The Perils of Intimacy

by Rick R. Reed

  Sunday

  Chapter 19

  JIMMY

  I WANT to serve him breakfast in bed. And before your mind takes a nosedive into the gutter, I’m not talking about waking him up with a blow job or with slapping his cheek with my hard-on, although both have their appeal. And might come later….

  Anyway, I think back to when he came into the diner at the beginning of last week, which seemed so coincidental, so random, but I doubt that it was. I guess our paths were meant to cross again. I smile at the sense of humor he displayed in that breakfast-time encounter, little evidence of which I’ve seen lately, which I know is my own fault. But that meeting? I think it represented unfinished business.

  Unfinished love, maybe.

  Oh, you cornball! I roll over gently and ever so silently put my bare feet to the floor. Back when I was a dirty addict, I never would have allowed such notions into my pretty little fucked-up head. And maybe that’s why I was a dirty addict… and a thief. Those particular ways of being really don’t allow much room for love.

  And certainly the idea of making a guy breakfast would have never crossed my mind. Maybe stealing breakfast, if I’d had any appetite at all for food back then as I sneaked out the door with the cash from his wallet in my pocket.

  But today is a new day.

  Today is a new me.

  That’s the beauty I’ve found in recovery—that every day is a new beginning. We can slip. We can fall. We can even relapse. But each new twenty-four-hour period is a gift filled with hope and promise.

  A clean slate, right?

  And this morning, this guy is grateful for the man in bed next to him and wants to demonstrate his gratitude with a sweet little gesture.

  I look over my shoulder at Marc, sleeping. His lips are parted, almost raised up in a little smile. His breathing is deep and regular. If I lean in close, I can see his eyeballs moving restlessly back and forth under the lids.

  I hope he’s having sweet dreams.

  I get up, wincing as the box springs below us loudly complain. I cast another look over my shoulder, but Marc doesn’t stir. Even his breathing doesn’t change.

  I think of the little miracle that’s just passed—I actually spent the night with a guy and didn’t have sex! That’s a first. Not that I didn’t want to, not that I didn’t lie close to him throughout the night, my boner waxing and waning, waxing and waning, until it nearly drove me insane.

  I wanted him to rest.

  I wanted to put him first, to show him I could be unselfish.

  Now, as I gaze down at him, my heart’s full. I love the way the sunlight outside manages to filter though the blinds on his windows, landing in slats of yellow gold on his sleeping face. I love how broad his shoulders look against his dark gray sheets. I love the way one nipple peeks out at the top of the sheet. I long to put my tongue to that nipple, but I don’t want to wake him.

  I move away before temptation erases my good intentions and I simply hop back in bed, rudely wake him, and jump his bones.

  In the corner of the room, I find the clothes I discarded on the floor last night and get dressed in silence. Once I tense as Marc turns over and away from me. But then he begins to snore, and I relax.

  In the cab last night, I noticed a little convenience store just a block or two south of Marc’s place. I hope it’s open.

  I creep from his bedroom, through the living room, and emerge onto the walkway outside Marc’s front door.

  It’s early. I have no idea what time it is, but the sun is up behind me and the sky’s brilliant blue. Rare for winter, and I’ll take the good weather as an omen, a promise.

  Why not?

  It must have rained during the night, because the street is slick. The air’s relatively warm, so Dexter Avenue has a light mist emerging from its pavement.

  I head down the stairs, noting the quiet, at least the quiet of this busy city street. A lone bicyclist puffs his way up the hill, coming from the north. He looks over and spots me and gives a little wave. I smile and wave back and think—another omen.

  A couple of cars pass as I head south. In between some of the buildings, I can see the sun rising higher, higher over the Cascade Mountains, tangerine against their almost purple silhouettes.

  A guy with gray hair, wearing a quilted black jacket and glasses, emerges from a white stucco building ahead of me. He’s being led by a little Boston terrier with a red harness. He stops only feet from their front door as she squats near some shrubbery and does her business. She turns immediately to go back inside, and the guy laughs and tries to tug her in the opposite direction. “Come on. Don’t you want to go for a little walk?” But the Boston is adamant, and with a sigh, he gives up and follows her back up red brick stairs to disappear into their glass front doors.

  Sometimes you just have to let go and not resist. There’s another lesson I’ve learned in recovery—and now from a Boston terrier.

  I’m relieved to see the neon Open sign is illuminated in the window of the little convenience store. God, I hope they have what I’m looking for.

  Chapter 20

  MARC

  I ROLL over and open my eyes, feeling more rested than I have in years. You know how you feel as a kid, when you wake up in the summer all on your own, with the sun streaming in? How the day is new and full of promise? Yeah, that’s how I feel.

  Right up until the moment I roll over and discover I’m in bed alone.

  Once again.

  “Jimmy,” I call out softly. Then again, louder, “Jimmy?”

  I sit up, thinking how fast disappointment can cloud happiness, how a mood can transform in milliseconds. How darkness can snuff out light in an instant.

  I’m about to call out again. Then I think What’s the point? He’s gone. You should have known.

  Yet, yet…. Last night had been so wonderful. I thought we’d made a real connection. I believed my forgiveness not only of him, but also of myself, changed things, offered us a second chance to be what I thought we were—two guys who just might love each other.

  I shake my head, letting out a long and low sigh. Sunlight filters in through my blinds, and instead of taking what hints to be a glorious day as a good sign, something to be grateful for, it makes me feel a little nauseous. The sunshine seems wrong somehow. I want to hear rain hitting violently against my window. I want it to still be so dark I need to lean over and turn on the lamp on my nightstand just so I can see on my way to the bathroom.

  I want a lot of things.

  I want Jimmy to be here.

  I want what I drifted off to sleep last night believing to be true—that we’d crossed a bridge toward togetherness, that we’d come to a real meeting of minds, of hearts, of souls.

  I get up from bed, stumbling toward the bathroom with my useless boner leading the way, making the front of my plaid boxers stick out. Will I ever attain an age where I wouldn’t wake up with a hard-on, regardless of the situation?

  As I head toward the bathroom, I have a view of the rest of the little apartment. I quickly scan the living room and the kitchen area with its breakfast bar and two stools. I’m hoping to find Jimmy lying on the couch with the throw over him, snoring. Or better yet, in the kitchen, trying to figure out how to use my french press.

  But, as it always is, my home is empty. I should get a pet. Maybe I’ll head over to the animal shelter by Ballard today and see what’s on offer. We can comfort each other—two mutts nobody wants!

  Oh, quit feeling sorry for yourself, Marc. This Sunday morning is just like all the others—you went to bed with a guy on Saturday night and woke up alone and at loose ends on Sunday morning.

  You should be used to the routine.

  But I’m not.

  My heart aches.

  And not just for company, but for specific company. I wander over to the living room window and look out on Dexter. It’s empty, save for a neighbor across the street, a middle-aged guy who’s stepped out on his balcony for what I guess is his first smoke of the
day.

  I’ve seen him before.

  I head into the bathroom, take care of business, flush.

  As I head out to the kitchen to make coffee, I hate myself because I do a quick scan of the place. iPad still on the coffee table? Check. TV’s still here. So are my Diesel sneakers by the front door. I tiptoe back into the bedroom, open the Lucite box on my dresser. Everything—a couple of credit cards I rarely use, a few dollars, a cheap Fossil watch—are all still there.

  He didn’t steal.

  He wouldn’t steal.

  He’s not that person, I tell myself. Not anymore.

  So why did he slip out in the night?

  That’s a question I may never know the answer to. Back to the kitchen. As I’m filling the teakettle to heat water for the french press, there’s a knock at the door.

  My breath catches. I don’t want to get my hopes up. It’s probably not him. Rather, it might be a neighbor asking to borrow a cup of sugar, a motorist with no GPS wanting directions to the Fremont Troll statue. My mugger from the night before….

  I can’t help it, though. My heart quickens with glad anticipation as I hurry to the front door. I check through the peephole and then fling the door open. My smile widens. It’s him! He’s holding a brown paper sack and grinning back.

  “Good morning,” he says.

  “Where did you go?” I ask. I poke his chest a little, and he steps back. “I was worried.”

  “Good morning,” he repeats, gazing at me a little more intently.

  I frown, and then a light goes on. I smile again and open the door a little wider. “Good morning,” I answer and step back a little. “Do you want to come in?”

  “I do,” he says. He steps in and then shuts the door behind himself.

  I turn and start toward the kitchen. “I thought we’d have a little breakfast first.”

  “First? What’s second?” Jimmy asks, following.

  I feel heat rise to my cheeks as I turn to look over my shoulder at him. “You know,” I say, a little sheepish, a little embarrassed.

  This is fun.

  And real.

  And part of me wants to laugh and the other to cry, but happy tears.

  “Okay. I’m not so stupid.”

  We both end up in the kitchen, where he sets his little brown paper bag on the counter. It’s a joyful yet awkward moment. To get things moving, I point to the bag. “Whatcha got there?”

  “Something that was missing that morning our paths crossed in the diner just a few days ago.”

  I reach out a hand to grab for the bag, and he moves it out of my reach.

  “You remember that morning in the diner? When you kidded around with me?” Jimmy asks. “Playing out some silly routine from kids’ public television, I think it was. Yeah, I know public TV for kids. I grew up with it. Sometimes I think my real parent, and my best friend, back in those days was the television set.”

  I nod. I remember playing out that whole little stupid routine. “I’ll have coffee and a cinnamon roll,” I say softly.

  “But, but….” His voice trails off. He looks to be searching for the right words. When they come to him, I know because his breath catches. He holds up a finger. “You wanted me to give you something I didn’t have to give.”

  I cock my head. I nod. I think I know where this is going. “Kind of like that very first night, so long ago.”

  Jimmy looks down at the floor. “Yeah.”

  “I wanted you to give me something you didn’t have to give,” I say. “But I think if you did have it to give, you would’ve, Jimmy.” I feel the sadness, a poignant nudge to my heart, rise up. I pick up the brown paper bag off the counter.

  “Oh yes,” he sighs. “In my heart, I knew I wanted to.”

  “The idea of giving me love was so scary, you didn’t know what to do with it. And I don’t know if I was ready—” I stop myself. “No. I wasn’t ready either.” I open the bag. “Not for anything sweet.”

  I peer inside the bag, and there’s a quartet of Schwartz cinnamon rolls at the bottom. I smile. I close my eyes, feel the emotion rise. My heart swells.

  Jimmy says, “You’ll have coffee and a—?”

  “Cinnamon roll.”

  I put the bag down. And suddenly we are in each other’s arms, squeezing. Clinging to the other as if we’re each other’s very salvation.

  And we are. And we are.

  I lean in to kiss him, and he presses a hand to my chest. “Wait.” He reaches into the bag, takes out the plastic container of cinnamon rolls. He opens them and, with his hands, tears one off from the rest. “Take a bite?”

  I do, and he follows me, taking his own bite.

  When we kiss, we taste of cream cheese frosting. And something even sweeter.

  Chapter 21

  MIRIAM

  I WATCH the boys from my perch on the kitchen counter. I’m smiling, even though there’s a tear in my eye. I feel as though I’ve raised Jimmy even more than I raised my own children. And he’s grown up now, a man. A man I can be proud of. He’s faced his demons and come out on the other side whole.

  I wish I could give him a hug and a chip. Pat him on the back for being the man I always knew he could be.

  They make silly for a while, smearing the cream cheese frosting from the cinnamon rolls on each other’s faces and lips, licking it off and laughing. There are those mumbled declarations of love that lovers make when they feel secure, when they know for certain something sweet and good and true is coming.

  When they feel safe.

  I slide down from the counter as their clothes begin to come off, landing on the tile floor in a heap. What remains of the frosting moves to body parts farther south from lips and necks.

  I move through the little apartment, grabbing a final glimpse of the world outside the windows as I do. The sunlight, the mountains, the water.

  At the front door, I pause. They have too. Jimmy is saying, “Before we go any further, I should tell you—my name is Jimmy.”

  “And I’m Marc.”

  I watch as they come together again, almost like one being.

  It’s beautiful.

  New beginnings.

  I turn, closing out the sounds of their lovemaking as I know they’re sinking to the floor.

  I had my hand on the doorknob, but I change course and move toward the window instead. I near the glass and pass through it, the sunlight warming and then, at last, consuming me.

  I vanish into golden light.

  More from Rick R. Reed

  Personal chef Beau St. Clair, recently divorced from his cheating husband, returns to the small Ohio River town where he grew up to lick his wounds. Jack Rogers lives with his mother, Maisie, in that same small town, angry at and frightened of the world. Jack has a gap in his memory that hides something he dares not face, and he’s probably suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.

  Maisie, seeking relief from her housebound and often surly son, hires Beau to cook for Jack, hoping the change might help bring Jack, once a handsome and vibrant attorney, back to his former self. But can a new face and comfort food compensate for the terror lurking in Jack’s past?

  Slowly the two men begin a dance of revelation and healing. Food and compassion build a bridge between Beau and Jack, a bridge that might lead to love.

  But will Jack’s demons allow it? His history could just as easily tear them apart as bring them together.

  A monster moves through the night, hidden by the darkness, taking men, one by one, from Seattle’s gay gathering areas.

  Amid an atmosphere of crippling fear, Thad Matthews finds his first true love working in an Italian restaurant called the Blue Moon Café. Sam Lupino is everything Thad has ever hoped for in a man: virile, sexy as hell, kind, and… he can cook!

  As their romance heats up, the questions pile up. Who is the killer preying on Seattle’s gay men? What secrets is Sam’s Sicilian family hiding? And more importantly, why do Sam’s unexplained disappearances always coincide wit
h the full moon?

  The strength of Thad and Sam’s love will face the ultimate test when horrific revelations come to light beneath the full moon.

  Tate D’Angelo always thought he knew who his father was: beloved doctor, devoted husband and father…. Everyone at the funeral shared the same glowing stories of a kind soul. So when his father’s old college buddy, Randy, approaches him after the service, Tate expects to hear echoes of the same.

  Instead, he gets a lifetime’s worth of letters that tell a different tale and cause him to view his father—and his family—in a whole new light.

  The truth, about a secret romance kept buried for decades, astonishes him. Overwhelmed by grief and confusion, Tate is unsure if he can bear learning how the lives of two men entwined over the years, but he reads on anyway, discovering more to value, more to respect, and most importantly, more to love about the man who raised him.

  On a bright autumn day, Flynn Marlowe lost his best friend, a beagle named Barley, while out on a hike in Seattle’s Discovery Park.

  On a cold winter day, Mac Bowersox found his best friend, a lost, scared, and emaciated beagle, on the streets of Seattle.

  Two men. One dog. When Flynn and Mac meet by chance in a park the next summer, there’s a problem—who does Barley really belong to? Flynn wants him back, but he can see that Mac rescued him and loves him just as much as he does. Mac wants to keep the dog, and he can imagine how heartbreaking losing him would be—but that’s just what Flynn experienced.

  A “shared custody” compromise might be just the way to work things out. But will the arrangement be successful? Mac and Flynn are willing to try it—and along the way, they just might fall in love.

  When their plane crashed, their desire took flight.

  CEO Maine Braxton and his invaluable assistant, Colby, don’t realize they share a deep secret: they’re in love—with each other. That secret may have never come to light but for a terrifying plane crash in the Cascade Mountains that changes everything.