Fragile Ground

by Louisa Keller

  “Good, I’m so glad. God, Olivier, you don’t even know how much you scared us. We didn’t even know if you were going to wake up, and now you’re just doing so well. I can’t believe it.”

  “I know, Mom. You can stop worrying now, for real. It’s all a breeze from here.”

  “I love you, Olivier.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  “You better,” she says, a smile in her voice. “After everything you’ve put me through.”

  Olivier grins. “Twelve hours of labor, a useless humanities degree, and now a coma. I’m a parent’s dream.”

  She makes a fond noise and says, “not to mention the fact you waited a quarter of a century to tell me that you’re gay.”

  Olivier freezes, unsure how to respond. She doesn’t sound mad. In fact, the comment sounds offhand, like it might be a recurring joke that they throw back and forth from time to time. It just takes a moment for his brain to catch up, surfacing from the unexpected surge of panic that had welled upon his at his mom’s words.

  “Olivier?” she asks gently.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you…was that not okay? To bring that up?”

  He considers it. Olivier is honestly not sure how he feels about his parents knowing something so personal about him when he doesn’t remember making the decision to tell them. There is a part of him that is relieved, because now he doesn’t have that uncomfortable conversation looming ahead of him in the hazy and uncertain future. On the other hand, he feels violated, like his secret was ripped from him without his permission.

  “It’s weird,” he says.

  “What’s weird about it?” She sounds like she is choosing her words carefully.

  Olivier thinks about it, and settles on, “I wasn’t planning on telling you.”

  That’s probably not the best thing to say, because she goes silent.

  “I don’t mean, like, ever,” Olivier rushes on. “Just, you know, I didn’t think we’d be talking about it anytime soon. And then I wake up and the guy who lives across the hall from me says I came out to you.”

  “Who said that?” his mom asks, sounding puzzled.

  “Auriel,” says Olivier. “My roommate.”

  “I know who Auriel is,” she replies.

  “That makes one of us,” mutters Olivier.

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “He’s just, like, kind of all over the place. He burst into my room when I was in the hospital and then avoided the place for a while, and then as soon as I got home he started cooking five star fucking meals for me. And I guess he’s been in touch with you and Dad too, right? But I have no idea why he’s doing any of this.”

  There is a pregnant pause and then his mom says, “you should ask Auriel about this.” Which seems like ridiculous advice until Olivier stops to think about it from his mom’s point of view.

  “You really think so?” he asks skeptically. “He’s been running kind of hot and cold with me. I guess you’ve only been in touch with him about my medical stuff, so you wouldn’t know this, but he’s not the easiest guy to talk to.”

  “Olivier,” his mom says. “Talk to Auriel. It’s up to you to make the best out of this situation. If you want to know about your life over the past couple of years, use your resources.”

  Olivier sits up straighter, the words tugging at a thread in his mind. “You’re right,” he says. “Of course you’re right. I need to go, okay Mom? I’m supposed to be resting.”

  “Of course. Take care of yourself hon, and give us a call soon, alright?”

  He agrees and hangs up quickly. Use your resources. Well, if that isn’t the inspiration he needs to start exploring his own phone, he’s unlikely to find anything better. Taking a deep breath, he pulls up the home screen of his phone.

  The first thing he opens is his messaging app. There are a few message threads with old friends from college and high school, none of which give him much information. Apparently he had been planning to meet up with a couple of guys from his freshman dorm over Thanksgiving, and he wonders vaguely if that’s still happening. Maybe he should get back in touch with them.

  He moves on to the thread with Hattie. It’s mostly the generic back and forth of roommates who have divergent schedules but still want to spend time together.

  >> HATTIE: you gonna be home for drag race tonight?

  >> OLIVIER: hopefully! i have a draft due by midnight, i’m finishing it up at the library

  >> HATTIE: you’re missing the intro, bro

  >> HATTIE: get your ass over here

  >> OLIVIER: omw

  There is a group chat with both Hattie and Auriel, which is labeled “Best Bitches,” and it seems to be the last conversation Olivier contributed to before the accident.

  >> AURIEL: finally got the oil changed so you should be good to go

  >> OLIVIER: did you fill up the tank too?

  >> AURIEL: …about that

  >> OLIVIER: goddammit auriel

  >> OLIVIER: this is why we can’t have nice things

  >> HATTIE: it’s like living with an old married couple

  >> AURIEL: don’t pretend you aren’t all about it

  >> OLIVIER: he feeds us hattie, don’t complain

  >> HATTIE: maybe it’s you i’m complaining about olivier

  >> AURIEL: hurry back with the ricotta

  >> AURIEL: lasagna in t-minus one hour

  >> HATTIE: olivier where are you?

  >> HATTIE: ???

  >> AURIEL: you’re ruining the lasagna

  >> AURIEL: for real, what’s taking so long?

  Olivier saves the thread that is just between himself and Auriel until the end. He takes a deep breath, then opens it up and reads.

  >> OLIVIER: i can’t wait for you to get home

  >> AURIEL: ???

  >> OLIVIER: there’s a surprise for you

  >> OLIVIER: in the bedroom

  >> AURIEL: does it involve you

  >> AURIEL: being completely naked?

  >> OLIVIER: ;)

  He looks away from his phone, taking a deep breath. He guesses that it makes an odd kind of sense, that he and Auriel were fucking around. He hasn’t wanted to assume, because that would be all kinds of presumptuous, but Olivier is mad attracted to Auriel. There is chemistry there to be sure. And of course Auriel wouldn’t want to bring it up after Olivier got hurt. This might even have been a convenient out for Auriel, if he was getting tired of whatever the two of them were doing.

  Olivier looks back down and reads on.

  >> AURIEL: i’ll be there soon

  >> AURIEL: can i shower before we do whatever you have planned?

  >> AURIEL: cuz i’m not gonna lie, i’m covered in manure

  >> OLIVIER: keep talking like that and i’m gonna finish before you get here

  >> AURIEL: you little shit

  >> OLIVIER: pun intended??

  >> AURIEL: be there soon babe

  It irks Olivier somewhat, the way Auriel throws in the endearment, babe. It seems degrading, telling the guy who’s apparently waiting for you naked in bed that you’ll be there soon and calling him babe. He’s heard the term used in an affectionate fashion by actual couples, but it’s never like that with random hookups.

  He expects to see a snarky reply, i’m not your babe or something along those lines. But it looks like he had been into it at the time, because the thread takes a decidedly dirty turn.

  >> OLIVIER: would you be motivated to get here faster if i told you

  >> OLIVIER: i have two fingers inside myself

  >> OLIVIER: ?

  >> AURIEL: jesus christ

  >> AURIEL: i’m getting in the car now

  >> OLIVIER: make that three fingers

  >> AURIEL: holy shit babe

  And there it is again.

  >> OLIVIER: should i go fast or slow?

  >> AURIEL: i’m ten minutes away

  >> AURIEL: better make it slow

  >> OLIVIER: you know i like it sl
ow

  >> AURIEL: you like it at any speed

  >> OLIVIER: guilty as charged

  >> AURIEL: i can’t wait to kiss you

  >> OLIVIER: where?

  >> AURIEL: everywhere

  Okay. So maybe Auriel has an intimacy kink. Maybe he’s one of those guys who gets off on making out and sweet talking. But it’s starting to look more and more like they might be an actual couple, and that throws Olivier for a serious loop. Because he doesn’t do relationships. He does intense, furtive hookups with beautiful men. He certainly doesn’t let anyone call him babe, and he doesn’t get texts from guys telling him that they want to kiss him everywhere.

  But, Olivier hazards, there has to be a reason that he chose this life. His past self—the one who existed in the shadowy realm beyond the reach of his memory—made the decision to live here, and to stay for a significant chunk of time. He chose whatever bizarre situation he was in with Auriel, and Olivier refuses to believe that it was an arbitrary decision.

  The words are right there on his arm, dark ink against pale skin. L’existence précède l’essence. Existence precedes essence. They are perhaps Jean-Paul Sartre’s most famous words, and they have been Olivier’s mantra since he began studying existentialism during his freshman philosophy seminar. Existence precedes essence. Olivier doesn’t believe in much, but he does believe that he gets to create himself, to choose who he wants to be. He exists, and in doing so forms his own essence. And when it comes down to it, Olivier has to believe that his past self was working with that same philosophical framework, living in such a way that he could be satisfied with—even proud of—who he became over time.

  It also occurs to him that he might be able to jog his memory if he falls back into his life as it was before the accident. In that moment, Olivier decides to trust the decisions he has made since college, even if he doesn’t understand them. And so he reads through the rest of the thread, his heart rabbiting.

  >> OLIVIER: i still have a hickey on my collarbone

  >> AURIEL: my bad

  >> OLIVIER: not complaining

  >> OLIVIER: every time i see it in the mirror i get hard

  >> AURIEL: and you’re telling me this because…?

  >> OLIVIER: i was hoping you’d give me another one when you get here

  >> AURIEL: deal

  >> AURIEL: how many fingers in your ass now?

  >> OLIVIER: i’ve moved on from fingers

  >> AURIEL: i love you so fucking much

  >> OLIVIER: get up here and prove it

  Well, shit. Olivier’s not exactly able to write that off as a facetious comment. He closes out of the app and looks at the others on his home screen. Most of them seem to be for food delivery or ride sharing services, but there is also a banking app, a couple of things that look work-related, and some flash games. Oh, and a bunch of social media apps. He clicks on one at random and navigates to his own profile. There’s a picture of himself and Hattie at what looks like a bookstore, some basic information about his hometown, birthday, and job. And then he spots it.

  In a relationship with Auriel Floros.

  There’s really only one thing left to look at: his pictures. He pulls up Instagram and begins scrolling through the images that he had posted most recently. Most of them are fairly benign, but it doesn’t take long for him to stumble across something incriminating.

  He closes the app and breathes deeply for a moment. The ghost of a headache blooms in his right temple and he closes his eyes, reaching up to rub small circles into his skin. It’s marginally helpful. Despite his resolve to give his past self the benefit of the doubt, he’s pissed at Auriel and Hattie and his own damn mother for keeping secrets from him. He doesn’t understand why they felt the need to keep him in the dark, and anger rises suddenly in him, sour as bile.

  The photo probably isn’t too risqué by most people’s standards. In fact, it’s really only sickening in that Olivier and Auriel look so damn lovestruck in it. They’re wrapped around each other, kissing sweetly in a park. The caption underneath reads TFW you can’t keep your hands off of @aurielfloros1.

  Fuck.

  5

  Auriel

  It has been a long day at work, most of which Auriel spent repotting shrubs and small trees. He is absolutely covered in sweat and soil and fertilizer; there is dirt under his nails and caked on the bottoms of his sneakers. He suspects that his hair is mussed as well, but he can’t be bothered to do anything about it until he has a chance to get inside and shower. As Auriel walks up to the house, he wonders what he will find inside.

  A peek out the north-facing living room window on the way to the bathroom reveals Olivier slumped down at the base of the giant maple tree in the back yard, apparently talking on the phone. Auriel gets into the shower, wondering who Olivier is talking to and what he’s saying. He considers the smooth timbre of Olivier’s voice, so familiar that Auriel can hear it perfectly even when he is all by himself. Words seem duller coming from anyone else’s mouth, Auriel decides, before turning his attention to figuring out what to make for dinner. It’s not a matter of what Auriel wants, of course, but of what will comfort Olivier.

  By the time Auriel is dressed in clean jeans and a faded salmon-colored t-shirt, he has come up with the evening’s menu. Vegetables swimming in scratch-made teriyaki sauce served over fluffy white rice—thin slices of tofu for Auriel and hefty chunks of chicken for Olivier—freshly squeezed lemonade poured over plump organic raspberries, and buttery shortbread baked in the antique shortbread pan that has been in the Floros family for three generations. It’s not a particularly coherent meal, but Auriel has always been a sucker for cacophonous menus. He puts on The Otis Redding Dictionary of Soul and gets to work.

  He is so absorbed in the meditation of food preparation that he doesn’t hear Olivier enter the room. The sound of a throat being cleared startles Auriel, and he turns around, fumbling with the volume on his phone as he does so. Otis Redding fades into the background.

  “Shit,” says Auriel. “I didn’t…how long have you been there?”

  Olivier is already pushing past Auriel, investigating the wok on the stovetop. For some reason, Olivier’s face twists into a grimace, and Auriel mentally catalogues the contents. He hasn’t included anything that Olivier doesn’t like.

  “You’re going to put me into a diabetic coma with that much sauce,” Olivier points out, his tone decidedly chilly.

  Guilt hooks into Auriel’s gut, sharp and persistent. He can’t just assume that he knows what Olivier will want to eat. He really shouldn’t be assuming anything at all about Olivier’s preferences at this point.

  “Oh wow, I’m sorry, that’s the way you’ve always said you liked it. I can make something else if you—”

  Olivier cuts him off. “Don’t worry about it.” His hands are fidgeting, like they always do when he is uncomfortable or tense. He searches for something to do with them and ends up reaching for the oven door.

  “Oh, can you please leave it closed?” Auriel asks, his eyes on the ground. He wonders idly if the shortbread is really worth provoking a moody Olivier. “It’s just,” Auriel tries to explain, “you shouldn’t let the heat out. It needs a few more minutes.”

  A scowl settles across Olivier’s features. “God, you’re such a stickler for rules,” he snaps. And then he just stares at Auriel. At first it seems like Olivier is staring out of defiance, but then it shifts to something else. It’s almost as if he’s checking Auriel out and taking his sweet time deciding whether or not he finds him attractive. Olivier’s voice is positively saccharine when he finally speaks.

  “Can you please tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

  He’s holding out his phone, and Auriel takes it wearily. The picture on the screen is one of Auriel’s favorites, taken a couple of months ago at Peninsula Park. He remembers the exact moment that Hattie snapped the shot, Olivier’s arms wrapped around him and their lips pressed together. I love you, Olivier had whispered a split s
econd earlier, just loud enough for Auriel to hear it.

  He feels something sharp in his chest, a physical reaction to the ugly emotion he’s feeling as he conflates Olivier’s harsh question with the sweet memory. It takes a moment to pull himself together, and then Auriel is looking at Olivier, licking his lips and saying with as much composure as he can muster, “I’d say it’s pretty self-explanatory.”

  Olivier apparently doesn’t appreciate it, because he rolls his eyes skyward. Then he’s off on a tirade, snapping, “excuse you, but one minute I’m going to ragers and getting ready to graduate and the next I’m waking up across the country with a bunch of tattoos and a roommate who thinks he’s Julia Child. Nothing about this is self-explanatory.”

  Auriel regards Olivier, trying to keep his expression neutral. Each syllable is like a jab to his heart, and it takes a herculean effort not to shield himself from the onslaught.

  “Can you please tell me when the hell I got an Instagram account?” Olivier continues. “Because I don’t remember having the urge to keep the internet informed every time I step out of the house. And honestly, stop me if I’m getting off track here, but I used to have decorum.” He’s glaring at the phone now, as if it has personally offended him. “I didn’t feel the need to tell the world when I was fucking a guy, I just fucked him and kept my damn mouth shut about it.”

  Auriel wants to touch Olivier so badly that it’s burning him up inside. His arm lifts of its own accord, reaching out to comfort, but he forces himself to pull it back before it makes contact. Olivier clearly isn’t in a good place for physical touch. Auriel casts around for something to say that will diffuse the situation. He ends up saying, “you’re upset.” It doesn’t land particularly well.

  “I’m not upset,” scoffs Olivier. He looks deeply offended at the insinuation. “I’m confused. I have no idea how I became a completely different person in a couple of years.”

  And now it feels like they’re going in circles. Didn’t they just talk about this a couple of nights before? Auriel is frustrated enough to cry, but he holds it together. Patience, he thinks, I need to be patient. So he says, “you’re not a completely different person. You evolved naturally, over time.”