by Lanyon, Josh
I felt back to normal. Tired. But wired. Like I could sleep for a month, but eventually. Not in any immediate future.
The full significance of what had happened hit me. As close calls went, it didn’t get much closer than this. I said huskily, “Thank you, Graham. You saved my life.”
“Team effort. Anyway, you may not thank me when you hear I phoned your parents.”
I groaned so loudly a nurse pulled back the curtain. I hastily waved the all clear to her.
“I didn’t realize how fast you’d snap out of it.” His face fell into grim lines. “I didn’t think you’d snap out of it at all.” He drew a breath. “Anyway, it’s okay. They’re not driving down.”
“Thank God.”
“Tonight.”
I groaned again. He laughed. Quietly, but it was a genuine laugh.
“They’re nice.”
“I know they are. I picked them.” That was the family joke. I was adopted when I was sixteen months old. The story is my birthmother finally decided on Bill and Dana Finley when I tried to chew up their résumé.
Graham said awkwardly, “They…knew all about me.”
“You should have let me die out there on the prairie.”
I was kidding, of course. Graham was not. “Don’t.”
“No.” I sighed. “Anyway, yes, I did tell them about you. They keep hoping I’m going to settle down. Don’t worry. You don’t have to meet them. You’ve done more than enough.”
“I want to meet them.”
“Uh…”
“I want to meet them,” Graham repeated. His gaze was steady even as he stumbled over the words. “I want to… I want us to… I want to keep seeing you.”
My heart started to pound so hard I felt a little sick. “Listen, Graham. I don’t think — that is, I think you’re forgetting. You had a shock today too. And you’re mistaking that for something else.”
“No.” He was definite. “I was trying to tell you before you were stung. It got lost in…”
His overwhelming grief for Jase. I did understand that. Too well.
He expelled a long breath. “The words came out wrong. I’m not good at talking about this stuff.”
Who is? But I didn’t say that. I patted his hand, tried to assure him without having to dig up the words, that it was okay. I understood. Say no more.
Please, say no more.
But he did say more. In that choppy, uneven, occasionally cracked voice. Dry. Parched. Like he hadn’t had a sip of water in decades.
“I knew when you said that…about giving Jase back to me if you had the power.” His eyes never wavered from mine. “It was the truth. You meant it.”
“I…” I badly wanted to believe I’d meant it. I badly wanted to believe what he was telling me, what he seemed to be telling me.
“I’ve never been afraid like I was today. With Jase there wasn’t time to be afraid. It was all over before I knew anything about it. With you there was time to think of what we could have had, what I’d let slip away, and I knew…” his breath caught “I had made the biggest mistake of my life. Because I didn’t have the guts to take another chance. Because it didn’t seem right that I get to…go on. I get to fall in love again. Be happy. And…it’s…so fucking unfair. I know that sounds…that it’s liable to sound… But it’s not you, Wyatt. Except that you’re this great guy and sometimes I couldn’t seem to get past that.”
I didn’t say a word. I was pretty sure he was trying to say that he couldn’t help resenting that I was alive and Jase was not, and while maybe it was understandable he would feel that way, I knew I wouldn’t be able to forgive him. Even if he had saved my life.
Graham kept stumbling along in that earnest, pained way. “It almost made it worse because I was so sure I couldn’t care about anyone again, not like I felt about Jase, but then I met you. And it was so… It happened so naturally. Like it was meant to happen. I knew I could let go. Move on. And it felt wrong.”
“How could it be wrong?”
He countered, “How could I forget him so easily?”
“You haven’t forgotten him.” The intention was to say it gently, but it came out harsh. Hurt.
“But I could.” His face worked and here came the part that killed him, that he was ashamed of. “Not forget him. But let go. I want to. I want to move on. I want to love you. I can’t change anything that happened. I can’t fix anything. I didn’t get justice for Jase. But I still want to move on. I want you.”
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. “You have me.”
“I know.”
The honesty of that made me laugh. Graham laughed too, a little uncertainly, and reached for me at the same time I reached for him. In that antiseptic atmosphere he smelled alive and real: woodsmoke and sunscreen and sunflowers —
The curtain rings scraped. We both retreated from our near-embrace as the doctor strode into the cubicle. “Sounds like someone is feeling a lot better.”
“Me? I’m fine.” In fact, what I mostly felt was exasperation at the worst timing in the world.
“I’m Dr. Geary.” Dr. Geary was short and boyish. He looked like he should have been sitting in a ninth grade biology class trying to drop frozen frogs down girls’ blouses.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I told Graham when he stood up. To Geary, I said, “I’m sure I’m okay now. When can I go home?”
The doctor ignored this, going unhurriedly through the ritual of blood pressure and heart rate. Graham moved to where he could get a better view of the sprinkler overhead. He studied it like it was a rare geode. I studied Graham.
When he’d finished his examination, Dr. Geary announced, “Good news. Provided you can stay with someone for the next twenty-four hours — just in case of relapse — we can see about turning you loose now.”
“He’s staying with me,” Graham spoke up.
“Relapse?” I echoed.
“It’s rare but sometimes patients have what we call a biphasic reaction. I’m going to give you prescriptions for Benadryl, prednisone and an EpiPen. You’ll want to carry that last one from now on.” The doctor cheerfully rattled off the rest of his mildly alarming information and retreated once again behind the blue wall.
“Relapse,” I repeated.
The curtain swung gently to a standstill. I looked at Graham. He solemnly looked back at me. “Are you sure about this?” I didn’t mean having me as a houseguest for the next twenty-four hours. I couldn’t help thinking one of us was probably making a big mistake. If he’d taken me into his arms — but, no, the moment seemed to be lost.
Instead he nodded. As declarations went, it left something to be desired. Of course I could make the next move. I’d made plenty of them before.
I started to sit up. The curtain rings slid again and the nurse was back with a sheaf of papers for me to sign. It was too late for either of us to back out. Assuming one of us wanted to.
The house on Startouch Drive felt warm and welcoming when we walked in. The sun was setting and the rooms were filled with amber light.
“Are you hungry?” Graham asked.
“Probably. It’s hard to tell with all these antihistamines bouncing around my system. I’m mostly tired.” Tired down to my DNA. But I didn’t need sleep. And I didn’t need food. I didn’t even need to hear again that Graham wanted to give us another chance. Well, I did, but Graham wasn’t much for words at the best of times. What I needed was Graham. Not even sex. Just his arms around me. Just the simple reassurance of a hug. I wanted him to hold me like he meant it.
I looked up and he was watching me in that steady, calm way. “Why don’t you jump into bed, and I’ll bring you something on a tray.”
“Nah. I’m tired but I’m too pumped up to sleep.”
“We don’t have to sleep.” Suddenly he was smiling, his face relaxed, looking younger than he’d looked in all the time I’d known him.
I found myself helplessly smiling back. When he looked at me like that, it was easy to believe that
this was real, that it was going to work out.
I walked into the bedroom. The final crepuscular rays of sun lanced through the skylight and illuminated the bed. I pulled off my T-shirt, stepped out of my jeans. They’d cleaned me up in the emergency room, but I needed a shower. Maybe I was more tired than I’d realized though, because I thought to hell with it, crawled into bed and pulled up the covers. I stared up into the funnel of light, watching the dust motes dance in the air.
“You okay?” Graham asked from the doorway.
I sat up. “Yeah. Only I…”
“Me too.” He left the doorway and sat down on the bed, and all at once it was easy again, natural to put my arms around him, feel his arms around me. He needed a shower too — and a shave. I was smiling as our mouths brushed gently. The smiles evaporated in hungry fervor. Unsteady mouths exploring flushed skin, trembling eyelashes, before latching on once more in shivery, sweet kisses. The familiar heat coiled inside me, tingling all the way from the soles of my feet to the ends of my hair.
I could feel Graham’s heart pounding against my own, feel the unevenness of his breath and the tremor of his hands.
When we finally broke the kiss, his eyes glittered. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’ll be okay. It’s not as complicated as it seems.”
“Does it seem complicated to you? It seems simple to me.”
I reached out to brush the tears at the edge of his eyes. The wet glittered on my thumb tip. “Are you still scared?”
“No. Are you?”
“No.” Maybe a little. I had something to lose again — and I didn’t think I could survive losing it twice
He smiled his wry smile, the funny little grin I’d fallen in love with. “I’ll fix us something to eat, and then we can talk.”
“We don’t have to talk.”
“Not a long conversation,” Graham agreed. “I want to say I love you. How’s that?”
“Perfect.”
I was still smiling as he kissed me a final time and headed back to the kitchen.
I stared up at the darkening skies. The stars would appear soon, first a faint and milky glow, then a hard, adamantine glitter, burning steadily through the night. It would be a good night. Maybe the first of many.
I could hear Graham in the other room, comfortable, familiar sounds of dishes and running water. I could hear the birds in the trees saying good-night to each other. And somewhere down the hillside I could hear the buzz of a motorcycle like an angry bee growing fainter and fainter with the miles.
A Limited Engagement
A Limited Engagement
This story was written in 2008 for a charity anthology in support of gay marriage. It’s a noirish little tale about the desperate things love can drive you to — or maybe it’s about doing the wrong things for the right reasons. A lot of readers have trouble with this one, but I like pushing some of those romance boundaries. What would love really be about, if not the ability to forgive?
I heard the key in the lock, switched on the porch light, and opened the door.
The rain poured off the roof of the cabin in a shining fall of silver needles, bouncing and splashing off the redwood deck. Ross stood there, blue eyes blacker than the night, the amber porch light giving his skin a jaundiced cast.
“You’re here,” he said in disbelief. The disbelief gave way instantly to the rage he’d been banking down for — well, probably since the newspapers came out that morning. Even in the unwholesome porch light I could see his face flush dark and his eyes change.
I stepped back — partly to let him in, because really what choice did I have? Even if I’d wanted to keep him out, it was his cabin. Partly because…it was Ross and I had no walls and no doors and no defenses against him.
He followed me inside, shaking his wet, black hair out of his eyes. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and his hands were red from the cold. His Joseph Abboud overcoat dripped in a silent puddle around his expensively shod feet. “I am going to kill you,” he said carefully and quietly, and he launched himself at me.
I jumped back, my foot slipped on the little oriental throw rug, and I went down, crashing into the walnut side table, knocking it — and the globe lamp atop it — over. The lamp smashed on the wooden floor, shards of painted flowers scattering down the hallway.
Ross’s cold hands locked around my throat. Big hands, powerful hands — hands that could stroke and soothe and tease and tantalize — tightened, choking me. I clawed at his wrists, squirming, wriggling, trying to break his hold.
till death do you part…
“R-R-ogh —” I tried to choke out his name as he squeezed.
The blood beat in my ears with the thunder of the rain on the roof. The lights swirled and dimmed, the black edges swept forward and washed me out with the drum of the rain on the roof.
* * * * *
I could hear the rain pounding down. I opened my eyes. I was lying on the floor in the entrance hall of the cabin, the rug scrunched beneath me. The lights were out but the flickering from the fireplace in the front room sent shadows dancing across the open beamed ceiling. I could make out broken glass winking and twinkling in the firelight like bits of broken stars fallen around me. My back hurt, my head buzzed, my throat throbbed.
There was no sign of Ross.
Levering myself up, I got to my feet, leaned dizzily against the wall while I found my bearings, then picked my way over the fallen table and through the broken glass into the front room.
Ross sat in front of the fireplace, head in his hands, unmoving.
I felt my way over to the sofa and sat down across from him.
He didn’t look up. I could see that his hands were shaking a little.
Mine were shaking a lot.
I croaked, “Rawh.” Tried again. “Ross…will you listen to me?” It came out in a hoarse boy demon voice.
I guess Demon Boy was about right. He looked at me then, and even in the uncertain lighting the pain in his eyes was almost more than I could take.
He said tonelessly, “Why did you do it?”
I had to struggle to get the words, and not just because of my bruised throat.
He said, “I did everything you wanted. I paid every penny of your goddamned blackmail. Why the hell did you do it?” I could tell he’d been asking himself this all the long drive, all the long day. Six hours from New York City to this little cabin in the Vermont woods. He must have left not long after the news broke.
“I —” my voice gave out on another squawk.
His eyes shone in the firelight as they turned my way. I shook my head.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” he asked. “You’ve destroyed me. Why?”
I couldn’t answer. The burn in the back of my throat moved to my eyes and dazzled me. I could just make him out in a kind of prism — as though he were trapped in crystal.
“You don’t think you owe me that much?” He got up fast. I flinched. He stopped.
“I’m…sorry,” I got out.
“Sorry?”
I nodded.
“You’re…sorry?” The bewilderment was painful. “You outed me to the press. You’ve ruined my career, my marriage —”
“Engagement,” I said quickly.
There was a little pause. Ross said, “You’ve ruined my life…and you’re sorry?”
I said, “I’m sorry you’re suffering. I’m not sorry I did it.”
I thought he really would kill me then. Fists clenched, he took a step toward me, and I straightened, squaring my shoulders. For a long moment he stared down at me, then, sharply, he turned away. I could hear the harshness of his breathing as he fought for control.
“Ross —”
“Don’t say anything, Adam.” His voice was muffled. “Don’t speak. I’m not —”
Neither of us said a word as the rain thundered down on the roof. I could see it glinting outside the windows like grains of polished rice — like a shower of rice outside a church. But they didn’t throw rice at
weddings anymore, did they?
Finally Ross gave a long sigh. His shoulders relaxed. He moved away to the liquor cart and poured two brandies. Brandy in the wrong glasses: he really was upset. Handing me a tumbler, he sat down on the other sofa, and said conversationally, “That’s twice tonight I’ve almost killed you.” He met my eyes. “You shouldn’t have come here, Adam. I can’t believe you did.”
“I’m not running from you,” I said.
He raised his brows. “You should be running from me. Because I’m going to return the favor and wreck your life.”
“All right.” I tossed my drink back and then stared down at the empty glass sparkling in the firelight.
He gave me that dark, unfathomable look. “You don’t believe me?”
I managed a semblance of a smile. “I think I beat you to it, yeah?”
Yeah. Because of the two of us, my career was less likely to survive. Ross was a playwright. A brilliant, respected playwright, at that. I was an actor. A mostly out-of-work and previously not very well-known actor. Not many openly gay actors find leading man roles on or off Broadway. Especially the ones who indulge in kiss and tell with powerful playwrights and producers. I was going to be a pariah, the Ann Heche of the theatah, dahling.
That wasn’t the life-wrecking part, though. There also was the fact that I loved Ross — as much as he now hated me. That was the bit I wasn’t sure I would survive.
He swallowed a mouthful of brandy slowly, thoughtfully. “Not a smart move from a career standpoint,” he agreed. “Either of your careers. You know, you’re not going to get far as a blackmailer if you betray your paying customers.”
“Why did you pay me?” I asked.
He said as though explaining the facts of life to a numbskull, “Because you threatened to out me to the press.”