Olive Juice

by TJ Klune

  Does that sound like something we should do? Phillip asked David.

  Nah, David said easily. That doesn’t sound like something we should do at all. In fact, you should get your butt out of bed, because we’ve got some plans for you.

  Plans? she asked them suspiciously.

  Great plans, Phillip said. Probably involving greasy bacon and runny eggs, the yolk going just everywhere—

  Ugh, she groaned. Kill me now. I’m never drinking again.

  Probably a good idea, David said. Especially since you’re underage.

  I’m safe.

  We know.

  You can trust me. I would never do anything stupid.

  We know that too. Doesn’t mean it’s legal.

  Fine, she muttered. Take your parental guilt trips and get out of my room. I need to take a shower. My mouth tastes like ass.

  Funny, your father says the same thing after he—

  David Greengrass!

  Oh my God, Dad! Get out of my room!

  And that was the beginning of their day.

  They’d had breakfast and then taken her shopping and spent far too much money on whatever she wanted. A phone. A Coach purse. Shoes. Clothes. Makeup. She got her hair done and her nails done, and it’d been just the three of them, two dads and their daughter, and as they were walking together, Alice between the two of them, her arms through theirs, she told them that she felt like a princess, and that today had been a very good day.

  When she leaned up and kissed both of them on the cheek, she said, I love you guys.

  And if she decided she didn’t want to go out that night again, no one said a thing. Instead, she decided to put her new clothes away and put on sweats, and they were in the kitchen, eating pizza. She was sitting on the counter, her socked feet dangling toward the floor. She had a devilish smile on her face as she told her papa that she was a woman now, and that if she wanted to stay at a boy’s house overnight, she would, and that was when David had taken the picture. That last picture. Of her soft and safe and happy, wearing a sweatshirt that said she was a DIVA, her pink socks on her little feet, her beautiful hair in an afro, makeup-free and alive and alive and alive, and that was what David remembered. That was what he remembered from that day, that she had been alive and whole and theirs, she was theirs, and when he lowered the camera after taking the photo, he had to swallow past the strange lump in his throat.

  Daddy? she asked, a concerned look on her face.

  He nodded, unable to speak and unsure as to why.

  Phillip smiled softly at him. Your father is just an old sap.

  She hopped off the counter and walked toward him, and David looked away, trying to find some way to wipe his eyes without her seeing, but then she stood above him, and he had no choice. He scrubbed his hand over his face and coughed, trying to cover it up as best he could. But these were the two people who knew him best, these were the two people who loved him the most.

  These were the two people he’d never fool.

  Oh, Daddy, she said, leaning forward. He closed his eyes as she kissed his forehead. Don’t cry. It’s all right. Everything is all right. I’m not going anywhere, okay?

  And oh, the lie that had been.

  That was the last photo on the wall. Not of her sitting on the counter that David had taken where she’d looked all soft and safe. No. This photo was the one that Phillip had taken of the two of them when she’d kissed his forehead.

  That was the last known photo of her, hanging on their wall.

  Sixteen days later, it was March 22, 2012.

  Six years later, it was what they had left.

  That moment.

  And then they were past it, at the top of the stairs, and Phillip pulled him down the hall. There was the bathroom on the right, a guest room on the left, then her bathroom and her bedroom, the doors closed, and David thought, No, please no, don’t make me go in there, please don’t make me go in there right now. Because when he’d left, it’d still been a shrine, however unhealthy that’d been. They’d kept the room the same as the day she left it, ready and waiting for the day she finally came home. Every year, they’d bought Christmas presents and birthday presents, stacking them against the far wall. There would be such a party when she came back, they’d whispered to each other in the middle of the night when neither of them could sleep. There would be such a party, with streamers and cake and balloons that said WELCOME HOME and WE MISSED YOU and YOU’RE SAFE YOU’RE SAFE YOU’RE SAFE. Alice would smile and laugh, they’d whispered, and she would clap her hands and do that funny little shimmy she did when she got really excited, like her whole body was the happiest it’d ever been.

  Then they’d go through years of gifts, telling the stories of each (this is the scarf I bought you in 2014, and I cried in the middle of the department store, this is the journal I bought for you in 2013, knowing that when you came home, you would have a story to tell) and at the end, when the party was winding down, everything getting quieter, hazier, they would be on the couch, friends milling around the periphery. David and Phillip would be watching her as she approached, and she would be filled with so much life that it would take their breaths away. She’d put her foot between them and wiggle it back and forth just like she always had, and they would make room just for her, because she was the only one who could get between them like this, the only one they would make room for.

  And then she’d sit between them, and she’d lay her head on her daddy’s chest, and she’d be clutching her papa’s hand, and she’d yawn, jaw cracking. Then she’d say, “Thank you for my presents, you silly guys. I love you.”

  That’s what they’d whispered to each other in their bed late at night, their daughter’s bedroom down the hall, slowly being filled with all the gifts for all the celebrations she had missed.

  So, no. He couldn’t go in there. Not now.

  Especially considering the little hall closet he had back in his shitty apartment, filled with all the presents he’d bought for her since Phillip kicked him out.

  He just couldn’t do it right now.

  He wasn’t even sure why he was here.

  But Phillip didn’t open her door.

  In fact, he passed it right on by with only the slightest of hesitations.

  David didn’t think he’d ever felt so relieved about anything in his life.

  I’m sorry, sweetheart, he thought to himself. I’m just not ready.

  Instead, Phillip led them to his (their) bedroom.

  He flipped the switch on the wall, and the light from the ceiling fan above came on, that damn ceiling fan that’d given them so much trouble when they’d installed it on their own. The wiring hadn’t been right, and they’d gotten a little snappy with each other, but they’d figured it out in the end, Alice sitting on their bed, reading off the instructions, giggling at the plaster stuck in their hair, the dust on their faces.

  Phillip pulled David into the room, closing the door behind them. There was no one in the house, so David didn’t know what Phillip was hoping to keep out, but he didn’t ask. He allowed Phillip to lead him over to the bed. The comforter was different, forest green instead of sky blue, and there were new lamps on both nightstands, but other than that, everything looked to be the same. David had left most everything for Phillip when he’d moved out. He’d been unwilling to leave Phillip wanting for something that he could just as easily buy secondhand and cheap. His bed in the apartment was a futon, his dresser worn and chipped. It was a half life, he knew, but he’d rather have Phillip keep all their possessions than take away from him.

  He remembered the look on Phillip’s face that day when he’d said that. He’d been standing by the door, suitcases packed, struggling to keep himself in check. Phillip had been breathing heavily, eyes stormy, and then David had opened his mouth and he thought Phillip would crack right down the middle. He’d fled rather quickly after that. He felt like he’d been running for a very long time.

  They stood near the bed, side by side, ha
nds clasped, both of them still wet despite the heater in the SUV. David had so many things to say (why and how and what do you want from me and I love you, I miss you, I need you, please don’t let me go), but he said none of them, his equilibrium still off, grappling with the fight-or-flight urge heavy in his chest.

  Phillip (wonderful Phillip, sweet Phillip, knowing Phillip) said, “I’m going to go get us some towels. I want you to stay right here.”

  David nodded dumbly, trying not to flinch when Phillip pulled his hand away. He clenched his jaw to keep from saying something stupid like, “Can I please go with you?” He gripped one of the bedposts so that he couldn’t head for the door, down the stairs, and out of the house back into the rain. He had a thought (when was the last time you drove around DC, just looking for Alice? She could be out there right now and you’re not doing anything about it, my God, what kind of a father are you?) but he pushed it away. That was the guilt talking, he knew. The psychiatrist had told him during one of their very first meetings that guilt had a voice, and it would speak louder than all his other thoughts. It was okay, she’d said, to listen to it sometimes, but he could not let himself be swallowed by it because he might not ever come back.

  Phillip backed away from David slowly, never taking his eyes off him, as if he thought the moment he looked away, David would disappear as if he’d never been here at all. He stumbled a little when he reached the bathroom door, and he had to look away, fumbling with the light switch. He was out of sight for only a few moments.

  David looked away, toward the bed.

  The lamps were lit.

  David had always slept on the left side of the bed, Phillip on the right. They had never even really discussed it back when they’d first started. That first night they’d met, that was just how they’d been, curled up in Phillip’s apartment in Silver Spring, the mattress lumpy, the thumpthumpthump of music from a neighbor’s apartment through the thin walls. David had been on the left, Phillip on the right, and it’d been weird just how weird it wasn’t. They hadn’t kissed, though David had been thinking about it for the last hour. They’d just taken off their pants, leaving on their shirts and underwear, and they’d lain on the bed, facing each other, knees drawn up and bumping as they asked all the important questions they could think of (what’s your favorite color? and do you believe in aliens? and in the morning, will you make breakfast with me? I’m warning you right now, I’m kinda stuck on that band Snap! and their song “Rhythm is a Dancer.” You have to sing with me while we make waffles). They’d fallen asleep that way. The next night, it was the same thing. And the night after that.

  And every single night they spent together, it was David on the left, Phillip on the right.

  Sometimes, Alice had been in the middle.

  She had nightmares.

  Or she was sad.

  Or she just didn’t want to be alone.

  The door would creak open at one in the morning and she’d whisper, “Daddy? Papa? Can I stay here with you? I think there’s a gremlin under my bed.”

  David would groan, and Phillip would mutter that David should have never let her watch those movies, but they’d always make room because there’d always been room for her. There’d always been—

  “David?”

  He looked up from the bed. Phillip was standing a little bit away, looking unsure. He held a couple of towels in his hands. He’d taken off his coat and scarf, and he looked drier than David felt.

  “Hi,” David croaked out, unsure if Phillip had asked him a question that he’d missed.

  Phillip frowned. “You’re shivering.”

  And oh, he hadn’t even realized that, but yes, yes he was. In fact, he was shaking, and he realized just how cold he really was, how heavy his wet clothes felt on his shoulders and back and thighs. His socks were wet, something he’d always hated almost more than anything else, and he couldn’t stop his teeth from starting to chatter. He thought maybe he would shake apart right here, right in the middle of the room he’d shared with the love of his life, just down the hall from the other love of his life. He’d break down into tiny little shards right in front of Phillip, and there’d be nothing left of David Greengrass but bits and pieces and the knowledge that he’d let down the two people who mattered the most to him.

  “Cold,” he managed to say. “I’m cold.”

  “You idiot,” Phillip said. “You stupid, silly man.” He rushed forward, dropping the towels on the bed next to David. “Arms up.”

  David didn’t understand.

  “Arms up.”

  David lifted his arms above his head.

  For a moment, he stood there, looking ridiculous, a middle-aged balding man with a slight gut, arms raised while he dripped on the floor. But then Phillip’s hands were on him, pulling the sweater up and over his head. He grimaced when the wet fabric rubbed against his face, too surprised to do anything more than grunt a little in outrage. He was blinded for the briefest of moments before the sweater was up and over his head. He lowered his arms just a little when Phillip couldn’t reach to pull it off the rest of the way, even when he stood on the tips of his toes. The sweater came off completely, and Phillip dropped it to the carpet.

  “You’re going to catch a cold,” Phillip scolded as he began to fuss with David’s tie. “You know how you get when you’re sick.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” David mumbled.

  “Bullshit. I’ve never met a whinier human being than you when you’re sick. It’s like you’re a child.”

  David didn’t know what to say to that. Because they were so far past reminiscing, weren’t they? They had been reveling in it all night long, the memories of their shared life together. David didn’t know why he’d tried to fight it in the first place. It’d been inevitable, really. He could see that now. So he said, “I spent a lot of time on that tie, you know.”

  Phillip rolled his eyes, the backs of his fingers brushing along David’s chin. His tongue was poking out from between his teeth, that thing he did when he was really concentrating on something. “It’s not a noose, David. I don’t know why you have to—aha! Got it.” And he had; the knot was coming loose. He pulled the ends back out of the loops, and David remembered how he’d felt, standing in front of the mirror for that hour, practicing what he was going to say to Phillip when he saw him, that everything was fine, that he was fine, that he was okay, thanks for asking, Phillip, how are you? There were things he absolutely forbid himself to say, those things said between longtime lovers, the feeling of familiarity that came with decades of knowing and loving someone. Sure, David had told himself, Phillip texted I want to see you, but that could mean any number of things.

  It’d taken two weeks from the day they met before they’d undressed each other with purpose, the tiny bedroom heated, their skin already slick with sweat. There had been fingers on skin, and tongues trailing along chests, cocks gripped in one hand as David slowly jacked them both off, Phillip’s head tossed back as he said, “Yes, please, David, right there, please, just right there—” Later, spunk drying on David’s chest, Phillip had climbed on top of him and rode him right into the fucking mattress, calling his name, hips rolling under David’s bruising grip. David had whited out at the sheer force of his second orgasm, another little death that pulled a rough shout from his throat.

  It’d taken him a few minutes to come back into himself, but he had, Phillip stretched out beside him, a grin on his face like he’d known what he’d just done to David. They’d both been a mess, tacky with come and lube, the used condom still on David’s dick, but they’d looked at each other, smiling, smiling, smiling until they were laughing and kissing, and anyone who has ever laughed and kissed would know how impossible it was, how wonderful it felt. David had never laughed and kissed at the same time before, lips scraping together, huffing out sharp breaths, chuckling into someone else’s mouth. He’d never felt so alive, his body so electric.

  It wasn’t the same now.

&
nbsp; Phillip wasn’t undressing him to fuck him.

  It wasn’t passion or urgency.

  But there were still the little pinpricks of light when he felt Phillip’s fingers against his skin. There was still the buzzing in his brain as Phillip unbuttoned his dress shirt, one right after the other. It was surreal, this feeling, having Phillip so close after so long. If he wanted to, he could pretend that this was any one of a thousand normal nights they’d had in their life together, Phillip fussing over him and David begrudgingly allowing it even though they both knew he not-so-secretly loved it.

  But that wouldn’t be right, would it?

  Because they didn’t have normal nights. Not anymore.

  They hadn’t in a long time.

  Phillip slid the dress shirt off David’s shoulders.

  He had an undershirt on, still partially tucked into his dress pants. He looked down between the two of them, his forehead brushing against Phillip’s wet hair. The undershirt was wet, sticking against the gentle slope of his stomach. He’d always been a bigger guy, thick with muscle buried under a thin layer of fat. He’d been hard and soft in all the right places, Phillip had said that first night, and many nights after.

  Now, though, his chest was sunken, his arms thin and a little flabby. It wasn’t as bad as it’d been six months ago. He was in better shape now, those nights spent at the gym instead of sleeping starting to pay off. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, so his body had other ideas on how it would react to sudden exercise after it’d been flooded for years with stress and rage. The morning after he’d gone the first time, he thought he was going to die. Everything had hurt, and he’d given a lot of thought to never going back, but then he couldn’t sleep that next night and found himself in the gym again, grunting as he lifted weights, pushing through the incredible burn as he jogged on the treadmill.

  So he wasn’t at his worst, but he still wasn’t where he’d been before. He didn’t know if he’d ever be, and he was embarrassed at the sight of himself. There’d been no one else since he’d left this house. He’d hadn’t even thought about it. The last person who’d seen him in any stage of undress had been his doctor, who’d told him to get his ass to the gym if he didn’t want to have a heart attack in the next five years. He hadn’t told Phillip that, not wanting to worry him, but maybe thinking too that Phillip wouldn’t worry because he didn’t care. He had Keith, after all. Keith who would never let himself—