But there was something different about Adam. I could feel it, sense it on a level I had never felt before. As soon as he bumped into me, a voice in my head kept screaming, make this last, draw it out, this is important. I’d become rather adept at drowning out those voices; I had to learn to in order to survive. But this one was louder than most. It confused me. My usual instinct was to simply shy away and do everything possible to keep those interactions as short as possible. I wanted to make this one with him last as long as I possibly could, and I couldn’t figure out why. It went beyond being touched by his attempt to get a book for his nephew that he knew he’d enjoy. Clearly, he had no idea what he was doing, but I found the attempt…endearing. Why that was, I had no idea. But it made me wish for the umpteenth time that I had someone in my life that would take that kind of time for me.
And he seemed to actually listen when I spoke. Given my own personal experiences with those that seemed hyper-masculine, I was a little more than intrigued.
The simple act of shaking my hand shouldn’t have meant as much to me as it did. It was, after all, a customary greeting when meeting new people. It didn’t happen often in my line of work, but when it did, it never felt as if they had taken a piece of me with them when they withdrew their hand. With Adam, it did, like a piece of my soul was held in my hand, and I had no idea how to process that.
Why him? What was it about this stranger that had me drawn to him?
Those questions were still bouncing around my brain when Trish came up to me and asked, “You okay?”
I looked over her shoulder and out the front window, where I could swear I saw Adam standing, for just a second. Trying to cover, I said, “Yeah, why?”
“You look…weird. I mean, weirder than normal. Did you know that guy?”
“No, ” I said, probably too quickly, giving a slight shake to my head.
“Did he say something to you? Was he rude?”
“No, he was actually quite…um…nice. He was looking for something for his nephew.”
“Long as you’re okay.” Trish gave me a skeptical look, then turned, and I watched her pink hair bob back to the register.
Trying to purge what had just happened with Adam—and my unusual reaction to him—from my mind, I went back to the stack of books I had left on the floor, and began re-shelving them. I made a mental note to tell Owen about the trade that Adam had bought. Owen would want to reorder it.
WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?
It wasn’t uncommon for “comic book virgins” to come into the store, usually looking for gifts for loved ones, and not knowing what to get. Though I usually tried to avoid situations where I was in direct contact with the public, it was almost a given that at some point, I would have to help. Usually, those interactions were quick affairs: The customer was in, I got them what they needed, and they were gone.
But there was something different about Adam. I could feel it, sense it on a level I had never felt before. As soon as he bumped into me, a voice in my head kept screaming, make this last, draw it out, this is important. I’d become rather adept at drowning out those voices; I learned to in order to survive. But this one was louder than most. It confused me. My usual instinct was to simply shy away and do everything possible to keep those interactions as short as possible. I wanted to make this one with him last as long as I possibly could, and I couldn’t figure out why. It went beyond being touched by his attempt to get a book for his nephew that he knew he’d enjoy. Clearly, he had no idea what he was doing, but I found the attempt…endearing. Why that was, I had no idea. But it made me wish for the umpteenth time that I had someone in my life that would take that kind of time for me.
He seemed to actually listen when I spoke. Given my own personal experiences with those that seemed hyper-masculine, I was a little more than intrigued.
The simple act of shaking my hand shouldn’t have meant as much to me as it did. It was, after all, a customary greeting when meeting new people. It didn’t happen often in my line of work, but when it did, it never felt as if they had taken a piece of me with them when they withdrew their hand. With Adam, it did, like a piece of my soul was held in my hand. I didn’t know how to process that.
Why him? What was it about this stranger that had me drawn to him?
Those questions were still bouncing around my brain when Trish came up to me and asked, “You okay?”
I looked over her shoulder and out the front window, where I could swear I saw Adam standing, for just a second. Trying to cover, I said, “Yeah, why?”
“You look…weird. I mean, weirder than normal. Did you know that guy?”
“No, ” I said, probably too quickly, giving a slight shake to my head.
“Did he say something to you? Was he rude?”
“No, he was actually quite…um…nice. He was looking for something for his nephew.”
“Long as you’re okay.” Trish gave me a skeptical look, then turned. I watched her pink hair bob back to the register.
Trying to purge what just happened with Adam—and my unusual reaction to him—from my mind, I went back to the stack of books were left on the floor, and began re-shelving them. I made a mental note to tell Owen about the trade that Adam had bought. Owen would want to reorder it.
Around noon, I went back to the stock room and found Owen in the office, pouring over invoices from the newest shipment. He peered up from the stack. Raising a quizzical eyebrow, he asked, “Hungry?”
“Kind of. Actually, I was wondering if I could run home a grab a bite real quick. Didn’t have time to pack anything this morning.”
“Trish busy out there?”
“Naw. The morning rush seems to have slowed down. Only one guy in here at the moment.”
Owen seemed to ponder for a moment, then said, “Can ya be back in a half an hour?”
“No prob.”
I grabbed my messenger bag and made for the back exit.
The advantage of working where I did was the ability to go home for lunch on my long days. The studio apartment that I rented was at the top of the same building that housed the comic shop as well as a used book store and coffee shop. There were disadvantages as well, such as Owen’s ability to call me in if either Greg or Trish called off on one of my days off, although that rarely happened. Or, in the event that Owen forgot to set the shop’s alarm system, he could call me to go and set it. I had been his employee for a number of years, and somewhat of a friend for even longer, and I was entrusted with a key as a result. He was the only one in the shop that knew even a small part of my history, and even then, I chose to keep most of it to myself. No use risking alienating someone with my full truth.
Once in my apartment, I tossed my bag onto the couch and flopped down beside it. I scrubbed my hands through my hair as wave of confusion washed over me.
Adam’s face popped into my thoughts, and I didn’t understand why. We had only just met, with very little real interaction, yet there I was thinking about him, like there was something significant about him that I was missing. But how was that even possible when I didn’t even know him?
I had known for years that I was gay, just one more strike against me amongst many. I had struggled with my attraction to men from an early age. I didn’t want to feel the way I did when I saw an attractive man, I didn’t want to have the thoughts about them that I did. But the more I struggled against it, the more pervasive it became. The enormous amount of shame I felt added to the layer of shame that already existed. Instinctively, I knew it was nothing I would ever be able to discuss. My father could never know. It would be just one more reason of many to—
NO! STOP! He’s gone. He can’t hurt you.
I hadn’t thought about my father in weeks. Why now?
I knew the answer almost immediately.
It was the anniversary of the day my life had changed forever.
I had done everything in my power not to remember what today was, to purge it from my mind and erect mental barriers. But it was
always there, niggling at the back of my brain. The date was on the calendar hanging in Owen’s office, at the top of the screen of my cell phone, on the bottom of the computer monitor. It was quite literally everywhere I looked, a constant reminder of everything that I had lost fifteen years earlier.
I couldn’t help but glance at the picture on the entertainment center. The frame wasn’t the original. That had been broken years ago, the victim of a beer bottle thrown against the wall that it hung on. No, it was brown and plastic, the picture inside still bearing the scars of its fall from that wall, one line etched in the photo from a shard of glass, bisecting it in half.
Appropriate, really. I found that scar hauntingly symbolic.
I remembered how things used to be, before they got bad, before the drunken outbursts, before the taunts, punches, beatings, and moves. But my mind often played tricks on me, creating illusions out of thin air spun from my inner most private hopes and dreams. My family lovingly together, celebrating those birthdays and holidays I have since come to hate so much. I imagined what happiness felt like, tried to remember if I had ever actually felt happy.
As was often the case, I came up short.
While it may not be the case for everyone, my experiences have taught me that the only one I can truly depend on is myself. People mean well when they tell you they support you and will always be there for you. I’m sure in that moment they have every intention of following through. However, whenever I have truly needed someone, whenever I needed another person’s support, I have always turned around and found myself alone.
Sighing, I rose from the couch and entered the bathroom. I had woken up late that morning, too late to shower in fact. A wave of embarrassment washed over me as I realized I had met Adam without bathing, and I wondered why that mattered to me so much.
Shower and a quick bite.
Standing under the warm spray of water, my mind again wandered to Adam. For the briefest of interactions, my introduction to the man seemed to have affected me on the deepest of levels. I couldn’t get the man out of my head. His wheat-colored hair. His slightly darker beard. His brown eyes that seemed to peer into my darkest recesses. The chest that filled out the baby-blue-and-yellow checkered shirt. The sleeve of tattoos that sprang from his left shirt sleeve to the wrist. His thighs and calves slightly dusted with the fine hairs that matched his head.
Without thought, my erection sprang to life. I found my body’s reaction…curious. Adam wasn’t what I considered to be “my type,” yet there I was becoming aroused by the mere thought of the man. Tempted to take care of it, I decided against it. Sorry for getting back so late, Owen. I was busy whacking off in the shower.
No, that wouldn’t do.
Once showered, I redressed in the same jeans, but pulled a fresh, emerald-green long-sleeved shirt from the closet, then stepped into my kitchenette. Bologna sandwich would have to tide me over until the store closed.
I retrieved my phone from my messenger bag and flipped it on while I ate. There was I one missed call which was odd. No one called me. The only people I talked to worked at the shop. Curious, I thumbed to the call log, but didn’t recognize the number. Unrecognized number and no voicemail meant no return call. Probably someone wanting to sell me a trip to the Bahamas.
Once I finished my sandwich, I filled a glass with water, drank it, then rinsed my plate.
THE DRIVE TO THE HOSPITAL seemed interminable. My stomach felt queasy. I guessed from a combination of not knowing what I would find when I got to my destination and whatever the hell had happened back at the comic shop. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before when I met a guy. It felt almost like jumper cables touching a car battery, real, tangible, alive. For minutes after I shook David’s hand, my arm ached, and I felt a sense of…loss. But that couldn’t be right, could it?
It had been years since I had been on that side of town. Relying solely on my GPS, I finally made it to the hospital parking lot. Grabbing the comic shop bag from the passenger seat, I unfolded myself from the truck and jogged to the main entrance.
“Lucas Duncan?” I said to the nurse seated at the receptionist’s desk.
“Two nineteen. Elevator to the second floor, and to the left.”
I thanked her and made my way up the elevator. Scanning the room numbers, evens on the right, odds on the left, I finally found Lucas’s.
Ryan was in the room, seated in a chair pulled close to the bed, head in hands, shoulders slumped forward. “Ry?”
Ryan turned to me, eyes red rimmed and face looking haggard. He stood and said, “Hey, Adam. I’m glad you’re here.”
Without thought, I took Ryan in my arms, and the other man seemed to crumble. With his head against my neck, he sobbed while I silently held him. Whatever the problem was, it was serious. I drew on the strength I had used when we were kids, the same strength I used on missions. My brother needed me to be strong, and I would not let him down.
Once Ryan was calm, I asked, “Where’s Lucas? Where’s Sarah?”
Sitting back in the bedside chair, Ryan said, “She’s in Cabo San Lucas with Marty. The orderlies took Lucas for more tests.”
I bristled at the name of the man that Ryan’s wife had left him for. “Tests? What happened? All you said on the phone was that Lucas had been in an accident and was here.”
“Lucas had been coughing for about week, but I didn’t think anything about it. Just a typical cold. Nothing major. He just couldn’t shake it. Then he started complaining about headaches, so I’d give him an ibuprofen and they’d go away.
“Yesterday morning, he was getting ready for school. I was in the kitchen pouring coffee for work. I heard him yell for me, then a thump, like he had fallen. I ran to the bathroom and…found him on the floor passed out. Blood everywhere.”
I took this all in. I had been out of town on a construction job when Ryan called. He hadn’t told me any of this, only that Lucas was in the hospital and could use a visit. Minimizing the problem for my sake wasn’t surprising. That was a trait inherited from our mother. Never wanting to cause worry or concern while at the same time taking on everyone else’s.
I went around to the front of Ryan, and sat on the empty bed.
Grasping my brother’s shoulder lightly, I whispered, “Ry, what else?”
Pausing a moment to collect his thoughts, Ryan looked down at the floor and said, “He hit his head on the countertop when he fell. The doctors think he had a seizure and are running tests to find out why.” Pain choked Ryan’s words, and I was desperate to do anything, say anything, to take that pain away. That old protective instinct I had toward Ryan when we were kids kicked in. But I was at a loss as to what I could do. This wasn’t some playground bully picking on my little brother. This was something unnamed. Without knowing what we were fighting, I didn’t know how to fight.
Gently, I placed my index finger under my brother’s chin. “Ry, look at me.”
Ryan slowly lifted his head.
“Let the doctors run their tests. They’ll know how we can help the best.” Then, as an afterthought, I added, “I’m not going anywhere. Lean on me.”
And he did, leaning his forehead against my shoulder, and sobs wracking his chest. I held him because, at the moment, that was the only thing I could do. I couldn’t imagine the terror, the feeling of helplessness my brother was feeling. If my own was off the charts, my brother’s had to be tenfold.
Once he calmed himself, Ryan slipped free from my hold. He sheepishly ran his hands over his eyes and said, “Thanks.”
“You’re my brother. He’s my nephew. No thanks are necessary.”
We sat in silence after that. I know he was lost in his own head. He did that a lot when we were kids, trying to figure out why the other kids bullied him for being smart and well read. I, on the other hand, was going stir crazy. I needed to do something, but I had no idea what.
I allowed my mind to wander, and, for some reason, it went to David. I replayed our interactions in my head a
nd realized a few things. I had noticed the long-sleeved shirt, and found it odd that he would wear something like that in the August heat. But I also began to realize that he never looked me directly in the eye, almost like he was afraid that, by doing so, something bad would happen, like he would incur some unknown wrath.
He had become excited when talking about the book he suggested, which reminded me of Ryan as a kid, how excited he got when a new one of his favorite comics hit the shelves, or when a new superhero movie came out. But David also seemed nervous, like he didn’t interact often with people, which I found that odd. He worked in retail after all, even if it was only at a comic shop.
Why was I even thinking about him in the first place? I didn’t know the man. We’d only talked for a couple of minutes. I mean, sure he was cute, but there was something else, something almost vulnerable about him. Almost too vulnerable.
“Special delivery.” Two orderlies came into the room, pushing Lucas seated in a wheelchair.
An involuntary gasp escaped. His head was bandaged, probably where he had hit it on the bathroom sink the day before. He looked pale and weak, lips dry, and eyes half-lidded.
Ryan and I jumped up immediately. Each orderly took position on either side of Lucas and gently lifted him from the chair by his elbows and led him to the bed. The moment his head brushed the pillow, he let out a soft sigh and closed his eyes.
Ryan pulled one of the orderlies to the side, a young guy, probably mid-twenties with bushy hair and bushier eyebrows, while the other took the wheelchair from the room. “Do they know anything yet?” Ryan asked.
“I’m not sure. The doctor wanted us to let you know he’d be in shortly to talk to you,” the orderly said.
Ryan’s shoulders visibly sagged. I walked around behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder, willing myself to infuse him with as much strength as possible. My gut was telling me that whatever was going on, it wasn’t good, and he’d need as much strength as possible.
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