by Mal Peters
With that, he leaves the kitchen, and a second later the front door slams, hard enough that we not only hear it, but we three who remain—me, Nate, and Callie—flinch.
Ears burning, I look toward Nate, who still hasn’t said anything since Phel and I stole the floor from him. I wouldn’t say his expression is outraged, exactly, but he looks as though someone kicked his dog, and then kicked him in the nuts too for good measure: pained, but also shocked. I can’t begin to figure out what it means, and whether it’s in response to my words or Phel’s reaction or both. Somehow, though, I know enough to feel embarrassed and mortified and deeply ashamed.
“Well?” I ask him lowly. “You got any choice words for me too?”
Spreading his hands, Nate struggles to say anything for a moment, his lips eventually closing and pressing into a thin, disapproving line. Then he asks, “What the hell would be the point, man? You seem to think you’ve got it all figured out.”
“I just want you to tell me the fucking truth!” I shoot back.
“And is that more important than letting your best friend walk out that door?” challenges Nate. “Jesus, Hugh, but you’re a fucking idiot sometimes.” He starts to leave too.
“Where the hell are you going?” I demand, rising to go after him. I reach out and grab his shoulder. “Why is what Phel thinks suddenly so important to you, if I’m totally off the mark?”
Slapping my hand away, Nate then grabs the front of my T-shirt and tugs me forward so our faces are close, pulling hard enough that I have to lean forward or risk ripping the shirt altogether. “I’m not the one who expects anything from Phel,” Nate growls at me. “You are. Even I’m not so fucking stupid not to realize you’re way out of line, and if I don’t speak up for your ass now, you can sure as hell count on him not coming back here. Ever.”
Then he’s gone, running out the door to try to catch Phelan before he gets too far, probably.
It occurs to me my brother had his boots on this whole time, maybe because he expected to have to get up and leave at any point during this conversation. Get up and walk out of his own house like he was no longer welcome.
It also occurs to me, hard enough that I stumble back into my chair, that he wound up being right.
NATE comes back a short while later. I hear the beep of the security system as the front door opens and closes behind him, but otherwise I’m not really around to see what state he’s in, having grabbed a fifty of Jack and locked myself in my study. After how our conversation ended and the way I left things with Phel, it seemed an attractive prospect, so inappropriate and wonderful, to get stinking drunk before noon and let the rest of the day bleed out like a severed artery until I passed out or it was time for bed.
Before I snuck away to hide—yes, hide, because there’s no other word for what I’m now doing—I caught a glimpse of Nate and Phel arguing out in the street from the front window of my house, which I ran to in the hopes of seeing whether Nate managed to catch him up. He did, as it turns out, and maybe “arguing” is a bit strong; certainly there was some kind of an intense discussion going on, and Nate gripped Phel’s shoulders hard as if to keep him from running away again. I admit Phel has a talent for exiting stage left after he’s said something particularly wounding, a sniper with deadly sharp aim who doesn’t stick around to see whether or not he’s hit his mark. So I stood there at the window, shadowed by the curtain, waiting for them to hug or kiss each other or something, because that’s obviously what lovers do in a quarrel with no negative outcome. I guess I was still waiting for proof there was truly something else going on, having not sufficiently learned my lesson in the preceding argument. But the kiss never happened, not even the hug. Nate just cupped the back of Phelan’s head and stared at him until eventually Phel nodded and they parted ways.
That’s it.
I felt like I might be sick.
No way could I face Nate when he came back inside, so I disappeared myself in the hopes he’d assume I’d gone to write. He didn’t come to find me either, his own escape upstairs evidenced by the slamming door I heard from within the safety of my cave. The sound made me sigh, because—fuck. I’d really gone and screwed the pooch, hadn’t I? This whole time I’ve wanted my best friend and brother to forge a bond, and instead I basically drove them to forge one that didn’t include me, even if it wasn’t the sordid affair I got around to envisioning in the heat of what I admit was a very stupid, very illogical moment on my part.
I break open the Jack. The first sip of whiskey has a pleasant burn but ultimately doesn’t do much more than make me feel guilty and even more ashamed of myself. This isn’t how I handle stressful situations anymore, I remind myself sharply, especially not ones of my own devising. I was always supposed to be the responsible one, the levelheaded brother, according to Nate and my dad and just about everyone else who ever met us standing side by side. Yet I’m not the one who manned the fuck up and decided to come walking out of the closet with my head held high. No, I’m the one who turned that courage into an absolute nightmare for my brother, offering not support or love or even a shred of human fucking decency, but the petty, wounded offensive you’d expect from the kid picked last for the team. Phel was right about that much. Even if drinking this whole bottle of Jack didn’t mean backsliding from the steps I fought so hard to master, I don’t deserve anything that will let me forget the colossal mess I’ve made.
Surprisingly, I do manage to accomplish some writing today, banging out a couple of chapters that may or may not prove useable when I go back to edit later. It helps get my mind off things a little, calm me down. The few trips out to the bathroom or kitchen I risk during the day are miraculously Nate-free, a blessing as I try to pull myself together and figure out what to say to the guy. I’m sorry will be a start, but after that I keep coming up empty. It’s hard to admit to someone how scared of being alone you are, especially when that person has been doing nothing but trying to get closer this whole time. By this I mean Nate, of course. I love Phel, but ours is the closeness of two solar systems that, while once totally separate, have bumped up against each other for a long period of time and eventually merged; unlike Nate, who has always been more like one of Jupiter’s ancient moons, sometimes distant but always faithful. I’ve no doubt he won’t hesitate to point out how determined I seemed to drive both him and Phel away this morning, though, so a lot of my anxiety has to do with feeling ashamed.
Sometime before midnight I wander out into the living room. I find Nate settled on the couch with Callie sprawled on top of him in her usual ladylike fashion. Nate flips through channels with the distracted air of someone who’s not paying attention to any of it. I don’t blame him. As I enter the room, Callie immediately jumps up and comes to say hello, but Nate just glances at me once and doesn’t say anything, though his jaw tightens some. We could sit here in silence and he wouldn’t try to leave or give me a hard time, but I know it’s up to me to get this conversation going, if I want it to happen.
“Hey,” I begin, hesitation strong in my voice. “I guess there’s no point beating around the bush here, so I’ll just come right out and say I’m sorry for this morning.”
Nate grunts.
Right. “And I’m sorry I was such a dickbag about how I handled your coming out to me. It wasn’t very mature, and I knew it at the time, I just….” I let my uncertainty hang there. “Something got hold of me and I lost my mind a little bit.”
“A little bit,” repeats Nate. He nods to himself like this is pure bullshit. “Okay.”
“Fine, a lot,” I clarify. All of a sudden I sound like I’m ten again, and Nate’s caught me messing around with our dad’s cop gear. Petulant, even though I know better. “I’m not proud of that.”
“Nor should you be,” Nate says. That muscle continues to go crazy in his jaw, and part of me wants to tell him to stop choosing his words carefully and just have out with whatever the hell he’s really thinking. I don’t, though, and he continues to struggle for the ri
ght words. “I’m sad to say I was fucking embarrassed for you today,” he eventually tells me. “I ain’t never felt that before, not even when I was showing up on your doorstep ready to cart you off to rehab.”
Ouch. But also, yeah, if the shoe fits, I guess. I can tell he’s winding up for a speech—maybe he’s been working on it all day too—and to give himself some time, he reaches over for the remote and turns off the TV, swinging his legs around so he’s sitting up to talk to me. As the television screen crackles a little with residual energy in the background, our eyes meet. I’m glad to see no anger in his, but he looks plenty exasperated.
“Honestly, though, I’m not the one you should be apologizing to. I’m prepared to accept your temporary insanity as an unfortunate reaction to finding out I’m gay—I know it’s because you were upset about hearing it so late, not the fact I like dick. So as far as I’m concerned, you’ve had your hissy fit now and that conversation is over; we’re good.” I nod, having no desire to reprise the topic either, but Nate’s not done. Far from it. “Hell,” he continues, getting wound up now, “I’ll even go so far as to accept that shit you said about me going behind Emilia’s back, because after all, that’s what I did. You won’t get no argument from me on that one. But Phel… he didn’t deserve that from you, Hugh. Even if you weren’t totally fucking off base in what you said, Phel never purposely set out to trouble anyone, not from the beginning. All he got was a world of hurt he never asked for. Despite all that, he’s been your friend, much as he can be with everything else going on, and today you went and flung that in his face.”
I can’t help but bristle at the undertone of condescension in his voice. “Nate, I know. I feel like shit, okay?”
As if anticipating my lip, Nate’s already glaring at me with all the force he can muster. “So what the hell came over you, man?” he demands. “A couple weeks ago you were going on about how important it was that Phel and I stay in California—far as I can tell, we were both seriously considering it too. And now… I don’t even know what Phel is gonna do, but this morning he didn’t seem too keen on sticking around. Not that I blame the guy.”
“I wouldn’t blame him either. But I don’t want him to leave.”
Nate snorts. “Then don’t you think you should do something about it?”
We let the conversation go there; there’s not much else left to say, and we both know it.
Giving my arm a squeeze that suggests he knows it’s time to let me start doing my soul-searching thing, Nate says, “I’m going to bed. Night, Hugh,” and leaves to do just that.
It’s hard for me to sleep that night. Almost like a kid on Christmas morning, I toss and turn all night long, continuously checking the clock like it’ll make morning come faster. Maybe not in anticipation of anything good, but it’s anticipation nonetheless, and I know that the sooner the sun comes up, the sooner I can haul ass down to Palermo and try to make things right with Phel. The not knowing is killing me.
Having taken Nate’s words to heart, I feel guilty and stupid and ashamed that I wasted a whole day not apologizing to Phel, so even sleeping feels like a reckless, selfish waste compared to what I could be doing. I’d knock on his door right now if I didn’t think that would hurt my cause. Although I can’t shake the feeling that a face-to-face conversation would be best, Nate also has a point when he says Phel might feel crowded if I show up at his house and bang down his door. He’s probably right, but I want to be able to see Phel’s eyes and know for sure he’s forgiven me. Phel’s face can be doing a million contradictory things at once, each one a red herring as to what’s really on his mind, but I can always tell what he’s thinking from his eyes.
When morning comes and I’m all but bounding down the stairs with Callie at my side, I barely catch Nate on his way out. “Going for a run,” he tells me, holding the door open with his shoulder. “Might be a couple hours.”
“You want Callie?” I ask, and sure enough she’s wagging her tail and panting at Nate in eager anticipation, knowing exactly what his running shoes and old gym shorts mean.
He doesn’t really stop to consider. “Nah. I got some stuff to think about, so I’d rather fly solo today.” To Callie, he says, “Maybe tomorrow, girl,” and with that, he’s off.
Left to wonder how my brother has suddenly started to make me feel like the unmotivated slugabed in the family, I shrug and lead Callie to the kitchen so I can fix us some breakfast. It actually isn’t that early at all—nearly nine thirty, since I think I fell back asleep somewhere before dawn and caught up on the rest I’d missed while worrying about Phel. I know he’ll be up and about himself right about now, since ten or ten thirty is usually when we head down to the beach to get a head start on the crowd. With that in mind, I decide it’s probably safe to call him and put myself out of my misery. Hopefully he’ll look at the clock and know I couldn’t wait to call him.
Once I’ve filled Callie’s food bowls with water and kibble, I pop a couple of slices of bread into the toaster for myself and grab a mug of the still hot coffee Nate must have made before taking off. As I’m waiting for the bread to toast, I grab my phone off the kitchen counter and dial Phel’s number, then go through the rigmarole of requesting his mobile line after some polite chat with the switchboard operator at Palermo.
At first the phone rings long enough to make me worry he won’t pick up, but after maybe seven or so seconds of no answer, the phone switches over and I hear Phelan’s voice on the other end, gruff from a night of disuse. “Hello?”
“Phel,” I answer, and then throw in a bright “How’s it going?” before he can think better of it and hang up. “Glad I caught you still at home.”
From the silence on the other end, I can tell Phel isn’t necessarily in agreement. Eventually he says, “Hugh. What can I do for you?” in a tone that sounds more tired than antagonistic, but whose staid politeness still cuts like a knife.
“Look, man,” I say, “there’s no point pretending like yesterday didn’t happen, so I’ll just cut to the chase. I’m sorry. I was a dick, and I said some really unfair stuff to you and Nate. I won’t even try to justify why I said what I did, because there’s no excuse for how I treated you.”
There’s another pause. “I appreciate your calling, Hugh, but it isn’t that simple. You really….” Phel makes a waffling sound I can hear on my end. “You really betrayed my trust.”
“I know.”
Phel keeps going like I haven’t spoken. “I realize there’s a lot about my past life I haven’t been forthcoming about, but I always thought our friendship was about something other than knowing the trivialities of our individual situations. I don’t know everything about you, and I kind of prefer it that way; I was happy with you not knowing everything about me too.”
At first, I don’t know what to say to that. I know what he means, and obviously we’ve both kept up our ends of the bargain by not sharing everything or demanding anything, but… I didn’t realize it was an actual pact we’d entered into by unspoken agreement. “I would have told you everything if you’d asked,” I say tentatively. “And I would never have objected to knowing everything about you either.” I just never felt welcome to ask, exactly.
Sure enough, Phel says, “I didn’t want you to.” More gently, he adds, “There seemed to be greater trust required to satisfy ourselves with not knowing everything than there was sharing all our secrets.” He hesitates. “That’s what I always liked best about our friendship, Hugh. The trust.”
“Which I broke,” I supply for him. Even though I realize I’m not totally happy with how he’s defined our friendship, it hits me that I’ve probably known this for a while and never spoke up. I assumed things would change, maybe? Who knows? I was wrong, anyway. Pretty damn wrong.
“Yes, which you broke,” he agrees. Pause. “But you had just undergone a significant shock from your brother that made you begin to question what you knew about everything else. I know a thing or two about losing your worldview. It’s chall
enging for even the most patient of people.”
Surprised by how reasonable this sounds, I blurt out, “I’m not using that as an excuse.”
Phel chuckles. “I know. And I’m not giving you one. For what it’s worth, though… I think I would have explained everything to you at one point. Things just… changed. I got confused and started to wonder how much I could even trust myself. That wasn’t your fault.”
Another silence stretches out so long I begin to wonder if he’s still there. I ask, “Phel?” and his grunt is, I guess, a form of acknowledgement. “So where does that leave us?”
Phel’s hesitation is so profound that I can practically hear it. Then: “Would it really have been so terrible? If Nate and I had been lovers?”
Whoa. What a mental picture. I think if circumstances were totally different—if Nate wasn’t married, for one—and had introduced Phel as his boyfriend, after getting over the sudden fact of my brother’s gayness, I would have had no issue with the relationship. Of course not; Phel is a good man. Beyond thinking they have nothing in common, which even I know to be untrue, I would have been happy for them both. Probably even if they’d hooked up while in Cardiff, provided I’d known about it, I’d have eventually gotten over the initial weirdness of seeing my brother and best friend together. But I don’t really want to say any of those things to Phel. Phrased like it was, though, there’s no real way for me to dodge the question, which I suppose is Phel’s point.
“It wouldn’t have been terrible,” I answer slowly. “Not that in and of itself. But if you lied about it the whole time….” I let that hang there, but something about Phel’s answering pause seems to change.
“Yes. That is about what I expected you to say. The lies are always so much more damaging than the reality, aren’t they?” Before I can think I have no idea what the hell to say to that either, Phel moves on. “I suppose, after what happened back East, I let myself believe that refusing to know everything about a person, and refusing to let them know everything about me, would prevent lies from ever becoming necessary.” He pauses. The sound of his throat clicking in a swallow reaches me from down the line. “I was wrong.”