Hopes and Fears

by Rowan Speedwell

  By the time I’d finished, it wasn’t a story any longer. It was a life—not just Zach’s, not just mine, but something other, something tangled up between us. At the end, Zach dissociated and walked away. I couldn’t. You’d think it would be the opposite; that Zach would have been the one who was still caught in the net, who had to get up every day and face what we’d put out in front of the public. And he did. He was on Oprah, and Larry King, and Good Morning America, and did interviews and dealt with the fact that his personal hell was public property. He did it with grace and dignity, as if the years he’d done without either had created a vast capacity for both in him. I know for a fact that, afterwards, he’d fall apart, and his parents and David, his lover, and his various shrinks would then spend hours putting him back together again. But in public? The man was a giant.

  The first time I saw him fall apart after an interview, I wanted to shoot myself.

  He never blamed me, though. Not for any of it. He treated me as a friend, as if I’d done him a favor by tearing open the cocoon of anonymity he’d wrapped himself in. A cocoon so well built I’d picked him up—twice—before I even realized he was the guy I’d gone to Colorado to find. When I’d talked him into letting me interview him, I told him it would give him “closure.” He seemed to think it did, as much as anyone who’d been tortured for five years could ever find closure. It was bullshit, of course; all I wanted was the story, and I knew how to play people.

  I don’t know when it was that I fell in love with him. I was hot for him from the beginning, even before I knew he was my subject. By the time I did, he’d already gotten back together with his childhood sweetheart Davey, and I knew they were solid. But sometime during the process of building the book and ripping open his life, I fell hard. To the point that, as we got nearer and nearer to the end of the writing and editing, he was the one pushing to finish. I’d had second thoughts, and third, and fourth, and was at the point of just junking the whole thing, but he’d sat me down and talked me back into going on with a project I’d come to loathe. Because every time we worked on it, I had to deal with the fact that this shit had happened to him, to the guy I was in love with, to the guy I’d die for. This shit had happened to him, and he’d dealt with it, and survived it, and triumphed over it. He was so much more of a man than I could have ever hoped to be, and I loved him for it.

  Afterward, I could barely even talk about it, to my publisher’s dismay. I did online interviews, which were easy because I could write the answers, but aside from a few multi-author panel discussions, I couldn’t talk about it in public. Of course, I wasn’t the person people wanted to talk to—that was Zach, and as I said, he stepped up to the plate and was brilliant.

  And I’m pretty sure he never realized the way I felt about him. Why should he? The only person he ever really saw was David. God, I envied him. Envied them both, really. With all the difficulties they had to overcome, all the misunderstandings and strain and separations, they circled each other like twin stars. I’d never wanted anything like that before, but Zach made me want it with him.

  When Zach went into his senior year, he stopped doing interviews and, between the two of us, we let the furor die a natural death. I was still working, still writing and publishing muckraking articles on other subjects, but the fire was gone; I knew I’d never get a story like that one again, and hoped to God I didn’t. I went to his graduation, as I’d told Jerry; wrote a piece for an online journal about it, making it sound like Zach had recovered completely, even though I knew better, and closed the book on it. That was the last piece I’d had published. I started doing writing workshops instead and ended up here.

  So now I worked on the Never-Ending Novel, taught teenagers how to use a semicolon, and pretended every hot body I let fuck me was Zach.

  Until right this minute, I had thought that was the way it was going to be forever. But Jerry changed things. I’d never felt anything like what I did when I was with him, even if the sum total of our conversations consisted of his instructions on how to use a piece of equipment and the occasional “How ya doin’?” I’d asked him out, twice; he’d turned me down, twice. It looked as though whatever I’d felt between us was never going to pan out, and it hurt. I’d never wanted a relationship before—as I’d told Jerry, hookups were all I did. But if he ever, ever made the slightest indication that there was the faintest breath of hope for us, I’d change. Before Zach, I’d never wanted to change. After Zach, I figured why bother. But with Jerry—for Jerry—it might be worth it.

  Of course, I would never know if the ass wouldn’t go out with me.

  I finished my dinner and, in a fit of pique, decided that I wasn’t going home. It was a Friday night, I was done with classes for three weeks, and if the guy I wanted didn’t want me, there were other fish in the sea, and Jerry or no Jerry, knee or no knee, I was going to go out, I was going to drink, and maybe dance, and maybe even get laid before the night was done.

  Chicago’s Boystown has some great bars, but I wasn’t yet in the mood for the “getting laid” part of the evening’s festivities. So I headed for Primo’s, a bar on Rush Street that’s usually pretty gay-friendly and had a nice dance floor and good DJs. I’d wander up to Boystown later.

  Primo’s was pretty crowded, even if it was early, probably because it was only a week before Christmas. Someone had strung garland all over the place. I hate fucking garland.

  There was one of those high tables near the dance floor that a group was just abandoning, so I snagged it and dropped my jacket over the back of one of the barstools to claim it, then went to the bar to get a drink. The bartender was a guy I knew, so I chatted him up while he fixed me an extra-dry martini (one where you just kind of wave the vermouth cap over the gin), then went back to the table. A pair of girls was looking at the table, and I grinned at them, so they came over. “I’m alone, so you’re welcome to share the space,” I said, and introduced myself. The girls were named Shelly and Kirsten-not-Kristin, and seemed nice enough, inviting me to dance but not getting shitty when I politely refused, citing my drink as excuse. They left their drinks and went off to dance; I slid onto the barstool and watched the floor, amusing myself by trying to pick out the gay guys.

  About ten minutes later, I found myself studying one of the guys out writhing under the lights to the beat of something by Lady Gaga. He reminded me of Jerry, but Jerry didn’t move like that. Jerry had a nice, clean, brisk way of moving, as if he’d taken all his physical therapy lessons to heart. This guy danced like a stripper, sinuously, his body swaying and slinking and twining around the girl he was dancing with, who looked like she was having a hell of a good time. I’d never seen Jerry in anything but the loose green polo shirt and baggy khakis that were the RehabiliCare uniform; this guy had on skintight black jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt that had to be silk, the way the copper-red fabric clung to his lean, muscular body. He had curly black hair like Jerry’s, but wore it slicked back on the sides and punked up top so it fell over his eyes. He looped his arms around his partner and drew her in so that she was plastered to him; she raised her arms over her head and swiveled in rhythm with him, letting him support her. He buried his face in her neck but kept dancing. It was amazing, beautiful, arousing. I took a deep swig of my martini and stared down at the tabletop, willing my woody away.

  The music changed. A pair of black-clad legs moved in the corner of my eye; I glanced up, half expecting it to be one of the girls.

  A pair of bright chocolate eyes sparkled at me from beneath the flop of black curls; the slim, strong body slid up against me, and a warm mouth took mine. He tasted of beer and salt. “Hey, baby,” Jerry said, and rocked his pelvis against mine, putting his arms around my neck and leaning into me. The copper silk T-shirt was damp with sweat, but it smelled good.

  “What the fuck?” I said in confusion. He was acting like we’d planned to meet here, like we’d been dating or at least screwing.

  “I’m blasted,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s
dance.”

  “Let’s not,” I said.

  The girl he’d been dancing with came over and draped herself at his back, her arms twined around his shoulders. “Hi,” she said to me. “I’m Beth.”

  “Brian,” I said. “You Jerry’s girlfriend?”

  She laughed. “Jerry’s totally gay,” she said. “I’d’a thought you’d’a figured it out the way he kissed you.”

  “Yeah, well, anyone watching you guys on the dance floor would have had a different idea,” I pointed out. She laughed again.

  “Jerry dances like a fucking god,” she said. “I only wish he’d fuck me like that. Oh, well. Jerry, I’m goin’ to get something to drink. Then I gotta get back to my boyfriend before that skank Lila puts the moves on him. Nice ta meetcha, Brian.”

  “Bye, Bethy!” Jerry caroled; then he turned his head to lay his mouth on my neck. “I am so drunk,” he said into my skin.

  “I guess,” I said.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “You’re supposed to be up at Cocktail or Roscoe’s or someplace. Someplace where you can do your hookups.” He didn’t sound critical, just kind of sad.

  “Why?” I asked.

  He drew back but didn’t let go of my neck. “Because I’m here,” he said, as if that explained it.

  “And I’m not supposed to be where you are?”

  “Yeah,” he said sadly. “You’re a client, and you’re Brian McCarthy. And you only do hookups.”

  “Guilty on all three counts. Jesus, how long have you been drinking? It’s only eight o’clock.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I didn’t know whether to be worried or annoyed, but he laughed and said, “We had a Christmas—excuse me, holiday party at work this afternoon, so I got an early start. Bethy wanted to come here afterwards, so we’ve been hanging out. Don’t you want to dance?”

  “Not here. This place is cool, but dancing with each other would probably push it.”

  “So I guess I shouldn’t be hanging on you either.”

  “Probably not,” I said, and he drew back, sliding his hands down my arms and curling them around my wrists. His hands were like the rest of him, slim but strong, and gentle on me.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said, softly and still in that sad tone. “I want to go home with you. I don’t care if it’s just a hookup. I want to go home with you.”

  God, I was so tempted. I’d wanted him from the minute I saw him, but more than that, I wanted to know him, wanted to find out how the calm professional I dealt with twice a week in therapy, who’d turned down my two invitations with kindly courtesy, would react when we were skin to skin. How he would move, how he would taste, how he would feel with his hands on my hips and his cock inside me. How he would look sleeping next to me, and that last startled me, because I never slept with anyone. Ever. But Jerry was different. I know he hadn’t been unaffected by that kiss during the eval, any more than I had; he was just better at shifting gears. I wanted him for more than a pickup, more than a couple of hours of hot fucking. I wanted him.

  And here he was now, practically—no, cut the practically, he was definitely—throwing himself at me. And he was drunk.

  Believe it or not, I am a gentleman. There are those who’d argue the point, but there are certain things that I don’t do. I don’t cheat on my taxes, I don’t steal other people’s lovers, and I don’t fuck guys who are too drunk to know what they’re doing. I mean, come on—I do most of my pickups at bars, and most of them with guys who’ve been drinking, but Jerry was beyond that. He was drunk. Someone needed to get him home.

  I glanced around the bar. Beth was draped over a guy I assumed was the boyfriend, talking to a girl in black leather whom I assumed was the skanky Lila; she was just as drunk as Jerry, and her boyfriend didn’t look much better. It was beginning to look like the someone to take Jerry home was going to be me.

  “Come on, bud,” I said, putting my arm around his shoulder and grabbing my jacket. “Where’s your coat?”

  He pried a coat-check ticket from the pocket of his skintight jeans and gave it to me. I guided him over to the bored-looking hostess, who handed him a leather jacket and popped her gum in response to the five I stuck in her jar. The ubiquitous purple scarf was twisted in the sleeve of the jacket; I put the jacket on him and wrapped the scarf around his neck. He was grinning at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I take care of you at therapy,” he said happily, “and here you are taking care of me now. That’s nice.”

  “Great,” I said. “Come on.”

  “Are we going somewhere to dance?”

  “No, I’m taking you home to sleep it off.”

  “I’m not tired. I want to dance.”

  I ignored him and flagged down a cab, pouring him into the backseat and climbing in after him. “What’s your address?”

  He rattled off an address that sounded real familiar, and then I realized it was Roscoe’s on Halsted. “No, your home address.”

  “That’s my home away from home,” he said, “and I want to dance.” He laid his head on my shoulder and fell asleep.

  I met the cabbie’s sympathetic eyes in the rearview mirror. “Shit,” I said, and gave him my address instead.

  JERRY still hadn’t woken up by the time we got to my building; I shook him awake and dragged him out of the cab and into the warmth of the foyer. He stood blinking and confused. “Where are we?”

  “My place.”

  The elevator dinged just then, and we got in. He said nothing on the ride up, nor in the hallway, but when we went into my apartment, he unwound the scarf slowly and dropped it on the floor, followed by the leather jacket. Then he unbuttoned my coat and peeled it off me, and leaned in to kiss me.

  I pushed him gently away. “Anyone at home who’ll be looking for you?” I asked.

  He blinked again. “No. Why? You gonna kill me and hide the body?”

  “Killing and hiding is not what I want to do to your body,” I said with a sigh, “but given as you are totally wasted, the only thing I expect to do is tuck it into bed. It’ll have to be the couch, though; my spare bedroom’s my office, and I don’t have a bed in there.” I went to the closet where I stored extra linens and pulled out a spare sheet and pillow. “I’ll bring you out a quilt in a minute,” I told him as I made up the couch. “Then in the morning when you’re sober, you can tell me where you live, and I’ll call you a cab home.”

  “I’m confused,” he said, and sat on the coffee table, rubbing his face. Then he looked around the living room. “Where are all your decorations?”

  “What? Christmas decorations?”

  “Yeah. Don’t you at least got a tree? Or a wreath?”

  “No. I fucking hate Christmas.”

  The brown eyes got wide, as if I’d just announced that the body I’d killed and hidden was Santa Claus. “How can you hate Christmas?”

  “Lots of people hate Christmas,” I said reasonably. “I’m one of them.”

  He stood up then and went for his jacket. “That’s it. I’m outta here. Can’t fuck anyone who hates Christmas. It’s like, like….”

  “A, you aren’t going to fuck anyone, not tonight, and B, what does it have to do with anything, anyway? Christmas is just a way for retailers to make money. It’s not like it has any real meaning anymore or anything.”

  His face was a study in hurt disappointment. “I like Christmas,” he said defensively. “It’s beautiful. Not liking it is just, just cynical.”

  I held my arms open. “Welcome to my world.”

  He stared a long moment, then said quietly, and to my surprise rather soberly, “You aren’t, really. A cynic wouldn’t have brought a stranger home and let them sleep on their couch just because they were drunk.”

  I could feel my face get hot. “You’re not a stranger. I may just be a client to you, but I sort of think of you as a friend. Or at least a potential friend. Or at least a potential lover, an
yway.”

  “Not just a fuck?” He cocked his head. He was still pretty unsteady on his pins, but the dazed expression the drunk had put on his face was fading fast.

  “No,” I said quietly. “Not just a fuck.”

  He put his coat down on the armchair beside him and, walking in that careful way that people who know they’re drunk do, came to me and took my hand. “That’s nice,” he said, and leaned in again to kiss me. This time had none of the hasty urgency as before; this one was slow and dignified and steady, and I wasn’t prepared for the warm rush of desire and… and hunger. Not just a desire to get laid, not a hunger for a willing body, but a need to be with him, him in specific, a need for that honey skin, those dark eyes, that warm, solid body. I needed to run my hands over the strong, sinewy arms, the hard curve of muscled shoulder, the sharp cheekbones; needed to bury my fingers in that curly hair. So I did, all of it, exploring him with a growing desperation as he did the same to me, stroking, touching, our mouths linked while our hands set off on their own adventures.

  I don’t remember if we peeled each other out of our clothes or if we undressed separately; I don’t remember if we’d let go of each other that long. I don’t remember the walk down the short hallway to the bedroom. Being drunk was forgotten. Being a client was forgotten. None of it mattered, because his hands were on me and mine on him, and he was honey gold all over except where he was spattered with black curly hair, and he was beautiful, and strong, and mine.

  The exploration went on after we’d hit the bed, naked as jays; there wasn’t an inch of either of us that hadn’t been caressed or kissed or licked. But when I leaned up and whispered, “Fuck me,” he went stiff, and not in a good way. “What?” I asked.

  “You want me to fuck you?”

  “Well, yeah. Isn’t that what this is all about?”