by Roan Parrish
Warring feelings clashed in Simon’s gut. Why hadn’t more people been kind the way the Mathesons were? And then: What if he’d simply never given people the chance?
The only reason he’d spoken more than three words to Jack was because it had felt worth seeing him over and over in order to walk the pack. It was happenstance that the person he’d matched with on PetShare was a kind, lovely, patient one, right? And now, the fact that Jack liked him explained why Charlie was being so kind.
And all of that had happened because Simon hadn’t run away at the first twinge of discomfort, the first panic.
Horror began to eat away at his hard-won calm. If he’d just been able to stick it out, to open up, to make himself vulnerable to more people would more of them have turned out to be like Jack and Charlie? Had he done this to himself?
No! he screamed inside his head. Stop it!
He’d been down this path before. He had years of others’ voices in his head telling him that if he just tried harder, just socialized more then it would all work out.
But it wasn’t that simple. He’d attended school with people for years, seen them every day, and they’d tormented him. He’d spent months and months seeing his coworkers every day and never felt comfortable with them.
His anxiety was real, diagnosed, medicated. He couldn’t fix it by just trying harder. It wasn’t his fault.
It’s not your fault.
“It’s not my fault,” he whispered to Jane. She purred.
* * *
Simon went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He was pale and redness from crying had left the blue of his eyes looking strangely violet. His hair was a mess. He sighed, tried to smooth it, gave Jane, who’d followed him into the bathroom, a final ruffle of the fur to dislodge the last of the sawdust, and took a deep breath.
In the dining room, Jack and Charlie sat like bookends, legs stretched out in front of them, hands resting on their stomachs. As he entered, they both smiled at him. Charlie warmly and Jack with concern in his eyes. He wished he could crawl onto Jack’s lap and bury his face in his neck. Instead, he tried to smile back.
Jack caught his hand as he returned to his seat and kissed it.
“Charlie was telling me about the additions on the house,” Jack said casually. “Just try not to lose consciousness directly into the spaghetti.”
It was so clearly a tease on his behalf, a way to say he didn’t have to participate, and Simon could tell he was about at the end of his capacity to be upright because it brought tears to his eyes.
He fixed his gaze on the cold plate of congealed spaghetti in front of him, knowing he’d throw up if he touched the meatballs, wondering if he could get away with just moving the food around on his plate. The last thing he wanted to do was insult Charlie’s cooking, but he supposed it would probably be an equal insult to take a bite and immediately run to the bathroom to puke it up.
Charlie began talking about tongue-and-groove joints, the load-bearing capacities of different woods, and Jack’s questions made it clear he knew what these things meant. Simon listened to every word, trying to move outside himself. Then he listened to every syllable, sense dissolving into sound. Then it was just two low voices, dancing, and Simon closed his eyes.
* * *
“Do you want to stay tonight?” Jack asked as they waved goodbye to Charlie and made their way to the car.
Do you want me to? Simon asked, but nothing came out. He raised his eyebrows in question.
“I’d love it,” Jack said. “But I get if you just want to go home.”
Simon shook his head. “No,” he managed to get out, shocked to hear that his voice sounded normal.
They drove in silence, Simon forcing himself to concentrate on the road even though his head felt swimmy and his eyes burned.
At Jack’s they were greeted with much yipping, barking, tail wagging, and licking. Simon put his arms around Bernard and pressed his face to the dog’s huge head. Bernard wriggled with joy.
“Let’s let them out for a few minutes,” Jack murmured. “I’ll just stand with them, okay? You want to take a shower?”
Simon nodded. The change of temperature sometimes did help him feel better.
Jack pressed a kiss to his temple and Simon closed his eyes.
You still have this. You didn’t lose it. He still likes you.
Under the sluice of hot water, Simon let himself cry. It was the overflow that usually followed a period of panic—not sadness but a kind of familiar hopeless exhaustion with a vein of self-pity and relief.
He dried off and pulled on a pair of Jack’s flannel boxers and the sweatshirt Jack had been wearing earlier. It was worn soft and smelled like Jack. Simon put the hood up over his damp hair and flopped into bed. Louis’ head popped up from the foot of the bed, so hidden in shadow that Simon hadn’t seen him.
“Sorry,” he murmured. Louis put his head back down.
Simon curled up in a ball and closed his eyes. He could hear Jack talking outside but couldn’t make out what he was saying. He heard Rat’s yipping bark and then the sound of the door opening. A stampede of furry feet followed, then Jack rambling around on his crutches, no doubt shutting off lights and stoking the fire. Every now and then he muttered or swore and Simon knew a crutch had caught on something or Jack had forgotten about his leg and hurt himself.
It sounded like home.
When Jack crawled into bed with him, smelling of toothpaste and displacing an irritated Louis, Simon realized he’d been half dozing.
“Hey,” Jack said. “How are you doing?”
Jack’s inquiry was sincere. He laid a soft hand on Simon’s back.
“Kind of bad,” Simon whispered.
He rolled over to face Jack in the comforting darkness. Jack took Simon’s hands in his own.
“I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He felt Jack stiffen.
“Darlin’, no. No way. Don’t you dare apologize. It’s my fault. You told me... I didn’t... It’s not that I didn’t believe you. I just, I thought it would be okay.”
“Same thing,” Simon mumbled. Jack had thought it’d be okay because he couldn’t imagine how it was possible to be as much of a basket case as Simon was.
Stop it stop it stop it.
Jack hesitated, then said, “Yeah. I guess you’re right. My fault.”
The air was thick with apology and Simon hated it. He hated that he’d let Jack down and he hated that he’d do it again if Jack spent any more time with him. And he was too tired at the moment to control his thoughts about it. He moved closer and threw his arm over Jack’s stomach.
“It’s not your fault. It’s just...how I am.”
“I like you how you are,” Jack said fiercely. “But I hate—I fucking hate—how bad you feel.”
Simon nodded and let Jack draw him into his arms.
“I’m used to it,” he said. “And it still sucks.”
The scent of outside clung to Jack’s hair and Simon buried his face in his neck. Jack stroked up and down his back. How was it possible to go from feeling so bad to feeling so good?
“Charlie’s nice,” he murmured.
“Yeah. Too nice for his own good,” Jack said affectionately.
“No such thing.”
Jack squeezed him tighter.
He was exhausted, but his comfort was being eroded by the thoughts that had plagued him earlier.
“What...what did you think of me when we first met?” Simon asked.
“I thought you were the most beautiful guy I’d ever seen,” Jack answered instantly.
“But what did you think about...me?”
“I thought I’d scared you or offended you because I was in such a bad mood. Here was this guy doing me a huge favor and I was all...grouchy and shit.”
“What else?”
“I thought
you were awkward,” Jack said. His voice was so gentle, so fond. “I thought you were shy.” He kissed Simon’s hair. “I thought maybe if I didn’t fuck it up I could get you to... I dunno, stick around a bit.”
Simon was rummaging for something that didn’t exist, he knew now. He’d wondered if everyone would turn out to be like Jack if he gave them the chance. But Jack was different. He hadn’t thought Simon was a freak. He hadn’t disliked him.
“That day I asked you to help me with the coffee filters? I just wanted an excuse to spend more time with you. But I hadn’t thought ahead enough to have anything to ask you.” Jack shook his head.
“I thought you were making fun of me.”
“Yeah I kinda got that. I wasn’t,” he added unnecessarily.
“You never are.”
“Simon, I... I don’t know what you want me to say. I just liked you. I thought you were interesting. And yeah, part of that is probably that you were so different. That there was no quippy banter, no empty flirting. No boring small talk. Is that...bad?”
“No. No, never.” He flopped onto his back. “Ignore me. I’m just having a thing.”
“Tell me?”
Simon searched for the thread. Searched for the part of this that Jack might understand.
“I’ve had friends. I know it seems like I don’t have any but... I’ve had friends I met online. I had friends when I was younger. But I never...”
There was no way to say this that didn’t make him come off badly, so he just said it.
“I didn’t care about them enough to—to put up with what I had to do to keep them. Making myself uncomfortable and t-taking risks. So we all just drifted. I would wish for friends—the kind of—of really close friends like on TV. The ones who feel like family—well, like family should feel.”
Simon thought of Paul, his childhood best friend who’d tried hard to keep their friendship going as they moved into middle school. He’d asked Simon to walk home with him and his other friends; he’d invited Simon to every birthday party; he’d tried to get him to try out for the school play with him. But Simon didn’t want to do any of those things—couldn’t do any of those things without a cost greater than he could afford. So he’d let Paul go.
For years he’d blamed himself for being incapable, for losing the friendship. When he was older and first starting therapy, he’d blamed Paul for not realizing that all of his overtures were tuned to the wrong channel. Now he knew it wasn’t either of their faults. Simon was himself and Paul was an oblivious kid.
Paul had gone to college in Colorado and Simon had never seen him again. But he still thought of him every year on his birthday: August 11. He still remembered his home phone number.
Simon gathered his thoughts.
“It’s different with you,” he told Jack. “B-because it’s worth it to...” He was going to say suffer but that wasn’t right. “Worth it to try and push myself if it means I get to...have you?”
He hadn’t meant it to come out as a question.
“You do,” Jack said, avid, pulling Simon on top of him. “You do have me, baby. I swear. It’s different for me too. I’ve never...” He shivered. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone. I... Shit.”
He wrapped his arms so tight around Simon that for a moment he thought Jack might press them together into one body.
Simon had been going to say that it felt worth it to try and push himself if it meant he got to have Jack, but that he worried he wouldn’t be able to push himself far enough for it to work.
Simon kissed him instead. He kissed him with every ounce of energy he had left, and Jack kissed him right back.
Chapter Fourteen
Jack
Jack groaned in relief as the cast fell away, then recoiled as the smell hit.
“Jesus Christ, am I rotting?”
“Perfectly normal,” the orthopedist said absently. “Oils and sweat and skin collect between your leg and the casting and form a layer of yeasty—”
“Okay, yep, got it,” Jack interrupted. “Shower thoroughly. Noted. So when can I...do stuff?”
“What stuff are you referring to?”
Jack gritted his teeth to hold back his irritation. No bedside manner-having asshat.
He’d been waiting for the doctor for hours and was at the end of his tether even before the person who’d shown up had turned out to have all the compassion and humor of a nail protruding from a floorboard.
“Drive, walk, run, fuck my boyfriend hard in positions that require two legs, et cetera.”
Welp, never mind about holding back the irritation.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Drive, as soon as the stiffness in your leg has eased. You can walk now. Short distances. Build up slowly. You’ll want to build up strength for several weeks before you begin jogging, then jog at a light pace before running in six to eight weeks.”
He sniffed and gathered his clipboard.
“The nurse will be in with a printout of exercises to strengthen the limb and your walking boot.”
“And what about fucking my—”
“As long as you don’t exert the limb to the point of pain you can...put weight on it.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Jack called after him. Then muttered, “Dick.”
“Making friends and spreading joy wherever you go as usual?” Charlie said, walking into the room as the doctor was leaving.
“Doctors, am I right?”
“Not usually. Ready?”
“I just have to get stuff from the nurse.”
He examined his bared right calf. It looked smaller, shrunken. But at the moment he couldn’t care. All he felt was relief that he was back on his feet. That he could feel like himself again.
And he really hadn’t been kidding about that whole screwing Simon up against a wall thing.
Or over the back of the couch.
Or over the side of the bed.
* * *
I have a surprise for you, Jack texted Simon.
What!?
Jack chuckled. Simon was so adorable.
If I told you it wouldn’t be a surprise and all that. You’ll see tonight.
Pout.
* * *
His shin ached and looked a bit swollen, and the skin that had been under the cast felt weirdly sensitive, but taking a shower without a plastic bag swaddling his cast and an ache in his hip from holding his leg up—not to mention the inevitable moment of almost losing his balance and falling on his ass—was heaven. He stood under the spray until the water began to run cold, then rubbed his leg gently with a towel as the nurse had recommended, her stern rejoinder about why he shouldn’t scrub at the skin no matter how much he wanted to running through his head: Because your skin will slough off and it’ll hurt, tough guy, so just don’t.
He shuddered and rubbed even more gently.
The sensation of putting even a little bit of weight on his right leg after so long favoring it was strange, but Jack walked around the house slowly, gingerly, patting a dog here and tidying a pile of mail there.
The clutter annoyed him and he began to make plans to put everything in the cabin to rights. It had been too long since he’d cleaned, too long since he’d dusted. Too long since...everything.
At the bottom of a pile of mail and papers shoved in a corner was a large envelope. It had sat there for months, unopened, because Jack didn’t need to open it to know what it was. Page proofs of his and Davis’ book that would be out in a month. Their fourth together, completed before Davis’ betrayal when Jack had imagined things would go on as they were forever: collaboration, publication, celebration.
But the wheels of publishing turned slowly enough to fossilize joy in bitterness, hope in fury.
Fury was perhaps too active a descriptor for the fugue state Jack had wandered around in for months before his fall
.
Now, though, floor solid beneath both feet, Jack probed at the wound gingerly. It was still there, but it had diminished. It wasn’t a raging storm any longer. It was a dull ache that felt more like foolishness and disappointment.
Jack slid a finger under the lip of the envelope and breathed in the particular scent of photo paper and ink.
A Lynx Slinks in the Bronx slid onto the table, a Post-it note from his editor on top: Looks great! Can’t wait until it’s out in the world!
Each line and color was familiar even all these months later. Jack had spent hours reading about the Canada lynx. He’d asked everyone he ran into if they’d seen one and listened to story after story from old men claiming they had. The accuracy of their sloping backs, hind legs longer than fore, had made his initial drawings look unrealistic until he’d figured out the angle he needed to draw them from to capture their size and grace.
Fuck, he missed it. All of it. In his horror at not being able to draw, he’d forgotten about the rest of it. The research, the chatting with people about what he was working on to get ideas. Seeing the world through the lens of his current project. Texting Davis ideas and getting his in return.
He flipped through the pages to find his favorite drawing. The one he’d spent days on to get the lynx’s expression just right. It was beautiful, from the black tufts of fur on her ears to the little stub of her gray tail.
“I drew that,” he whispered.
Then he took the pages and placed each one on the floor and sat on the couch. First Mayonnaise wandered over and plopped down on a page. That got Pickles’ attention, who stretched out on another. When Pirate next walked through the room, she stopped, circled around, and came back to settle on a third page.
Rat saw that something was happening and started prancing around in circles trying to figure out what it was before placing herself directly on Pickles’ legs, getting a tail in the face and a lazy hiss for her troubles. At the sound, Bernard came in from the kitchen where he’d been hopefully sitting next to the food dishes and, seeing the animal-studded living room floor, participated by flopping down in the middle, with no attention to the papers whatsoever. His wagging tail pushed one of the pages so close to the fire that Jack tensed to get up and rescue it. Then he realized it didn’t matter if it burned.