by Wendy Qualls
“Going to go fuck your boyfriend?”
“Guess so,” he called over his shoulder as he headed back to his car. “Because unlike you, I actually am gay.”
* * * *
Paul stopped for gas on the way home, partly to make sure Christopher wasn’t following him and partly because he didn’t want to wait until he was all the way back at the apartment before he could call Brandon. The phone rang through but went to voicemail.
“Um, hi,” Paul said above the noise of the gas pump next to him. “Look, I know I—it was bad, last night. I owe you an apology for all the mixed signals I’ve been sending. You were right; I was being a dick. I hate that I made you feel unwanted, because nothing could be further from the truth.” God, he’s probably feeling so rejected right now. “I, um. Yeah. I’ve been thinking about you all day, and—maybe—can you call me back? Or could you come over tonight or something? We can meet somewhere neutral if you’d prefer, I just… We need to talk. I’d like it if we could talk. I’m not good at this, but I want to—I want to try. To have it be more than a temporary thing. I went for a walk after class today and ran into Christopher and… Well, mostly it just made me want to apologize to you as soon as possible. So. Call me. Please?”
God, it was a terrible rambling mess, but he hit “yes, save” anyway when prompted and hung up. Now it was all up to Brandon.
Chapter 22
Paul didn’t realize how tired he was until he sat down on the couch to take his shoes off and then couldn’t find the energy to get back up again. He watched TV for a while, vaguely aware that he was hungry but not desperate enough to do anything about it. Nothing sounded good anyway.
I want Brandon back. That single statement felt truer than anything else in his life. Brandon Mercer was offering something: a life where being gay was normal and acceptable and not indicative of a major moral failing. Even better, that life would have Brandon in it. For the long-term, presumably. Sleepy mornings together and late-night cuddles on the couch and don’t forget the milk texts in the middle of the afternoon and always, always, someone to have his back. And to care for in return. Paul had known in the abstract that some people’s lives were like that, but even on his more optimistic days he’d never pictured it working out like that for him. The best he’d ever hoped for was the outward appearance of the American dream: the smiling wife and two point four kids in a house with a white picket fence, and if he smiled enough in return everyone might assume he was happy.
He fell asleep imagining Brandon mowing their hypothetical lawn, shirtless in the summer sun, smiling and waving at their hypothetical children every time he passed the window.
* * * *
The phone jolted Paul out of a very pleasant dream some time later. He groped for it and brought it to his ear without waking up enough to read the display.
“’lo?”
“Paul.” Danielle’s voice, with a hint of panic in it. Paul mentally jolted himself awake the rest of the way and sat up.
“Danielle? What’s wrong?”
A pause. “You haven’t seen it, have you,” she declared.
“Seen what?”
“Shit.” There were sounds in the background, the clicking of a keyboard. “Look, I just forwarded you the e-mail. Which supposedly came from you about fifteen minutes ago. It’s… Well Dad’s at work so I can’t tell you about his reaction, but Mom was on her laptop when it came in so she saw it at the same time I did. And she’s pretty broken up about it. Someone sent this long, rambling coming-out letter from your address, pretending to be you. I know it wasn’t you, because you’re a better writer and don’t use anywhere near that kind of profanity and the whole thing just sounded really bitter, but I think a lot of things finally clicked for Mom and now she’s doing that thing she does where she refuses to talk about it. I’m not sure what to say to her.”
“Shit,” Paul echoed, and dove for his laptop. Took forever to turn on, to get the internet open, to get to the staff portal and pull up his inbox.
Danielle waited silently while he read. If anything, it was worse than what she described—an eight-paragraph confession of just how much he loved taking it up the ass, how he’d enjoyed “putting one over on all you uptight nutjobs” but didn’t want to bother hiding anymore, with some liberal profanity and graphic details included for good measure. The final paragraph referenced attached photos, but Paul couldn’t bring himself to open the folder underneath.
“I, uh, didn’t look at the pictures,” Danielle volunteered after a long moment of silence. “Figured they were probably something you wouldn’t want me to see.”
“Yeah, that’s…good.” It was hard to see any good in the current situation, honestly, but Paul was still having trouble coming to grips with the whole concept in the first place. It was Christopher, of course; it had to be. It’s not like there was that long a list of people who even knew Paul was gay. (Christopher, Brandon, Danielle … Yeah, that was about it.) Paul had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what picture (or series of pictures) Christopher had shared.
Shared with who? Paul flipped over to his sent messages folder, saw the “COMING OUT SURPRISE!!!” e-mail at the top—
And nearly threw up. A long list of recipients—it looked like Christopher had gone through Paul’s entire address book. Possibly everyone he’d ever exchanged e-mails with. Dr. Kirsner received it, as did Grace and the rest of the psychology department—some of them two or three times, as they were on various mailing lists he shared. His parents. Danielle. Brandon. The handful of people he’d interacted with for events at his parents’ church. All his students. Shit.
“You okay?” Danielle asked. “I can come over there if you want. Or we can—I don’t know. Go somewhere for a while. I would say you could come home, but…”
“But Mom and Dad are eager to disinherit me,” he finished for her.
He could hear her wince even over the phone. “I don’t think it’s quite that bad,” she said, “but they’re going to take some time to come around. Dad especially. It would be easier if you were to deny everything—but you can’t, can you? I mean, obviously you didn’t write it.”
He sighed and finally succumbed to the instinct to lie down before he passed out. The sofa was still warm from his nap. “Fuck.”
That startled a bit of a laugh out of her. “If anyone deserves the right to use that kind of language right now, it’s you. Any thoughts about what to do now? Damage control? Who would even do this?”
Even thinking was exhausting—he wanted to crawl into a hole and hide for a while. The next decade, perhaps. “I’ve got a pretty good idea who’s responsible, but I can’t think yet.”
“You want me to come by? I was going to go up and visit Christine and Derek tomorrow—the friends I shared an apartment with that one summer, you remember?—but they’ll understand if I have to cancel.”
A knock at the door jolted Paul to his feet. He barely had time to formulate the vision of his father showing up to yell at him in person when Brandon’s voice cut through the panic. “Paul? You home?”
Thank God. Paul let out a shaky breath. “Look, Danielle, I’ve got someone here now, so I think I’m okay. But thanks.”
“Someone?” The word dripped with curiosity.
“Someone I—someone who can help,” Paul admitted. “I’ll explain later, but—talk to Mom for me, please? I know I can’t make her accept me the way I am, but having someone rational around right now would probably be a good thing.”
“Will do,” Danielle promised. “And Paul? Whoever your someone is, I hope he makes you happy.”
* * * *
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Paul breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God. Brandon didn’t look mad; if anything, he looked worried.
“Um, can I …”
“Oh. Sure, sorry.” Paul opened the door wider and stepped back to allow him
inside. Brandon had his laptop with him, which he set down on the kitchen table.
“Look, Brandon, I—”
He was interrupted by a rib-cracking hug. God, how had he not known how much he needed this? It was wonderful of Danielle to call, and even better of her to offer to drop everything and come running to help him escape what were probably soon to be the shambles of his regular life, but Brandon was holding him tight and he smelled amazing and somehow the world seemed a lot more positive than it had been five minutes earlier. They stayed like that for a while, neither needing words to communicate. When they finally drew apart by mutual consent, Brandon dragged in a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair.
“You meant it, then,” he said quietly. “In your message.”
I’m such an idiot. “Yeah.”
“And you saw the e-mail?”
“Only right before you got here. The voicemail didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“Oh, I know. It’s just—I couldn’t stop it, Paul.” He rubbed one hand in gentle circles over the nape of Paul’s neck, soothing even as his own posture belied his frustration. “I saw it right away and did what I could to get the pictures off the server before too many people could download them, but I couldn’t stop it from going out.”
“I’m surprised you could do anything at all.” He swallowed hard. “I—I didn’t look, but I’m assuming the pictures are of you too.”
“All three were shots from that first night,” Brandon said quietly. “And yes, I’m in them too, but he didn’t get my face. The only saving grace was that you were on some lists that didn’t allow unauthorized attachments, so those got flagged right away—I yanked the file down from the St. Ben’s mail client, but that’s only a stopgap measure. Anyone who checked their e-mail before I got to it received the full thing, and there’s no way to know who that might be.”
“And of course if even a handful of people saw it, they’ll forward it to everyone else pretty much as soon as possible.” Because that was how the world worked, wasn’t it? “Apparently my mother is having a meltdown.”
Brandon closed his eyes. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Paul.”
Paul dropped a chaste kiss on his collarbone. “Not your fault. Danielle called me to say that she doesn’t know how my dad’s reacting, but my mom’s freaking out. I’m sure she’s on the phone with him right now.”
“Not going to be supportive, I assume?”
When hell freezes over. “Danielle is, and that’s what matters.”
“Did you tell her about me?” The question was casual, but Paul could feel how Brandon was tensed for another rejection.
And he was thrilled to not have to deliver one. “Not yet,” he confessed, “but I alluded. And I was hoping you might get to meet her in person before she goes back to France.” That would be an interesting conversation. “I suspect I’m going to be having a lot of free time soon.”
“God, I’m sorry,” Brandon said, his voice muffled against Paul’s hair. “I couldn’t do anything about the text itself, or the addresses not on your mailing lists—they sent pretty much instantaneously.” He tightened his grip and started rocking them gently. It felt wonderful. “And I’m sorry about last night. I knew in the abstract why you felt you had to stay in the closet, but I was upset. I hate that you’re having to live the doomsday outing scenario now.”
“Don’t be sorry.” As good as burying his face in Brandon’s neck felt, Paul forced himself to pull back and settle down a bit. “Obviously this wasn’t how I meant to come out, but that’s not your fault. And I—I want to. Be out. With you. For good.”
Brandon stilled. “You’re serious?”
Paul nodded. “I’m not sorry this happened. I’m furious.” As he said it, he felt how true it was. Almost like a new wave of energy washing over him, rinsing away the last of the lethargy and self-pity. “I’m furious that I’ve spent all this time working toward tenure and now it’s wasted. And you deserve to hear this from me when I’m not dealing with a stupid career crisis, but Christopher took that chance away. I wanted to apologize and—heck, I don’t know. Do something especially nice for you. And now we’re both stuck cleaning up the mess Christopher threw us—me—in.”
Brandon’s breath rushed out in a startled huff. “Damn,” he murmured. “I’m really glad I’m not going to have to meet that ex of yours face to face. I’ve never wanted to punch someone so badly.”
“Any chance he can get in trouble for this?”
Brandon choked on what had probably been a laugh. “You could say that, yes. I was on the phone with legal on the way over—that’s essentially the other half of what my company does, so really all we can do is wait it out.” He pressed a quick kiss to Paul’s lips, then drew back far enough they could look each other in the eye. “If I can make a suggestion, though…not here?”
God, yes. Paul glanced over at the closed curtains, but the thought of Christopher potentially watching him again still sent a shiver down his spine. “Where?”
“Throw something in a bag and I’ll tell you.”
Chapter 23
At Brandon’s insistence, Paul just transferred the contents of his dresser to a suitcase.
“It’s a lot,” he warned.
“My car has a big trunk. And I’m not bringing anything; I’ll have one of my guys pick up my suitcase in the morning. I was already mostly packed. I was planning on returning to your place before all hell broke loose.”
Paul paused and stared at him, but Brandon just shrugged.
“I was hoping to convince you to come home. To my apartment. I’m not short on clothes back there, after all.”
Traffic was light that late in the evening, so they made good time back to Atlanta. Paul was feeling a tiny bit paranoid about Christopher having followed them to the city—or to Brandon’s hotel or to anywhere else they’d been in the last week—but the lack of cars on the highway helped.
“I turned my phone off,” Paul confessed as Brandon reached over him and keyed in the combination at the gate to the complex. “You and Danielle are pretty much the only two people on the planet I’d even consider talking to right now, and she already called me earlier.”
Brandon shot him a glance out of the corner of his eye as he pulled up in front of his apartment. “Are you teaching in the morning?”
Hell. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”
“What, they can’t fire you if they can’t reach you?”
“Sure, we’ll go with that for now.”
Brandon frowned, but didn’t call him on it. Paul hauled his bulging suitcase into the bedroom, then came back out and joined Brandon on his tiny balcony. It was quiet except for some faint road noise in the distance. A decent-sized stand of trees blocked some of the surrounding light pollution, so there was a clear view of at least the brighter stars. They stood in silence for several minutes.
“Good to be away for a bit?” Brandon eventually said.
“Never want to go back.” Paul could practically feel the last of the tension draining away. It was cool enough he wished he’d brought a jacket, but the quiet was beautiful and Paul let himself drink it in.
Brandon leaned on the railing next to him, studying his face. “You mean that? Or is it just the stress talking?”
“I think I do mean it.” Dang, who’d have thought I could walk away from it all without feeling at least a guilty pang of regret? He already didn’t miss it, though, and that perhaps surprised him more than anything else. Although… “I really do owe you an apology,” he added.
Brandon immediately shook his head. “I was being an ass. Last night wasn’t your fault.”
“It kinda was.” Paul tore his eyes away from the stars and turned so they could see each other face to face. “I was so convinced I had to hide what I am that I ended up unwilling to consider anything that might threaten what I thought I wan
ted. Even though what I really wanted was you.” He smiled weakly at the stunned look in Brandon’s eyes. “I know, we’ve both been careful to say it’s ‘casual’ and all. And it hasn’t been long enough for me to be all serious like this. But…yeah. I thought you should know.”
“You want me, specifically?” Brandon asked quietly. “Or just what I represent? The freedom to be out and be true to yourself?”
That startled a totally inappropriate laugh out of Paul, which he quickly suppressed. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say that was at least partly a factor, but…” God, this is harder than I ever imagined to admit. Brandon deserved to hear it, though, so he could decide for himself. “I didn’t know it could be like this. So comfortable. I assumed I could only get that with a more traditional relationship, because I assumed being gay was… Well, you know what I thought. Heck, you lived the stereotype for a while yourself. And.”
Brandon huffed. “I could absolutely see you with sparkly product in your hair, you know.”
“Shut up and let me finish.” Paul nudged Brandon with his elbow to make it obvious he was teasing back. “It’s hard enough to admit this without you interrupting.”
“Oh, is this a declaration?” Brandon faked an innocent look. “Sorry, I was mostly looking forward to the part where you say you want me and that the “something nice” you want to do for me involves sex.”
Paul was all ready to elbow him again, to take one more run-up at getting this right, but something in Brandon’s eyes stopped him. It wasn’t just the lust, although that was certainly at the forefront. There was a sense of…maybe not disbelief, but insecurity. Brandon needed reassurance that Paul really did want him for real and not only as a convenient source of temporary sex. Perhaps this was one of those times where actions spoke louder than words.
“Brandon,” Paul said in a low voice, “it’s not just sex. I want to keep you for as long as you’ll have me. But I would very much like it if the next several hours of that time were in your bed.”