William

by Anyta Sunday

  Eric breathed out. “Phew. Well, the offer of a bed is out there, anyway.”

  Air whipped around the room as Candice stormed in followed by Sig. She was so engrossed in the pages she was leafing through Will wasn’t sure she even noticed Sig behind her.

  She snapped her head up to look from him to Eric. “It looks like a pig farted these numbers. They’re such a mess, this will never do.”

  Sig snorted and she whipped around in surprise. Their eyes locked for a moment before Candice blinked and stumbled to her desk, all red-faced to match her hair, and with a small smile playing at her lips.

  Eric moved in behind his desk. “So, twenty-seven this weekend,” he said, looking from Candice to Sig, “how’re you going to celebrate?”

  “Birthday? Why didn’t you say something earlier!” Candice cried. “I bags making the cake. And dancing!” She pointed at Will as if ready to shake her finger if he argued. “We have to go dancing.” Rubbing her hands together, she smiled. “We should go out for dinner first, though. Indian? Asian? Preference?”

  “Oh, you don’t need to—” he started, and Candice wagged the finger. He leant over the desk and playfully slapped it away, laughing. “Fine, if you must. And Indian.”

  Actually, he was flattered she was so excited to do something for him. It was . . . nice. He used to spend his birthday with his family; here the Freak Zone was his family. Yeah, it felt right.

  “Great,” Candice said, hopping up from her desk. “I’m going to mark the occasion.” And she slung on her painting apron and grabbed a tube of yellow paint. All three of them, Sig, Eric and himself studied her as if maybe this time they’d figure out what the hell it was all about.

  “I’ve got it,” Eric cried. “This is a diary, isn’t it? You paint out your moods! Did you minoring in psychology or something?”

  Sig shook his head, and to Will said, “Nope. I thought that one already. Well, I thought it was because she was in therapy. Got my ear clipped for that.” He rubbed his ear as if he could still feel the sting. “Say, you about ready to head out of here?”

  “Yeah, ready when you are—”

  A knock came at the opened door, and Will, his back turned to the door, noticed Eric’s face pale.

  Candice, fingers stained yellow, looked over her shoulder. A none-too-pleased cry cut through him. “What are you doing here?”

  Swiveling, Will caught Rory standing at the door, drumming his fingers where his hand rested on the handle.

  “Actually,” Rory said, “I came to have a wee chat with your boyfriend.”

  8 Say what?

  Say what?

  Then all at once:

  Rory narrowed his gaze at him.

  Sig snapped his head to Candice.

  Candice’s mouth dropped partially.

  And Eric, still pale, frowned in Will’s direction.

  “Seriously, what?” Will said, noting a scowl Sig threw his way—yikes, that didn’t look too friendly. Hope he still had a floor to crash on for the night. Maybe he should take up Eric’s offer . . .

  Rory lifted his drumming fingers off the door handle and beckoned him into the hall, and without waiting for a reply, disappeared.

  The air crackled with unasked questions as he stood. “Be back in a sec and we can go,” he said to Sig and slipped into the hall.

  Rory was waiting by the elevators, running a hand through his dark hair and muttering something under his breath as Will rounded the corner. For some reason, he’d always thought Rory was shorter than he was, but standing next to him in the light of the day—or under the florescent bulbs—he was much the same height. If it weren’t for the scowl and the fact he hated the guy, he’d have been quite attractive.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  Dropping his hand, Rory glanced toward the ugly white wall. For Rory, probably anything was better to stare at than him. “You need to go back there,” he finally blurted.

  “What?” Back where? Back . . . “Back to the Wallaces’?”

  “They need you there. Leaving like you did, so suddenly . . . it’s hurting her. Heath’s upset, too, he’s trying to do everything he can to make it better, but she’s gotten bad again. Fuck.” He glanced at him, meeting his eye for the first time. “It’s bad.” Anger filled his gaze. “Why did you leave like that?”

  “Whoa. Hey. This is the best thing for all of us. I wasn’t any good for Vicky, if I’d have known from the start, I’d never have moved there in the first place.”

  “But you didn’t know, and you did live there the past couple of months. Vicky liked you; she thought you liked living with her, too.”

  “Surely she has to understand—”

  “This the way you treat all your friends, man? Don’t know how you have any if it is.”

  “Excuse me?” He clenched his fists at his side. Of all people, this guy had no right to judge him.

  “You left. Without explaining. Without saying goodbye. You just left. I know if a friend had done that to me, I’d have felt stink. Like I meant nothing. When your best-fucking friend in the world leaves without a goodbye—it fucking kills you.”

  He swallowed over a hardening lump in his throat, noting a sheen in the guy’s eyes. “Heath wanted me gone.”

  “Yeah, he did. But he said he thinks he might’ve been wrong about that.”

  “Well, he didn’t say anything to me.”

  “Why’re you being such a stubborn-fuck?”

  Will bowed his head. His last comment had been petty. In fact, everything Rory had said made sense—though he was loathe to admit it.

  He wrapped his arms around his middle, staring past Rory and out the window. Jeez, he was an awful person. He should’ve thought harder about things. It’d crossed his mind to say something to Vicky when he’d collected his clothes and crap, but he didn’t want to be a reminder of her dead son anymore. Didn’t want to make things worse.

  Well, he’d done that anyway, now, hadn’t he?

  “I can’t go back.”

  “The hell you can’t. If you’re an okay guy at all, you’d go back.”

  “You care about the Wallaces. I respect that.” It was probably the only thing he liked about the guy. “But I don’t think you’re seeing this from all sides. Can you imagine living with a family that saw you as their dead son?”

  Rory wavered a moment, then quickly schooled his expression. “If it’s for a good cause. Yeah.”

  “But is this a good cause? Wouldn’t I just make things worse?”

  “I’m no fucking psychologist. I just know, right now, Vicky feels like shit and you going back up there would make it better.”

  The elevator dinged and his and Candice’s supervisors walked out, deep in conversation. They acknowledged him with a nod as they past him. Rory stopped the elevator door from closing by moving inside. “I’ve said what I came to say.” Resting against the back handrail, the door slid shut as Rory finished: “I hope you’re as good a guy as Heath claims you are.”

  * * *

  Sig barely spoke to him the entire drive back to his place out on the peninsula. The guy’s irritation permeated every twist of his body. Every breath, practically.

  On the one hand he hated the awkwardness between them; on the other hand, it gave him the silence to mull over what Rory had said. The guilt of not having said goodbye gnawed at his gut. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he’d go up there and talk to her.

  Once back at the one-bedroom house Sig rented—covered in amazing sketches and comic paintings—Will couldn’t take Sig’s irritation anymore. He grabbed a glass of water in the kitchen and watched as Sig filled a pot for the pasta and sauce he always made them. “Seriously, man, you need to talk to Candice again.”

  “We are talking.”

  “Borrowing staplers or post-it-notes don’t count. That snort you gave her earlier? That was the most natural exchange the two of you have had in weeks.”

  Sig snapped off the faucet. “Yeah, well.”

  “I know s
he’d like it if you’d—”

  “Are you having sex with her?”

  Will almost dropped his glass, catching hold of it against his stomach. “What the—? Sig, I’m gay. You know that.”

  “Rory said—”

  “And you believe him?”

  Sig placed the pot on the element and turned it on. “No. I just . . . I told her to get her own love-life a couple of weeks back and then hearing that today. . . I don’t know what I thought. It connected somehow.”

  “Well, I’m not having sex with her.” He watched the relief flood back into Sig’s posture and decided to test something. “But,” he said, “someone else will be soon enough, I’m sure. She’s a great person.”

  Yep, just as he thought, the guy’s shoulders had tensed up again.

  “Who? Eric?”

  Maybe not Eric, if his hunch was right. “Someone. Why do you care?”

  A second’s silence. “I just—I want her to have someone good. They have to be good for her.”

  “What?” he said in mock horror, “And I wouldn’t have been?”

  “No. You’re gay. You’d eventually break her heart.”

  They shared a short smile. Then he said, “Seriously, Sig. Why aren’t you speaking with her?”

  He clapped a pan onto a front element and poured in some oil. “I will. I was just pissed at her for a while.”

  “Because of the Harriet thing?”

  He spun around, spilling oil onto the floor. “You know about that?”

  Will grabbed a cleaning cloth, rinsed it, and wiped up the mess. “Yeah, I do. She’s really sorry, Sig.”

  Sig dried up the wet spot with some paper-towels. “I know. I just—I really liked Harriet and I’d been so confused why she left me. I was upset with ‘Dice when I found out. But then I thought maybe she—I mean, I hoped . . .” He whipped the wet towels into the bin. “I don’t know.” Sig looked at him, smiling. “But it’s going to be okay,” he said. “I clarified things with Harriet. She’s going to give me another chance.”

  He felt sympathy pains on Candice’s behalf. God, he really, really didn’t want Candice ever to find out. Though sooner or later it’d be obvious. Shit, how could he have read Sig so wrong? He’d really believed the guy was secretly in love with Candice, too.

  He’d hoped to see the two of them together soon enough. And if they hadn’t got there on their own, he and his big mouth were happy to help out.

  But Sig was into Harriet?

  Sig was into Harriet.

  Had he just been projecting Sig liked Candice because he wanted it to happen for her? Because that’s the way he was built inside—always rooting for the Happily Ever Afters. Surely with all his past experience, he should have learnt by now there was no such thing.

  Happily Ever Afters didn’t exist.

  “Harriet’s giving you another chance? But,”—he took the mushrooms Sig got from the fridge, and sat at the table with a cutting board and knife—“doesn’t she want something serious?”

  “I am serious.”

  “Like, marriage, serious?”

  “Maybe one day. I want to finish my doctorate first, but, yeah.”

  “And Harriet’s the one?”

  Sig stopped chopping the chicken. “You’re sounding like ’Dice. I don’t understand why she doesn’t like Harriet. And you,” he pointed the sharp knife at him, “you don’t know her. Save your judgment until you’ve met her.” Looking at the way he held his knife, Sig pulled it down. “Sorry.”

  “No, I—You’re right. I don’t know her.”

  “Well, let’s remedy that, shall we? Tomorrow afternoon, we’ll have coffee in the Link.”

  * * *

  No matter how awkward, this needed to be done. Deep breath. Now just knock on the Wallaces’ door. Vicky’s car was in the driveway, so she was home. Which meant he had no excuse for chickening-out.

  Unless, maybe he should speak with Heath first—make sure just showing up wouldn’t send her into shock or something. . . .

  Grow a pair, knock on that door, and apologize for any hurt feelings.

  Before he could lose any more bravado, he knocked.

  One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi. Ah, maybe she wasn’t home after all.

  He took one hurried step back and the door opened.

  Vicky stood there, hair messed slightly as if she’d not long ago been in bed, holding a phone to her ear. She straightened when she saw him and her hand with the phone dropped to her shoulder. “William! How—how nice to see you again. Come in.”

  She ushered him in with a wide smile and quickly spoke into the phone. Her tone was hushed, but Will’s ear was good at, well, eavesdropping. He really needed to break out of the habit. He would.

  Starting tomorrow.

  “I have to go right now,” Vicky said. “. . . it’s none of your business who I have at my place. . . . no, it became my place when you left. . . . let’s not ruin this, okay? Heath—I need this to work. . . . yes, that’d be good. Bye.”

  Vicky motioned for him to sit down at the table and as he did, she put on the jug. Two cups of steaming tea later, Vicky sat in the chair across from him. “So,” she said, a nervous twitch in her smile, as she continued to dunk her teabag in and out of the cup. “How have you been?”

  “Okay. Fine.” He took a quick sip, burning his lip. “I’m sorry for leaving without saying anything, Vicky.”

  “Ahh.” She nodded, looking at her cup. “Heath told me you found out about . . .” she swallowed “about my William.”

  “I don’t really know what to say. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She finally took a sip of tea and the moment seemed to stretch so long. What was he supposed to say next? Vicky seemed to be taking this all so well, considering. Was she trying to hold it together for his sake? Or did he genuinely make her feel better when he was around?

  “I wanted to tell you myself,” she said. “At the beach, remember? I promised myself I should tell you about William. But,”—she looked at him with a wobbly smile—“You’re a very charming man, you know. My William was also charming—he was the chatty one, the speak-before-he-thought kind. You have moments like that, too.” Her smile faltered and she dropped her gaze back to the tea.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to tell you,” she said. “I just—wanted you around longer. I”—she sighed and scrubbed the frown at her forehead with her thumb—“is there any way you’d come back for a little? Maybe just until the end of the semester?”

  What could he say to that? What did he even think about it? On the one hand, it would be so uncomfortable being here as a William, in another William’s bedroom, living the life he would be living if he were still alive. Always knowing what he represented. Knowing that he had the ability to make Vicky happy, but ultimately the power to hurt her so badly. On the other hand, he did miss the banter they’d had together—their morning routine, the laughs they shared, the fact she went to efforts to arrange dinners the way he liked them.

  He cleared his throat. “Vicky, I don’t think I can stay in William’s room—I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Her eyes welled and he reached out and patted her hand. “But I like you, Vicky. I really am sorry. Maybe, maybe—”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe I could come to dinner once or twice a week?”

  * * *

  Will wasn’t sure what was worse. That he lied when Candice asked him where he was going. Or that, though it’d been perfectly sunny this morning, it was raining something torrential outside, and he had to borrow Candice’s bright yellow Mickey Mouse umbrella.

  Who was he kidding? The former was the worst and the latter was the world’s pay-back. Okay, so what if he went to see Sig and Harriet behind Candice’s back?

  God, it really did sound as bad as he thought. And worse, Harriet wasn’t anywhere near as awful as he’d been expecting—hoping—she’d be. It didn’t mean he liked her that much either, but . . . well, it didn
’t bode well for Candice.

  He really should stop at a café and bring her back a large latte. Then he’d break the news as gently as he could. Maybe ice-cream would be better?

  Half-way across campus grounds, dodging students darting to their next class—half of them holding their shirts or books over their head for cover—his cell let out a line of the Chili Peppers. There was only one person with that song programmed to their name. He all but dropped his umbrella as he dug into his jeans to grab the phone. Heath had messaged him.

  Heart galloping, he opened it, going through the possibilities of the text in his head: A) Heath was glad he’d gone and talked to his mom. So glad that he was going forgive him for his stupid mouth and go on to ask him out, and they’d go to dinner, and—daydream on, buddy. Or B) Heath was pissed he interfered at all. That he should’ve never promised to visit their place for dinners. . . . His stomach flipped with nausea, and he forced himself to read.

  Interesting umbrella, Will

  Say what? That he hadn’t anticipated. He scanned the thinning crowds. Heath was here somewhere? And he’d seen him?

  Are you stalking me? he texted back.

  Maybe.

  His heart jumped at that and again he searched the grounds for him. The Chili Peppers rang out again. And he read Heath’s next message:

  Actually, I’m here 2 c my old prof. But who could miss the Mickey Mouse Monstrosity?

  A grin pulled at his lips and he wrote back:

  Can you still c me? Where r u?

  A few seconds, then another message:

  Long gone. But the image is burned in my head. So in a way, yeah.

  After that, he and the Mickey Monstrosity floated. To the dairy to pick up a punnet of ice-cream and two plastic spoons. All the way up to the ugly eleventh-floor foyer.

  He came back to earth as soon as he caught Candice wagging a long finger at her computer screen, leaking rather colorful words. Eric sat amused in the corner, studiously looking at his own screen but with a wicked grin that said he found the whole scene amusing—but wouldn’t in his life say anything to interfere with that loaded gun.

  Will could almost feel her rant stretch like a breeze across his skin. Maybe now wasn’t a good time to bring up Harriet. . . .