Love Can't Conquer

by Kim Fielding

  During the entire time he was doctoring himself, his mood continued to seethe. But the ice must have cooled his disposition as well as his hand, because as the pain began to numb, so did his temper.

  His thoughts turned to Qay.

  First he remembered the goddamn kiss, the kiss that had blown his mind. But that was only hormones and horniness and a dry spell long enough to kill a camel. They’d had a good conversation, though, where Qay’s quiet sense of humor broke through unexpectedly, like the Portland sun on a December day. And Qay liked many of the same movies that Jeremy did and most of the same music, and he got it when Jeremy made slightly obscure jokes. There was the way Qay listened to Jeremy’s tame work exploits as if they were exotic adventures, and the way Qay seemed to appreciate even the smallest gestures of respect. Jeremy remembered Qay’s admission that he’d never really been on a date before. The shy pride Qay showed when he paid the bill at Perry’s Good Eats. The comfortable manner in which Qay snuggled up against him while they looked at the view from Council Crest. Qay’s self-deprecation and worry over his philosophy class, even though he was clearly a smart man.

  And the subdued way Qay apologized to him while they were driving home. No excuses, no anger, no whining. Just… I’m sorry. And the resignation of a man who’d expected little and received even less.

  What had Qay said before getting out of the car? You grew up well, Jeremy. You deserve better than the Donnys and Qays of the world.

  For the first time, Jeremy thought about why Qay hadn’t admitted his identity from the beginning. In the heat of his shock, Jeremy had accused Qay of playing him, but even then he’d known that wasn’t true. Seriously, what kind of evil scheme involved engaging your victim in fun conversations, buying him dinner, and kissing him senseless? Qay hadn’t asked Jeremy for one damn thing.

  Maybe… maybe Qay was ashamed of his youth. More ashamed than he was of his addictions and criminal record and poverty, which he’d offered up to Jeremy almost as soon as they met. Maybe his time in Bailey Springs was too painful to think about. Maybe it was just as he’d said—Keith Moore died in the Smoky Hill River. Maybe Qay’s reticence had nothing to do with that idiot Jeremy Cox and a lot more to do with whatever baggage Qay had been dragging around for almost thirty years.

  And Jeremy had to admit that Qay had come clean eventually. Without any pressure from him, and before they’d even finished their first date.

  Fuck.

  Jeremy’s hand had stopped hurting, but now his chest ached like a son of a bitch.

  Chapter Ten

  SATURDAY NIGHT after his first and only date, Qay went home, climbed into bed, and fell into a coma. The lack of consciousness was a relief. But now Sunday gaped before him, and that fucking day had teeth. It had been years since he was so tempted to get high. Only two things stopped him. One was the conviction that if he used again now, he wouldn’t stop until he was dead. The other was morbid curiosity: he wanted to know how he’d done on the damn philosophy exam.

  So instead of finding something to drink, pop, smoke, or shoot up, Qay spent Sunday huddled in his basement, watching crap on TV. Television was a safe enough drug. By the end of the day, he had no idea what he’d watched, but he’d survived another sixteen hours, which was something. He ate macaroni and cheese that tasted like the box it came in.

  Monday was slightly better because he had a sense of purpose. He had no test that week but he studied anyway, reading the textbook twice so the words might sink in. William James, John Rawls, and Bertrand Russell. Booyah.

  He missed P-Town and Rhoda, and he missed Jeremy with an intensity completely out of proportion to the extent of their now-defunct relationship. One date night, incomplete, did not make for True Love. They hadn’t even become real friends yet, for Christ’s sake.

  On Monday afternoon Qay took a bus to school. He got to class early and sat in his usual seat, body clenched with anxiety. He kept his head bowed to avoid eye contact with the Russian girl, Professor Reynolds, or anyone else. As a result, he startled slightly when Reynolds set a sheaf of papers on Qay’s desk.

  “I’d like to speak to you after class, Qay.”

  Fuck. His grade must be so miserably low that he wouldn’t pass the course. That was what Reynolds was going to tell him, along with the news that the college had banned him from registering for anything else in the future, seeing as Qay had the intelligence of a ground squirrel.

  Reynolds was already well into his lecture before Qay dared to look at the front of his test.

  Outstanding work.

  Qay spent a good five minutes puzzling over the possible meanings of the word outstanding. He suspected there must be a definition he wasn’t familiar with. Perhaps it was a word like sanction or cleave, which could mean one thing and also its exact opposite. Maybe it was a synonym for horrible or appalling.

  But when he finally paged through the exam, he saw the red-inked scrawl at the bottom of the last page: 100%.

  Holy shit.

  Qay couldn’t breathe. He literally couldn’t breathe. He was going to fucking die right there in the middle of philosophy class, and the coroner would write “unexpected success” as the cause of death. When he finally pulled oxygen into his lungs, the sound was loud enough for the Russian girl to give him a concerned look.

  Professor Reynolds had made other comments on the paper, some of them quite extensive, but Qay couldn’t process them now. His head was spinning.

  Whatever happened in class that day was lost on him. He felt more buzzed than he ever had on drugs. All he could do was hold his exam and think about those shocking bits of red. Outstanding. One hundred percent.

  He waited in his chair as class ended, tucked into himself, still half expecting Professor Reynolds to tell him the grade was a mistake. The other students made a lot of noise as they packed up their gear and shuffled out of the room. Several muttered unhappily about their grades. When the room fell silent, Qay looked up and saw Reynolds waiting patiently for him at the front. He wore a Janis Joplin T-shirt under a sport jacket that had seen better days, and his gray ponytail had come slightly loose.

  “Hey, Qay.”

  Qay managed a weak smile. “Hi.”

  “C’mon up.”

  “Okay.” Clutching his exam, Qay made his way to the front. If his life had a soundtrack, heavy piano chords would have been playing right then. Dum-dum-dum-dummmm.

  Reynolds shoved a manila envelope into his backpack, which looked ancient, and grinned. “That’s quite an accomplishment,” he said, waving a hand toward the papers Qay held.

  “It is?”

  “I’ve been teaching this class for almost twenty years. In that time, I’ve awarded exactly five perfect scores. Yours is the sixth.”

  “I…. It is?” Way to sound intelligent.

  “Qay, I’m going to make a wild guess here. Life’s kicked you around some, right?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Yeah. But you pulled your ass out of the fire and now you’re reaching for more.”

  Well, that was a succinct summary of the last few years. Qay nodded.

  “I’m impressed, man. Doing that takes balls of steel, and I know it’s hard as hell. Do you have long-term plans?”

  With a degree of sadness, Qay remembered the conversation he’d had with Rhoda about dreams. “I don’t know. Sobriety, stability, solvency.”

  Reynolds laughed loudly. “Not a bad start, man. Not bad at all. But I think you need to aim higher. What’re you majoring in?”

  “Psych.”

  “Okay, that’ll work. And how close are you to finishing your associate degree?”

  Qay shrugged. Three hundred years was an exaggeration, he supposed. “Not very.”

  “What if I could talk to a friend at Portland State and get you in there? And get you out of some of the rinky-dink intro classes you don’t really need?”

  “I….” Qay realized he was gaping and attempted to look less like an idiot. “That’s nice of you.
But I can’t afford—”

  “I bet we can get you a scholarship. Qay, what you need to do is get a bachelor’s degree and then get yourself into grad school. If you can pull off an exam like this in my class, I’d love to see what you can do when you’re really engaged.”

  “But you don’t understand. This test was a fluke. I never—”

  “Nobody writes like this as a fluke. You had shit standing in your way before, but the day you took my exam, you got past that shit. The real you came out to play, man. And the real you has a hell of a brain. You just need to find a way to coax him out more often.”

  Unable to form a response, Qay simply blinked, which made Reynolds chuckle. “Yeah, this’ll take you a while to process. That’s cool. Come see me when you’re ready, and I’ll pull some strings. You know, if a guy wants to kick back and live a low-key life, no problem. My son fixes cars during the week and plays in a band on weekends. Lives in a trailer on some acreage in Boring, and he’s happy as a dog with two tails. So, good for him. But if a guy wants more, and if he’s capable of it, then it’s a pity and a waste if he doesn’t give himself the chance to get it.”

  “Thank you,” Qay said at last. “It means a lot to me that you’re saying this.”

  Reynolds nodded. “Somebody gave me a similar speech, back in the days when I was smoking too much weed and thinking I could change the world just sitting around and bullshitting with my stoned buddies. I’m glad I listened to her.”

  Qay rode home on a regular old TriMet bus, but it felt as if he were floating. He replayed Reynolds’s words in his head. Scholarship? Fucking graduate school? A hell of a brain? Jesus.

  The only thing dampening Qay’s mood was knowing he had nobody to share his good news with. He ached to tell someone: one of only six perfect scores in twenty years. A glimpse of a future he’d never imagined for himself. But he couldn’t face Rhoda again, and he sure as hell couldn’t face Jeremy, so that left… who? Stuart, his asshat supervisor? Yeah, Stuart would give a flying fuck.

  Okay, then. Qay would just have to bask in the warmth of his own accomplishments. He’d give himself a high-five. In fact, he’d celebrate that night with a decent dinner.

  So that was what he did, stuffing himself with pasta at an Italian place a few blocks from home and following up with gelato. No espresso, though. He had to be up early in the morning for work.

  Qay didn’t often bemoan his lack of electronic gadgets, but when he got home that evening, he truly wished he owned a computer. Or a smartphone. Or a DVD player. Or anything that would have allowed him to plug into some porn. Yes, he had some stroke mags stashed away in his apartment, and even a few books with some pretty hot erotica. But tonight he wanted real bodies, and if he couldn’t touch them, it would be nice to at least watch them move, listen to the sounds the men made. Pretend for a short while that he wasn’t alone.

  He ended up naked in bed without any props and with nothing to keep him going but his hands. He used his hands well, though. And if he thought about Jeremy and that electric kiss while he got himself off? Well, nobody could blame him, and he was due a little self-indulgence.

  “HILL, GET over here.” Stuart’s voice rang out across the shop floor, strident even over the sound of machinery. Qay sighed, let go of the trash bin he’d been wheeling, and walked over. A few of the other employees shot him sympathetic glances. They thought Stuart was a shithead too, but there wasn’t much they could do about it.

  Stuart pointed to a stack of boxes. “These labels are supposed to go over there.” Now he pointed to the far end of the room.

  “You told me to put them here.”

  “No, I didn’t. Pay some fucking attention for once, Hill.” Stuart flounced away like a pissed off prima ballerina.

  Sighing again, Qay found a nearby handcart, piled the boxes of labels onto it, and took everything to the spot Stuart had indicated. He headed back to his abandoned trash bin, but before he’d rolled it more than five feet, Stuart planted himself in the way.

  “I put the labels where you told me,” Qay said mildly.

  “Well, good for you, Einstein. But you didn’t clean up the lunchroom.”

  Technically, cleaning the lunchroom wasn’t one of Qay’s duties; it was Barry’s. But Barry had called in sick that day, which meant the task should have fallen to Stuart. Apparently Stuart had decided to delegate.

  “Fine,” Qay said. “Just let me get rid of this trash, and—”

  “Now, Hill. Shoulda been done an hour ago.”

  Qay spent quite a while taking care of people’s discarded bags and cups and napkins, wiping down the tables and chairs, and mopping the floor. He even cleaned out the coffeepot and the microwave, neither of which Barry appeared to have tackled in some time and both of which looked on the verge of birthing new life forms.

  He glanced at the clock when he returned from dragging the trash bin outside. Only ten minutes to go. Thank God.

  But Stuart was waiting to ambush him. “Bathrooms next, Hill.”

  Also not Qay’s responsibility. “It’s almost time to clock out.”

  “I don’t give a shit. You shoulda thought of that earlier.”

  Qay wanted to kick Stuart’s ass up to his shoulder blades. But one thing he’d learned long ago was that officious pricks were everywhere, and if you let them get under your skin, you’d only hurt yourself. Besides, it was Friday night, he had no plans, and he wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere. If he stayed late, he’d get a little overtime, and that would be nice. He’d love to be able to save up some money for a cheap laptop.

  “I’ll get right on it,” Qay said.

  The women’s restroom took very little time to clean. Few women worked at the window factory, and the ones who did were evidently quite tidy. The men’s room was another story, though. A gross story. One of the other employees came in to use the facilities while Qay worked, and Qay watched him miss the trash bin entirely as he tossed his paper towel. “Men are pigs,” Qay muttered, picking the trash off the floor.

  He didn’t finish the bathrooms until nearly six. By then the machinery had been shut down and everyone was gone except the security guards and Gaylene from accounting, who preferred to arrive late and leave late whenever she could. Qay clocked out, donned his coat, and waved good-bye to the guards.

  Night had fallen some time ago, and the black sky spit cold, stinging raindrops, making Qay shiver as he descended from the loading bay onto the street. He had to walk a couple of blocks to his first bus; he’d be soaked and miserable by then. Wouldn’t it be nice if someday he could afford a car? Although he’d always lusted after muscle cars, he’d be happy with even the most basic little econobox as long as it ran and kept him dry. He certainly didn’t need anything as burly as the dark SUV parked a few yards away.

  Just as he realized that he recognized the SUV, the driver’s door opened and a big man in a green uniform slid out. Qay froze in place. The man walked over until he was just out of arm’s reach, and then he stopped.

  “You worked late,” Jeremy said.

  “What… what are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “But…. Why…. How did you…?” As usual, Qay was eloquent when flustered.

  Jeremy’s grin was small and tight, but it was there. “We’re getting soaked. Can we have this conversation in my car? I’ll crank the heat.”

  Not trusting himself with words, Qay simply nodded. When Jeremy held the passenger door open, something lively fluttered in Qay’s chest.

  They sat silently in the SUV for a long time, fogging the inside of the windshield. The radio was off, but the fan blew full blast. Qay watched rain droplets fall from his hair onto his lap. They left little circles of darker blue on the denim.

  “Stuart is an asshole,” Qay finally said.

  “Your supervisor?”

  “Yeah. That’s why I worked late.” He snuck a peek at Jeremy from the corner of his eye. “Have you been here since five?”

  �
�Four thirty, actually. And I’ve had to pee for at least half an hour.”

  “I could probably talk the security guard into letting you into the factory. The bathroom’s pristine. I just cleaned it.”

  “I guess I can hold it a little longer.”

  Qay nodded. He glanced at Jeremy’s right hand, which lay on the console between them, and saw that the knuckles were scabbed and slightly swollen. “What happened?” Qay asked.

  “Stupidity.”

  They were quiet again, the pause dragging on long past awkward. Then Jeremy cleared his throat. “How did the exam go?”

  Qay couldn’t stop a wide smile. “I aced it. The prof even kept me after class to tell me I’m brilliant.”

  Jeremy looked as happy about this news as Qay felt. “Hell yeah, you’re sharp as broken glass.”

  “Appropriate comparison.”

  “I tried.”

  A little of the tension between them eased. Qay picked at a thread on his slightly frayed jeans, then stopped himself and drummed on the armrest instead. “Why are you here?” he asked, looking through his window into blankness. “And how?”

  “I used to be a cop, remember? You told me you work at a window factory in Northwest, which narrowed it down. I made some phone calls.” He snorted a laugh. “Didn’t want to get you in trouble or let you know what I was up to, but I remembered Stuart’s name and asked for him. I found him yesterday. Pretended I was a bill collector when he came to the phone. He was just about in tears—kept insisting he’d paid what was due on his credit card.”

  The thought of Stuart nearly crying over an imaginary unpaid debt cheered Qay more than it should have. “So that’s the how. What’s the why?”

  “I have… questions. And an apology, if I can man up enough to spit it out.”

  “Apology? For what?”