Gay Fiction, Volume 1

by Mel Bossa

  “Yes.” I rose. “I’m going to get dressed.”

  “You don’t want breakfast?”

  I kissed her head. “Thank you.”

  She reached out and squeezed my hand. “Okay.”

  I hurried to the small room that serves as Lene’s office and opened my closet, which in fact is my unpacked suitcase, and got dressed in more appropriate attire.

  I stepped back into the living room. “Lene, I’m going to take that apartment on Sainte-Émilie.”

  Her smile turned upside down. “You don’t have to move out.”

  Gio coughed. “I’m gonna go make some eggs.” He eased himself out of the couch and Lene’s embrace. “I’ll put on another pot of coffee.”

  We both watched him disappear into the kitchen, and then Lene leaned in. “You can stay as long as you like.”

  “No, Lene. I need to grow up.” I slipped my coat on. “And really fast too.”

  Her eyebrows met. “What do you mean?”

  If Nick is a father, then what am I?

  What’s my place?

  My contribution?

  Do I have one?

  I zipped up my coat. “I’m going to ask something of your brother.”

  Lene nodded. “All right, but can I give you some advice?”

  I wrapped my scarf around my neck and smiled. “Please do, Dr. Lund.”

  “For once in your life, Derek, be fearless.”

  My skin warmed.

  She held my inquisitive stare. “There’s only one thing no one has ever asked of Nicolai.”

  My chest tightened. “And what is that?”

  Lene threw her head back and laughed.

  Then, her expression became somber. “Everything,” she said in a breath.

  *

  “We’re closed.” Andy’s tight little body guarded Split’s entrance.

  I pushed on the door. “Good morning.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  I stepped into the warm dining room and blew into my frozen hands.

  Andy shut the door behind us. “Don’t get snow on the floor.” He turned the lock. “I just washed it.”

  I wiped my boots on the carpet. “Is he here?”

  Andy had fled to the bar, and stood behind it, wiping glasses.

  He poured orange juice into one of them. “Thirsty?”

  I glanced down at my boots.

  They dripped with melted brown snow.

  Andy sighed impatiently. “Forget the floor.”

  I stared at the kitchen door. Nothing stirred behind it.

  “He’s in his office. Do you want this orange juice or not?”

  I frowned.

  “Eric, right?” Andy leaned on the bar top, studying me.

  “Derek.”

  “Right.” His lips formed a subtle smile. “Sit down.” He pointed to a bar stool.

  I hesitated and then walked to the bar.

  This disguised duel was necessary.

  Nathan always said, “You can’t beat the competition if you don’t get close enough to touch it.”

  Andy’s eyes roamed over my face.

  I reached for the glass and paused. “Will there be any suffering?”

  His face opened with surprise, and he cocked his head. “What?”

  My fingertip tapped the rim of the glass. “When the poison sets in.”

  His eyes widened, and a genuine smile lit up his features. “You’re all right.”

  I took a generous gulp of the orange juice.

  Andy watched me. “Come on, I’ll show you to the office.”

  I set the glass down and smiled. “Thanks.”

  Andy sighed. “But I warn you, he’s in one of his moods.”

  He paused by the closed office door. “This is as far as I go.” He smiled. “Honestly.”

  I watched the door, listening.

  Something something fuck shit goddamn it.

  Andy cocked an eyebrow and walked away.

  I knocked on the door. “Nick?”

  I heard the lock slide, but the door remained closed. I pushed on it. “Hi.”

  Nick’s azure eyes looked over a mountain of paper. “Do you see this?” He swept his hand across the desk, blowing sheets of paper through the cluttered office. “Look at this fucking mess.” He jumped out of his chair. “Gimme that box.”

  “What box?” I glanced around.

  “There.” Nick let out an explosive sigh. “Give.”

  My mouth dried up, and I wondered, was I panicked or madly turned on? “Here,” I whispered, handing him the box, my eyes fixed to his heated face.

  Nick’s long fingers slipped it out of my hand. “Thank you.”

  My breath left me, and I leaned up against the closed door, watching Nick toss half of his office into the large cardboard box. Every paper his fingers landed on was severely punished.

  “Nick?”

  “I’m supposed to be making at least three percent net profit a month.” His voice was tense with restrained fury. “I’m making one percent.” He threw his pen holder against the wall. “ONE!” He picked up the cracked pen holder and stomped his heel into it. “I’m fucking done with this restaurant,” he screamed, slamming his palms against the file cabinet. “Fuck this shit!” His electric blue eyes scanned the room for a moment, and I braced myself. Then he pulled a pack of matches out of his front pocket. “I’m torching this place.” He let out an unnerving chuckle and locked his eyes to mine. “Turn the gas on and pop all the oven doors open.”

  I smiled.

  Nick slowly shook his head, and tossed the pack of matches on the desk. “I think I’m cracking.” I witnessed the mighty fear clouding his gaze. “I have a son.” For a while, he only rubbed his chin, staring blankly. “A son, O’Reilly.”

  “It’s a lot to take in.” I carefully moved closer to him. “But—”

  “She wants me to be part of his life.”

  “Of course.”

  Nick plopped down on his desk. “O’Reilly, I’ve been running from the worst of myself all my life, and now it looks like the best of me just caught up.”

  “You mean Spencer.”

  He nodded. “And you.”

  My body tensed.

  Nick reached out for my hand. “You’re angry with me.”

  I frowned.

  Yes. I was, and I hadn’t felt it until Nick’s words stirred the hidden feelings inside me.

  Nick pulled on my hand, but I resisted. “No, Nick.”

  “Hey.” His voice was soft. “You think I’m playing games with you?”

  My jaw clenched.

  “Is that what you think, O’Reilly?” Nick’s eyes searched my face. “Well, you’re wrong.”

  My gaze drifted from his, to the wall.

  Nick’s fingers skimmed my hand. “Man, you sure don’t say much.” He smiled, trying to make eye contact with me, but I dodged his blue stare.

  Nick rose and neared my wired body. “You need more from me.”

  I need you. I love you.

  I turned my face up to his, fighting the words I am still not allowed to say.

  He burned my mouth with his feverish kiss. “Okay, O’Reilly. I hear you loud and clear.”

  *

  Last Monday, Mona, Spencer’s mother, asked Nick to make up for lost time.

  Tortured by curiosity, I had every intention of accompanying Nick to Trois-Rivières, but at the last minute changed my mind. Mona knows of my existence and seems to be quite accommodating, yet the idea of facing the person who could give Nick the one thing I cannot was beyond my abilities for the present time.

  Upon his return, Nick took five consecutive days off to spend with his son and me. He hadn’t taken time away from the kitchen in over seven years.

  I spent those five days in the company of a whimsical child. A tiny blue-eyed creature who has figured out how to stir me up and pour me back into the world, more potent and tasty than I have ever been.

  In Spencer’s eyes I am no longer the mere son, I am so m
uch more.

  To myself as well.

  The first night we spent together, all three of us hidden safely inside Nick’s newly furnished loft, was the most challenging sequence of minutes I have ever lived through.

  My eyes have opened to a world where trivial moments do not exist.

  I have never been around toddlers. I have never paid attention to them. I know nothing of their species.

  After ten hours in Spencer’s company, I had run out of clean clothes and used my inhaler twice.

  My nerves were so raw, I could almost hear the muted television across the street.

  Thankfully, Nick’s years of watching over Lene have taught him the basics of child care.

  During Spencer’s short stay, Nick and I ran the house like a two-soldier battalion.

  “Where are the wipes?”

  “In his bag.”

  “I looked, they’re not there. Forget it. Get me a wet towel. Oh shit. Never mind.”

  “What?”

  “Run a bath.”

  “Again?”

  “Oh my God, what is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It looks like—”

  “It’s the spaghetti he had. Run the bath, not too warm.

  “I know. I know.”

  “And get the dry clothes out.”

  “I did already. Watch it, he’s slipping.”

  “You’ve got something crusty on your shirt.”

  “Don’t let him put that in his mouth. Give him to me.”

  “Here, wrap him up in this.”

  “Hand me his Mr. Bubble.”

  “Pour me a double, will you?”

  “Double what?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  We got through it, one order at a time.

  Later that night, after Spencer had finally fallen asleep in his new crib, I crept across the loft and found Nick standing by the window, staring at the charcoal sky.

  I stood by him, watching the street lamp’s yellow light lace the snow banks with diamond dust. “How do you feel?”

  Nick looked over at me and cracked a tired smile. “I can’t wait to go back to work so I can rest.”

  I smiled. “You did good today, Nick.”

  “You mean we did good.”

  I kissed his shoulder. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “I think I’ll just sleep here.” He leaned his head on the glass. “Like this.”

  I tugged on his sleeve. “Come.”

  That word sparked passion in Nick’s eyes, and he followed me to the bed, but dragged his feet all the way. He fell back on the covers, listless.

  I laughed. “Look at you.”

  Nick cracked an eye open. “What?”

  I plopped down next to him and cradled myself into his arms. “I think you’re done throwing punches in the air.”

  Nick’s fingers combed my hair. “Yeah.”

  I closed my eyes, remembering Nick as he was seventeen years ago.

  Stormy.

  The endless traveler.

  Dangerous.

  I nestled my face against his neck and inhaled the scent that has haunted me all these years. “Nick, I—”

  “No, O’Reilly.”

  “But—”

  “Not yet.” Nick’s warm hand glided down my stomach, and when his fingers skimmed the edge of my briefs, I let those three words sink to the bottom of my soul once more.

  *

  Sunday morning, we fastened Spence in his car seat, and climbed into Nick’s old, beat-up van.

  “You clipped the middle strap too?”

  “Yes, Nick.”

  “You checked it? ’Cause it’s a little loose.”

  “I checked it. Twice.”

  Nick stretched his neck and glanced up into the rearview mirror, watching his son. “Okay, buddy. Hope you’re ready to be sucked into the vortex—”

  “Nick. Stop it.” I smiled. “That’s not the right attitude.”

  “Yeah, well, easy for you to say.” He put the van in gear. “You’re not a fuckin’ Lund.”

  “Language.”

  Nick glanced over at me. “Right.”

  I reached out for his hand. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  “Don’t say it’s gonna be okay. I hate the fuck-freakin’ clichés. You’re better than that, O’Reilly.”

  I drew in a deep breath, watching the sunlight play hide and seek in Nick’s eyes. “You’re right. Maybe it’s not going to be okay. Maybe it’s going to be raw. Hardcore.” I felt him tense under my hand and I smiled. “But there’s also going to be some hugging, some tears of joy, and lots of support, which you need right now. Nick, no, you’re right…I’m not a Lund.”

  Nick looked over at me.

  “But he is,” I added softly, watching Spencer dozing off in his car seat.

  “How’d you get to be so freakin’ eloquent anyway?”

  I laughed. “One word at a time.”

  When we pulled up in front of Johan and Helga’s bungalow, Nick turned the ignition off and leaned back into his seat.

  Myself, I had lost my quiet composure.

  I had an inclination to twist open the Aquavit bottle we had brought as a gift and chug whatever I could manage to get down without puking.

  I nibbled on my lower lip instead, listening to Spencer’s quiet breathing.

  “I like it when you do that.” Nick stared straight ahead.

  “What? Sit here, and try not have a panic attack?”

  “No. That. The lip thing. It’s sexy.”

  When Nick says sexy, the world has an orgasm.

  “Come here, O’Reilly.”

  I glanced around. “Me?”

  “Yes. You. Come here.”

  I leaned in. “What?”

  “I want you to hold my hand in there,” he whispered deep into my ear.

  “Yes, Nick.”

  “Let’s go.”

  We passed the threshold and were welcomed by Lene.

  She had met Spencer yesterday and had been preparing Helga and Johan, as well as Boone and Kenya, for this event.

  “Nico—” She embraced him. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. “Dad’s had a few drinks.”

  “And Mom?”

  “Hasn’t.”

  Nick exhaled a short breath. “All right.”

  “Derek.” Lene squeezed my hand. “You wanna put Spencer in Mom and Dad’s room?”

  Spencer was still fast asleep in my arms, drooling on my shoulder.

  Nick disagreed. “No, let’s wake him up and do this.”

  I set Spencer down on the couch and began undressing him. When I pulled his sweater over his head, he popped an eye open. “Dwek.”

  I smiled. “Did you have a nice nap?”

  Nick paced up and down. His nervous energy could have fueled a space shuttle. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”

  Spencer yawned and sat up. “Doggy.”

  “No. No doggy. Esco’s at home.” Nick scooped his son up. “You’ll see him later—”

  “Doggy.”

  Lene tousled Spencer’s hair. “Later baby, later.”

  “DOGGY.”

  Nick shot me a glance that was between an SOS and a threat. “He’s gonna flip his lid.”

  I had heard those words before, but they had always been whispered about Nick.

  “Doggy! Doggy! Doggy!” Spencer’s cries had become furious, and his cheeks were scarlet. “Doggy!”

  Nick, who has been running a kitchen for the last ten years, thinks communication means barking out orders. “Quiet, Spencer! You’ll see him later. Enough.”

  Spencer seems to find all of his father’s triggers readily available for his entertainment. “DOGGY DOGGY!” He yelped and thrashed in Nick’s arms.

  As the fit came to its peak, Nick had clearly lost his cool.

  That’s when Johan and Helga walked in, with worry painted on their faces, and Helga rushing to the baby as if Nick had bit him.

  “Oh my! Why is he so red? Why he is sc
reaming like that?” Helga gently combed Spencer’s bangs out of his eyes and pulled him out of Nick’s arms. “Come here, honey.” Her polar eyes warmed. “Oh, look at him. Oh, Johan, look at him—”

  “Mom, he’s fine.”

  She frowned. “Nicolai. He’s more than fine.” She smiled, staring at her grandson. “He’s perfect.”

  Nick’s eyes met mine, and I nodded.

  Boone tapped Nick’s shoulder. “See that?” he whispered, watching their mother carry Spencer from room to room, showing her grandson around the house. “I haven’t seen her smile like that in a long time. Well, not since you left.”

  Nick looked over at Boone, and I stood, at a respectful distance, witnessing Johan, Boone, and Nick share a quiet moment.

  “O’Reilly, come here.” Nick’s hand was extended to me.

  I hesitated, but then took a step forward.

  The Lund men pulled me into their embrace.

  Deep into their wonderful puzzle of chests, arms and necks.

  *

  It was Johan’s birthday on Tuesday.

  Nick hadn’t seen his gentle-mannered father blow out his candles in eleven years.

  Slowly, with extreme caution, father and son have been tending to their once-powerful relationship, one careful word at a time.

  Of course, Spencer has brought everyone together, yet I sense that Nick’s son is a beautiful excuse, but not the cause of their reconciliation. When Nick and Johan are in a room together, I want to live forever.

  And Helga?

  She no longer merely extends her fingers to Nick. She touches her son’s face, and every tender kiss she offers Spencer is a quiet apology to Nick.

  Nicks says, “O’Reilly, happiness does eventually come, it just needs a lot of foreplay, that’s all.”

  And what better lover could happiness find?

  After we had all gorged ourselves on Nick’s decadent Bløtkake, Nick slipped out the back door, to suck on his “second favorite thing.”

  Lene and Helga sat in the living room, sighing over Nick’s travel pictures, and at the table, Boone and Johan were having another one of their heated political debates, with Kenya enjoying and fueling most it.

  Suddenly, I felt a little out of place. The stranger again.

  Looking on.

  “Sit down, son.”

  “Red, are you actually washing the dishes?”