him. “You’d laugh your ass off if you saw this website. It’s from like 2003.”

  Simon nodded and tried to smile.

  This is your job. You’re good at this. Say something witty about old website design. Make a hardware pun. “I’ll nail the design!” “I won’t screw it up!” Hell, say anything at all.

  Simon swallowed over and over, trying to clear the lump that had lodged in his throat. He reached for his water glass but it was already empty. If he could just swallow maybe he could say something.

  The fear trickled in. First he wouldn’t be able to swallow, then his lungs would close like two fists strangling him slowly from the inside. He’d breathe through his nose faster and faster and try to yawn, but the yawn would stutter out at his blocked throat and make him gasp. Once he gasped he’d start to choke. Once he choked he would panic.

  He tried to stay calm. Fear of the panic made the panic happen faster. He pushed back his chair and tried to drag in a breath to apologize, but it was too much effort. His vision sparkled around the edges and he bolted from the room.

  Vaguely he was aware of Jack calling his name, but all he could focus on was finding a bathroom and closing himself inside it. The first door he tried was a closet and the second was an empty room. The third opened into darkness and the temperature dropped.

  Simon had the wherewithal for one absurd thought about a door to Narnia before he realized he’d stumbled into the unfinished part of Charlie’s house.

  The where didn’t matter so long as it was away. Simon bent at the waist and breathed through his nose. Somehow this position always let him get a fuller breath if he caught the panic early enough. He didn’t know why. A trick of the brain? The vagus nerve? Shift of his chest muscles? Whatever. He dragged in the sweet, cold air and concentrated on anything—anything—except his body’s betrayal.

  The air smelled of sawdust and freshly cut wood. Dust. Soil. He could hear the wind blowing through the trees outside, so that probably meant part of the structure was open. That would explain the cold too.

  Still bent over he let his arms hang, fingertips trailing over the ground. It felt like cement. Concrete? What was the difference? He’d read it once but he couldn’t remember. His breath came easier. He could taste the one bite of spaghetti he’d managed before humiliating himself. Sour tang of tomato, flat starch of pasta. Salt. Charlie wasn’t a very good cook.

  Tension in his legs made him bend his knees and slowly, slowly lower himself into a squat, then onto his hands and knees. He hung his head low, breathing to a five-count slowly, deliberately, not letting himself speed up no matter how much he wanted more air. Speeding up could became hyperventilating in the space of two breaths, and hyperventilating made him black out.

  Was this how he’d die someday? Alone, in the dark, in the woods?

  Something soft brushed against his cheek and Simon jolted. But a rusty-metal meow sounded in the darkness, and he reached out his hand.

  “Hi, Jane,” he whispered.

  The cat twitched her tail against his face, then sat down on the floor next to him.

  “Can I please hug you?”

  He inched closer to her and tried to pull her into his lap but she skittered away with a yowl.

  Typical.

  “Hey, Simon?” He’d assumed if anyone came for him it would be Jack, but it was Charlie. “Are you okay?” He cleared his throat. “Tap on something if you’re okay. Okay?”

  Simon knocked on the floor and tried to breathe quieter. That made his breaths slower, which made him get too little air. And that made him feel like he was choking all over again.

  To hell with trying to make a good impression. He sucked in loud breaths through his nose, tears dripping onto the cement floor—concrete floor—whateverthefuck.

  He heard the shuffle of Charlie taking a few steps toward him, then sitting down.

  “I’m expanding. This is gonna be a woodshop. Or maybe...no, a woodshop. I like to make stuff.”

  Furniture? Simon wondered. But something about the way Charlie was just talking told him he didn’t require a response.

  “Bowls and cups and stuff on the lathe. Spoons. I did a lamp the other day. Kind of.”

  That explained the sawdust smell.

  “Jane rolls around in the sawdust and tracks it all over the house,” he went on. His voice was low and gruff and yet he said this like he’d let Jane do whatever she wanted to the house.

  Being bad at naming animals might run in the Matheson family, but clearly being a total sucker for them did as well.

  At her name, Jane let out a little yip.

  “You in here, Jane?”

  A purr began to Simon’s left.

  “She’s here,” he croaked.

  Jane tumbled onto her back, all four legs extended directly into Simon’s face, and he wheezed a laugh.

 
“Thought she might be.”

  There was a long enough silence that Simon relaxed. When Charlie spoke again, his voice was softer.

  “After my parents died I would wake up in the middle of the night terrified. Sit up in bed and feel like I was being crushed. They were dead. I had a little brother to take care of. Bills to pay, meals to cook, parent-teacher conferences to go to, a store to run or sell. I didn’t know how anything worked.”

  Simon imagined being seventeen and waking up to stare that in the face. When he was seventeen he vomited at speaking in front of his twenty-person history class.

  “Don’t know if it was anything like how you feel,” Charlie went on. “But it was horrible. It was...worse than the way I felt when they died, honestly. So. I get it a little. You don’t have to talk to me. We’re good, okay? You’re Jack’s guy, I got your back.”

  Tears of gratitude replaced Simon’s tears of panic.

  Apparently being a huge goddamn sweetheart ran in the Matheson family too.

  “Anyway, you can hang out in here, but if you wanna come inside, we’re fine. You can just eat and hang out. Whatever you want.”

  Charlie stood up slowly.

  “Did it ever go away?” Simon heard himself say.

  “Yeah. Little by little it happened less often. Though sometimes, I still—Anyway. You come in when you’re ready. Stay, Jane.”

  Simon was amused at the idea that Charlie thought a cat would obey an order, but as the door closed, Jane rolled closer to Simon and rested her paw on his leg.

  This close, he could tell she was covered in sawdust.

  “Your dad’s pretty great, huh?” he said softly, stroking her back in a combination of petting and attempted sawdust removal. Jane’s torn-metal meow turned into a yawn and then a deep purr as Simon combed more of the sawdust from her fur.

  “They’re both pretty damn great.”