by Nell Iris
When he pulled a T-shirt over his head and hid the miles and miles of olive skin behind black fabric, I wanted to cry. Beauty like that shouldn’t be hidden.
“Cory?”
“Mhm?”
“I need to go.”
Just like a pickup needle scratching over a vinyl record, I was abruptly pulled back into reality. “Shit. Of course.” I scrambled out of bed, grabbed my clothes, and hurried into the bathroom. Leaning my back against the closed door, I tugged on my earlobe and cursed myself silently for gawking at him like an idiot.
“I’ll make coffee,” Asher yelled through the door.
“Okay,” I called back and scolded myself for another minute or two before getting on with my morning routine.
A little while later, I joined Asher downstairs where he was gulping down a large cup of coffee. He pointed at a glass full of orange juice standing on the breakfast bar—another thing he remembered from our youth—and I emptied it in one go.
“I guess I’d better go,” I said as I cleaned the used glass.
“I, uh, actually have a favor to ask.” He chewed his lower lip.
“Okay?”
“Are you busy today?”
“No, why?”
“Would you…” He scratched his chin, and the rasp of his fingernails against his stubble sent a shiver down my spine. “Would you, uh, mind keeping me company while I drive Pops?”
“Of course not.”
A smile bloomed on his face, and he looked like someone had removed a huge weight off his shoulders. He walked over to me and laid his palm against my cheek. “Thank you.”
All I could think about was how his fingers caressed my face. How his guitarist fingertips snagged and pinched on the short cropped hairs of my beard. How his warmth penetrated me all the way to my bones.
“Anytime,” I rasped.
“Ready to go?”
“Yes.”
Soon, we were in Asher’s car, speeding toward the old neighborhood. His forehead was lined with tension, and his happy smile was absent. I wanted to ask him about it, but I held my tongue. Better to let him talk when he was ready. My mother was an expert in asking unwelcome questions, so I knew how it felt to be prodded and poked when all I wanted was a moment’s quiet.
He stopped outside their old home but kept the engine running. Instead, he honked the horn, three rapid blares that reminded me of the first letter in the SOS-signal. I climbed over the center console and sat behind Asher.
I swept my gaze over the house and the yard, dismayed by the sight. The once-tidy garden was overgrown. The neat lawn had turned into a meadow with the grass swaying in the wind and bushes that hadn’t been in contact with pruning shears in what seemed like a decade.
But what made my heart ache was the dead apple tree in the yard. All its branches were naked and some of them broken. Asher and I had loved climbing that tree. We’d scurried up when Pops hadn’t been around and sat on one of the sturdy limbs, munching on tart apples, talking about everything and nothing until we’d been discovered and chased down with a broomstick.
And now it was dead. I wanted to hug the poor tree. Weep over its death and give it the respect it deserved.
With the back of my hand, I wiped the moisture from my eyes and sniveled.
“I know,” Asher said. “I know.” He sounded as miserable about it as I felt.
The house was in equally bad shape. The paint was flaking off, and, even from this distance, it was apparent that the wood was rotting.
“What happened?” I asked.
“He became more interested in smoking and drinking than anything else.”
“Oh.”
“And he won’t let me help. He refused to let me take him to the doctor at first. I had to call Dan, who called Pops and told him to let me drive him to the fucking hospital.”
It had to have been a serious argument if Asher had thought the only solution was to call his older brother. Dan Cross was fifteen years older and had been out of the house most of Asher’s life. They had never been close, but Dan had always been their father’s favorite son. It made sense Mr. Cross would listen to him.
The front door crashed open, and John Cross appeared. His face was set in a scowl, and he glared at us before he slammed the door shut behind him—how was it still on its hinges?—and walked down the rickety stairs.
Asher’s father was nothing like I remembered. He had been tall and wide-shouldered with the same coal hair as his son and a cantankerous attitude. The man shuffling his way toward us was slouched over and so frail-looking, I was afraid he was going to break in two. He was even skinnier than I, deep grooves bracketed his mouth, and his hair had gone completely white.
What had happened to him?
Mr. Cross got in the passenger seat and put on the seatbelt without a word.
In the rear-view mirror, Asher rolled his eyes as he pulled away from the curb. “Hi, Pops.”
Mr. Cross huffed and gave me a once-over over his shoulder. “Did you have to bring your piece of ass?”
“Pops!” Asher glanced at me in the mirror and mouthed, Sorry.
I shrugged. Mr. Cross had always been grumpy, but this mean side was new.
“Pops, this is my friend Cory. You remember him, right?”
“I don’t know no Cory.”
“My name is Cory Jones, Mr. Cross. I lived on Oak Street with my parents. Bob and Margaret?”
Mr. Cross twisted his head and looked at me. “Cory, huh?”
“Yes, Mr. Cross.”
“I thought you moved.”
“I did. But I came back to see Asher.”
The corners of his mouth turned down in a displeased frown. “You a faggot, too?”
“That’s enough, Pops!”
“It’s bad enough my own flesh and blood is a damn pervert. I don’t want to be surrounded by it.”
He spat out the words with such ferocity, I recoiled and leaned my head against the window in an attempt to get as far away from Mr. Cross as I could.
Asher’s knuckles went white on the steering wheel, and his sharp jaw was set in an angry line. I sneaked my hand between the car door and his seat and gave his arm a quick squeeze before withdrawing. He glanced back at me in the mirror.
It’s okay, I mouthed.
It wasn’t, but I didn’t want to add to Asher’s burden.
For the first time in forever, I wished I could don the mask of my old confident self, the one I’d been such an expert at projecting. It had never been real; underneath, I’d always been an emotional guy who’d hated confrontation, but I’d had to learn quickly how to give the appearance of authority. Somehow, people had bought my act and believed I was this crackerjack fearless HR-director. I’d even been told many times that my life was enviable and something people craved.
If they’d only known.
I’d held on to that persona for as long as I’d been able to. Until the day when it had been impossible.
Now, all that was left was this over-sensitive shadow of my old self, who cowered under harsh words instead of speaking up. Who didn’t have a single authoritarian bone in his body. Nobody in their right mind would envy this fragment of a man.
I wanted to stand up to Mr. Cross. Tell him to stop being a bigot. And growl at him for speaking to Asher like that. But I didn’t know if I had it in me.
The tension in the car was tangible. Mr. Cross huffed and grumped, but didn’t say anything. The anger radiating from Asher was so palpable, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d been able to touch it.
As I watched Asher’s closed-off face in the mirror, I understood why he’d wanted me to come along. What he really had asked for was my support. Someone to have his back in this war that was going on between father and son.
That knowledge coiled itself around my heart, and, somehow, I found an ounce of bravery. I leaned forward and rested my hand on his shoulder in plain view of his father. Asher’s eyes widened in the mirror, and Mr. Cross growled next to us.<
br />
“Disgusting sissies,” he snarled.
Just then, Asher pulled up in front of the entrance of the hospital. Without another word, Mr. Cross got out of the car.
“I’ll come get you tomorrow afternoon,” Asher called after him.
“Don’t bother.”
“How will you get home?”
“I’ll walk.”
“Don’t be stupid. I’ll be here and I’ll drive you.”
Mr. Cross growled a non-verbal answer and slammed the door behind him, the sound so loud it rang in my ears.
On instinct, I flung open my door and jumped out. “Mr. Cross,” I called after him.
He halted his steps and looked back at me. “What do you want?”
I straightened my back and stared him straight in the eye with my chin raised in defiance. Summoning every last sliver of courage I could find, I spoke in a clear voice. “Mr. Cross. We prefer the term gay. Please refrain from insulting other human beings by using demeaning slurs. Especially your own son.”
He opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, and if I hadn’t trembled like a leaf in a storm, I would have laughed at his impression of a fish.
But then something completely unexpected happened. The corners of his mouth turned up in what I could have sworn was a smile.
“If you say so, Cory.” Then he disappeared into the hospital.
If Asher hadn’t been there to catch me when my knees gave out, I would have been lying in a heap on the ground. I swallowed hard as his arms snaked around my waist and pulled me close.
“I can’t believe I just did that.” I had to push out the words because I was completely drained of energy.
“You were amazing, Cory.” His words rumbled through my body, settling the worst of the jitters.
“I was sure he was going to tear me a new one.”
“Nah. He respects people who stand up to him.” A car honked behind us. “I guess we better go,” Asher said and kissed my temple.
I hummed in agreement, enjoyed his closeness for another moment before I walked around the car and got into the passenger seat.
“Let me take you out to breakfast,” I said as Asher drove away.
“I’d love that.”
“You pick what we eat, though.”
“I know just the place.”
Chapter 6
Asher took me to a nice little place not far from his bar. We parked at the back of his building and walked over to the restaurant. It didn’t look like much from the outside, and I would probably have passed it by if it hadn’t been recommended to me.
Inside was marginally better, but the menu was the real crowd-pleaser. It was filled with tempting items, and I stared at it with an open mouth for minutes, having a hard time deciding what I wanted to eat. If it had been possible, I would have chosen one of each.
In the end, I settled on an open-faced avocado-hummus sourdough sandwich and a blueberry-pomegranate smoothie that looked amazing. There were several free tables—we had escaped the worst rush, according to Asher—and we sat down in a private corner.
The food was amazing: the bread was perfect and not too sour, the hummus creamy and garlicky, and the avocado abundant. Decorated with micro-herbs and edible flowers, it was pretty as well as delicious.
Happy, humming noises escaped me as I ate. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, and avocado was one of my favorite things. Some days, when the depression had been at its worst, it was all I’d managed to eat.
An amused sound from Asher finally lured my attention away from the green goodness on the plate in front of me, and I looked up. He stared at me with a soft look in his eyes and his coffee cup hanging in the air, halfway between the table and his mouth. His mouth curled up in a small smile, and I was mesmerized by the stark contrast between the redness of his lips and the black stubble that had taken over the lower part of his face during the night.
His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction and more rock ‘n’ roll than ever. He looked like he’d just climbed out of bed, and I wanted to jump him.
Afraid that he would be able to read my emotions, I lowered my gaze. Scared that if he recognized what he saw, he’d turn away and reject me.
Picking off an avocado slice from my sandwich, I mumbled, “What?”
“I’ve never seen anyone eat like that. As if you’d never had anything better in your life than that sandwich.”
I thought about what he said as I chewed the avocado and swallowed it down with a gulp of my smoothie. “I don’t know that I have,” I admitted and dared to look at him again. “Not that I can remember, anyway. I lost my appetite with the depression and had to set the alarm on my phone to remind myself to eat. Everything tasted like ash.”
He nodded and drank some of his coffee. “I’m happy your appetite is back.”
“Yeah. I wasn’t always this skinny and ugly.” I wrinkled my nose and gestured up and down my body.
Asher reached out and captured my hand. “Don’t.” He weaved our fingers together. “Don’t put yourself down, honey. You’re beautiful.” His voice rumbled through me, and my mouth fell open.
Beautiful? Me?
My lower lip started trembling, and I shook my head.
“You are,” he insisted.
We stared at each other for several moments before he let go of my hand, and we turned our attention back to our meals.
After another bite of my sandwich, I asked, “What’s wrong with your dad?”
“Lung cancer,” he replied after finishing off his stack of banana pancakes with crispy apples and cinnamon—one of the other items on the menu I’d had my eye on.
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah, I know. Can’t say I’m surprised, though. He smoked like…I don’t know. Two packs a day? Still does, for all I know. He doesn’t tell me anything.”
“What happened? Between the two of you, I mean.”
“I told him I’m gay.” The way he said it sounded so simple. As if it had been the easiest thing in the world. But his body language told a completely different story: every muscle was tense and the usual fluidity of his body was missing.
I sighed and nodded. Based on Mr. Cross’ behavior in the car earlier, that’s what I’d guessed, but I’d hoped I was wrong. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to do about it,” he said and tried to drink from his cup but scowled at it when he found it empty. He put it down with a clatter and stared intently at the table.
“Was he…” I hesitated a second, “…violent?”
“No. He called me a lot of ugly names and, uh, shut me out. Ignored me. Not that he ever was very affectionate, you know, but after I told him about me, he stopped keeping in touch. Didn’t answer when I tried to call him. If I hadn’t stormed over and told him to pick up the goddamn phone, he would probably still be ignoring me. Not that he does a lot of talking. I talk. He grunts.”
“So you’d moved out before you told him?”
“God, yes! I’d been out of the house for years. I only told him because my boyfriend at the time wanted me to be ‘completely open.’” He did air quotes with his fingers and accentuated it with a grimace. “It’s not like I was in the closet. I was out to everyone except Pops.”
Was that the same boyfriend that had called him emotionally unavailable? And was Mr. Cross’ reaction one of the reasons they broke up?
I didn’t have the chance to ask him. The waitress walked up to our table, smiled, and asked if we wanted anything else. Asher took the opportunity for a coffee refill, but I declined. She left after pouring him another cup.
“I don’t even know how he’s doing,” he continued. “He won’t tell me. I don’t know what treatments he’s getting or if they’re successful. Dan doesn’t know either. Pops refuses to tell either of us. And I’m not authorized to talk to the doctor.” He scratched his neck and sighed. “I don’t know what to do.”
I had no idea what to say. I wish I could come up with a solution, but what could I do? A half-smile
from the man didn’t make me his confidante. He wouldn’t want to talk to me, even if I tried.
“Is he still working at the hardware store?”
“No. He quit years ago.”
“Did he retire?”
Asher shrugged. “I guess you could say that.”
“What do you mean?”
He refused to meet my gaze and tapped his index finger against the table.
First, I thought he’d finally had enough of my questions, but his fidgeting told another story. And just like that, I understood.
“Oh, I see. You’re providing for him.”
The rest of his fingers joined in on the drumming. “I can’t let him starve to death,” he muttered.
I was mesmerized by his hand and how he tapped out sound patterns on the table. How could I have forgotten that he’d used to do that whenever he was nervous? I should have known he would make a great musician.
When all his fingers were in the air at once, I snuck my hand under his, my palm turned up in invitation. Without a second’s hesitation, he took it.
“Of course you couldn’t let him starve,” I said and wrapped my fingers around his.
He looked at me like he was trying to ascertain if I was telling the truth. “No?”
“Of course not. He’s your father. Why wouldn’t it be okay?”
“It’s just, uh, my boyfriend didn’t agree. He thought I should let him take care of himself. Or have Dan do it.”
“He was clearly an idiot. It’s your decision. And for what it’s worth, I support it. As long as you have the money and don’t let yourself starve.”
“That’s worth a lot.”
We smiled at each other. Asher drank some more coffee and let out a contented sigh as he put the cup back down.
“I’m really fucking happy I made sure he got insurance, too. But I worry that it won’t cover the treatment he needs.”
“Do you think he’d let you know if it doesn’t?”
“I’ve asked him to tell me. Or talk to Dan. Who knows if he’ll actually do it? Anyway, I’m sorry I’m dumping all this on you.”
“No! It’s fine. I, uh, I appreciate that you feel you can trust me. I just wish I could do something. I wish I could help.”