Love Can't Conquer

by Kim Fielding

“Next time.” She pushed the plate a little closer to him. “So? Do your job, man!”

  He dutifully took a bite and chewed. His eyes widened. He’d spent a good part of his life subsisting on generic brands, dollar-store finds, and stuff from the discount bin, so he was hardly qualified to judge gourmet goodies. But this was good. Even if his mother had been the type to bake—which she wasn’t—she never would have come up with anything this tasty. He took a second bite. “Amazing,” he said after he’d swallowed. “Sell these.”

  Rhoda nodded. “Good work, deputy.” She sipped delicately at her tea.

  Qay added cream and sugar to his cup and took a careful sip. He wasn’t a connoisseur of coffee either, but hers was excellent. It wasn’t even a distant relative of the swill he’d choked down in various institutions over the years.

  “What’s your dream?” she asked suddenly. He had the impression she’d been working up to that question for some time.

  “Mine makes yours seem la-di-da. Stay sober. Stay in my own home. Stay employed.”

  “Is your class part of that dream?”

  He winced and spent a moment pretending the cookie crumbs were fascinating. “The class is… a pipe dream. I mean, even if I pass it, and the next class, and the one after that, and even if I miraculously get an associate degree before I keel over from old age, it’s not…. None of it’s going to get me anywhere.”

  “Hmm,” she said, pursing her lips. “Well, it’ll get you better educated, and that’s a good goal in itself.”

  “Great. So I can be a well-educated janitor.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, if you’re content. But you know what? Sometimes dreams change. They evolve. Maybe yours will.”

  Qay doubted that. He’d never been a dreamer. It wasn’t the sort of thing that was encouraged in the Moore household back in Bailey Springs—or in any of the places where he’d been locked up.

  Rhoda tapped her short fingernails on the table. They were painted to match her cardigan and tights. “Nobody has to aim big,” she said. “But I think you have to aim somewhere, or you end up lost. That’s Jeremy’s problem right now. He’s chasing himself in circles because he doesn’t know where else to go.”

  Since Qay didn’t know Jeremy well enough to judge the truth of that, he simply shrugged. “He’s smart. He’ll find his way.”

  “I hope so.” She gave him a sly grin. “I think he needs to share his ambition with someone else. Some journeys shouldn’t be made solo.”

  Qay shook his head. “Some journeys shouldn’t be made with ex-junkie losers.”

  “We all have our faults, honey.” She broke off a piece of his cookie, popped it into her mouth, and after a moment, nodded. “You’re right. This one’s a winner. Now I have some bills to pay, which is not my favorite part of this dream. Good luck with the test.” She sailed away with a smile.

  His shoes were still slightly damp when he emerged from P-Town, but he was sugared up and well caffeinated, and the anxiety had receded to manageable levels. Apparently the butterflies in his stomach could be charmed with salted caramel. He returned to his apartment for his backpack, then trotted to catch the city bus to campus.

  When he’d first visited the community college, he’d felt acutely self-conscious. School had always been a painful place for him even when he was a child, and now he was old enough to have a college-age kid. He’d very nearly run away before entering the registration office. But the staff there had been friendly and nonjudgmental, and his professor—an elderly hippie with a penchant for digressions about politics—was cool. The other students were fine too. None of them treated Qay like he was an outcast, and when the professor assigned group work, the other students listened to what Qay had to say.

  If only he could pass today’s goddamn test.

  He sat in his usual seat near the middle of the room and took out paper and pencils. The professor was old-school, which meant laptops weren’t allowed. Just as well for Qay, who hadn’t yet saved up enough to buy one and was forced to borrow the school’s computers when he had to write papers or use the Internet.

  The seat to his left was vacant, but a pretty young woman sat on his right. She was painfully young—probably not yet out of her teens—and the first time she’d been in a group with Qay, she’d addressed him as sir. Luckily he’d managed to convince her to switch to a first-name basis, but she still tended to be deferential.

  “I am so nervous!” she whispered in a thick Russian accent. “I do not think I understand anything.”

  “I’m nervous too.”

  “You! But you know everything.”

  He snorted. “Hardly.”

  “You do. When I ask you things, you explain them to me better than the book. Sometimes you explain them better than Professor Reynolds. Not so many big words.”

  He was going to tell her that knowing wasn’t necessarily the problem with him; demonstrating that knowledge on paper was the issue. But the professor cleared his throat loudly and held up a stack of papers. “Are we ready, people? Do you have your thinking caps on? Make sure you answer the questions completely. Don’t space out halfway through. And you can take off when you’re finished, but keep the moaning and groaning to a minimum.”

  As Reynolds began to hand out the exams, Qay straightened his back and took several deep breaths. His grip on the pencil was so tight the wood threatened to crack. Reynolds gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder after handing Qay a test, and Qay tried to manage a smile in return. His mind wasn’t blank—it was a whirling, dizzying mess, like a tornado spinning through a Walmart. For a terrifying moment, he couldn’t even read the printed questions, and when he managed to decipher the first one, he couldn’t find a single word with which to answer.

  Describe Mill’s thoughts on the tyranny of the majority. Give an example of this philosophy at work in modern America. Briefly discuss the potential pitfalls of attempts to contest the collective will.

  Oh, who the fuck knew? Reynolds might as well have asked Qay to explain Einstein’s theory of relativity in Sanskrit.

  The thing was, Qay wasn’t stupid. While he was locked up after the jump from the bridge, one of his shrinks had given him an IQ test and pronounced him in the gifted range. Qay’s father hadn’t believed the results. “If he’s so damned brilliant, how come he kept flunking all his classes?”

  The shrink had launched into a discussion about anxiety and depression, but Dr. Moore hadn’t bought a word of it. “He does it on purpose,” he’d insisted as Qay—then still Keith—sat sullenly beside him. “Just like the drugs and the sex and the suicide attempts. He does it to be defiant.”

  After giving Keith a quick sympathetic look, the psychiatrist had gamely attempted to convince Dr. Moore that Keith was not, in fact, just an insolent prick. It didn’t do any good. A few days later, Keith’s parents had dragged him to a different facility, this one with a razor-wire perimeter and a staff whose philosophy was in alignment with Dr. Moore’s.

  Those memories did nothing to settle Qay’s mind. What the fuck had he been thinking when he registered for this class? He’d been delusional, that’s what. He should check himself in to the nearest psych ward.

  But then he recalled sitting in P-Town Café, Rhoda’s good coffee close at hand, and Jeremy sitting nearby. If Qay concentrated, he could picture his textbook open on the table in front of him, Mill’s muttonchopped, hollow-cheeked face staring up at him. On Liberty. There is a limit to the legitimate interference of collective opinion with individual independence: and to find that limit, and maintain it against encroachment, is as indispensable to a good condition of human affairs, as protection against political despotism.

  Holy shit. Qay knew this. His pencil flew over the paper. He didn’t need to rack his brains to come up with an example, because he immediately thought of the Supreme Court’s overturning of the Defense of Marriage Act. Sure, maybe a majority of voters had thought that same-sex marriage should be banned, but a majority of the justices concluded that th
e ban unjustly interfered with people’s liberty.

  Once Qay passed the hurdle of that first answer, the others came easily. His only problem was writing fast enough to keep up with his racing mind and succinctly enough to have time to complete all the questions. He hoped Reynolds would be able to decipher his scrawl, but Qay had seen some of his classmates’ handwriting, and he figured an experienced professor probably had magical powers to read scribbles.

  When time was up and Qay handed in his exam, he experienced a surprisingly light heart. He smiled at Reynolds and wished him a good week. And then, still grinning, he hurried out into the rain to catch his bus home.

  Chapter Eight

  FOR A day or two after the exam, Qay wandered around feeling a little high, in a totally positive and nonaddict sort of way. He felt… good about himself. Confident. It was weird. He didn’t even care when Stuart was his usual dickhead self at work. Qay just gave him an insincere smile and laughed when one of his coworkers mimed something obscene behind Stuart’s back.

  But Qay’s good feeling began to fade as the week wore on and he didn’t see Jeremy. Qay went to P-Town nearly every evening to study and unwind from the job, and although the atmosphere was great and Rhoda always chatted happily with him, Jeremy never showed. Qay skipped the coffeehouse on Wednesday because there was live music and crowds, neither of which were conducive to hitting the books. But he was back on Thursday and again on Friday—and Jeremy wasn’t.

  “You’re scowling,” Rhoda said, ignoring the Friday-night bustle and settling herself at Qay’s table. She had a large brownie, which she broke in half before scooting the dish closer to him. “Here. Have some. The calories won’t count for me if I eat off your plate.”

  “I wasn’t aware that it worked that way.”

  “Oh, it totally does, honey. Just like calories don’t count when you eat straight out of the fridge or while you’re on vacation.” She popped a bite of the treat into her mouth.

  “Well, will they count for me since I’m eating off the plate you just gave me?”

  “Yep. But that’s okay because you could use a few extra pounds. It all evens out, you see. It’s the calorie-equalization rule. Haven’t you learned anything in college?”

  She made him laugh despite his somber mood. “I guess I haven’t gotten to that class yet.”

  At the next table, two men were making goo-goo eyes at each other over their books. One of them was brunet and wearing an eye patch, the other was a regular at P-Town, and the pair of them were disgustingly adorable.

  “Scowling again,” Rhoda pointed out.

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re not sweating another test already, are you?”

  “No. I just…. Have you seen Jeremy?”

  Now it was Rhoda’s turn to frown. “I haven’t. And he usually comes in at least a couple of times a week. I texted him Wednesday to ask if he wanted me to save him a seat for the music, but he said he was busy. He didn’t say with what.”

  Qay chewed on his lip, decided the brownie would probably taste better than his own flesh, and took a large bite. “He’s avoiding me,” he said with his mouth full.

  “Bullshit. I’m sure he—”

  “Look. I don’t have his number. Call him and tell him he’s free to cancel for tomorrow, and I won’t go psycho on him, and he can come back here and hang with you. You’re his friend, after all.”

  Rhoda was good at rolling her eyes. She also did a pfft for good measure. “I’m your friend too, and he’s not going to cancel. I swear, you are absolutely awash in misplaced pessimism.”

  “Not misplaced,” he muttered.

  “You do your homework, Qayin, and eat your brownie, and then go home and get a good night’s sleep. I promise Jeremy will be waiting for you tomorrow. With bells on.”

  JEREMY WAS not wearing bells. He had on a nice pair of jeans that showed off his long, muscular legs, and a pale green sweater that brought out the gray of his eyes. And he was there, waiting at P-Town with a cup of coffee, when Qay walked in Saturday at three minutes to seven. Jeremy’s expression was drawn and tired, and Qay was positive he planned to cancel—until Jeremy caught sight of him and his face brightened.

  “You made it,” Jeremy said, standing as Qay approached the table.

  Oddly shy, Qay nodded. “Uh, yeah. You too.”

  They stood awkwardly. Qay’s cheeks were warm, and he felt as if everyone in the café was staring at them. Finally Jeremy chuckled. “Let’s see if we can handle this like grown-ups, okay? Because in about five more seconds, Rhoda’s going to come over here and intervene.”

  Qay followed Jeremy’s gaze across the room to where Rhoda stood glaring at them, arms akimbo. Her expression broke the tension slightly, and Qay laughed too. “I’d rather she not.”

  “Me too. So how about dinner? Are you hungry?”

  Because Qay’s stomach had spent the entire day tying itself in knots, he hadn’t eaten a thing. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to choke down anything now that the date had officially begun. But he was also fairly positive that an official first date generally involved a meal of some kind, so he smiled gamely. “Yeah. I’m paying, remember. But you choose the place. I, uh, don’t really know local restaurants well.” Or at all, in fact. His limited finances meant P-Town was the only place he ate besides home and work.

  Jeremy rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Is there anything you definitely hate?”

  “Nope. I’m not really dressed for fine dining, though.” He’d worn his nicest clothes—his newest jeans and a white button-down.

  “Neither am I. I’m not really a tie-and-suit-coat kind of guy.”

  Qay didn’t own either of those things. He smiled. “So do you have a place in mind?”

  “Yeah. We’ll have to drive there, though. Is that okay?”

  “You’ll have to play chauffeur.”

  “Done.”

  After Jeremy shrugged into his jacket, they waved at Rhoda and left the café. The rain had stopped but the air was crisp, so they walked quickly. Jeremy’s long legs covered a lot of ground. A few blocks from P-Town, Jeremy led them into an underground parking garage that was empty except for a big black SUV, the kind that looked like it belonged to the dictator of some Eastern European country. A sign painted on the wall indicated that the parking spot was reserved.

  “Wow, your own private spot,” Qay said.

  The SUV’s lights flashed as Jeremy unlocked it. “I live here. Top floor’s mine.”

  Qay glanced up, as if he could magically see through several layers of building. He was willing to bet that Jeremy’s apartment was in an entirely different league than his own musty basement. Hell, Jeremy was in an entirely different league. But when Jeremy grinned and held the passenger door open, Qay slipped inside.

  The interior of the vehicle was showroom-spotless and smelled of leather and—just a bit—of aftershave. Qay could have sworn he’d lived in apartments with less space. When Jeremy turned the ignition, the radio began to play the Red Hot Chili Peppers, which made Qay smile. He wouldn’t have pegged Jeremy as a fan.

  Jeremy piloted them smoothly out of the garage and into traffic. It was distracting, being so close to his big body within the relatively intimate confines of a car.

  “Have you really never been on a date before?” Jeremy asked, his voice a pleasant low rumble.

  “Not exactly. I’ve had hookups.” And not even any of those for years.

  “I dated girls back in high school. Went to the prom and everything. A few guys after that. But it’s been a while.”

  Qay wondered which girls he’d dated. By then, Qay himself had been long gone, nothing but old rumors remaining of him in Bailey Springs. “Anyone since what’s-his-face? The guy you stitched up?”

  They were stopped at a light. Jeremy turned to look at him, his face unexpectedly bleak. “Donny. And no.”

  For several minutes they remained silent. Eventually Jeremy took the Morrison Bridge on-ramp and passed over the river into
downtown. The city lights looked festive, and although Qay knew that people like him—junkies, the homeless, the mentally ill—roamed the streets, he didn’t see any. It was as if Jeremy’s mere presence was enough to make everything better. Urban improvement personified.

  Jeremy entered another parking garage, this one multistoried and absent a specially reserved spot. He had no problem finding a place to berth the SUV, though. Grinning, he grabbed Qay’s hand while they strolled down the street. “You’re not opposed to a mild PDA?” Jeremy asked.

  It took Qay a moment to decipher the acronym. “Isn’t that what first dates are for?”

  A few blocks later, they cut through a little park. There, in the dark, were some of the people Qay had been expecting: several men and women with shopping carts, shapeless coats, and dogs. “Chief!” called a grizzled man sitting on a bench and smoking a cigarette.

  Jeremy brought them to a halt. “Hey, Ramon. How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good, pretty good.”

  “But it’s too cold for you to be outside. You’re going to end up in the hospital again. What happened to that bed I found you?”

  Ramon shook his head and patted the mutt curled up beside him. “They wouldn’t let me keep Princesa, Chief. You know I ain’t about to leave her behind.”

  “That’s fine on a dry night, but it’ll start raining again soon.”

  “I’m all good as long as Princesa’s with me. I’m all good.”

  Jeremy huffed. “Let me see if I can find you a place that accepts dogs, okay? If I do, will you stay there?”

  “Sure thing, Chief. But you ain’t supposed to be working on a Saturday night.”

  “I’m not. I’m on a date.” Jeremy lifted his hand, still clasped with Qay’s. It was embarrassing, but Qay didn’t let go.

  Ramon gave Qay a narrow-eyed look. “You be good to him, you hear? He’s good people.”

  “I will,” Qay promised. He figured it was too dark for either man to see his blush.

  After exchanging a few brief pleasantries with the other people, Jeremy continued towing Qay down the sidewalk. They emerged from the park and, a short distance later, entered a busy restaurant. Happy-looking people sat in orange vinyl booths, eating large mounds of food and talking loudly enough to maintain a dull roar.