by Roan Parrish
It didn’t matter because the book already existed. As his editor, Hailey, had said on her Post-it, soon it would be out in the world. And the fact that Davis had turned out to be a shit, that the way Jack had thought his life would go had shifted in the space of an email, that chances were he’d never see Davis again...none of that mattered either. Not really.
Jack realized with a joyful twist of shock that he could still have all of it. All the research and the conversation, the talking about ideas. Of course he could. It was wanting to do both the writing and the illustrations that had sparked Davis’ betrayal in the first place. Jack had already been on the edge of trying it. He’d just gotten derailed.
And there were other people he could talk about ideas with. He pictured telling Simon about the layout of a page he was working on as they walked the pack in the evening. Simon would have great insight about layout from a graphic design standpoint. He would ask thoughtful questions. He would never dismiss ideas out of hand. Draw Puddles making cookies.
He imagined walking the pack with Simon every night, talking about everything. They’d roam for miles, then come home calm and tired and fall into bed to tire themselves out even more. They’d wake and walk the pack in the cool morning air before each turning to their work for the day. When Simon needed a break, he’d wander into Jack’s office and rest his chin on Jack’s shoulder. When Jack needed a break he’d chop wood for the fire and then lure Simon into a shower with him.
Fuck, it sounded like heaven.
He was startled out of his daydreams about Simon by Simon himself. The animals all perked up at the sound of the car pulling up and Jack sprang carefully to his feet.
When Simon opened the door and saw Jack standing there, he smiled instantly.
“Notice anything different?” Jack asked, raising an eyebrow. He was giddy with excitement and relief and something that felt like possibility. “Look, Ma, no cast.”
“Wow—”
Simon hardly got the word out before Jack grabbed him in a hug and then spun him around, added weight on his leg be damned. He felt as unstoppable as a goddamn superhero.
Simon clung to his shoulders when Jack set him down, looking a little dizzy, then he grinned.
“Your leg’s okay?”
“Yup. Good as new.”
Well, it would be.
He towed Simon over to the couch and plopped down. The animals settled back down. Simon rested a hand lightly on his previously casted shin, the first time he’d ever felt Simon’s touch there.
“You look so happy,” Simon said.
“I am.” Jack couldn’t stop smiling. He flopped back on the couch. “It’s been driving me fucking crazy not to be able to do all the things I usually do. Grocery shopping and going to get a pizza and going for runs. Picking things up off the damn floor. I haven’t felt like myself, you know? And now we can actually do things. We won’t have to be trapped inside this damn house.”
Simon patted his leg tentatively.
“And, man, I can’t wait to walk the dogs and Pirate again. It’s been so long. And you know what else I can’t wait for?” Jack dropped his voice and pushed himself closer to Simon.
“Hm?”
“I can’t wait to fuck you on every surface of the house.”
“Eep” was what came out of Simon’s mouth, which usually portended good things where sex was concerned. But now Simon’s jaw was clenched, his skin pale. He was staring straight ahead blankly.
“What’s wrong?” Jack asked. “You okay?”
Simon stood up, every movement stiff and controlled. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and Jack could practically see all the words warring to get out. But the trap of Simon’s throat got them.
“Are you sick?” Jack stood too and reached out a hand, but for the first time, Simon didn’t take it.
Simon shook his head but he’d gone pale.
Jack knew he didn’t understand what Simon went through. He knew that even when he was pretty sure he was getting it he was not getting it. But he thought he did a fairly good job of giving Simon the space to feel however he felt and know Jack would still be there. But these moments—when Simon felt a thousand miles away, when Simon seemed in danger from his own mind and body, when Simon didn’t reach out to him—left Jack unmoored.
“Do you want to text?” he asked.
Simon just blinked, like the words made no sense.
“Wanna write it down?”
Jack grabbed his sketchbook and pen and held them out to Simon. Simon didn’t take them, but he also didn’t leave.
“Do you just need some time?” Jack asked.
When Simon still didn’t answer, Jack talked to himself instead.
He’s not doing this on purpose. He’s not ignoring you. This isn’t about you.
But it was difficult not to feel foolish when you told your boyfriend you wanted to fuck him and he didn’t answer, went pale, and zoned out so hardcore that he didn’t even speak to you.
There’s nothing to be upset about. It’s not about you.
“Darlin’, can I touch you?”
Simon nodded, hard, once, and Jack pulled him into his arms. Something was going on and he didn’t know what it was, but this was still Simon. He adored Simon. Simon was the best thing on two legs.
Usually when Simon was upset, Jack could feel his heart pounding and his limbs shaking. But Simon was motionless in his arms, like he was a statue, shallow breaths the only indication that anything was going on.
Finally, he felt something damp on his neck and realized Simon was crying, silent and still.
“What’s wrong?” Jack said as gently as he could manage. “Please.”
“I c-c-c-can’t do that,” Simon said. And he sounded like his heart was breaking.
Chapter Fifteen
Simon
A war was raging inside Simon. On one side was his foolish, breaking heart. It reared and bucked and wept, wanting nothing but to be held in Jack’s arms forever. On the other side was his seasoned, resigned brain. It packed its bags carefully and walked away the second Jack made it clear that now that his leg was healed he expected them to have a normal relationship—one where they went out and did things and hung out with people. Because it knew that Simon couldn’t be what Jack wanted.
The battleground was Simon’s stomach, which roiled, his palms, which sweat, and his throat, which had clamped up tighter than a furled peony fist.
Jack was holding him so gently, hands sweetly stroking his back and his hair. The battle left Simon bloody in all the places no one could ever see, and his pain leaked tracks down his cheeks. It wasn’t the same as crying, but it was close.
“What can’t you do?” Jack asked. “Fuck on every surface of the house? I think you can, but we don’t have to. The bed’s nice too.”
Jack was being kind, trying to lighten the moment, and it made Simon loathe himself with a deep, painful uppercut that he’d worked years to stop throwing.
“I can’t j-just g-g-go out.”
It was soft, but Jack heard. Jack steered him back to the couch and he let himself be led because god how he wanted Jack to magically have a solution. Wouldn’t that be something? If all along the solution to his problem had been held by a stranger.
But of course Jack didn’t have a solution.
“I didn’t mean like go to bars every night or anything,” Jack backpedaled. “But we can go to the movies and out to dinner and to ball games and...and...hiking?”
Simon imagined going to a football or basketball game. Imagined the yells of thousands of strangers, the way they’d stare at him when he didn’t shout for the team, the gutting exposure if the camera should land on him, projecting his face for the whole stadium to see.
And even if it was just going out to dinner, sooner or later Jack’s friends would invite him to a din
ner party or a birthday celebration. Jack would want him to go. And Simon would let him down the way he’d let him down at Charlie’s. Or he’d try and the whole event would become about Simon and how he was doing and was he coping all right and could he handle it, not about the event at all. And little by little he’d resent it and he’d stop saying yes. And Jack would resent that he stopped trying. And then...well, once there was resentment on both sides, how could they go on?
Simon was trying to find a way to say these things that didn’t sound fatalistic, like he wasn’t even willing to try, but Jack was looking at him so warmly. He was so beautiful. Warm. Strong.
Simon reached out a hand and pressed it to Jack’s chest, trying to soak up his warmth.
“You don’t understand,” he said as gently as he could. “You want to d-do boyfriend things and I just c-can’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Shame boiled into anger. It was so fucking unfair that this gorgeous, kind, perfect man couldn’t grasp Simon’s utter imperfection.
“I do!” Simon yelled. “You couldn’t walk when you had a b-broken leg. No matter how hard you t-t-tried, you couldn’t because it was fucking b-broken. Now it’s healed but I’m n-not. I won’t. I can’t do these things! You won’t w-w-want me outside this d-d-d-damn house!”
A look of almost cartoon puzzlement slid onto Jack’s face.
“No, I... I do.”
“Do you?” Simon demanded. “Do you want to take me to parties and-and-and restaurants? Do you want to know that I’ll say no nine times out of t-ten? Or that halfway through I might lose my sh-shit like at Ch-Charlie’s and have to leave?”
An engine of certainty was driving out the fear and heartbreak. This was all he had to do. Convince Jack this was doomed and neither of them would suffer any longer.
So he gave voice to his deepest fear as if it were an obvious truth.
“You’ve been bored out of your mind and I was here. You were interested in me because you had n-nothing else. But now you do again, so I know I won’t s-s-seem as sh-shi-shiny.”
“Wha... That’s what you think?”
Simon set his jaw and stared. He nodded once. He watched the moment when the man he had fallen in love with winced as his words hit home. Then, with as much dignity as he could muster, Simon got his coat and left.
Chapter Sixteen
Jack
When Charlie drove up, Jack was sitting outside on a stump, walking boot in place, Pirate perched on his shoulder. She jumped down as Charlie approached and rubbed against Charlie’s leg. Jack pouted.
“Traitor,” he muttered.
“Can’t believe you’re not out doing everything the doc said you can do yet,” Charlie said. He held up a paper bag. “Brought some sandwiches. I got one for Simon too. Not sure what he likes, so I got three different and figured he could choose first.”
“He’s not here.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, you can just save it for him for later if you—”
Jack pushed himself up and stormed into the house before Charlie could finish his thought. He imagined Simon’s tuna salad or turkey or ham sandwich waiting, neatly wrapped, in the refrigerator for a man who never came back. Jack’s throat tightened.
Charlie closed the door behind him.
“What’s up?”
His voice was infuriatingly gentle; inviting.
“Don’t do that thing,” Jack snapped. He wanted to rip the world to pieces, beginning with himself.
“What thing?”
“That thing you do where you sound like I can tell you anything and you know everything. Just...don’t.”
Jack closed his eyes.
“You can tell me anything,” Charlie said, low and soft so Jack instantly felt like shit for being mad.
Jack banged around the kitchen, putting food in the animals’ bowls and wiping up imaginary spills on the counter. The plastic of the walking boot made his right leg longer than his left so he had to stay up on his left toes a bit, making them ache. He wondered if he could get a shoe insert or something to even it out.
Charlie sat silently at the kitchen table and pet each animal as they ran to get their dinner. The bag of sandwiches lay untouched on the table until Mayonnaise jumped into Charlie’s lap and, smelling something she liked, tried to crawl inside the bag. Charlie scooped the cat up with one hand and chucked the bag into the fridge.
Finally, when all the animals had eaten and there was nothing more Jack could pretend to clean up, he put the sponge down, took a deep breath, and said, “I think I fucked up.”
* * *
They ate all three sandwiches (tuna, turkey, and ham; Jack had been right) and Jack told Charlie what had happened.
When he finished, Charlie frowned.
“What do I do? How do I convince him he’s not some...some distraction?”
It hurt Jack to even say the word. Was that what Simon had been thinking when they kissed? When they touched each other? When they laughed together? That Jack was momentarily entertained. The sandwiches lurched in his stomach.
“I don’t think that’s the part to focus on,” Charlie said slowly. “That’s the thing he told himself because of the part you should focus on.”
“And that is?!” Jack prompted when Charlie paused. He had a flash of Simon and himself sitting at this very table and Simon irritatedly instructing Jack to tell him everything.
“The part about how you want different things for the future. If you want a boyfriend who will go out and do things with you all the time and he doesn’t want to go out and do those things, then it makes sense he’d tell himself that you would lose interest.”
Anger sluiced through Jack, thick and hot.
“I would never do that; who the fuck do you think I am?”
“Bro, losing interest isn’t something you do on purpose. It isn’t something you do at all. Listen to what he was telling you: he cannot give you the things you told him you want. You told him you couldn’t wait to not be stuck in the house. The house is where he feels safe. That’s facts.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Irritation flared Jack’s nostrils and he felt fidgety and overheated.
“Stop,” Charlie said. He put a heavy hand on Jack’s arm.
“What?” Jack snapped.
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m asking. Would you want to be in a relationship with Simon if he could not go out to dinner with you or to a basketball game or to the market?”
“Well, yeah, of course,” Jack said, barely containing his eye-roll.
“Yeah? Because Simon is worried that you won’t. And—No, shut up, I’m not done. Simon is worried that you won’t. Not because you’re a bad boyfriend or a bad person. He’s worried because he thinks you have an unrealistic understanding of what future you’re choosing if you choose him. Do you get that?”
Jack opened his mouth to say that of course he did, then he remembered how still Simon had stood in his arms. He hadn’t been vibrating with anxiety as he usually was in such moments. He’d been frozen. Resigned. He’d thought he’d already lost.
“Keep talking,” Jack said, and slumped lower in his seat.
“You’re such a romantic, bro. You think if you love him enough you can change the whole world. It’s sweet, but it’s not real. This is how Simon’s brain works. You can’t change that just by loving him to hell and back.”
“I don’t want to change him,” Jack said, but he knew it was a lie before the words even hit the air. He did want things to be different for Simon. Easier. Less painful. “Well. Okay. I...”
“I know, bro. I’ve wanted to change shit for you a hundred times.” Jack opened his mouth to ask when, but Charlie looked away. “Anyway, I think Simon sees how much you wish you could snap your fingers and make things better for him. But
when you want that, what you’re wishing is that he was a different person. One he’s never gonna be. And that probably feels like shit.”
Of course. Of course that’s how Simon’s ravenous brain metabolized Jack’s careless words.
Jack thought about being able to reach out and take Simon’s hand in his whenever he wanted. Being able to lean over and press a kiss to his cheek, his brow, his mouth. But the visions that he pictured were out in the world. Holding hands as they chose which flowers to plant or standing close as they reached the summit of a trailhead and gazed at the vista below.
“What was it like,” Jack said slowly. “When we came to dinner. What was it like for you?”
He’d been so focused on Simon that he hadn’t even noticed Charlie’s reaction, other than being grateful his brother had been kind.
“It was hard,” Charlie said. “Hard to see him so uncomfortable. I felt guilty, like it was my fault for trying to talk to him. But I would’ve felt rude if I’d just talked at him and not asked any questions. I wasn’t sure what I could do to avoid hurting him, and that felt bad.”
Jack’s stomach lurched. This was what Simon had been trying to tell him and he hadn’t understood. He hadn’t understood even though he’d been with him the whole time. Simon was always choosing between hurting himself or feeling like he was hurting someone else. And if they were together, that someone else would often be Jack.
Puddles whimpered from the other room and Jack pushed himself to his feet, only wincing slightly at the weakness and ache in his leg. In the living room, Puddles had wedged himself against the couch and was glaring at the fire. A log had cracked at the bark line and left a jagged, burned out section that looked like a lightning bolt.
“It’s okay, baby,” Jack told him. He slid the poker into the fire and crushed the chunk to glowing coals. Puddles pressed against his leg and licked his hand.