Twenty minutes later, he sent Pam on her way with one of the good chocolate bars he kept in his desk drawer—way better than the stuff in the candy jar he kept on his desk—and assurances that it would be okay. He’d hit the pause button on this formulation and take a look at some of the other things they had coming down the pipeline that were less likely to get canceled because they’d be of more use to a greater number of people or the upfront costs wouldn’t be so great, and he’d have something else for her to work her pen-and-paper magic with. He would.
Pam wasn’t back to her old self by the time she was headed out the door but her cheeks were dry and he’d coaxed a few smiles out of her, and had promised to check with Sean about when they could have Pam and her family over for dinner again.
He liked Pam’s husband and their kids, and Sean did too. It would be good for all of them, and it would make Sean happy to have people ooo and ahh over his culinary achievements. That’d be a good thing to do.
When she’d turned the corner to the elevator bank, it hit him. The solution he’d been looking for, the particular formulation that would solve some of the problems he’d been butting his head up against like a particularly stubborn ram. His feelings had been right, and now it would do him and those tens of thousands of people he could’ve helped no fucking good. People would just have to keep using their insulin shots and their pumps and getting into trouble if they weren’t on the ball every single goddamn day of their lives. He couldn’t lift that burden either, thanks to selfish fuckers thinking that healthcare wasn’t a right, but something only the wildly successful should be able to avail themselves of.
Isaiah usually kept his door open unless he was deep in thought, but he closed it now. Rage and impotence overcoming him, he set his hands on the mounds of paper that had accumulated during these past months of work, and shoved all the piles off the side of the desk, sending papers and folders and even some pens that had gotten stuck in the stacks flying through the air and fluttering uselessly to the well-tread carpet.
“I’ve been thinking.”
Isaiah had come home late from work, and when Sean had heard him pull into the driveway, he’d poured a second glass of wine and stood by the door to welcome him with it. Dinner was already on the table, and he’d wanted to greet Isaiah with alcohol and a kiss, with the promise of sexy times after dinner. And he was trying, but Isaiah seemed twitchy. Pacing the entryway like a lion. So this “I’ve been thinking?”
Normally Sean would make a Beauty and the Beast reference and they’d both smile, but there was something dark crackling in the air that made attempting levity seem like lighting a match in a room full of propane.
“Okay?”
Isaiah looked away from him and Sean felt the loss keenly. Funny how that could happen—that he could feel the weight of Isaiah’s gaze as a physical presence and miss it when it wasn’t there. And for Isaiah to not look at him now, what was he going to say? No, things hadn’t been a walk in the park lately, they’d both been busy and distracted but surely he wasn’t so unhappy that he’d consider leaving?
Sean had an overactive imagination. He knew that. It was something he’d had to work hard on silencing because Isaiah was as steadfast as the day was long and his paranoia wasn’t fair. Years of evidence to the contrary had eased his mistrust, but it cropped up sometimes when he was overly stressed or anxious otherwise. A deep breath would help clear the creeping suspicions as would whatever was about to come out of Isaiah’s mouth because it was no doubt something harmless or inane. But when Isaiah spoke again, it didn’t bring relief like it usually did.
“I want to move to France.”
Dark eyes were focused on him once again and now Sean wished they weren’t. His stomach felt as though someone had landed a solid punch in his soft belly. It hurt. He could barely breathe. Not doubling over took effort.
“France?” His echo sounded hollow. Isaiah wanted to go to France? No, not just go; they’d been to Paris and Burgundy and Nice and enjoyed it. Loved it, actually. Whenever they were tired of their jobs or grumpy about some shit going on in the city or groaning about their families being unreasonable, that’s where they’d fantasize about running off to, leaving their troubles behind.
They’d never been serious about it, though. Never researched how to actually make it happen, and when they did talk about it, it was always in the context of “running away.” As though it was as foolish as when small children packed a suitcase and got as far as the corner before they got hungry and went home for a baloney sandwich.
Isaiah hadn’t said “run away,” as though this were all in their usual good fun. He’d said move. Move. Abandon their lives here. And come to think of it, he’d said he wanted to move, not that he wanted them to move. Maybe that was semantics, but at times like these semantics mattered. Semantics were one of the things he could rely on to tamp down his freak-outs, but they were only serving to make things worse at the moment.
Isaiah shifted his large body, his weight moving from one foot to the other, his hands releasing from loose fists at his sides to plant on his jean-clad hips because he hadn’t bothered even to take the glass of wine that Sean had had at the ready. Now Sean was standing there, foolishly, and feeling the urge to bolt both the glasses.
“Yes, France.”
His husband’s face was hard, which didn’t usually concern Sean. Yes, Isaiah could be intimidating because of his size and intensity, but he’d never hurt a fly. Unless the fly begged to be hurt. Isaiah was mostly a teddy bear but at the moment he looked fierce. And for what? Under the ferocity, there seemed to be some desperation but Sean couldn’t tell what it was for.
It seemed like the logical thing to ask so though it made his throat close up with fear, he did. “Why?”
The tendons in Isaiah’s neck stood out as he took a deep breath, his broad chest expanding even further. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
There it was. His worst fear come true. Sean knew he could be emotional, needy. Some might say too soft. Isaiah had never said that, but maybe he was tired after all. And would that be so strange? Sean was pretty fucking exhausted himself and that often translated to him relying more on Isaiah, needing his warmth and his comfort. Counting on Isaiah to hold up the ceiling to keep it from crashing down on him. He tried not to overwhelm his husband with need, but he didn’t always do a great job. If Isaiah left…
“We’re living in a country that hates us, Sean. They want to take our rights away because we’re queer. I could get shot and killed for no reason other than being black, and the likelihood of someone getting punished for it is pretty low. I’m not really worried about losing my job because god knows people need their pharmaceuticals, but I don’t know that I want to live someplace where people don’t believe in science. Where they deliberately pollute the air and the water even though we’ve told them it hurts people. And for what? Money. And because their kids and people who look like them aren’t going to be the ones getting sick and dying.”
“Not everyone feels that way.” Most of the people they knew didn’t. Philadelphia was pretty liberal and god knew their social circle was even more so. And if Isaiah thought Sean didn’t worry every time he walked out the door, he’d be wrong. Then Sean felt like shit for #NotAllMen- and #AllLivesMatter-ing his husband. Because that’s what he was doing. He certainly hadn’t meant to, but that was the end result nonetheless. He needed to try harder. Do better.
“I’m sorry,” Sean said. “I’m listening and I understand why you’re upset. I’m not sure moving to France is the solution.”
Isaiah was on the move, heading into the sitting room. He did that sometimes when he was frustrated. He was like a pinball being knocked around, pacing while passing his hands over his close-cropped hair. “I need to do something. What I’m doing here doesn’t matter. I can call and march and write and protest all I want, but no matter what I do—”
&
nbsp; His railing was cut off by a choked sob and Sean wanted to go to him so badly. Absorb all the helplessness and offer his ear and his body and anything else Isaiah needed. It was something Sean was used to, sometimes even relished—that feeling of helplessness. Of course he could only enjoy it when it was a choice and he could stop it anytime, but for Isaiah…
He’d made himself physically powerful, had pushed himself through school and succeeded even when things were hard. He’d taken so much upon himself to prove that he could control the world around him, and this… He’d done his best and still he must feel as though he was failing, because it wasn’t good enough. But Sean wasn’t confident that what he had to offer was good enough. Not to keep his husband here, and not to keep his husband, period.
Had something happened to make him feel this way? Something he wasn’t telling Sean? Yes, Isaiah could swallow down things that were concerning him because he didn’t want to burden Sean, but Sean wanted to be burdened. Wanted to hold this emotional weight because it was one of the only things he could hold better than Isaiah.
Drowning. That’s how Isaiah felt. Like he couldn’t keep his head above water and not only was he going to drown, but he was going to take Sean down with him and that wasn’t acceptable. It made Isaiah so fucking angry. He wanted to break something, hurt someone. He wanted to rant and rave and destroy shit but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t, because from a very early age his mama had taught him not to give anyone a reason to say he’d been out of control or acting up, because that was dangerous. Then she’d admitted even if he wasn’t doing a damn thing wrong there were no guarantees.
After he’d wrecked his desk, he’d tried to calm down but sitting in his office and taking deep breaths had given his mind time to wander. Had given him space to inventory all the injustices, all of the wrongs that had been done already, and all the ways in which things were likely to get worse before they got better. They damn well had to get better. Because he couldn’t stand to watch the people he loved get worn down and trod over until they were flat, lifeless, and hopeless, all the mischievous sparkle gone. And what would people like him be without people like them? Soldiers with nothing left to fight for.
It made him rail. “I want what I do to matter. I want to live in a country that doesn’t want me dead. I want to live in a country where people don’t think healthcare should be a fucking luxury good. And I… Goddammit, Sean, how can you want to stay?”
Sean stared at him with those big, wide eyes of his, looking so delicate and breakable and fragile and soft, and asked a question Isaiah didn’t want to ask himself.
“How can we not?”
His goddamn husband. His generous-to-a-fault, open-hearted husband. He wanted to tie Sean up and sling him over his shoulder, and not to do filthy things to him either. Isaiah wanted to haul him away in order to keep him safe because god knew Sean wouldn’t do it himself. He’d be the asshole volunteering because it was the right thing to do. He’d be the one on the front lines because he felt like he’d lived his life with so much privilege that it was time to take one for the team. Isaiah loved him and hated him so fucking much for that all at the same time.
He wanted to argue with Sean that they’d done enough, that they’d paid their dues, both literally and figuratively, and it wasn’t their fucking job anymore. They’d earned a little peace. That’s all Isaiah wanted. Was a little quiet and easy happiness in a life that had been filled with struggle and far too much awareness. It made a person’s heart heavy, put holes in a person’s soul. It made a person tired and weary and cynical and… Was it really so bad that he wanted to keep his little family safe? Protect Sean and just lead their lives?
Before he could ask, Sean was talking again because the man just couldn’t help himself. And he was flailing his arms around, wine sloshing out of the glasses because he was still holding the fucking things. He looked a little off his rocker with the two full glasses, the apron tied on over his Mr. Rogers guidance counselor togs.
“You and I, we’ve got privilege. And I have more than you. You know I had a kid come into my office today because he’s afraid his family’s going to get deported? We can stay here and fight for what’s right because this is our country too, or we can get up and leave. I don’t feel good about leaving. It would feel like failure, like I didn’t care enough, I didn’t try hard enough, that I was being selfish. I don’t think I could live with myself if I left. And I’m not sure if I could live with you either.”
A knee to the crotch couldn’t have hurt more than those words. To lose Sean’s respect, to lose his trust, to lose his love… Isaiah was a big man. He could lift heavy shit and tote it around like it was nothing. He could reach things that were beyond most people’s grasps, and he had stamina like an ox. But this stringy little man in front of him could knock him out.
The room felt too small, and like it had been filled up with water, like he was treading water to keep his nose and mouth above the surface but soon it’d be up to the ceiling and he’d be helpless to do anything but take it into his lungs. Succumb. Leaving without Sean would be like leaving without his heart. Couldn’t do it. But staying felt just as impossible.
He needed to get out, needed to clear his head. Needed to feel, for a while at least, like he could breathe. All the words he wanted to say were cruel because his emotions were running riot and taking over his higher reasoning. He was a logical human and he prided himself on it but for serious, what the fuck good was higher reasoning if you were barely surviving in a hellscape that only showed signs of getting worse? But he’d learned long ago to keep a lid on that shit because it wasn’t fair, and cooler heads would eventually prevail. Sean too had learned that sometimes it was best to let Isaiah be instead of forcing him into saying something they’d likely both regret.
So Isaiah took a big breath, filling up his lungs with what felt like the last air in the room. “I’m going out.” Sean’s face crumbled and the hurt in his husband’s eyes made him feel wrung out. He was too angry to offer much in the way of comfort, but he could offer one thing even if he wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was true. “I’ll be back.”
He’d done it before, and he’d do it again. Sean didn’t like it when Isaiah walked away from their fights, but he knew why Isaiah did it. Had even agreed that he’d rather Isaiah walk away, take some time to sort his thoughts and come back once he could do something more than rage because they’d both be happier with that. But the understanding didn’t make it easy.
Feeling like the tin man, Sean took the glasses to the kitchen and dropped them on the counter before heading back to the dining room where he picked up the dishes from the dinner he’d made and toted them back as well. The filet wouldn’t keep well so he scraped it into the trash. The roasted potatoes and green beans followed, partially out of spite.
What would he do if Isaiah gave him an ultimatum? What would he do if Isaiah told him he could stay but that he’d be on a plane as soon as he’d gotten a job? Would he stay? Would he go? And what would he do if they left?
Isaiah spoke French well, but Sean’s was more like tourist pidgin. He liked to think he could get his point across, but it wasn’t elegant, he couldn’t convey sophisticated information, and he sure as fuck couldn’t be a school guidance counselor or even a teacher. In addition to being fluent in French, Isaiah spoke the lucrative language of science so it wasn’t surprising he was unconcerned about his own ability to communicate or find employment. Had he even thought about what Sean would do?
The idea of being a house husband and cooking decadent meals and maybe taking some cooking classes had appeal. But would he be able to live with himself for doing that while Brady and Miguel and millions of other people were suffering? Having their rights and their livelihoods and their families taken away? He didn’t think so, no matter if he might finally master making macarons and meringues. Guilt would haunt him and make everything taste like sawdust. But for now, he�
�d down this glass of wine, chug it even though it was meant to be sipped because if they were all doomed to the apocalypse, what the hell did any of it matter anyhow?
He poured another glass of wine since it was open and they had a rule in the house about bucking up and finishing the bottle, because it wouldn’t be as good the next day. And if it practically sloshed over the rim of the wine glass, then it did. That’s what sponges were for. Sean would fucking well hold up his end of this bargain at least. It was a full-bodied Syrah and he ought to savor it, but Christ he’d rather taste it on Isaiah’s lips, on his tongue as he invaded Sean’s mouth. Filled him to the brim until he was practically overflowing like the wine glass.
Isaiah wasn’t here to do that though. So Sean plunged his hands into the sink, sucking air through his teeth because he’d made the water too hot, but not taking his hands out. Nope. He gritted his teeth and bore it, as painful as it was. He should get used to it.
Yes, he was a bit of a masochist, but he’d always thought of himself as a fun masochist. Not masochistic in the nihilistic, everything-is-pain-anyway sort of way. But here he was, turning his milquetoast hands and arms a shade of lobster and for what? It’s not like Isaiah would enjoy this or be pleased by it. Not like bruises or hickeys or bite marks, he wouldn’t like the physical evidence of pain endured. No, he’d scold Sean and probably make him lie down with some cold-water soaked cloths wrapped up to his elbows while Isaiah finished the dishes himself.
Dedication of a Lifetime Page 3