by Mia Kerick
I’m drawn to his inner strength. And I can’t deny that the romance started because of the intense violence we survived together—from which he rescued me—but what I found with him I can’t afford to lose. I bonded easily with his heart; from there, bonding with his body wasn’t a huge leap.
His forehead wrinkles in his sleep and I wonder what he’s dreaming about. This reminds me of another aspect of a relationship with a guy that could be called challenging. In my relationships with girls, they’d stood up and screamed when I did something stupid, and chased after me if I’d refused to communicate or tried to run away. But open communication is hard for us. Neither wants to be the first to speak or to do anything that could be perceived as nagging or overly emotional.
I brush my fingers across his long beard and allow them to linger on the bottom where it’s squared off bluntly. “Hey, Liam, you have to wake up. You need to study.” His dark eyes flutter open and I’m lucky enough to witness an honest expression of pure pleasure at seeing my face looking down on him. I immediately feel warm and it quickly turns into arousal, proving my theory that the love I see in his eyes leads me to sexual desire.
“Sorry, I fell asleep.”
“No apology necessary. You look peaceful when you sleep, so it was all good.”
Liam smiles and stifles a yawn. “I feel peaceful, Jase. You make me feel peaceful.”
I want to plead with him to tell me what’s bothering him, but I don’t. I’m confident that he’ll either clam up or give me a vague answer that’s really no answer at all. “Let’s go to the dining hall and then the library. We’ll study better on full stomachs.”
“’Kay. I’m gonna go rinse off my face. Be back in a few.” He pulls himself up off the bed and rises to his full height. “You look sexy, sitting there with your book open. Just saying.” He gazes at me for a minute wearing a sweet smile, but that strange haunted expression clouds his eyes before he leaves the room.
I need to know what’s causing his pain. Part of loving this hero of mine requires me to dive headfirst into the darkest parts of his mind so that I can lift him into the light. And I have an idea about how to figure out what puts the shadows in his eyes, but I’m reluctant to put it into action.
16
Word is out around school that something more is going on between Liam Norwell and Jason Tripp than just being two survivors of the most violent event in the history of Batcheldor College dealing with their pain and anguish as a united front. We’ve kept our relationship quiet for a month now, but it’s hard to hide inseparable. Neither of us is dating women and I’m missing-in-action all weekend, every weekend, because I stay at Liam’s apartment. Students realize this is way beyond we-survived-hell-together behavior.
Maybe they think it’s a “Post Traumatic Stress Romance,” or hero worship to the nth degree. And maybe it is both of these things, or maybe it started that way, but has evolved into much more.
BJ was the first to figure it out, which really isn’t surprising because, of the time Liam and I spend together on campus, much of it is in our dorm room—Liam and I sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on my bed, and BJ on the other bed, trying to figure us out. Like right now.
“So do you guys feel like you’re totally over the Harrison Theater shooting? I mean, you act normal enough… in most ways.”
Liam, sitting on my bed and leaning against the wall, looks to me to provide an answer. I say, “I’m not over it. I don’t think I’m ever going to be over it. Whenever I’m out in public, I’m aware that I’m at risk.”
“And we both question our actions in the theater last April, every day,” Liam adds, still watching me closely.
“Yeah, we both have a ton of guilt… mine’s about Ginny.” This has been the most difficult part of surviving. “I don’t think I did all I could have to help her.” I’m proud that I’m able to voice this thought aloud; I’ve been struggling with the guilt for months.
“You’re a journalism major, Jase. You should write about all the shit that went down that night, and also what happened when DeSalles came after you at the hotel… you know, so other people can relate better. And then some Hollywood dude can make it into a movie.” BJ’s first suggestion is a good one because a lot of Ginny and my friends look at Liam and me rather scornfully, like I’m somehow cheating on Ginny’s memory. But I’m not ready to write about it yet; I’m still making sense of the entire experience. And I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for the movie version of that night.
“Maybe I will someday.” Liam reaches out and squeezes my knee and I know he’s doing what he always does for me: making sure I’m okay.
“So, I’m just gonna put it out there…. Jase, you were straight last year and you’re pretty much gay now. Did the trauma turn you gay?”
Liam stiffens up, as if he’s going to come back at BJ with a “fuck you” or maybe worse. But I cover his hand with mine to calm him, which is what I often do for him. I know that BJ is not cruel; he’s just inappropriately direct, and sometimes overly curious. And I’ve faced it—his curiosity is natural. In fact, Liam and I have wondered the very same thing. “What happened at the theater bonded us in a way we can’t reverse.”
“We don’t want to reverse it.” Liam’s gaze hasn’t strayed from my face. It’s unusually penetrating, because this issue is one that we don’t fully understand either.
“So you two just fell hard—and gender wasn’t a factor, right? I kinda get it. See, I was nuts about Ezra Koenig of the indie band, Vampire Weekend, for my entire senior year of high school. In my eyes the guy could do no wrong.” He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I wouldn’t have kicked him outta my bed, no joke.”
I don’t know if BJ really gets it at all, but I nod. “Yeah, it’s something like that.”
“And I fell hard for Dacia and, like… shit! I’m supposed to meet her at the student lounge in five minutes. We’re gonna have coffee…. You guys wanna join us? It’ll be a double date!”
I blush at his suggestion, but Liam replies with a very straight face, “Yeah… a double date. Sounds good.” And he’s off the bed, tucking in his shirt in a split second. I think he’s ready for us to go public about our relationship at school. It’s going to be harder for me because all of my friends knew about my intense relationship with Ginny; I can guarantee that they’re going to have plenty of questions about my sexual orientation.
And I have no concrete answers for them. I love Liam. It’s that plain and simple, and at the same time, completely confounding. I’m in love with him, too—with his strength and humor, his devotion, the way he comforts and saves me. The way he wouldn’t and couldn’t leave me—in the theater, when his life was at risk, or now. And this unique and powerful love leads me to want him in every way possible. I want him to see only me, and I want him to desire what he sees. I want to turn him on until he can’t stand it any longer and then I want to satisfy him. Our genders, our orientations, must take a back seat to these things.
“So I guess it’s a coffee date, then.” I jump off the bed and run my hands through my short hair to put it back into place. “But can I still have hot cocoa?”
Time to go public with this thing.
17
Usually, Liam and I don’t watch the news—there’s too much on it that brings the haunted look into his eyes, and most of it thoroughly depresses me. But since we’re eating breakfast in a diner where there’s a television mounted on the wall above the breakfast bar, we’re half-listening to the day’s events between bites of pancakes and conversation. We can’t miss the report that yesterday a fire had been set intentionally by a disgruntled employee at an Imax theater where a group of school kids were on a class field trip. One student had been killed. This piece of news had hit us where it hurts most: murder in a theater and death by fire.
The haunted look I see every so often—the darkening of his eyes, a lowering of his eyebrows, a hollow expression—appears on Liam’s face and refuses to leave. When he drives m
e back to RetroHouse, he’s still preoccupied.
After he parks, and is reaching over the seat for my backpack, I tug his sleeve lightly with my fingertips, and he’s so wrapped up in his dark thoughts that my touch startles him. He jumps a mile.
“Liam, you need to tell me what happened to upset you so much. Do you think I’m completely out to lunch? I can see that something to do with the fire in the theater has reminded you of the event in your past that hurt you… so just tell me about it… we can talk it over.” I grab his arm. “You’ll feel relieved.”
In an instant Liam’s face is bright red and practically steaming. I’ve never seen him so angry. “You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.” His eyes seem to look right through me. “Here, take your bag.” He shoves my backpack into my arms. “I’m gonna trust that you can walk safely back to the dorm on your own.” Liam puts the car in drive and stares out the windshield as he waits for me to leave.
I reach out and place my hand on his forearm. “Liam….”
He shakes my hand off and says, “Just go.”
***
The night drags on forever. I’m angry as hell at having been snapped at so unreasonably, and beyond that, I’m devastated Liam won’t confide in me. And I’m worried about him, too. The person who kicked me out of his car is not the person who so gently and patiently walks by my side every day. I check my phone before I go to bed and there’s finally a text message from him.
Liam: Are you ok? Did you get back to your room w/out a problem?
After I experience the rush of relief that Liam still cares about me, a wave of confusion nearly knocks me over. I don’t reply because I don’t know what to say.
Liam: Jase, I’m sorry. Please forgive me for how I treated you.
My mind is clouded with the anxiety built up during the past few hours. I can’t find the words to express how I feel.
Liam: Please, Jase, text me one word just to let me know you’re ok. I’m worried.
I have no interest in further torturing Liam, seeing as he’s doing a damned good job without my help.
Jase: I’m okay. It’ll be okay.
Within a few seconds of sending my message I receive a final text.
Liam: Thank you. I love you.
I’m going to do something about this situation in the morning.
18
I skip my first class to do my research privately in my dorm room. There’s something very wrong with the prospect of snooping into Liam’s life while BJ prattles on and on about the wonders of Dacia’s perfectly round ass.
The truth of the matter is, I could have done this search weeks ago, a month ago even, when I learned that Liam had lost someone he cared about in a fire. But I didn’t because I wanted Liam to come to me of his own free will and confide what’s been disturbing him so much. It’s become crystal clear that he’s not going to do this, and his inability to face his past is causing him and us pain. And so I type the words in the search box: Liam Norwell and fatal fire.
The screen fills with links before I have time to blink. I click on the first one.
The Maine Fire Marshall’s Office has identified the person killed in an early morning fire yesterday in Lockwood. Lucy Norwell, 12, was found in a second floor bedroom of her family’s home on Willow Street. The fire was called in at 3 AM on January 24. It was reportedly caused by faulty wiring.
I type in Lucy Norwell obituary.
On January 24, 2008, Lucy Caroline Norwell, age 12, died in a tragic fire in her home. Lucy was the beloved daughter of David and Donna Norwell of Lockwood, Maine. She is survived by her older brother, Liam, age 14. Her funeral service will be held on Tuesday, January 29, at 2 PM at First Presbyterian Church on Broad Street followed by a reception at The Williamsport Yacht Club. Lucy’s family requests that in lieu of flowers, donations are sent to The Museum of Science in Boston, Massachusetts.
Liam lost his little sister in a house fire. This explains a lot, but questions flood my brain. Was Liam in the house at the time of the fire? Does he blame himself for his sister’s death? Could he hear her cries for help? How did his parents react to this loss?
I can’t know the answers to these questions without asking, which hasn’t worked very well thus far. In fact, asking questions had just added stress to our fledgling relationship. But if I could meet Liam’s parents, it would provide me the opportunity to get closer to the heart of the matter. I realize I’ve just figured out my next goal in helping Liam to face his demons and hopefully put them to rest.
***
We’re sitting in the dining hall at lunchtime, after having kissed and made up in the hallway where we always meet at noon.
“Don’t you think it’s time we met each other’s families?” I realize that this request involves Liam meeting my very opinionated, extremely narrow-minded mother, but I’m willing to make this sacrifice if it means getting a closer look at Liam’s past.
“You don’t wanna meet my folks.” He seems very certain of this.
“Why not?” I want to ask him how he knows so well what I want, but I don’t. Why stir the pot before it’s even on the stove?
He shifts around on the bench. “They aren’t too much into me and my life. You know, they’re really busy.”
“You think they’ll be upset that you’re bringing home a guy, not a girl?”
He smiles sadly and shakes his head. “I don’t think it will have too much of an affect on them, one way or the other.”
“Well, then, let’s set it up. I really want to meet them. How far do you live from school?”
“About two-and-a-half hours.” He stops and thinks. “And… does this mean I’m going to meet your parents, too?”
I swallow hard. “If you want to, be my guest. But it’s only just my mother. Dad is more or less a big no-show in my life.”
He nods, still uncertain about what he’s gotten himself into. He mumbles, “Both of my parents are no-shows in my life.”
I act like I didn’t hear his last remark. “How about this weekend? We can meet my mother on Saturday and your parents on Sunday.”
Once again he nods, rubs his beard, and says, “Eat your lunch.”
19
This is going to be a complete disaster. I should have warned her that the “special person” I’m bringing home is a man. A very manly man. And I should have warned him that mine is not your average everyday mother.
Shit.
I remind myself that I have a reason for doing this, and it will be worthwhile in the end.
Keep on telling yourself that, Jason. Maybe you’ll start to believe it.
We pull up in front of the house, a tiny, seen-better-days chocolate brown ranch in a neighborhood where the developer went bankrupt well before his dream of turning a thick patch of pine forest into “affordable, yet stylish, housing for frugal NH families” was complete.
I’m not sure who decided that low budget, vinyl-sided ranches are stylish, but growing up among the unfinished foundations of ten more of them hadn’t been bad at all. My friends from the other frugal families in the unfinished neighborhood and I played in and around the houseless basements, pretending we were living in a residential village on Mars. Great food for the imagination, but ultimately Mom forbade me from playing on the abandoned foundations, as “knees skinned on rough concrete don’t heal neatly.”
Liam pulls his car into our seen-better-days patched-up driveway and I glance at him to see how harshly he’s judging his surroundings. I offer rather weakly, “I do what I can with the exterior, but it’s like applying lipstick to a pig.” When I last went home for a visit at the end of September, I mowed the lawn neatly, and I keep the shrubs trimmed to look as respectable as possible. My meager efforts don’t amount to much, though.
“It’s fine, Jason. No worries.” Code for: time to worry. Liam looks like he’s about to be dragged, naked and squealing, across the roughly poured cement foundation next door.
“It’ll be fun. You’ll see.�
� The tone of my voice is not convincing.
I know it’s bad when Liam quotes Lola from the Beachcomber Bar and Grill. “Guess I’m feeling kinda like a puke stain on the white-collared shirt of life.”
I try to laugh, but it falls flat. “Mom is going to love you.” My sweet sentiment sounds more like a question than the affirming statement it was meant to be. Time to let whatever will be, be.
Liam snorts and we get out of the car that my mother will no doubt refer to as a death trap. He follows me up the broken brick walkway, only stumbling once on that damn brick that has stuck up too high since I replaced a crumbled one in seventh grade.
I can smell the double-chocolate fudge brownies the instant Mom opens the door. “Jason, dear, you made it home and you’re only thirty minutes late this time—how considerate!” She glances past me to Liam and her mouth forms the pucker of someone who’s been dared to suck an extra juicy lemon. She points at Liam. “That is the ‘special person’ you told me about?” Yes, complete with air quotes.
Our visit has started out precisely as I anticipated—miserably—so I know things can go nowhere from here but up. “Mom, this is Liam Norwell… my, uh…my boyfriend.”
Thankfully Liam is right there to catch Mom when she falls into an apparent faint. Saving people’s asses is my boyfriend’s specialty.
Five minutes later, we’re seated at the kitchen table, Mom fanning her face and neck with the current Vogue magazine and Liam stuffing Mom’s famous double-chocolate fudge brownies into his mouth like the cocoa bean tree is an endangered species. “These are fantastic, Mrs. Tripp. Did I hear you right when you said that this is your own secret recipe?”