Cutting Cords

by Mickie B. Ashling

  Cole ran a hand through his hair and twisted around on the sofa, trying to ignore the erection pressing against his pants, a permanent state whenever he thought about Sloan. He had no idea that sex with another man could be so good. He was embarrassed to even admit it to himself. He acknowledged the hypocrisy of his actions, saying one thing and doing another. His offer to have an affair, separate from his straight life, was insulting and Sloan had seen right through him. He was wrong and Sloan was right to call him out. He was surprised that he hadn’t hit him again. He would have if the roles had been reversed.

  Sloan was the most complex person he’d ever met. One minute an impulsive pothead, the next an intelligent, introspective, and caring human being. He was rash and disrespectful, but also honest to a fault and extremely talented, from what Cole had seen after snooping around in his briefcase. He’d dug into his portfolio, just to get an idea of his body of work, and had been blown away by the little he did see. There was no doubt in his mind that Sloan was brilliant and could match him wit for wit, keeping up with anything he’d throw at him. On the other hand, he was young and didn’t give a shit what people thought of him. He had no qualms about his homosexuality, absolutely sure of who he was and what he wanted. Cole envied this side of Sloan, and he wished he had a fraction of his self-confidence.

  If Sloan would consent to having marathon sex, maybe he’d get him out of his system once and for all, and this entire idea of being gay or not gay would be resolved. He’d get sick of the man and go back to the life he’d always known. The risk, of course, would be that he wouldn’t want his old life ever again, but it was a risk he was willing to take.

  He heard the keys jiggling in the lock, and he sat up abruptly, running his hands through his hair again, pushing it out of the way. Sloan walked in and stopped when he saw him sitting on the couch.

  “You waiting up for me, mom?”

  “Fuck off! I fell asleep on the sofa.”

  “If you were my mommy, now would be a good time to ask me how my evening went.”

  “Blow me, Sloan.”

  “You wish.”

  Cole jumped off the sofa and headed for the kitchen. He didn’t bother turning on the lights.

  “Hey, vampire boy,” Sloan yelled out, “what’s up with you and the lights?”

  “Turn ’em on, I don’t give a shit.”

  Sloan followed him into the kitchen and leaned up against the doorjamb. “Seriously, Cole, why aren’t the lights on?”

  “I’m trying to save money.”

  Sloan snorted and said, “Right.”

  Cole looked at Sloan and only saw his shadow because he was too far away. He didn’t see the frown on his forehead or the look of concern that had crept into his eyes. “I know this place inside and out, Sloan. I don’t feel the need to turn on the lights,” he replied, mustering as much dignity as possible. Sloan had this way of making him feel like a blithering idiot without even trying.

  “Suit yourself, brother. I’m going to bed.”

  “Why? Are you exhausted from your hot date?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I am completely fucked out, if you must know.”

  “You’re a whore,” Cole hissed, burning with a jealousy that flashed suddenly.

  “I’m the whore?” Sloan laughed derisively. “I’m not the one who wants to jump from my bed to Juliana’s and back to mine again.” He walked up to Cole and grabbed him, holding him tight against his body. He kissed him possessively, running his tongue along Cole’s lips, drawing the groan out of Cole that he was trying to stifle. Sloan reached down and felt the erection pressing hard against Cole’s jeans. “Who’s the fucking whore now?” He pushed him away roughly and spun around.

  Cole was left in the middle of the room, breathing so hard and fast he was starting to hyperventilate. His rage leaked out of every pore, turning him into a man he didn’t recognize. Despite the anger, he was fiercely aroused, and he wanted to storm after Sloan and rip his clothes off. Instead, he went into his room, locked the door, and began to jerk off, tugging at himself almost violently. He kept seeing Sloan’s face, the smell and taste of him fresh and tempting. He wanted to shove his cock up that tight ass. Emotions that ranged from anger to extreme desire fought for control over his body, reducing him to a whimpering wreck, and soon the tears poured down his face. He fell on his knees while he ejaculated all over the carpet, leaving him more dissatisfied than ever. He folded into himself and began to weep, disgusted with his actions but more certain than ever that he wanted Sloan.

  The next morning they faced each other over the breakfast table without speaking. Cole had woken early, so he had time to prepare. He’d made a pot of coffee, going out of his way the day before to get a new machine to brew the espresso Sloan favored. He even gave in and bought muffins, heavy with sugar and nitrates, to please his roommate who had no idea what good nutrition meant. Sloan would have probably been just as happy with a package of Ho-Hos, but Cole couldn’t bring himself to buy them, so he opted for the cranberry muffins instead, rationalizing the little bits of fruit would provide some sort of nutritional benefit.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” Sloan murmured. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I had no right to call you a whore,” Cole replied softly.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I realize that,” Cole said stiffly. “I’m nothing to you.”

  “That’s not true,” Sloan interrupted quickly. “Your choices have drawn the lines.”

  “They are choices I’ve yet to resolve.”

  “Is that true?” Sloan asked, sounding hopeful.

  “Let’s just say that everything I’ve held true, no longer is.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Cole stood. “I’m not sure what I mean, Sloan, but believe me, you’ll be the first to find out after I do.”

  He walked out of the kitchen and tripped over Sloan’s backpack, which he’d left in the middle of the hallway. Cole had not expected that and he didn’t see it, as it was off to the right, below him, and certainly not within his range of sight. He landed on his chest, shocked at the suddenness of the fall, and he heard Sloan’s chair push back quickly. Sloan was at his side in a minute, reaching to help him up.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Cole replied, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I didn’t see your stuff, I’m such a klutz.”

  “I’m sorry, Cole. I should have put it somewhere else.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Cole replied, trying desperately not to break into tears again. He was getting to be as emotional as his sisters on their worst PMS days. Soon he’d have to buy a bottle of Midol. “Have a nice day, okay?” he said, hoping Sloan wouldn’t notice how shaken up he was.

  However, Sloan did notice, and when Cole finished his breakfast and walked out the door of the apartment, he didn’t see Sloan following him. He had no idea Sloan got into a cab, following closely behind. He gave the driver the address for Lighthouse International and leaned back against the seat. A part of him was happy they’d had a conversation that didn’t involve screams and emotions. If nothing else, he could take care of Sloan, feed him, and see to his creature comforts. Maybe that would help pave the way for something more meaningful in the future. For now, he’d settle for twenty-four drama-free hours.

  27

  I HAD no idea why Cole was taking a cab or where the fuck he was headed, but I was lucky to find this one in a town where cabs were always at a premium.

  “Follow that cab.” It sounded so Bogart and mysterious, but damned if I knew what the hell was going on. Cole was definitely hiding something, and I was determined to find out what it was. I knew I was a slob and unorganized, but my backpack had been in plain sight. How could he have not seen it and fallen so badly?

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” I asked the Indian who was driving.

  “No problem, buddy. You want to share?”

  “You smoke weed?”

  He brok
e out in a grin and nodded his head eagerly. “Here, have a couple hits,” I said, rationing him, “I don’t want to lose that cab up front, and you will if you get too fucked up.”

  “Thank you, buddy.”

  Anything for the sake of international relations, I mused. Where the hell were we going? After miles of gridlock and an endless procession of red lights, we stopped in front of a building on the Upper East Side. The sign read Lighthouse International, which meant nothing to me.

  I waited to see which entrance Cole took and I followed quickly, worried that I’d lose him once he got inside. He stood in front of a bank of elevators, and it must have been my lucky day because the security guard seemed to know him really well. They struck up a conversation, and although I only caught bits and pieces of it, I distinctly heard the name of Dr. Butterman, whom I assumed was the reason Cole was here. That set my mind to rest, and I waited till he stepped into the elevator before I approached the security desk

  “Is there a Dr. Butterman in this building?”

  “Yup, fourth floor,” the guard replied without even looking up. So much for the great security.

  “What kind of doctor is he?” I continued.

  He finally looked at me and said, “Are you kidding?”

  “Uh, no. Why?”

  “Son, you’re at Lighthouse International. The only kind of doctor you’ll find here is an eye doctor.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I felt so dumb.

  I hung around the lobby forever; having no intention of going to the doctor’s office until Cole was gone. I didn’t think he’d be longer than an hour, so I found a good spot where they had a couple of sofas. I sat down with my earphones plugged into my iPhone and let the music carry me away. It helped to pass the time and take my mind off the reason I was here.

  After about forty-five minutes, I spotted him leaving the building. He got into a cab again, which I found very curious. For someone who professed to be saving a buck by not turning on the lights, he was spending a fortune on transportation. Why the hell didn’t he take the subway?

  I stood up and entered an elevator, hitting the button that would take me to the fourth floor. I was discouraged when I saw how many doors I’d have to check out before I found Dr. Butterman, but eventually I stood in front of his office and knocked, relieved when I heard someone say, “Come in.”

  I walked in and stared at the man I’d seen with Cole on more than one occasion. “It’s you!”

  “It’s me?” John Butterman looked surprised by my statement. I couldn’t believe I failed to recognize his name, although I clearly remembered being out of it the day Emily and I had met him.

  “I’m sorry, doctor. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “That’s all right. May I help you?”

  “My name is Sloan Driscoll. I’m Cole Fujiwara’s roommate.”

  “I believe we’ve already met.”

  “Yes, we have. I was wondering if we could talk.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I followed Cole.”

  “Without his knowledge?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I can’t tell you anything about Cole, Mr. Driscoll. There are HIPAA laws I need to follow.”

  “But I want to know what’s wrong with him.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “So there is something wrong,” I said, pouncing on his reply. “Tell me.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “Please, doc. I need to know.”

  He must have heard the distress in my voice, because he asked, “Why?”

  “I care about him… a-a lot,” I stammered, trying not to out Cole.

  “And does he care about you?”

  Shit! “I believe so.”

  “I’m in a very awkward position, Sloan. I’d like to help you, but the law is clear.”

  “I understand, doctor. Can you at least tell me what your specialty is?”

  “I’m a psychiatrist trained to work with patients who are sight impaired. My job is to provide them with the tools they’ll need to resume a normal life despite the inability to see.”

  “What do you mean by inability to see?” I was stupefied by his answer. Was he talking about Cole or someone else?

  “Patients see me when they start to lose their sight. I prepare them for the inevitable blindness that will come as a result of their disease.”

  “No!” I stood and began to back away from him. “You can’t mean Cole?”

  “You asked me what I do, Sloan. We are not talking about Cole or his disease. Is that clear?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I answered, sounding like a total retard. He must think I’m the dumbest guy in the world. “What would cause a person to go blind like that?” I asked, hoping he’d continue on with this charade. We both knew we were talking about Cole and I was grateful he was bending the rules, but I just couldn’t wrap my head around anything he was saying.

  “Have you ever heard of retinitis pigmentosa?”

  “No.”

  “Retinitis pigmentosa, better known as RP, is a rare, inherited disease in which the light-sensitive retina of the eye degenerates slowly and progressively. Eventually, blindness results.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The retina is the innermost layer of tissue that lines the eye. It contains layers of light-receiving cells called photoreceptors that are connected to the brain through the optic nerve. If you think of the eye as a camera receiving images, the retina is the film on which the images are recorded.”

  “Can’t you buy new film? Or transplant it?”

  “I’m afraid not. There are two types of photoreceptors, Sloan, cone cells and rod cells. Cone cells are in the center of the retina and are responsible for central vision and color. Rod cells are required for peripheral and night vision. Both cone and rod cells convert light into electrical impulses that travel through several type of nerve cells to the optic nerve, which then sends the signal to the brain, where seeing actually occurs. With RP, photoreceptor cells begin to degenerate and eventually stop functioning.”

  “But there has to be a cure!” I could feel myself starting to spiral, the reality of his words finally sinking in.

  “There is no cure, Sloan. I’m so sorry to have to tell you.”

  I was horrified. I didn’t know what I was expecting to hear today, but I know it wasn’t this. I felt like I was hallucinating on some bad weed. My beautiful Cole, the man whose incredible blue eyes I so worshiped, was going blind. I started to cry, unable to help the tears that leaked out of my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. I propped my arms on the desk, laid my head down, and began to sob. I was heartbroken for Cole. No wonder he was so defensive and confused. All I could think of doing was running home and cradling him in my arms. I had to apologize for being an asshole and making him so miserable. I needed to help him get through this, and if fucking me would do it, then he could have me. Who gave a shit that I’d be destroyed in the process? I wasn’t the one going blind. My issues were mental and could be fixed. His weren’t fixable.

  I must have cried for a good ten minutes until I felt Dr. Butterman by my side. He lifted me off the chair and wrapped his arms around me, which made me cry even harder. I was bawling like an infant.

  “Sloan, son, you have to control yourself.”

  “How long before he goes blind?” I wailed against his chest.

  “I don’t know, Sloan. It could be tomorrow or ten years from now. Everyone’s different.”

  I pushed back, puzzled, “Can’t you be more specific?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head sadly.

  “Doc, I… love him.”

  “I know you do.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s pretty obvious, son.”

  “Has he said anything to you about me?”

  “We’re not talking about Cole, remember?”

  “Oh God. Please, Dr. Butterman. Just tell me he cares.”

  “More than he’s
willing to admit.”

  I stopped crying for one second and hugged him tighter, and then I started up again. Finally, when there were no tears left, I extricated myself from the doctor’s arms, pulled a tissue from the box he had on the table, and blew my nose. I sat down and said, “Tell me how I can help him.”

  “We are talking about patients with RP, is that not right?” Dr. Butterman asked, and God bless him for that.

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “They need to feel normal, Sloan, productive and useful. The last thing any disabled person wants is to be a burden or treated like a child and infantilized because they can’t do certain things.”

  “How do I do that? I want to help in any way I can.”

  “You help by allowing him to bump into things, to fall, and make mistakes. It’s the only way he can become self-sufficient and retain his dignity. Most people are proud and hate to accept help. When you compound familial and societal pressures, you have a tremendous burden to overcome.”

  “His father.”

  “In general,” Dr. Butterman reiterated, reminding me of the delicate position he was in.

  “Yes, in general. Do you think one should continue to act normally, the way they’ve been acting in the past?”

  “Of course!”

  “But what if that isn’t good enough? I’ve been acting like a fucking jerk!”

  “I don’t know who or what you are talking about, Sloan.”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Butterman. I want to help so much.” I started to cry again, I couldn’t help it. I was overwhelmed by sadness. Cole’s entire life would never be the same. This is why he quit baseball, not because he wasn’t good enough. Dear God… I yanked more tissue out of the box and blew my nose again, trying to get myself together. “I believe I told you I love this person who has RP?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Butterman sighed, knowing he was breaking several rules.