by Con Riley
It was too quiet when he finally went inside. The rooms showed signs that Marco had been preoccupied before he left. There were still breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink, and the table was covered with his business-related papers.
Their bedroom was a mess too. A pile of folded laundry had toppled across the surface of a dresser, and the closet door hung open, surprisingly revealing Marco’s suitcase. When Aiden conducted a mental inventory, it looked as if Marco had left most of his clothes behind.
Aiden headed back to the kitchen and surveyed the contents of the fridge. Somehow, seeing the neatly labeled stacks of leftover containers made his appetite dissipate. Instead of eating right away, he poured himself a large glass of the wine they’d shared the night before, swallowing it in huge gulps, barely even tasting it. He poured himself another before walking to the living room. What he found there made him feel a sudden wash of sad frustration.
One of Marco’s legal pads was on the arm of the couch where his laptop usually rested, a worn-blunt pencil lying across it. Aiden sat where Marco had and looked over what he’d written. Flight times, and what looked like connection details, covered the top half of the page.
What was the time now?
Aiden calculated when Marco would touch down for his first stop in London, wondering if he’d have access to Wi-Fi on the flight and if he’d be able to pick up an email if Aiden sent one.
The bottom of the page was covered in scrawled Italian. Aiden powered up his laptop and did some online searching. It turned out that most of Marco’s notes related to his mom’s prognosis. Pneumonia at any age wasn’t to be taken lightly. At Marco’s mother’s age, the websites Aiden found suggested, pneumonia was often deadly. The wine he was sipping suddenly tasted far too acidic. He set it aside and pulled the laptop front and center.
It was apparent that Marco had thoroughly researched what his mother was facing while waiting for Paul to drive him to the airport. Aiden’s eyes felt hot, and his chest felt constricted when he used a translation website to interpret some of Marco’s scribbled words. Mortality rates and chances of recovery weren’t the kind of phrases to look up on your own.
He’d never been so pissed off with himself. What a day to choose to ditch work. If he’d stayed at the store instead of taking time for himself, he would have been there when Marco called.
He needed some kind of distraction. What would Marco do now if he were still here?
Food.
That was his answer to most things. That, and close physical contact. Aiden went back to the kitchen and heated leftovers that smelled delicious yet tasted of nothing. He showered next, using body wash that was cedar scented, then locked up the house and took his laptop to bed. Writing was strangely easy once he decided to treat an email like one of their normal conversations.
The description of the first part of his day took up a whole lot of words, most of them regretful. He wrote that he knew seeing Marco before he left wouldn’t have made any practical difference, but he went ahead and added that not doing so still left him feeling terrible. That confession, one he couldn’t have imagined making only weeks before, now seemed fundamental. He repeated his hope for Marco’s mom’s swift recovery and told him he was thinking of his whole family.
He didn’t mention his truck’s demise. It didn’t seem important, not compared to life or death. But writing about Levi did seem significant. Before he knew it, he’d written hundreds of words that summed up his confusion.
What the hell had been up with that whole situation?
He described how sick he’d felt letting Levi walk away with a drunken man who’d been violent only moments earlier. The more he wrote, the dumber he felt for letting Levi leave in the first place. He’d said that the man—Kas?—was his brother, but that was no excuse for the marks he’d left on Levi’s body. Kas had said truly disgusting things to Levi, calling him a worthless fag and asking if Aiden was his boyfriend before almost falling over.
He’d stunk of alcohol, giving off the type of fumes that Aiden had only ever smelled at the homeless shelter. That level of profound, prolonged intoxication had been outside his life experience until he’d encountered it there.
One particular occasion stuck firmly in his memory. He’d arrived there to collect Evan, but Joel had stood outside the shelter’s main doors, arms crossed, barring the way to a man who was clearly wasted.
Aiden had watched them for a while before Joel had stepped aside to let Evan come out to meet him. Up until that point, Aiden had felt uncomfortable, standing close by in case his brother’s boyfriend needed some assistance. He’d listened as Joel had steadily talked down the homeless man’s bad temper.
“You can’t come in here drunk. You know that. You knew that when you bought your bottle, so don’t act innocent with me.” Joel had used a tone of voice that brooked no argument, sounding weirdly older. “The minute you’re sober, you can come see if we have any beds left.”
The drunken guy had given up, reeling and stumbling close to Aiden. He’d given off the same strong fumes as Levi’s brother. Joel had explained their cause after seeing Aiden’s nose-wrinkled expression.
“That’s what long-term alcoholism smells like. My friend there has drunk so much for so long that his body can’t metabolize it efficiently anymore, so it’s seeping out through his skin. That’s what liver failure smells like. If he won’t accept help soon, he won’t make it through another winter.”
Joel hadn’t sounded too upset about that, a reaction Aiden had tucked away at the time as another reason to dislike him. A little compassion was what he’d expected from someone who claimed to have a social conscience. Now that he’d seen and heard Levi dealing with the same thing, he wondered if Joel too had experience of something similar in his own family. Maybe that was why he was so useful at the shelter, where idealism wouldn’t cut it, but experience was valued.
He finished up his email—more of an essay now than a simple letter—by hoping that Marco was okay. He felt stupid typing that and wished he could think of words that expressed exactly what he meant. He tried again, typing: I don’t want to go to sleep without you.
Then he deleted the sentence, figuring it sounded kind of selfish. I wish I’d gotten to see you before you left.
He backspaced through that sentence too.
Ending an email really shouldn’t be so difficult.
His phone chimed, sending him yet another too-late voicemail.
Recorded hours before, Marco had sounded husky, whispering a greeting, saying his plane was boarding. He mentioned that he had a window seat and how he hoped someone cute would sit beside him. Aiden smiled as he listened. Then a stranger’s voice asked Marco to switch off his phone. He heard Marco agree before hurriedly whispering a few sentences in Italian to Aiden, ending with repeated Ciaos.
Aiden played the message over and over until he’d scribbled down the words, and then dialed Morgan’s number.
He cursed under his breath when Theo answered instead, sounding very sleepy.
“Is Morgan there? It’s Aiden.”
Theo explained that his partner was already fast asleep and snoring, and then went on to say that Marco had called him earlier, letting him know the situation.
“Did you two manage to get together before he flew out?” Theo asked. “I don’t know what was on his mind more—Signora de Luca or you.”
“No. I missed him. My truck finally crapped out.”
Theo was sympathetic. He asked after Marco’s mom, wondering if Aiden had an update, promising to call Italy in the morning and speak with Marco’s brothers. Aiden frowned as he listened to Theo’s concern before having a moment of realization—Marco’s mamma had effectively been Theo’s mother-in-law.
They talked for a few minutes before Theo asked, “Was there a reason for your call? Did you know that it’s one o’clock in the morning?”
Aiden really hadn’t. He’d been oblivious to the time, concentrating so hard on constructing his email.
“In Italian? Can I help? I’m still pretty good.”
Again Aiden shook his head at himself. Of course Theo could help him.
He squinted at the words he’d scribbled. “I’d Google, only I’m sure I messed up the spelling. What do Mi manchi già and Non potrei amarti di più mean?”
He listened hard as Theo’s breathing faltered.
“Did Marco say that to you?”
“Yeah. Do you know what it means?” It suddenly seemed really important that he know what Marco had been thinking as he’d flown away.
Theo’s voice was low, his tone choked as he translated for Aiden.
“Mi manchi già means ‘I miss you already,’ and Non potrei amarti di più means ‘I could not love you more.’”
Aiden said good-bye after apologizing for his late-night call, then lay back against his pillows. He’d spent the afternoon freaking out that Marco wasn’t coming back, then had come home and felt sorry for himself. What had Marco done? Only left most of his belongings behind, telling Aiden in both words and actions that he was important to him.
Aiden edited his email, stripping out anything that sounded whiny.
He typed, I love you too.
Then he closed it with words he should have told himself.
Please, please try to have faith.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The second therapy session Aiden attended with his family, nearly two weeks after Marco left, was dramatically different from the first one. The counselor had started the initial session by talking through the therapeutic process.
The first stage was honesty. That’s what she’d said, taking time to make eye contact with each of them. Honesty with themselves and with each other. It didn’t matter, she suggested, that they might have fears. Addressing the past meant laying previously hidden cards out on the table. It might hurt, and it would certainly be uncomfortable, but honesty was the only starting point that had authentic value.
His family had nodded.
The second stage was listening.
She made it sound so simple. They would each talk through the object they’d brought with them that symbolized David Daly. They would take turns to speak, and all of them would listen; about that she was emphatic. The therapeutic process would stall unless they gave these two stages their sincere engagement.
Aiden hadn’t even tried to nod in time with his mom and Evan. It was right about that point that he’d started to hang his head, doing some quick and shallow breathing before excusing himself to take a double dose of his new antacid. When he’d returned to the therapist’s room, his mom and brother had smiled in his direction. Neither of them smiled by the end. That hadn’t been surprising after the way he’d spilled his guts.
That first session had gone to shit.
That’s how it seemed to him.
No one could describe it as productive.
It had ended with his mom’s tears and recriminations, coupled with icy stares and a verbal explosion from his brother. Aiden had spent days afterward trying so hard not to think about what had happened. For once, burying himself in work hadn’t helped. Rogue thoughts snuck past his mental defenses, catching him when he least expected it. He’d be in the stockroom at the store, unpacking a huge carton, when the therapist’s words would leach into his subconscious.
When he realized that avoidance wasn’t working for him—had keeping things to himself ever truly worked before?—he talked the session over with anyone who would listen. He surprised himself, over and over, by blurting out things at work to Levi, as well as to Marco via Skype. They’d both been very sympathetic. Turned out that Levi knew a whole lot about looking after other people only for them to hate you for it. And Marco had been helpful too.
He’d asked, “What did the therapist say at the end of the session?” Marco already knew the answer, but he still made Aiden say it.
“She said to have trust and to come back.”
“So . . . ?” Marco wouldn’t let him off the hook, no matter how he wriggled.
Aiden went to the next session, even though he thought it was pointless. He spent the hours before feeling sick, but at least he no longer had heartburn. Once he followed his doctor’s orders, he’d started to feel better. The medication was working perfectly by then, and he kicked himself for taking so long to solve such a simple problem. But believing that therapy would ease his disconnection from his family was much harder than filling a prescription.
Before going in, he reread some texts from Marco, the final one echoing his own words of only two weeks before.
MARCO: They love you.
MARCO: As I do.
MARCO: Please try to have some faith.
At the second session, the therapist started by asking him a direct question.
“How’s your week been, Aiden?”
He snorted, then scrubbed at his face. “Pretty bad.”
That was an understatement. It hadn’t surprised him that his mom and Evan had reacted badly to the stuff he’d kept from them—he’d expected that much, at least. What he hadn’t known how to deal with was the depth of their anger or the way they’d withdrawn from his life.
“What were your thoughts at the end of our last session?”
He huffed out a huge sigh. “That I should have kept my mouth shut.”
That remark was met with a snort from Evan.
“And do you still think that?”
Aiden thought hard for a moment before shaking his head. “They needed to know the truth.”
“We needed to know years ago, Aiden. Five years ago.” Evan only quieted when their mom told him, “Hush.”
The therapist continued. “If you reflect, Aiden, and cast your mind back to our last discussion, was there something in particular that triggered your speaking out?”
He nodded.
Last week had been terrible, but also full of surprises. He’d known his mom had things to say—that was why they were all there in the first place. But he hadn’t had the first idea of the feelings she’d been hiding from them. Hearing her describe intense regret, anger, and guilt—all aimed at herself, as if her husband’s death had been her fault—had been a revelation.
The next surprise had been that one of the first people he’d wanted to talk to after that awful session had been Joel. Had he seen that their mom wasn’t simply drifting through grief but was instead drowning in an ocean of misplaced guilt? No wonder he’d been so insistent that talking was important.
“Can you share with us what provoked you, Aiden?”
He looked up at the therapist’s gentle prompt.
Aiden cleared his throat, glancing at his family sitting on the other side of the low table.
“I know I was just meant to listen. I thought I could do that. I really did. But when Mom apologized for making Dad unhappy . . . .” Aiden stopped talking, his eyes suddenly welling. He blinked furiously, dashing at his cheek with the back of his hand. “This is stupid. They’re pissed at me. I get it. I’m pissed at myself. I should have told them much sooner.”
“Told them what?”
He huffed out a huge breath before verbalizing his mental list. “That gambling was Dad’s real issue. That I tried to hide that he left no money. That I did everything I could to keep things going financially. That I set up a business so their lives didn’t have to change.”
“Can you pinpoint how you feel about speaking out, at last?” The therapist didn’t sound judgmental, only curious to hear Aiden’s answer. That was how Joel had been too, once Aiden had gotten up the nerve to call him—interested, rather than ready to rub his nose in his mistakes. It had been surprising. Marco had been right about him.
“Regretful.”
“Can you explore why?”
“Why do I regret it? You saw how they reacted.”
The week before, his mom had left white-faced and badly shaken. Evan had completely lost his shit.
&
nbsp; Now, Aiden looked up at the ceiling rather than across at their hostile faces.
“I should have told them what I found out about Dad, and I should have involved them in decisions that concerned them. I can see that now.”
His voice sounded weird to his own ears, like he was speaking underwater. “I did the best I could.” He cleared his throat and took a long, slow breath. “But when Mom said she thought Dad must have been so unhappy in their marriage that he’d killed himself rather than stay in it, I couldn’t lie by omission any longer.” He looked across at his mother, and his words came out in a rush. “I didn’t know you thought that.” His face creased, and he struggled to control it. “He loved you. He always did. But he was sick, and he couldn’t control his actions.”
“Sick?” Evan asked. “Or selfish?”
“Is that what you remember?” Aiden asked, meeting Evan’s furious pale-gray gaze. “Is that why you brought along that old label maker last week? Because Dad was selfish?”
Evan had taken the first turn the week before, describing how important it had been to believe that he mattered when he first joined their family. He’d said, “Dad told me I could label everything that was important to me and that no one would ever take those things away. It wasn’t really the things that mattered. It was you guys. It was believing that I was worth keeping.” Evan had turned the label maker over. On the bottom was an old sticker, scuffed and peeling at the corners.
Aiden had recognized his dad’s handwriting as Evan read aloud, “This belongs to Evan, who belongs in the Daly family.”
Aiden added, “You didn’t describe him as selfish last week.”
“That was before you told me he gambled everything away and then shot himself instead of believing we’d help him.”
“Aiden,” the therapist interjected, “your argument seems to be that a gambling addiction should be treated as an illness. Did you always feel that way?”
“No.”
“When did you come to that conclusion?”
“Last week.” He’d gone home in a haze, and then, days later, had blurted what had gone down to Paul Morse. He’d listened carefully as Aiden relived the whole session, sounding like an automaton. Once he got done listening, Paul had suggested Aiden talk with his son Peter. He’d done so—and hadn’t that been an amazing conversation? He’d had no idea that Peter’s work as a paramedic meant he was an expert on people who were close to the edge. Their discussions meant that Aiden now found it easier to rephrase things from a different perspective.