Love Has No Direction

by Kim Fielding

  They ate a simple dinner of burgers and baked potatoes—Wes cooked; Parker cleaned up—before holing up with music and books. Tonight felt jagged somehow, though, and Parker had trouble settling. He turned pages without registering what they said. Wes kept changing the playlist or getting up to fiddle with curtains and lights. He hummed something Parker couldn’t quite catch. Maybe things would have been easier between them if they’d had more space, but the rain had intensified, the night was cold, and the bus felt really small.

  Parker’s nerves, already frayed from recent events, buzzed uncomfortably. Fidgeting didn’t help, and neither did a mug of mint tea. When he couldn’t stand it a minute longer, he lurched across the bus and ran out the door. Despite the darkness and rain, and even though his hoodie offered little protection from the elements and he could barely see the gravel road in front of his feet, he sprinted past the white house that once belonged to Wes’s grandfather. He continued to the county road, chose a direction at random, and pounded down the blacktop.

  The exertion warmed him despite his soaked clothes and the squishing inside his sneakers. Wet hair hung in his face. Between that and the poor visibility, he fell once. Swore, stood up, wiped the debris from his stinging hands. Continued running. Listened to his lungs laboring and the splashes as his soles slapped the blacktop. Thought about nothing at all.

  The headlights hit him before he heard the car approaching from behind. He veered to the shoulder—and fell again as he stumbled into a shallow ditch. This time his hands landed on something stiff and thorny, perhaps the late-autumn remains of a thistle. He was still standing in the ditch and swearing when the car came to a stop beside him.

  Not a car—Morrison.

  “You’re going to get yourself killed.” Wes hopped out of the driver’s seat.

  Before Parker could protest, Wes draped a raincoat over Parker’s shoulders, hauled him to the passenger seat, and buckled him in. He tossed a blanket onto Parker’s lap before returning to the wheel. After executing a quick three-point turn, he zoomed back toward his property.

  “You forgot your phone,” he said as he drove. He pulled it out and tossed it onto Parker’s lap.

  Parker, shivering violently, didn’t touch it. He faced the window instead. It was steamed opaque from their breaths.

  When they reached the bus, Wes turned off the engine and stared through the windshield. “Go change into dry clothes and I’ll drive you to Grants Pass. Probably no bus until tomorrow. I’ll get you a hotel room.”

  Parker finally spoke, but his voice was barely more than a whisper. “You want me to go tonight?”

  “No!” Wes shouted, slamming the steering wheel with both hands. “I want you to stay inside where it’s warm and dry and some asshole driving too fast in the rain isn’t going to run you over. But you seem to have different plans.”

  “I wasn’t….” Parker traced patterns in the moisture on the glass. “I’d rather leave tomorrow.”

  With a frustrated grunt, Wes shoved his door open and hopped out. He slammed the door hard enough to shake the van.

  Parker remained in the vehicle for several minutes, hair dripping onto his face and shoulders. He felt small and stupid, and he was cold. Finally he got out and draped the sawdust-scented blanket over his head, tucking his phone into a fold of the fabric to keep it dry. The stairs leading to the bus door loomed steeply, but he managed them.

  As soon as he was inside, Wes reached around him to close the door. “Put these on.” He nudged Parker’s chest with a stack of folded clothing.

  Still shivering, Parker stripped out of his sodden clothes and into the dry ones. Clean boxers, a pair of soft gray sweatpants, and a pinkish sweatshirt that was probably once red. Threads trailed from its raveled hem, but the inside was nice and fleecy, and it felt comforting against his clammy skin.

  “Did you hurt yourself when you fell?” Wes had spirited away the wet clothing and now hovered nearby, frowning.

  Parker wordlessly held out his hands. They were raw-looking, with bits of gravel and broken thorns embedded in the skin.

  Wes sighed, but he sounded more weary than annoyed. “Sit down.” Parker perched on the edge of the couch, and Wes left the bus without putting on a jacket.

  He swiftly returned with a plastic bucket of steaming water in one hand and a sizable first-aid kit in the other. The kit’s plastic case was scuffed and battered; it had clearly seen frequent use.

  Neither of them spoke as Wes swabbed Parker’s hands with warm water and then antiseptic, although Parker couldn’t stop a hiss at the sting. He was a wimp about pain. He remained still, though, even when Wes prodded and then pulled the thorns loose with tweezers.

  Finally Wes gave Parker’s hands a critical inspection, nodded, and closed the first-aid kit. “Bandages would be more of a pain than they’re worth. But keep your hands clean.”

  “You’re good at doctoring. Something they taught you at the police academy?”

  Wes barked a laugh. “No. If you work with your hands, they get chewed up sometimes. And you learn how to take care of them.”

  That Wes had nobody to patch him up when he was injured made Parker a little sad. But he didn’t mention it.

  Wes went back outside to put away the supplies, and he returned with an oversize mug, which he shoved at Parker. “Drink.”

  It was hot chocolate, the instant kind, and although it burned Parker’s tongue, it also chased away the last of his chills. He was left feeling feeble and weak-limbed. “Maybe I should go to sleep.” He had no idea what time it was but suspected the hour was still early.

  “Fine.”

  “I’m sorry I….” Parker let the words fade away. He was so goddamn tired of being sorry. He made his slow way to the bed and, keeping all his clothes on, collapsed onto the mattress. He stared up at the curved ceiling, listening to Wes move around the bus, damping down the wood stove and closing the curtains. Tidying up a few things. Tucking away food because, he’d told Parker the previous day, otherwise mice inevitably found their way into the bus.

  Parker must have drifted into a doze, because he was slightly startled to find Wes standing at the foot of the bed and frowning down at him.

  Parker sat up. “Do you want me to sleep on the couch?”

  “You’re young. And… bright. Vibrant.”

  That didn’t seem to answer the question. Parker cocked his head. “Okay?”

  “I’m not any of those things. And I’m a miserable son of a bitch most of the time.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I am. You haven’t been around me long enough to see, but you would, in time. You’ve had enough trouble without having to deal with my shit. Go back to Portland tomorrow. You’ll find what you need there.”

  Parker had no idea what prompted this conversation or why Wes would say these things, and he didn’t have the emotional energy to argue. “Let’s just get some sleep, okay?”

  After a moment Wes doused the last of the lights, leaving the bus in almost complete darkness, and joined Parker in bed. They lay beside each other, breathing in tandem.

  “I’m not always a huge mess,” Parker said after a long time. It sounded pathetic.

  “I know.”

  “Really. Usually I’m kinda happy and easygoing. Too easygoing, maybe. It’s like running down that road in the dark—I don’t see where I’m heading and end up falling. Drama city.”

  “But you get back up again.”

  Parker considered this. “I guess so. I’m just sorry I dragged you into the current mess. Usually it’s just Mom who has to deal. This time it’s you too.” A thought struck him. “And Logan. Christ, Logan.”

  “We’ve been through this. His suicide was not your fault.”

  “Maybe not. But I didn’t help either, did I? I mean, we were living together, and I didn’t even realize he was that into me. Or that he was depressed. I kinda know some of the symptoms of depression ’cause Qay’s talked to me about it before.”

 
; “Who?”

  “Jeremy’s husband. He’s a really cool dude, but he has struggled. I think no two people experience depression the same way, but I sure wouldn’t have guessed it about Logan.”

  Wes was quiet for a bit. “But he was having money problems, right? Maybe the stress got to him.”

  “Especially after I got him fired.”

  “Parker—”

  “I know, I know.”

  More silence. But then the weirdest thing happened: Parker became suddenly aware of how close Wes was. And that he was probably wearing only underwear. He was handsome, and he’d been patient and generous with Parker even though Parker hadn’t earned it. He’d gone out on the road in the rain to rescue him. He’d so carefully dealt with Parker’s hands—even though he had nobody to tend to him when he was hurt.

  He was right there.

  And tomorrow Parker would be gone.

  Parker rolled toward Wes. Rolled onto Wes, actually. Cradled his head between sore palms and leaned in to press their lips together.

  For a second or two, Wes remained utterly still. But then he wrapped his arms around Parker and kissed him back with such fervor that their teeth clacked together. Which probably hurt, but Parker didn’t care about that any more than he cared about the sting of his hands. What was important was the contact between his skin and Wes’s, the way Wes opened his mouth to Parker’s tongue and how Wes held his waist with his strong fingers.

  Parker liked kissing. It was a hobby he’d engaged in often over the years. Sometimes he liked it almost as much as sex because it felt equally personal without being so… fussy. No messy lube or fumbling over a condom. No awkward getting dressed afterward. No positions where someone ended up with a cramp.

  So yeah, kissing in general was good. But this one…. Maybe it had something to do with how Parker had lately been on an emotional trampoline, leaving his body oversaturated with hormones and neurotransmitters. Maybe it was just that Wes’s nearly naked body felt so good against Parker’s clothed one. In any case, this kiss sent him straight into overdrive. Every one of his senses became superhero acute while the cognitive centers of his brain blue-screened into nothingness. He dimly realized that he was moaning and undulating his hips and that Wes strained his own hips upward to meet him, but all of that was less important than the taste of chocolate and the scents of rain and wood shavings.

  He almost cried when Wes gently but firmly pushed him away.

  “Got enough regrets already.” Wes’s voice came ragged. “Don’t need another.”

  Hurt cooled Parker’s ardor as thoroughly as cold rainwater. “I thought you wanted—”

  “I do. Badly. But what about you? This whole situation you’re in…. Let yourself breathe a little first, okay?”

  The hurt faded, only to be replaced by sorrow. Parker wanted Wes desperately right then, but he didn’t know whether that was honest attraction or just a sinking ship heading for the nearest port. Wes didn’t deserve to be used. And Parker, well, he could discern his own motives even less well than usual.

  He reached over and gave Wes’s shoulder a quick squeeze, then turned away. Parker didn’t know whether this was an admirably good decision or a phenomenally bad one, but it was his choice for tonight.

  Chapter Eight

  “I CAN drive you to Portland.” It was the third or fourth time Wes had offered, and as they sat in the van outside the Greyhound station in Medford, Parker shook his head again.

  “I’ve been too much trouble already.”

  Wes twitched a shoulder. Aside from the mad dash to nowhere in the dark and rain, Parker hadn’t been any trouble at all. The opposite, in fact. Wes had enjoyed the companionship. But if he argued the point too strongly, it might lead to Parker being in bed with him again, and this time Wes wouldn’t have the strength to push him away.

  “If you’re sure,” he said. He thought about trying to give Parker some money, but his attempts had so far been unsuccessful. Parker claimed he had adequate cash for his fare to Portland, which was enough for now.

  They ended up in Medford after learning that Grants Pass didn’t have an actual station, just a stop in the middle of an industrial park. Even though this station was small, at least Parker could buy a ticket. There were benches inside, or outside under an awning so he could stay out of the rain while he waited. Now he sat in Morrison’s passenger seat and stared at the plastic grocery bag in his lap, containing the clothes he’d worn the day he ran away with Wes. Today he wore the sweats Wes had given him the previous night. Parker said he’d mail them when he was back in Portland, but Wes didn’t care about that.

  Parker made no move to get out of the van, and Wes didn’t urge him to go.

  An elderly woman in a puffy down parka exited the station, looked around for a moment, and shuffled to the nearest bench. She had an enormous purse slung over her shoulder and carried two bulging cloth shopping bags from Trader Joe’s. A green knitted hat with an absurdly oversize pompom perched on her head. Maybe she’d end up sitting near Parker for the ride north. If so, Wes hoped she was good company.

  With a noisy sigh, Parker turned to face him. “Thank you. For putting up with me.”

  “It was fine.” More than fine.

  “Next time you’re in Portland, come by P-Town. I don’t know how long I’ll be there, but….”

  Wes nodded, although he had no intention of stepping foot in P-Town again. He’d faced Jeremy and Nevin once, he’d had his say, and that was enough. Besides, Parker would find new prospects soon enough and move on. He was a bright kid, willing to work hard, and he picked up new things quickly. He’d land a new job somewhere. A new boyfriend.

  “I left my number in your bus,” Parker said. “On that notepad near the bed? You could call sometime.”

  Another lie of a head nod.

  Silence followed. And then Wes blurted out the truth that had been eating him like acid for a decade. “I killed a woman.”

  Parker blinked at him. “What?”

  “That’s why…. Nevin and Jeremy. That’s why they hate me. They should hate me.”

  “You don’t come across as a cold-blooded murderer.” Parker said it lightly, as if the confession were a joke, but his eyes looked troubled.

  “I’m not. I…. Shit. Never mind.”

  “No. If you want to say this, I want to listen.”

  Where had Parker learned to give such gentle words of support? Nothing demanding or judgmental; just a promise of a willing ear. Wes couldn’t resist such a rare gift. “I was hardly more than a rookie, and I’d already given up on impressing my dad, but I guess I was still trying to impress someone. Anyone. Trying to be a big shot and a hero.”

  He’d never told this story to anyone, at least not like this. Although he’d had plenty of discussions about it with his captain and the detectives in Homicide, with Internal Affairs, with a bunch of lawyers, this was different. Parker was just watching him, not interrogating him.

  “I was on patrol in my car, not all that far from P-Town, actually. The Brooklyn neighborhood. And it was a really quiet Tuesday morning.” He remembered the details with exquisite clarity, like a movie he’d watched a thousand times. Weak sunlight filtered through wispy clouds and evaporated the moisture on the pavement, an early spring chill hung in the air, and there were very few people in sight because most were at work or school. The trees were just beginning to leaf out; daffodils bloomed in front yards. He drove slowly up and down the streets of the modest neighborhood, bored out of his mind. He was considering how soon he could stop for lunch, and where.

  “This guy came running out from the front porch of a triplex, waving his arms at me and shouting. I knew the guy—Ralph Denton—because he had some mental health issues. Nothing dangerous, but once in a while he’d go off his meds and play his music loud enough to piss off the neighbors. He’d turn it down when we asked. Anyway, that morning he was obviously upset. When I stopped the cruiser and rolled down the window, he told me that the man in the u
nit next door had been screaming and the lady who lived there was crying.”

  It hadn’t been a particularly coherent account. Mr. Denton was upset and tripping over his words, and he offered several wild and contradictory theories about what was going on. Drug dealers. The FBI. Terrorists.

  “What I should have done was call it in. I knew that. Standard procedure. But instead I just parked and got out of the car.”

  “Why?” Parker sounded genuinely curious, not accusatory.

  “Because I was a fucking idiot. I figured Denton was hallucinating the entire thing. Or maybe he’d had an argument with the neighbors over his music and wasn’t being rational about them anymore. I figured I’d knock on the door, check things out just enough to mollify Denton, and then head off to lunch. Quick and easy.”

  He couldn’t go on with the story.

  Parker set a hand on his knee and whispered, “It wasn’t, though.” A simple statement, not a question.

  “I didn’t hear anything when I approached the door. Maybe there was nothing to hear, or maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention. I don’t know. I knocked. Cop knock, you know? When nobody answered, I did it again. I did the cop voice too: ‘Portland Police Bureau.’ Nothing.”

  He’d been annoyed with Mr. Denton—hovering nervously nearby—for making him get out of the cruiser, for making him waste his time. This wasn’t what he wanted to be doing with his day, dealing with Mr. Denton and the possibly nonexistent neighbors, driving around in a squad car and waiting for somebody to run a red light, wearing a uniform and a badge and a gun and hoping someone might notice he existed.

  “I was going to give up. But then I heard a sound. A woman’s voice from inside the apartment. I couldn’t make out what she said, but it was… distressed. And again, instead of calling it in, getting help from more experienced officers, doing anything a decent cop would have done, I knocked again. ‘Police. Open up!’”

  Had he been panicking? Afterward he was never sure. The flawless memory of that day became muddled from the point he heard the woman cry out. Lindy Shaw; that was her name. Wes would never forget that. But everything else immediately after became jumbled in his mind. Perhaps he was clearheaded at the time and it was only the shock afterward that obliterated the details. He’d never know.