Gay Fiction, Volume 1

by Mel Bossa

  He left me with the cold ceramic under my feet. I clasped my fingers around the towel rack, trying to stop the room from spinning, trying to take one breath. If I could take one lousy breath, then I would know I wasn’t going to die.

  “Open your mouth.” Nick was pushing something on my lips. “Open your mouth, goddamn you. Open.”

  My fingers ripped at his and my feet kicked at his calves.

  “Calm the fuck down!” Nick’s voice was strained, thick with panic, but my hands tore at his clothes, and my mouth remained shut tight.

  “O’Reilly! You’re having an asthma attack, you need to suck on this, now. Please. Open your mouth, please, O’Reilly.” His voice softened. “Please. Open your mouth, Derek, come on, one big fucking breath and it’s over.”

  My eyes had been running wildly along the bathroom walls, but slowly, they began to regain some of their focus, and as I locked my gaze to Nick’s, my lips drooped open a little.

  “Look at me, O’Reilly. Breathe. Please. Look at me and breathe.”

  Softly, Nick pushed the edge of the inhaler into my mouth. “Please.”

  I kept my eyes on his and sucked in a small dose. Then another. Slowly, my airways relaxed.

  “Good boy.” Nick’s fingers released their grip on my shirt, and he slumped back down against the wall, cradling his face inside the fold of his arms. “Fuck,” he mumbled. “You’re so intense.”

  I was going to say something, but without a warning, a giant sob shot out of my mouth. It had the force of a shove propelling me two steps ahead. I clutched my mouth, but it was no use. The tears were gunning out of my eyes like liquid bullets.

  Nick glanced up. “Hey—”

  The surprise on his face caused me to bolt out of the bathroom.

  I pulled the basement door open and skidded down the stairs, running for my bedroom where I could be alone.

  Safe.

  I couldn’t find any tissues in my bedroom, so I wiped my face, makeup and all, with a T-shirt. My throat was scratchy on account of that runaway sob. I hurriedly pulled my clothes off and jumped into my pajamas.

  I glanced at the door.

  Would Nick be knocking on it soon?

  I pushed my dresser against the door, and leaned a chair against that.

  Good. I would be undisturbed.

  I lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to slow my heart down to an acceptable pace.

  “O’Reilly. Come on, you freak, open the door.”

  I shut my eyes.

  “I fuckin’ mean it. Open the door.”

  I popped an eye open.

  “I swear to God, you’ve got five seconds to open this door.”

  I sat up.

  Debated.

  “NOW, O’REILLY.”

  I jumped out of bed and worked at sliding the dresser away. I turned the doorknob, but leaped back into bed before Nick entered.

  “I’m gonna talk to you and you’re gonna listen.” Nick had come into my bedroom again, and he sat on the floor, facing me, with his back against the wall. “Okay?”

  I turned on my side, watching him. The wind rattled the window above my head, and at the sound of it, a shiver rippled down the small of my back. “O-okay.”

  “Good.” Nick crossed his arms over his knees and sighed. “You know why you have these episodes? ’Cause you don’t deal with things. That’s why. Now, I don’t know what brought this one on, but I have a feelin’ you’re not gonna be tellin’ me anytime soon.” He leaned his head back and my heart grew quiet. His voice tired. “I’m sorry, okay? Really. I didn’t mean to freak you out.” He paused, and his blue eyes scanned the dark room. They shone like a skating rink under the moon. “The last thing I wanna do is push you back farther into yourself. You get that don’t you? I mean, shit, that’s what the dancin’ and makeup was for, just lettin’ out a little steam, that’s all.”

  Silence filled my bedroom.

  And I almost told him.

  But how do you say these things? How?

  I don’t even know how to say anything.

  “O’Reilly, I know things are pretty tough for you right now, but I have a good feelin’ about you.” Nick locked his eyes to mine and smiled. “You’re one of those. You know? The ones that come out of things stronger.” He got to his knees and made his way to the edge of my bed. His mouth touched my ear. “I see you, O’Reilly. The way you watch me.” I could feel his breath in my hair. “We’re of the same kind.”

  My soul exploded inside my chest.

  Nick got to his feet. “Get some rest. I’ll clean up and make sure everything is the way it was before your aunt gets home, okay?”

  I need you. Please.

  “All right, sleep tight, little man.”

  No. Stay. Oh God, please.

  “Sweet dreams.”

  I love you.

  Stay with me.

  Always.

  Don’t leave me, Nick.

  “I’ll see you around, O’Reilly.”

  I woke up to the sound of Boone scratching on my small windowpane.

  The orange sun filtered through the glass, creating patterns of light on my bedroom floor.

  Where had winter gone? The chilling winds? The piles of snow?

  Had the morning been so gentle?

  I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and stood on my bed, looking out to Boone.

  He wasn’t smiling.

  My heart broke out into an uneven rhythm.

  “Nick’s gone again,” he shouted against the glass. “Dave too.”

  This time, Nick isn’t coming back.

  Chapter Seven

  I was at my desk this afternoon, and I’m sure, to others, my appearance was absolutely unworthy of attention.

  My fingertips tapped the keyboard.

  My eyes fixed the screen.

  I sat in a regular, natural way, but something had not been detected by my colleagues—I had turned into a mere hologram.

  My body was present, but every single cell of its composition had drifted with my soul. For hours, I had been sitting at my desk, pretending to be there, when really, I had long ago flown out the window and was soaring through the Montreal sky, letting the wind carry me to DuPort Street.

  “What the fuck is up with you.”

  Shot down, I crashed back into my limbs. “Huh?”

  Jake bounced an eyebrow. “You’re typing into oblivion.” His slim index pointed to my screen, and I realized I had been tossed out of the accounting program by an intrusive pop-up letting me know I had new mail. Oblivious to it, I had been plugging in information into “The Nothing” for the last ten minutes.

  “Is that your lunch?”

  I looked over at my open Tupperware. Moss would have been more appealing. I shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “You disgust me.” Jake smiled. “Let’s go Chez Loulou and eat Jello out of the stripper’s navel.”

  I couldn’t help chuckling. “Lots of work. Sorry.”

  “You’re so gay.” Jake winked and kicked my chair. “Drinks later?”

  My mind had begun drifting again, but I held on to reality long enough to acquiesce.

  “Good,” he said, leaving me to my inner debate. “I’ll catch you later.”

  Please do.

  Yank me down to earth.

  Hammer reason into me.

  My eyes shifted to the screen again, but I knew very well I had lost this battle, and slowly, as if I might trip myself up, I gathered my bag and jacket and discreetly left the office.

  *

  Dear Bump,

  Dad has gained a million pounds.

  His beard is thick and red like my hair. He smells like charcoal. “Look at you,” he keeps saying. “You’ve grown an inch or two for sure.” I think it’s just wishful thinking on Dad’s part. I haven’t grown at all.

  Matter of fact, I think I’m still shrinking.

  “What happened to your good grades, boy?”

  We were having dinner. Guess what was on my plate? Yes
, Bump, sloppy joes.

  “Oh Johnny, he’s just been distracted with everything,” answered Aunt Frannie in my place. “It’ll come back to him, now that you’re here and Dolores will soon be.”

  No. Never. Won’t ever be good in school ever again. Hate it. Hate it more than I hate sloppy joes.

  “What about that chess tournament, beat that little chink yet?” Some sauce sat on the edge of Dad’s mouth, hanging on his beard.

  “He-he’s mo-o-ving—”

  “For Pete’s sake, spit it out, Red. Fran, didn’t you say you were gonna get that boy some help?”

  I pushed a piece of bread around on my plate. Not like I was going to let it anywhere near my mouth, but if I push it long enough, Dad starts thinking that I’m eating.

  “Well, John,” Aunt Frannie’s eyes shone a little, “those things cost a lot of money and—”

  “Woman, I’ve been sending you half my darn pay—”

  “I know, but the winter was really cold, that heating bill nearly ate all of—”

  “All right. All right, spare me.” Dad threw back the rest of his Irish coffee and rose. “Help your auntie with the dishes.”

  I’ve been helping Aunt Frannie with the dishes since day one. If he had been here, he would know that.

  I waited until he had disappeared, then slid out of my chair with a sigh.

  Aunt Frannie squeezed my shoulder. “He’s just worried ’bout your mom, that’s all.”

  I don’t care. I don’t mind. I only want to go lie down in my bed and stare at the wall.

  Pretend Nick is still sitting up against it, whispering to me.

  It’s been two weeks. No one knows where Nick and David went.

  Boone says a detective couldn’t figure out where these two ran to.

  Though I have a hunch.

  But I’m not gonna tell anyone.

  Not even you, Bump.

  Nope.

  No one.

  *

  When I straddled my motorcycle, the afternoon was a crystal blue promise made up of silver cement and yellow skies.

  I rode down Saint-Denis, squeezing through the midday traffic of delivery trucks and salespeople, with my mind drawing up a million different possible scenarios. Would Nick be there? What would he say? Would he touch me?

  Could I stand it?

  Before I knew it, I had reached Saint-Paul Street. I slipped the bike between a Mercedes and a BMW and climbed off.

  The Old Port.

  It had been a while since I had walked down its cobblestone streets. As I passed art galleries, quaint boutique hotels, and bistros packed with power eaters, I smiled to myself. Of all the places to open a restaurant, Nick had to pick the trendiest, most sought-after street of Montreal. Nothing here is mediocre. Especially not the people. In the five minutes it took to reach DuPort Street, I had seen more beautiful, fashionable people than I would have if I had been leafing through a Glamour magazine.

  At the corner, I stopped.

  There it was.

  Split.

  From what I could see, it was a fairly small place, wedged between two much larger restaurants, one a Mediterranean place I had heard of, famous for its grilled squid, and the other a bar / restaurant that appeared to be closed for renovations. I took a shy step forward, and then paused again.

  I watched Split’s front window.

  The glass was tinted, but not too darkly. I could see the interior of the restaurant quite well. There were approximately twenty-five tables, mainly designed for two and four, and at the back was a larger table for six. A corner bar filled a third of the dining room, and behind it, I caught sight of a man.

  My heart popped up inside my mouth and I instinctively shrank back, hiding behind the corner wall of the Urban Galleria.

  But it couldn’t be Nick.

  Didn’t look like Nick at all.

  I ordered myself to get a grip, and drew in a long, cleansing breath.

  I wiped my clammy palms down my thighs and shook my shoulders loose. “Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.”

  I peeked into the window again.

  The man had disappeared. There were no customers.

  I noticed the menu pinned to the door. I wanted to browse through the items and familiarize myself with every single one of Nick’s dishes, but I had forgotten how to read. I could feel my shirt breathing against my chest, on account of my heart pounding so dangerously hard. I looked into the window again.

  I let out an impatient sigh.

  How long was I going to stand at Nick’s door?

  I pulled on the handle, but when the door opened, my body shook as if I had been zapped.

  I hadn’t expected to actually walk in.

  But I had.

  I was inside Split.

  Outside, the sunlight had been quite blinding, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the interior, I let my nose and ears take over. I heard pots clanking. Some voices carried to me from behind the kitchen’s swinging metal door. I tensed. One of them was deeper than the rest.

  Could it be Nick’s?

  I inhaled, and the scents of coconut and wild orchid appeased my nervousness.

  Finally, my eyes had regained their purpose, and I let them roam over the room. The tables were covered with fern green cloth, and atop every one was a set of mahogany candle holders, in which stood thick, round almond-colored candles.

  My gaze wandered across to the bar.

  It was a half-circle hugging the corner of the room, with seven high stools tucked neatly under its rustic, wooden bar top. The back wall was filled with every possible thing one might need to throw the finest party in less than a minute. It was a laboratory of color and decadence. An alchemist’s dream.

  Under my feet, the dark hardwood floor shone. A string of thin white lights zigzagged across the ceiling above, creating a soothing, almost moonlike effect of light and shadow. The walls were painted a lighter shade of apple green, which could have been tacky, but against the lacquered dark wood that covered the bottom part of the walls, the green had become a pale leaf one wanted to wrap oneself into. The Caribbean had obviously influenced Nick in his choice of accessories and decor. But there was more to the place than that.

  Split was exactly that.

  Divided.

  Modern and conservative. Welcoming, but a bit pretentious. Classic, yet criant.

  A rain forest where all the tree trunks were metal rods.

  “Oui?”

  My eyes darted in the young voice’s direction. A boy, no more than eighteen, stood a few steps in front of me. His black eyes scrutinized my face. “J’peux vous aider?”

  “Um—” Whenever I attempt to speak the French language, I sound as if I’ve just had a root canal and am still under the analgesic. “Je cherche—” I realized I was gesturing as if the young man was deaf. “Je cherche Nicolas Lund,” I said coherently enough.

  His eyes sharpened and his pretty young face soured. He looked me up and down with mild disgust, as if I smelled of guano. “Un instant.” He spun on himself, going back to the kitchen.

  My teeth dug into my bottom lip with enough ardor to startle me. I had nearly drawn blood. I tried to suck in a few breaths, and fastened my gaze to the kitchen door.

  I held on, bracing myself for the tsunami of sensations that would soon wash over me.

  The door swung open.

  The tidal wave crashed into me. It tore into my very skin, pouring into my nose, eyes, and mouth. I could neither breathe nor speak. I had been knocked out by the sheer force of its revelation.

  Nick was more beautiful than I could bear, but still, I hadn’t truly seen him.

  Just caught sight of the nature of him.

  “Tu m’donnes de papiers, pis tu sacres ton camp okay?”

  Something-something, gimme the fucking papers.

  My mouth moved, but before I could retort, Nick had snapped my bag off my shoulder. Quite hard too.

  “I agreed to the test, what the fuck does she w
ant?” He was fumbling through the contents of my Swiss Army bag, but there’s nothing in there but boredom.

  “You know, I told Mona—” Nick pulled a beige folder out and slapped it on the bar. “Tell her we can do without the—”

  “Nick.” Some alien voice had streamed out of my throat.

  His blond eyebrows met, and he ran his tongue over his sculpted lips, then squinted.

  I watched a subtle transformation come about his face.

  Oh, and what a face. Makes you believe in God.

  Nick cocked his head a little and looked down at my bag.

  “Nick, you-ou don’t—don’t—” I took a breath, and tried one word at a time. “You don’t recognize me?”

  His arctic gaze slowly moved over my body, as if I were an empty canvas he needed to fill. “O’Reilly?”

  To hear Nick speak my name after all these years cut the last string that held me to the ground. “Yes,” I whispered.

  Nick slammed his palm down on the bar counter. “Fuck me! No fucking way.” His features softened. “No way,” he said again, more softly.

  He came in closer. “No way,” he whispered, his eyes burning my mouth.

  Could he see how flustered I had become?

  I could barely hold myself together.

  He took another step to me. “O’Reilly.”

  Nick makes my name sound like a Celtic prayer.

  I lifted my eyes to meet his piercing gaze. “Nick,” I almost moaned.

  He bent his face to mine, and I froze, besieged with an overwhelming physical want. His fingers skimmed the edge of my face. “Same wicked eyes,” he murmured, his breath warming my hungry lips.

  I could not take my eyes off his smile. “Nick.” His name I had not said, but pleaded.

  Nick’s eyes dimmed, and he pulled away.

  He found refuge behind the bar, pulling a bottle of whiskey off the shelf. “Drink?”

  I nodded.

  I watched him pour the amber whiskey into two shot glasses. “Straight?” A provocative smile turned up on his sensuous lips. “Well.” He laughed.

  His laughter shook me out of my mild trance, and I walked, more like wobbled, to the bar, and leaned in, using the counter to hold my weight. “Thank you.”

  Nick set the glass before me. “Welcome.” We raised our glasses, and again, his eyes met mine. “Cheers,” he said quietly.