I stared at his hand for a moment before hesitantly reaching for it. His grip was warm and moist. He blushed, drew his hand back, and apologized for his damp grip, wiping his hand on his shorts.
We stood in awkward silence for another moment or two, Charlie glancing around the yard.
“You’ve got a really nice place here,” he said, his tone cheerful and bright. His feet stopped moving, and only the rise of his chest and the sheen of his skin told me that he’d been running just a few minutes before.
I found myself mesmerized by him. He reminded me of a stream of sunlight, coming into the window and falling into my chair, where it warmed me all afternoon.
“So…,” he said, “do you have a name, or am I supposed to guess it? Because I have to warn you, I’m not really good at things like that.”
His question jolted me out of my reverie and made me remember I was supposed to be uncomfortable in his presence. But I wasn’t. I mean, I could feel the twinges of nerves, and part of me still wanted to rush back into the house, but more of me actually felt okay with him.
“Oh, s-s-sorry,” I stammered. “Matt. Matt Bowers.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Matt Bowers.” He waved his hand, gesturing toward the property I worked hard to maintain. “You’ve got a great place here,” he repeated.
I could feel heat rising in my face at his compliment.
Then he aimed a lopsided smile at me, and everything froze. I found myself transported to another time, a different facial expression, and hearing once more the words that had been seared into my mind: You knew why we were coming out here. I couldn’t draw a breath, and Charlie’s expression morphed into a sneer. His beautiful face twisted into an ugly mask. I could see his mouth move but had no idea why. It didn’t matter, though.
I turned and ran for the house, slammed the door behind me, and bolted it. I hurried to the bathroom, where I dropped to my knees, ignoring the pain that jolted through my body, and stuck my head in the toilet bowl, expelling my breakfast.
The pounding at the door, and the voice calling my name, only served to heighten my anxiety. When the door jiggled, I screamed, and Charlie’s voice rose to a panicked level. He banged harder, but that door had been built to last. He wouldn’t get in that way.
My heart hammered, my lungs pleaded for air, and my body shook with remembered fear. I tried for short, slow breaths but found myself unable to calm my shattered nerves. My vision of this place as a safe haven, a place to heal, to find myself again, was gone in an instant. Once more, my fault. I’d let my guard down for a moment, the possibility of being what my mother and brother wanted—of being normal—seeming tantalizingly within reach. Then reality showed me the truth. That would never happen, and even trying wasted whatever energy had been expended on it.
It was actually a blessing when I passed out.
CHAPTER THREE
“RELAX, MATT. It’s okay.”
Clay’s voice floated close to my ear. My eyes popped open to see him kneeling next to me, with Charlie looking over his shoulder. They were in my home, somewhere they had no business being. I tried to sit up, but Clay held me in place.
“Stay down. Charlie said you had a panic attack, and I think you need to rest.”
“You have to get him out of my house,” I croaked. The Sahara wasn’t nearly as dry as my mouth.
Clay turned to Charlie. “Can you get him some water?”
Charlie dipped his chin, gave a brief look around, then headed off into the other room.
“You scared the shit out of me. If Charlie hadn’t called, I wouldn’t have known. I’m so sorry I forced you to do this.”
“Should be,” I gritted out. “Told you.”
Clay gave me a wan smile. “You did.”
“Charlie Carver,” I whispered.
“He’s getting you some water. He’ll be back in a minute.”
“No. His name. It’s Charlie Carver. You said if I found out, you’d leave me alone.”
“I don’t think you—”
“No!” I snapped, my throat aching. “You promised you’d leave me alone. I want both of you out of my house. Please. Just leave. Go away.”
Clay closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. “Matt—”
“I want you gone.”
“Here,” Charlie said, handing Clay the glass of water. He glanced down at me, and for a moment I thought I saw sadness in his eyes. “I’ll be going now.”
There was so much hurt on both of their faces, but I couldn’t afford to feel bad. I needed them gone. Having them in my house ratcheted up my discomfort, and if they didn’t go, I’d be right back in panic mode. Clay stood and offered me a hand, but I didn’t take it.
“I don’t feel right about this,” he said, reaching out to stroke my hair. “Please, at least let me take you to the hospital.”
“No,” I said sharply. I brushed away his hand as I struggled to stand. And it was a struggle. Weakness permeated my body, making me feel like my bones were made of jelly. I wobbled as I got to my feet, and Clay reached out to me, but I shrugged him off. “Get out. Now.”
Clay put the glass down next to me, then turned away, Charlie right behind him. They walked toward the door, which had been cracked when they forced it open. The lock hung limply off the frame.
As soon as they were gone, the crushing need to lie down overwhelmed me, but first I had to check everything. I touched each of my items, running my hands over them, ensuring nothing had been disturbed.
When my needs were satisfied, I picked up the glass my brother had set down, took it to the sink, washed it thoroughly, then put it back up on the shelf. After, I called Mr. Gianetti, the man who I could get just about anything from, about ordering a new door. He assured me he could have it to me within a week. In the meantime I did my best to bar the door. It wasn’t perfect, but it was reasonably sturdy. Once that was settled, my mind finally slowed down. Only then could I collapse onto the chair, allow my body to relax, and let sleep come.
THE SHRILL sound of Clay’s ringtone woke me a few hours later. Still exhausted, I reached over and picked up the phone. “What?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” I answered honestly. My head weighed a ton. No way could I lift it off the pillowy cushion. “Did you need something?”
“Just wanted to check on you,” he said, his voice soft.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“No, you’re not.” He sighed. “You know you’re a crappy liar.”
A deep breath. “Fine. I freaked out. I admit it. But you should have known not to bring him in my house.”
Clay grumbled something about ungrateful sons of bitches, then launched into a tirade. “Charlie helped me get in so we could check on you. He bruised his shoulder trying to get the door open himself because he was concerned you might need help. He stayed there until I could get to you. And what the hell did you do? You treated him like dirt! He stood there while you told me to get him out of your house.”
“But—”
“No buts!” he shouted. “I’m sick to death of your buts and excuses. I don’t care how you treat me. I’ve known you long enough to understand what’s going on, but I had to apologize to Charlie, then try to explain to him why you’re… you.”
“So you went ahead and told him what happened to me?” I shouted as I gripped the arm of the chair. Bad enough my family thought I was a freak. I didn’t want Charlie to get that idea in his head. Not that my earlier performance would help dissuade him from that.
“What? God, no. That’s not my story to tell. I told him you were antisocial and had been since we were kids.”
“So, you’re saying he didn’t already know who I was?”
“No, he moved here about two years ago. He’s a writer, works from home. There are times he leaves town to go on a book tour and I’ve watered his plants. Charlie came back from the last tour about eight months ago. Since then, he’s been working in the library, helping out Mrs. Ten
nyson. She’s told me she hopes he’ll take her job when she retires.”
“That’ll never happen. She’s too ornery to retire.”
“She’s eighty-six. Doesn’t see too good out of her right eye. She suffers from dizzy spells, and more than once she’s been taken from the library or her home to be checked out for vertigo. The doctors don’t know if she has long left.”
The last time I went to the library, Mrs. Tennyson had talked to me about getting comics in. She thought more kids would show up if there was something to read that they might enjoy. She loved helping people find what they were looking for or something new. It was her who had given me the dog-eared copy of My Side of the Mountain. I’d read that thing hundreds of times since then. The binding had come loose and the pages weren’t in the best of shape, but I couldn’t get rid of that book. It held a special place in my collection, bound together by frayed rubber bands. At least once a year I would take it down and read it again. I never told anyone, but I came to love Mrs. Tennyson. I saw her as a surrogate grandmother, and though she denied it—probably because she had a reputation for being a grouch—I knew from her fond expressions that she held me in high regard.
She taught me there could be joy found in reading, and I took to it with a passion. My Side of the Mountain remained my favorite, but Mrs. Tennyson nudged me in the direction of other classic literature, such as Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and The Time Machine. That started my collection of books, ones that remained with me to this day. I found safety in them, comfort when everything else became too overwhelming. Suffice it to say, after the incident I read a lot. Mom had told me Mrs. Tennyson asked after me, but I couldn’t go back to the library. She became another in the long list of people I’d failed.
“Tell him…. Tell him I’m sorry, okay?”
“Sure. But you need help, you have to know that.”
Yeah, hard to deny it. “When everyone leaves me alone, I’m fine.” Weak excuse, but true. Before Charlie came along, I enjoyed the peace and quiet. The memories never seemed so insistent when I had a routine to follow, a good book to read, and the solitude my place afforded me.
“No, you’re not. Mom wants to see you. When I told her what happened today, she got into the car to come out there. It wasn’t easy, but I convinced her not to come. You’re breaking her heart, you know.”
Fuck. Why did he have to pile the pressure on? Did he think I didn’t know how badly I hurt everyone else? That the memory of my mother’s tears as she watched me descend into my own nightmare had faded? Leaving home had been as much for them as for me. I couldn’t stand their looks of pity every time I needed to retreat to a safe spot.
“So, what? You’re going to go see Hamlin?”
“No, I gave my word. After today, I won’t say anything else. Just think about what I’ve said. Mrs. Tennyson asks about you, Mom wants to see you, and I….” I thought I heard him sniffle, and my stomach clenched. “I want my brother back. I have to go. I won’t call you anymore. If you want to talk, I’ll be happy to listen, but I can’t do this. I’ve watched you spiral down the drain my whole life, and I can’t sit back and pretend it doesn’t hurt. Goodbye, Matt.”
“Wait!” I shouted, but he’d already disconnected. My finger poised over the dial pad, ready to call him back, but to what end? I couldn’t change who I was any more than he could. Clay didn’t see it that way, though. He thought if I tried harder, my world would be sunshine and roses. Even Rob had told me I would always have issues. He could teach me coping methods, but he couldn’t make it go away. Who I was now? That was the person I would be for the rest of my life. I had to accept it, but apparently they didn’t.
Instead of ruminating on it, I forced myself to get up, trudge to my room, and lie down. I pulled the covers over me and went back to sleep. The problems had been there for thirteen years. I had no doubt they’d still be there tomorrow.
THE SUN streamed through my open bedroom door far too early the next morning. I tried to not open my eyes, but my larks were in good form, warbling away. I glanced over at the clock and wondered once again why I bothered to have one. Almost ten. I hadn’t slept so long or hard in years. I pulled the covers up to my chin, rolled over, and tried to go back to sleep. A moment later I sat bolt upright. Almost ten. Would Charlie run by the house today? It seemed unlikely after yesterday, but I slid out of bed and made my way to the window. The urge to be outside to see him clearly tugged at me, but instead I went to the bookcase and grabbed my copy of My Side of the Mountain. I took a seat in the chair where I could read in peace but see outside. Not an ideal solution, but it calmed me knowing that I could still see Charlie—assuming he jogged by.
By quarter after, he hadn’t passed by the house. I couldn’t focus on the words I had intended to read, as one ran into the other. I lost my place so many times, I gave up even trying. Once the rubber band was back in place and the book safely returned to the shelf, I made a circuit through the house, touching everything, before I went outside. A heavy, muggy feeling descended, which left me damp in a matter of moments. Though likely it had been the humidity that kept him from running, my mind still played all manner of games, until I’d convinced myself I had chased him away, which was probably the best for my continued peace. So now that I had what I wanted, why wasn’t I happy?
I walked down the path that led to my tiny toolshed and picked up my small spade to turn over the ground in my flower bed. I rounded the corner to the front of the house, knelt down in the rich soil, and began to prepare the ground for winter, making sure I fertilized the area where my bulbs would be placed for their long winter’s nap. Yard work always calmed me, made me feel one with the world. After five minutes, I dropped the trowel, then slumped to the ground, unable to concentrate on one of the things that had always brought me peace.
Then I heard the familiar slap-slap-slap of rubber soles on the dirt road. My heart raced, though my mind believed it to be an illusion brought about by want. When the staccato beat drew closer and the sounds of panted breaths reached my ears, I stood and headed for the front door. Determined not to allow myself to hope, I decided retreat would be the better option—hide until Charlie left, and then try to find my rhythm again. But I wanted to see him more than I ever thought could be possible. To watch as his chest expanded while it drew in air, to delight in the small brown pebbled nipples, partially hidden beneath a dusting of hair, to remember what desire felt like. It didn’t matter if Charlie was gay or straight. He was the first real man I’d seen in the flesh, and I enjoyed the view. His body was so unlike that of the developing guys in the shower. It held curves and planes that aroused me and made me wonder what else lay hidden beneath his skimpy shorts.
After the incident, my body really didn’t respond like it used to. Before that, a stiff breeze would cause a stiffness of my own. Fortunately we had two bathrooms in the house, because I spent a lot of time in one of them. Then Mr. Jackson happened. After that, I rarely had an erection, and when I did, it seldom lasted. Sixteen years old, and I should have had callouses on my hand. Instead I had memories of a smell that permeated my mind, which killed my mood better than a dozen cold showers. When I’d seen Charlie, though? God, the ache in my balls reminded me of how long it had been since I touched myself for anything other than washing or using the bathroom.
He rounded the bend, and I couldn’t breathe. My legs refused to work, despite the fact that I willed them to run. Instead they held me hostage as he neared my property. His hand went up a little, then dropped to his side. He turned his gaze to the road, watching his feet. Tight bands encircled my chest and squeezed. I’d done that to him, made him uncertain, unsure if being friendly would be the wrong thing to do.
And while it went against everything in me, I said, “Hello.”
He stopped, still maintaining a slow cadence as he cooled down. “Hey, Matt. I… is it okay if I’m here?” Charlie asked, a slight quaver in his voice.
Was it? He’d certainly made himself a part
of my world. Seeing him today had calmed an ache in my stomach because I’d expected him to be there. Hell, I needed him to be there for my own peace of mind.
“You’re late,” I snapped, a lot more harshly than I’d intended.
He smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I had to go to the library today. I did a reading for six lovely women who I think I might have scandalized with my writing. I had to stop, because I thought Mrs. Patterson was having heart palpitations. And then afterward, I had to make a trip to the hardware store.”
Clay had said Charlie wrote. “What do you write?”
“Murder mysteries,” he replied. He must have noted the confusion in my expression, because he gave me a little smirk. “The main character is gay.”
Oh. Oh! “You’re gay?” I immediately regretted my tone, because it sounded accusatory.
“Yeah,” he answered sheepishly. “Is that a problem?”
“No, not at all.” Hell no. My heart did a little jig, and my cock actually twitched.
“Good. So what about you? Do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
I shook my head. “No, no one.”
That brought a big smile to his face. “Really?” He sounded so happy.
I took two steps toward him, and the tightness in my chest receded as I got closer. “So… about yesterday….”
He nodded. “Panic attack? I get it. I have those when I have to do a reading. Don’t worry about it. But if you’d like to tell me what set it off, I’ll try not to repeat whatever I did to cause it.”
He thought he had caused it. “You didn’t do anything,” I promised. “This started way before you.”
Charlie tilted his head a little, then flashed me a cheeky grin. “If you offer me something to drink, I’ll forgive you.”
My heart thudded. Did he think I’d let him in my house? Because no way would that happen. Still, if he wanted to sit outside….
“I made some lemonade,” I told him. “It’s probably not what you’re used to. I have a few trees I’ve grown over the years in my hothouse.”
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