Fragile Ground

by Louisa Keller

  He scrolls through his phone, smiling when he sees that Stella’s on her way. He texts her the name of the bar and orders another drink. It’s his third of the night—maybe his fourth—and it goes down easily. He’s starting to feel light and floaty in a way that he hasn’t managed to achieve all week.

  “Having fun?” Maria asks as she takes back his empty glass.

  “I am,” Auriel says, which prompts Maria to laugh.

  “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  Auriel smiles at her. “It’s not a commentary on the Barnacle Tavern, I promise. I just haven’t really had fun in the past few weeks.”

  Maria grabs his hand and squeezes it tightly. “Auriel, don’t go getting maudlin now. You’re allowed to have fun, you know?”

  “You think?” he asks.

  “I know,” says Maria. And then she’s pressing a shot glass into his hand and setting lime slices and salt in front of him. “Come on, do a shot with me.”

  Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been steadily drinking all evening, or that he’s been moping alone all week and is basking in the social interaction, but he reaches for the salt. “Why not?”

  Maria grins and holds out her hand so that Auriel can sprinkle a fine line of salt across the back of it. Then in unison, they lick the salt off their hands, throw back the tequila, and sink their teeth into the slices of lime.

  “Good God, that was smooth,” says Auriel.

  “Perks of knowing the bartender,” Maria says, smirking. “I wasn’t about to stick you with bottom shelf booze.”

  “I appreciate it,” Auriel tells her. “Seriously, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

  That pulls a laugh out of Maria. “I’ve literally just served you drinks. That’s been the entire extent of our relationship.”

  Auriel shakes his head. “But you’ve gone above and beyond. You’ve been so nice, and you invited me to 80s night, and I just…really appreciate everything. Okay?”

  “I will accept your heaps of praise on one condition,” she says.

  “Name it,” says Auriel, feeling the alcohol thrumming through his veins. All of a sudden he feels ready to take on the world. The surge of energy is unexpected and delightful.

  “Get back on the dance floor. Go dance your heart out with my adorable friend. And stop thinking so much.”

  Auriel nods. “I can do that.” He makes his way back to the group he had been dancing with earlier and is greeted with a chorus of his name and several friendly pats on the back. He is acutely aware of the way the dance floor pulses beneath him, the bizarre sensation of bass pounding out of a gigantic amp less than ten feet away and washing over his body. He loses himself in the moment, his body loose and free. He feels like time is moving in slow motion and at warp speed all at once.

  It’s not until he heads outside to get some fresh air and finds himself reaching out a hand to balance himself against the wall, that he begins to realize exactly how much he’s had to drink.

  “Whoa, steady there,” says a voice, and then there is a pair of hands gripping Auriel tightly by the hips. “You okay?”

  He looks up and sees Jeremy peering down at him with concern. Auriel takes inventory and finds that he’s fully aware of his surroundings, remembers how he got here, even—disappointingly—remembers everything he was trying to forget this week. It’s just his equilibrium that’s struggling.

  “Yeah, just a little…you know.” Auriel mimes being off-balance, and Jeremy smiles. It’s a dazzling smile.

  “Good. Just wanted to make sure.”

  “Thanks for checking on me,” says Auriel. He is acutely aware of Jeremy’s hands, which are still gripping Auriel firmly.

  “It’s my pleasure,” says Jeremy. “I’m pretty tipsy too.”

  “Right,” says Auriel.

  “I’m glad you came out tonight. That I got to meet you.” And then Jeremy is leaning down and capturing Auriel’s lips in a passionate kiss.

  There was a time in Auriel’s life when he fantasized about being kissed by a handsome stranger outside a crowded club. He’d spent so many years yearning for the touch of a man, intoxicated by the idea of strong hands on his body, stubble against his jaw, a deep voice whispering deliciously naughty things in his ear. He had dreamed about the thrill of being taken by someone he didn’t know as music spilled out the open door of a dark venue. But that was before he met Olivier; before he fell so deeply, blindly in love that he became utterly indifferent to the men who eyed him up when they went dancing together.

  One word comes to mind when Jeremy kisses Auriel: wrong. Auriel pulls back sharply, his hands flying up to Jeremy’s chest and pushing him away.

  “Shit, I’m sorry—” Jeremy starts, his eyes going wide and apologetic.

  “Just…oh fuck.” Auriel leans forward and begins to vomit. It feels like an absolute deluge, and he clutches at his stomach, retching miserably. When he’s emptied the horrifyingly neon contents of his stomach, he opens his eyes and realizes that Jeremy’s shoes are spattered with vomit. Auriel moans weakly and rubs a hand across his mouth. He wants to curl up and die.

  “Do you, um, need anything?” Jeremy asks feebly. His expression is twisted with determination; he’s not going to make Auriel feel worse about this situation by complaining about the state of his Vans.

  Auriel shakes his head, reaching out for the wall again and sliding down until he’s sitting on the ground resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands.

  “I’m going to get you some water,” Jeremy decides, and then Auriel is alone. The pounding baseline from inside feels like a drill twisting its way into his temples, and a throbbing headache materializes so quickly that he flinches. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, miserable and dizzy, but eventually Maria comes out with a cold glass of water.

  “You okay, champ?” she asks.

  Auriel shakes his head, but it hurts, so he segues into a shrug.

  “Drink this. It’ll help.” She hands him the glass, and Auriel takes a cautious sip. He studies the drips of water cutting through the condensation, wondering how the hell he ended up here and if he’s ever going to be okay again.

  “Is Jeremy, uh, alright?” Auriel slurs after a long silence.

  “He’s fine,” says Maria. “It’s not the first time someone’s hurled on him. But he thought you might prefer hanging out with me for a bit.”

  How astute of him, Auriel thinks miserably.

  Maria puts a comforting hand on Auriel’s back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulders. “You need a ride home?”

  Auriel sorts through the mess of scrambled information in his brain and realizes that Stella is on her way to the Barnacle Tavern. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone with trembling fingers. The clock shows that it’s just past midnight, which means that Stella should be getting close. “My friend is on her way,” he says, “I’m gonna call her and see if she’s almost here.”

  Stella, as it turns out, is less than five minutes away. She sighs when she see Auriel, getting out of the car to help him up.

  “Thanks for taking care of him,” she says to Maria.

  “Anytime. Make sure he gets some water, he didn’t drink much when I brought him a glass.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m a veteran drinker,” Stella assures her. She shepherds Auriel into the car and drives them back to the beach house in silence. It isn’t until they’re sitting on the couch in the living room that she says, “I hope you got that out of your system.”

  “Got what out of my system?” Auriel pouts.

  “Self-destructive tendencies,” says Stella.

  “I’m drunk, not self-destructive,” he mumbles.

  “You made yourself sick on some vile neon alcohol. That bartender said you threw up on some guy’s shoes.”

  “He tried to kiss me,” Auriel says, as though that excuses his actions.

  Stella bursts out laughing. “You’re so heartbroken that a kiss from a stranger made y
ou physically ill. Oh come on, A, don’t look at me like that. It’s kind of funny.”

  Begrudgingly, Auriel lets himself consider the humor in the situation. Somewhere in his drunk mind, it occurs to him that Stella is right. A smile tugs at his face, and then he starts to laugh. It devolves from a giggle to fully-fledged, rolling on the floor laughter. The two of them are holding their stomachs, actual tears of mirth in their eyes, and each time one of them starts to calm down the other one sets them off again.

  10

  Olivier

  Thursday morning finds Olivier hunched over a massive desk which is squeezed into an alcove off of the living room. It’s clearly Olivier’s work space, cluttered with dog-eared books and scraps of paper bearing cryptic messages. There’s a bulging weekly planner filled to the brim with post-it notes and scribbled deadlines. When he opens the drawers he finds an eye-searing assortment of colorful writing implements, a ball of rubber bands, several spiral notebooks, and a stack of three-ring binders which have seen better days. A massive bulletin board boasts dozens of photos, many of which contain Olivier, Hattie, Auriel, and Stella eating ice cream or sitting around a camp fire or making faces at the camera. He feels something warm settle in his chest as he looks at these snapshots of his life.

  Olivier is on a mission. He opens his laptop and is relieved when it doesn’t ask for a password. The desktop is, predictably, crowded with documents and images, so Olivier heads straight for the internet. He searches for his own name and finds a link to a website that claims to be the go-to online queer culture database. He scrolls down and finds pictures and bios for each of the site’s regular contributing writers. Near the bottom of the list is a picture of himself that he’s never seen; it must be recent, because his tattoos are visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of the neatly pressed shirt he’s wearing. He reads:

  Olivier Sauveterre is a twenty-something gay freelance writer currently residing in the Pacific Northwest. Between his passion for philosophy and his fascination with queer history, he seeks to explore the subtle nuances of our culture and how they came to be. In his free time Olivier enjoys reading Sartre, going on spur-of-the-moment road trips, and eating his boyfriend’s homemade chili.

  A smile creeps across Olivier’s face. He recognizes himself in the bio, and it feels really good. Now that he’s realized what a good thing he and Auriel had, he is constantly on the lookout for bits and pieces of his life in this house that are familiar. He’s coming to terms with the fact that his memory is stubbornly maintaining the abyss left by the accident, and he figures the best thing he can do is try to bridge the gap himself, without the aid of memories.

  He clicks on the picture of himself and it loads another page which provides a comprehensive list of Olivier’s articles. There are nearly forty of them. He begins reading through them, starting with the oldest and moving forward. He is impressed, as he gets to the newer articles, with how his writing has improved. He wonders vaguely if the skills he’s gained since college are going to be accessible to him now, or if he’ll have to go through all the work to gain them again.

  His early work revolves around queer pop culture, but as time goes on the articles evolve into more introspective pieces. He blushes slightly as one of the titles pops out at him—Topsy Turvy: Navigating Vers Dynamics in the Bedroom. It’s clear, however, that he had become more and more involved with his local queer community, and he can see his relationship with Auriel solidifying right before his eyes. An article published a few months before the accident resonates particularly deeply with him. He reads it through twice, luxuriating in the unmistakable evidence that he was in love. The concluding paragraph hits him especially hard.

  I urge you to consider the possibility that there is more than one way to be in love with someone. In the media we hear all about the magic of “falling in love,” but I’ve never found that nearly as romantic as the idea of choosing to love someone. Love is a choice, every single day; you choose to be with one person—or more, if you’re non-monogamous—to spend time and effort cultivating a relationship, to pass up possibilities that you might have explored when you were single. You choose to support your partner through their hardest times, to cheer them on when they succeed, and to let them in when you are at your most vulnerable. Perhaps for some it is possible to fall blindly, but my love comes with eyes wide open, and I believe that renders it particularly valuable. This is especially true in the queer community, where we have additional choices to make in regards to our partners: is he out? Am I? Do we tell my homophobic aunt? Should I use male pronouns or gender-neutral ones while talking about my partner at work? These are personal decisions, of course, and I can only offer my particular view on the subject. But for those readers who are interested in a bit of advice, here goes: take the reins on your love, not to slow it down, but to guide it in the direction that feels most in alignment with your values.

  By the time he’s done reading it for the second time, his resolve has hardened. He goes into the kitchen and finds Hattie pouring over a copy of Phenomenology of Spirit.

  “Yikes,” he says, gesturing to the book.

  Hattie groans. “Ugh, I know. It’s like, reading it in undergrad was bad enough, now they expect me to teach it to my German Phil class. And the students are, like, totally disinterested in everything I have to say.”

  “Sorry man,” says Olivier.

  Hattie waves a hand distractedly. “It’s whatever. They can roll their eyes at my lectures on Hegel, it’s not my grade that’s on the line.”

  “Unless they all fail and then you look like a shitty teacher.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Hattie rolls her eyes at him. “Did you need something, or did you just come in here to talk smack about my academic failings?”

  Olivier grins. “I want to be with Auriel.”

  Hattie raises an eyebrow. “And you came to this conclusion after breaking things off with him?”

  “I needed some perspective,” says Olivier.

  “You’re damn right you did. What brought about this grand change of heart?”

  “I dreamed about him.”

  Hattie lets out a snort of laughter. “I’m sure you did.”

  “Not like that,” says Olivier, waving a hand dismissively. “Or—well, maybe a little bit like that. But more importantly,” he raises his voice so that he can be heard over her giggles, “I realized that he and I had something amazing. And there’s a part of me that knows that intrinsically. I can’t remember being with him, but I can feel how right it is. Or maybe how wrong it is to be apart. I don’t know.”

  There’s a long silence as Olivier looks at the ground, scuffing his toe against the floor, and Hattie regards him carefully. “You’re sure about this?” she asks.

  Olivier nods.

  “You’d better be sure. Because if you start going back and forth with him, he’s never going to heal from this whole clusterfuck of a situation. And I cannot abide that. Plus, Stella will actually murder you, and I might just help her hide the body.”

  “I am sure about this. I’ve been…reading my articles. And I can feel it in my bones, Hattie, I can see my own words screaming at me that I should be with him. I chose him once, and I’m choosing him again.”

  “In that case,” says Hattie, “you’re going to need one hell of a wooing technique.”

  “I know,” Olivier says. “That’s why I’m here. I need your help thinking of something that will show him that I’m in, one hundred percent.”

  Hattie closes her book and stands up. “Let’s get to work.”

  11

  Auriel

  Auriel gets home Sunday night. He and Stella had spent most of the day lounging around—Auriel fighting a persistent hangover and Stella giving him I told you so eyes. He’s glad to see the house when they pull up to it, and there’s a soft smile on his face as he gazes at the front porch. It dissipates, of course, when he remembers what’s waiting for him inside. He hefts his bag into the guest room and crawls into bed w
ithout seeking out Hattie or Olivier. It takes him a long, long time to drift off to sleep.

  On Monday morning he wakes to a positively delightful smell. It’s the first thing that he notices, and he spends a blissful moment just enjoying the scent. He doesn’t let himself think about any of the shit that has gone down this week, though he can feel those subjects skirting just along the outside of his mind. They’re poised with one hand lifted, ready to knock, when he cracks open one eye and finds Hattie grinning at him from the doorway.

  “Rise and shine, A. You need to get your ass into the kitchen pronto.” With that, she turns on her heel and heads back toward her bedroom.

  Auriel, who has pushed himself up on his elbows, falls back onto his pillows dramatically, but he doesn’t allow himself to curl back under the covers. He’s intrigued by the fact that he can hear someone crashing around in the kitchen. With a sigh, he hoists himself out of bed and pulls on a pair of ratty sweatpants and one of Olivier’s t-shirts. Olivier will probably recognize it as his own—Auriel can’t remember whether or not Olivier already had it when he moved out here, but it’s tight across Auriel’s chest, a dead giveaway that he lifted it from Olivier’s drawer at some point. He really doesn’t care at this point though. He’s backed off, given Olivier space, so he gets to wear something that comforts him, dammit.

  The sight that greets him when he stumbles into the kitchen is cacophonous. Olivier is surrounded by a veritable whirlwind of dishes, most of them dirty and a couple of them on the floor. He’s bending to pick up a wooden spoon, but he straightens quickly when he realizes that Auriel’s standing in the doorway watching him with an affectionate smile on his face.