Redirection

by Gregory Ashe

  It was a hot day, and hotter sitting in the sun as Shaw melted on North’s stoop. He’d worn a lilac kurta that was too loose, and it kept slipping along his shoulders and falling open at the neck. The paisley-print leggings ended at mid-calf, leaving several inches of bare skin before the alligator-skin Chelsea boots. By noon, the prickle at the hollow of his throat and along a bare expanse of shoulder told him he was getting a sunburn, but he couldn’t muster the energy to drag himself into the narrowing patch of shade.

  At first the thirst was intense. There was another bottle of water in the Mercedes, and even though it would have been near boiling in the trapped heat of the car, it shimmered in Shaw’s mind like an oasis. That was another moot point, though. He couldn’t haul his butt to the car any more than he could crawl into the shade.

  He closed his eyes more and more often; the glare off the cars was making his head pound, and there was something soothing about the way the heat compressed everything, an intensity approaching a physical pressure, and the sudden rupture when a car would pass and its tires whistled on the pavement. As the hours dragged on, the whole thing became unreal, which actually made it easier. If this was a nightmare, he’d wake up. If it was hell, well, he’d paid for his own ticket. The only nagging thought was that the Mercedes parked in front of the house might scare North away. He thought about moving it two streets over, but inertia held him. Besides, he told himself, moving the car would technically make this an ambush, and that was a felony.

  The GTO’s familiar rumble roused him. He blinked gummy eyes. North parallel parked easily. He sat for a moment in the car’s shadowed interior, the engine still growling. He must have been watching Shaw. Deciding, maybe, if it would be easier to drive away and come back later. Even parked and idling, the throatiness of the GTO set a tempo like the start of a race. And it was a race, Shaw thought. A race between him and North. Which one of them would manage to say it all first?

  Then the GTO shut off, and the door opened. North stepped out. He was wearing a blue linen button-up that hung open over his bare chest, exposing the slabs of muscle and the dense blond fur. The sleeves were rolled to the elbows. When he came around the GTO, Shaw could make out the jeans: acid washed and cupping his ass and thighs like a second skin. He stopped at the GTO’s trunk and put his hands on his hips.

  Maybe it was the heat stroke talking, but all Shaw could say was “That’s Tucker’s shirt.”

  Down the street, firecrackers went off, but neither North nor Shaw reacted to the sudden crackle and pop.

  “It’s my shirt,” North said, opening the trunk. He took out a flattened cardboard box. “Tucker liked wearing it.”

  “I can see your nipples.”

  North hesitated, hand on the trunk’s lid, and gave Shaw a second look. Then he closed the trunk firmly and carried the cardboard box to the stoop.

  “How long have you been sitting out here?”

  “You never wear your shirts like that. And it’s Tucker’s shirt. I’m a detective.”

  “You surely fucking are.” He leaned in and sucked his teeth. “Jesus, Shaw. You’re broiled.”

  Maybe it wasn’t a race, Shaw decided, now that the GTO was quiet and both of them were still toeing the line. Maybe it was something else. Maybe it was just one question, one question that he needed to ask. A question that was like an explosion. There was a word for that. There was a word for everything.

  “Interrobang,” he said.

  “If that’s a new sex move you invented that’s also some kind of interrogation tactic, you can forget it.”

  But it was easier to rest his head against the intense heat of the bricks and close his eyes.

  “Up,” North had his arm. “Stand up, God damn it. Yep, both legs. Jesus,” he caught Shaw with an arm around the waist, “like a baby horse.”

  “A foal.”

  “I know, thank you very fucking much. I’m the one with the college degree, remember?”

  Keys jangled. Hinges creaked. Then AC rolled over them crisp and cool, like someone dropping Shaw into a lake. North helped him inside and down the hall to the kitchen. He sat Shaw at the table, filled a glass with tap water, and then poured most of it out again.

  “Slowly,” he said, setting it in front of Shaw. “I’ll be right back.”

  The heavy tread of the Redwings moved away. The front door shut. Shaw closed his eyes. He could feel the chill against every inch of bare skin. First hell, now heaven. It seemed that in heaven, the angels wore really heavy boots.

  Glass skated along wood. “Apparently I wasn’t clear enough. Drink the damn water. Slowly.”

  Shaw managed to get most of it down. North dropped into another chair. He had brought the cardboard box with him, and he leaned it against his leg. He was thumbing the corrugated edge of one flap, which seemed to be the most interesting thing in the universe. Then he backhanded the box, and it floated down, and he looked up.

  “What the fuck were you thinking? People die like that, Shaw. Every summer, they’ve got homeless people and old people and kids who die from the heat. Sitting there in the sun like that? What the fuck?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Drink the goddamn water!”

  North’s face was red. Sweat darkened the hair at his temples, and more glistened at his throat and along the crest of his collarbone exposed by the shirt. He put a thumb in his mouth, chewing the nail savagely, and then yanked the digit free and opened his mouth.

  Shaw picked up the glass and finished the water. It sloshed in his stomach, and he put a hand to his mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  North stood. The chair skittered across the floor. “Are you going to puke?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I said drink it slowly.”

  Shaw nodded.

  “Well, are you going to puke?”

  After a moment, Shaw shook his head.

  North started to sit. Then he stood again. Then he made a growling noise and reached for the shirt, as though he might start doing up the buttons, before letting it fall again.

  “You need to lie down. You can have some more water in a bit.”

  He moved Shaw into the bedroom, stopping Shaw at the foot of the bed. He peeled the kurta off, and then he swore savagely.

  “What?” Shaw said, one hand coming up to cover his chest.

  “Purple’s not your color, that’s what. Lie down.”

  “I like purple.”

  “On your back.”

  Shaw lay on the bed. The sheets were a mess, but at least they were cool. North’s steps moved away and came back. The bed shifted under his weight, and then something cold touched Shaw’s shoulder. He hissed.

  “Don’t be a baby.” In a softer tone, North added, “It’s aloe. With lidocaine. None of that bullshit ‘strained through a virgin’s hair on the day of her quinceañera’ shit that you buy.” His fingers felt thicker than Shaw remembered, his touch more callused. Then he pulled his hand back and said, “On your stomach.”

  With a moan of complaint, Shaw rolled over.

  The smooth, slow, wiping gestures returned, spreading the chill along Shaw’s neck and shoulder and upper back. On hot days like this, the AC struggled to keep up; North must have turned on the ceiling fan because now Shaw heard it whirring overhead, the brass pull chain jingling rhythmically at each rotation. The blinds were closed, to help with the heat, but thin slats of light still fell. Shaw traced one of them along the bedding. The sun caught dully on his fingernails.

  “You might blister,” North said, his hand still working the aloe into Shaw’s skin. “You’ll definitely peel.”

  “You like peeling off sunburn skin.”

  North chuckled. “That sounds disgusting, but, yeah, I guess I do.”

  “You said it’s weirdly satisfying.”

  Jingle jangle. North’s hand was even slower. “That was a long time ago. How do you remember shit like that?”
<
br />   “I remember everything about you. Pretty much everything. I remember the first time I saw you at the end of the hall. You were wearing that shirt, the one with the name patch sewn on, and it said Mick. I never wanted anybody else after that.”

  Shaw closed his eyes.

  North’s hand stopped on his shoulder.

  The fan spun. The brass pull chain shivered.

  When Shaw opened his eyes, he saw the white briefs wadded up near the closet door.

  “So,” he made himself say calmly, because that was something he could give North right now, “you and Tucker are back together.”

  North made a noise that could have been amusement or irritation or just about anything. “He followed me back here before we went to his place. Anyway, you’re the one who wanted me to forgive him.”

  Pressing his face into the bedding, Shaw squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Give me a break. I’m supposed to forgive him. I’m supposed to stay broken up with him. Make up your mind, Shaw. What do you want?”

  Shaw flopped onto his back. He tried to sit up, but North planted a sticky hand on his chest.

  “North.”

  “You’re fine where you are.”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “So talk. But you’re not running off while we’re in the middle of this.”

  Shaw had to close his eyes again at that. He practiced the breathing Dr. Farr had taught him. He opened his eyes. Some of those slats of light were falling against the side of North’s head, picking out the texture in his messy blond hair.

  “Do you know what?” Shaw asked. “This has been one of the worst weeks of my whole life. On top of some really awful months. And I know—I know I’m responsible for a lot of that. I made some bad choices. I didn’t treat you the way you deserved. And I accept the decisions you made; they were yours to make, and I respect that. But I was sitting in that cell today, talking to Paul, and he asked me what I’d do if I thought you’d killed someone, how far I’d go for you, and the answer was anything. I’d do anything for you, North. Absolutely anything. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about how stupid I’ve been, trying to fix you. Not because you don’t need fixing; we all need a little fixing. But because I was doing it for me, and it was about me, and about what I wanted, and that’s what got me into this mess in the first place. God, I’m getting this all mixed up.”

  “You’re doing all right. Keep going.”

  “What I’m trying to say is that I love you so much, I don’t care what I want anymore. I want you to be happy. That’s what I want. And if that means I’m never going to be more than your friend, or—or whatever, then that’s what I want. And if it means it’s easier for you to never see me again, then I’ll buy an old house and stalk you online and die in my wedding dress.”

  “Oh Lord,” North muttered.

  “But whatever you want, that’s what I want for you. Because I don’t know if anybody has ever put you first in your whole life, but you deserve that, to come first. If being with someone else makes you happy, then I want that for you. I’ll tease you about your bad blowjobs, and I’ll listen to your breakup stories, and I’ll clean you up when you get sloppy drunk and try to record Elton John covers on your phone, and then I’ll send you back out into the wild to track down another hot guy. But not Tucker, North. Please. Because I know he doesn’t make you happy. Because you deserve so much better.”

  “Are you done?”

  Shaw wet his lips. “Can I sit up now?”

  “No. Are you done?”

  “I guess.”

  Jingle jangle. One of the slats of light followed the line of North’s jaw. Another fell where his neck met his shoulder, igniting the blue linen, turning the tan skin copper.

  “I did some reading yesterday and today. About people and issues and shit. And I did some thinking. And I cleared my search history and my cache, so don’t think you can snoop and find anything.”

  “Like when you were looking at all those websites about male enhancement.”

  “I told you! That was a virus!” North drew a deep breath. “I had a long talk with Tucker last night. Into today, I guess. A real talk.”

  “So you are getting back together?”

  “Can I finish a goddamn sentence?”

  “You finished three. And it’s better if you say it fast: I’m getting back together with Tucker. Like that.”

  “For Christ’s sake, I’m not getting back together with Tucker. We had about our nastiest fight ever, if you have to know. The son of a bitch clawed my shirt off. Literally. Which is why I’m wearing this stupid shirt that makes me feel like I’m in a bad porno about yachts, and just like goddamn usual, you won’t shut up while I’m trying to get back together with you.”

  “You’d tell the pretty twink to raise the mizzenmast. And then you’d tell him you need to put the mizzenmast in the bilge.” Then, knocking aside North’s hand, Shaw sat up. “Wait, what?”

  “I love you. I want to be with you the rest of my life.” North swallowed and looked down. With what took like a lot of effort, he looked up again. His voice fractured as he said, “If that’s what you want.”

  Shaw bit his lip against the smile exploding on his face and nodded. North wasn’t doing anything right, as usual, so Shaw leaned forward and kissed him. It was the softest, sweetest kiss North McKinney had ever offered him. When Shaw pulled back, tears tracked down North’s face, and North turned into his shoulder to wipe them away.

  “I’m going to braid you new boot laces out of my hair.”

  “Pass.” North’s voice was rough, and he cleared his throat. “I’m not a serial killer.”

  “I’m going to make you a sweet grass unguent that will restore the virility of your withered manhood.”

  “In the first fucking place,” North said, sounding more normal as he gathered steam, “my manhood is perfectly fucking fine. In the second place, the last time you made an unguent, you got sick from eating all of it because you made the goddamn thing out of coconut oil and crushed-up Oreos.”

  “I’m going to learn the song sea lions sing when their pups die, and I’ll sing it every time we’re apart.”

  “Fuck this.” North scooted toward the edge of the bed. “I changed my mind. I’m getting back together with Tucker.”

  “No,” Shaw wailed, and he dragged him back onto the bed.

  That turned into wrestling, which turned into Shaw sitting astride North’s midriff, pinning his wrists to the bed. The hook of a wicked smile had started at the corner of North’s mouth, but for the moment he did nothing but lie there, watching Shaw.

  “I screwed up, North. I love you so much, and I wanted us to be together again, and I did what I always do: I made it about me, about what I wanted. I don’t want to do that anymore. You were right when you broke up with me. You were right about what you said. This, us, together, it’s not just about me. If you’re serious, if you’re genuinely giving me a second chance, I want you to know that I meant what I said. I’m going to put you first for the rest of my life.”

  North broke Shaw’s hold on his wrists. The smile unhooked itself. His hands came to rest on Shaw’s legs. He was doing his thing again, not meeting Shaw’s eyes, then risking a look like he was laying everything on the line. Which, in his North way, with all the walls he’d built to protect himself, Shaw guessed he pretty much was.

  “Thank you. But,” he dragged out the word, “you were right too. And don’t let it go to your head; you were only right about some stuff. I’ve got a lot of shit, Shaw. And instead of trying to get better, I hunkered down behind it and hid. It’s the perfect excuse. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, because, you know. That kind of thing. And when I was with Tucker yesterday, everything should have been perfect, but I wanted to blow my brains out. All I could think about was how you’ve made everything in my life better, but now you were gone, so things weren’t going to get better, not ever. I realized I had a choice. Eithe
r fall back into that life with Tucker, go back to hiding behind the stuff I was too scared to try to make better, or buck up and face the fact that I needed to do some serious work on myself and maybe have a chance with you. And then I realized it wasn’t a choice at all, not really.”

  Shaw laced their fingers together. He drew North’s hand up and kissed his knuckles.

  “I don’t know how much people can change.” North squeezed Shaw’s hand. “I don’t know if I believe you can fix everything. But I think maybe we can fix some things. And I sure as hell know some things are worth trying to fix.”

  “I promise I’ll stop pressuring you. I promise I won’t go on and on about things, and I promise I won’t try to get you to do things you’re not ready to do or don’t want to do, and I promise I won’t assume I know what’s best for you.”

  This time, North’s smile was huge.

  Blushing, Shaw said, “I mean, I’ll try. I promise I’ll try not to do those things. Too much. Every day.”

  “Actually, well, I know I need to make some changes. But I’m not—I don’t want to talk to someone. A stranger, I mean. I just don’t want to. Maybe later, but not now. So sometimes, if it’s all right with you, when I ask, you could talk to me about this stuff. Or maybe just listen if I need you to listen.”

  “I can do that,” Shaw whispered, grinning as he blinked his eyes clear. “I’ll just listen and listen and sit there, and I won’t make any noise at all.”

  “Right.”

  “I will! I’m really good at listening. Like that time we were at Grant’s Farm, and I heard you fart from, like, a hundred yards away, and you turned really red because Tucker was looking at you, and you blamed it on that goose.”

  “It was that goddamn goose! And you only said something because you were embarrassed I told everyone about your home movies where you reenacted all those Shirley Temple bits.”

  “Those Shirley Temple songs are cute. People love Shirley Temple.”

  “People love Shirley Temple. People don’t love seventeen-year-olds who decide the world needs an X-rated Third-Wave-Feminist reboot of ‘The Good Ship Lollipop.’ That was the first time I saw something that big go up your—”