The Temple of Heaven

by Z. Allora

  “Are you going to tell me I just need to believe and ‘it gets better’?”

  Her glare had a sting to it. “Fuck you, and yeah. It does.”

  “Sorry. Look, I’m happy for you, and what’s his name?”

  “Haru.”

  “He’s Japanese?”

  “Yeah. Keep in mind I don’t like most people, and I adore you.”

  “Of course you do. Everyone does.” Except Jordon’s mother and any guy he’d ever been interested in.

  She ignored him. “Hey, even though someone else may be added to my shortlist doesn’t mean I love you less.”

  Damn, when she put it that way, he sounded insecure, immature, and foolish. He opted for the classic Han Solo response. “I know.”

  She rolled her eyes and laughingly told him, “Fuck you.”

  He scoffed. “You said we couldn’t.” In truth, he’d been tempted to try something between them, but she’d been smart enough to stop them.

  “Oh please! You’re gay, and I’d make a terrible man. I’d come in six strokes, and without the benefit of multiple orgasms, my partners would be quite annoyed.”

  Jordon cackled. “You’d so roll over after you came, wouldn’t you?”

  “Hey! Um, well if I could only come once, yeah, probably.” She pulled to a stop along the airport curb.

  He jumped out of the car.

  She went to the trunk and popped it open. “Text me as soon as your SIM card is swapped out for a Chinese one.”

  Pulling her into a tight hug, he reassured them both, “I will. And tell Haru he’d better treat you right.”

  “He does.”

  “Good.” Jordon sniffed and geared up to say something sappy and stupid.

  “You’re nervous about flying alone. I don’t blame you. It’s a long flight, but suck it up, my friend.” Gwen helped him with his bags.

  “That’s what I said.” He extended his luggage handles and slung his knapsack over his shoulder.

  She snorted. “I hate you.”

  “I love you too.” He blew her a kiss.

  “Jackass.” She glared at him. “Passport?”

  He patted his pocket. “Right here, bitch… and I use the term in a purely non-gender-specific but absolutely insulting way.”

  Grinning, she kissed his cheek. “You are trainable. Now go.”

  He rolled his bags through the terminal door and waved to her once more.

  I can do this. The Albany airport’s small size made finding the airline desk simple. He stepped into the business-class line.

  The ticket agent gave him a questioning “do you belong in the elite line” once-over. He stood his ground on the red carpet with a smile.

  She waved him forward.

  Jordon pulled out his phone and showed his boarding pass. He even remembered to hand over his passport too. Points. He was totally capable of handling his life.

  She stared at his cell and pulled her fiery red glasses dangling on a chain into service. Pointing to the cell phone’s screen, she asked, “May I see the ticket for today?”

  “What? That’s my ticket.” He snatched his cell back and stared at the date. Son of a—How could this be?

  “I’m sorry, but the date of this ticket is yesterday’s, sir.”

  Late by an entire day. How did he do that? Zack and Dusty were going to kill him when they found out. Neither thought Jordon able to travel to Shanghai without them.

  Shit, a quick time check showed his original plane wouldn’t arrive in Shanghai for another three hours. With the time difference, they didn’t even know he’d missed the flight. He would text them as soon as he dealt with this mess. Staying calm, he channeled his eldest brother. “Okay, how do I get to Shanghai?”

  She stared at the screen and clicked around. “Well, you can take the same itinerary, although I’m afraid business class is sold out on the Newark to Shanghai flight.”

  He shrugged. “That’s okay. I’ll do first class, then.”

  Her focus remained on the screen longer than seemed good. “I’m so sorry, sir. On today’s Newark to Shanghai flight, there is no first-class cabin. All we have left are seats in economy.”

  “Okay. I’ll take an aisle seat in the back. Is there a chance there’s a row that’s free?” He added a smile and held out his frequent-flyer card. This was no big deal. He’d make the best of the situation.

  “I’m sorry, there are no aisle or window seats. It’s almost completely booked. On the Newark to Shanghai leg, I have only three middle seats left.”

  Oh no. Full stop. Changing gears, he worked on keeping the frustration out of his voice. “Um, what about tomorrow?”

  “I can get you to Newark, but the flight to Shanghai is oversold in all cabins.”

  What the heck? “Next day?”

  She clicked. And clicked. And clicked. Every shake of her head crushed his hopes further. “I could get you there in three days if you went through—”

  He held out his hand. “That’s okay. I’ll take a middle seat.”

  The keyboard clicks pecked into his brain, as did her cheery “Newark to Shanghai is only fourteen hours and fifty-five minutes, barring any delays.”

  He accepted the paper ticket and waited for the attendant to tag his bags through to Shanghai. They’d probably be more comfortable than him.

  “Gate A6, sir. Have a good flight.”

  “Thanks.” Not bloody likely.

  He checked the time on his phone. The original flight he should have been on would be landing in a few hours. Even though he’d told his brothers not to, someone would be at the airport to greet him.

  Better get this over with so he could prevent them from an unnecessary trip to the airport. He’d text both Zack and Dusty.

  I’m going to be a day later than originally expected. He signed with an artist emoji. When in doubt, blame the art.

  An immediate What? from Zack and a R U OK? from Dusty.

  He typed, Yes.

  Why aren’t U on a plane? Zack demanded, as if Jordon wasn’t twenty freaking years old.

  I’ll be there tomorrow the same time.

  Dusty asked, Did you miss the flight yesterday?

  Sigh. So much for avoidance. Yeah.

  Zack texted, Did you forget what time you were flying or what day it was?

  He hated the fact he could hear his incompetence and their worry in the words. All of the above.

  Dammit, he needed to get a grip on his life. C U soon. He signed with an angel-haloed dog and trudged over to security.

  Though if he thought about this situation, it could be viewed as a success. He encountered a problem and dealt. Not the greatest outcome but the best available. He was going to count it as a win.

  The Albany flight landed late, so Jordon ran through Newark’s airport to board the flight to Shanghai.

  “Um, hi. That’s my seat.” He pointed to the middle seat between two very large men.

  The guy on the aisle huffed, “Of course it is. I can’t believe business was sold out.”

  Jordon sandwiched himself into his place, which was half-taken by the man who already appeared to be sleeping against the window.

  Seat-belted in, he reviewed the safety card and imagined how pleased Dusty would be by his caution.

  Bing! “This is Captain Morse. I’m sorry to inform you we need to hang tight at the gate. There’s some minor repairs required. I’ll turn off the Fasten Seat Belt sign for now, but I also have to cut power to the air-conditioning. You might want to shut your window shades to keep the sun out for the time being. I’ll be back when I know the estimated push-back time.”

  A Chinese translation followed.

  After two hours, numerous complaints to the unsympathetic flight attendant by his row mates, and a rise of twenty degrees, a bing echoed through the cabin. “The ground crew did their fixes. However, they discovered a few other issues. Though the good news is we have the air back on, and we should be pushing back within the hour.”

  Groans
and feet stomping shook the cabin. Jordon tried not to long for the space and comfort of business class. Not to mention a delicious bottomless flute of the fresh-squeezed orange juice they probably handed out.

  Forty-five minutes later and bing! “Hello, this is your captain. I’m sorry. We must deplane. Our crew can’t fly due to time restrictions the delay has given us. The new captain and crew are on their way, though we may be getting another aircraft as well. So please deplane, take all your personal items, but do stay in the boarding area for instructions.”

  Jordon unfolded himself and stretched. He traipsed up the Jetway and found space near an outlet. He collapsed on the floor, waiting for the man with four devices plugged in to allow him to use some power. His phone battery showed 45 percent.

  After several hours, Jordon had finished three pictures. One picture was a straight sketch of the plane, and the other two were more of a manga style. He drew one of him crunched into the middle seat, trying to draw with his elbows touching, and the other was of him happily piloting the plane. He signed each of them To My Future Husband With Love, Jordon.

  He’d just finished signing the last picture when the announcement finally requested that passengers get in line to reboard the plane.

  Ten years must have passed, but Jordon was back on the plane, sandwiched between two new seatmates. Bing! “This is Captain Dorsay. Sorry for the maintenance kerfuffle, but as soon as you’re in your seats, we can get out of here. We’re number seven in line for takeoff.”

  Jordon didn’t scream when number seven stretched into number thirteen. He just took out his iPad.

  Dear Future Husband,

  I’m a fuckup. Here I sit on a plane I should have been on yesterday. But I’m so dependent on other people to tell me what to do I didn’t look at my ticket, and if I’m honest, I didn’t even know what day of the week the flight was or what day it actually was. Maybe this is why my therapist said I needed to take responsibility for my life. She also said I should trust myself; clearly my abilities are lacking.

  (I just deleted seven paragraphs of whining. I’m going to stop doing that.)

  No more. I’m going to get a grip of my life. I handled this problem on my own and lived to tell, but it’s time I became independent. I want to be the best person I can be before I meet you.

  Right now, this is the start of a new Jordon. I’m going to be ready when we meet.

  Lots of Love,

  Your Future Husband

  Chapter 4

  WHERE WAS the idiot? Why would Indigo simply disappear? Made in China had a show in a few hours. Things were finally happening for the band, and the selfish jackass had taken off.

  Tian Di hit every bar open in daylight, searching for Indigo. Time for one last-ditch effort. One more stop before heading home to work on a Plan B. Plan B, what he’d do while his hopes and dreams crawled away to die? He walked into the Biergarten.

  The asshole sat on the barstool, sipping some pink drink, spinning a little umbrella as if he wasn’t destroying Tian Di’s chances at a real life. Strangling the band’s leader was probably a bad idea but wringing Indigo’s neck would feel great.

  Tian Di slid onto the stool next to the prick. “What are you doing here?”

  Indigo wiped his face, but he still had enough attitude to roll his eyes. He took a swig of whatever was in the glass. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  Indigo Young spoke perfect Mandarin, but his American accent and formal words were hard to follow at times, even for someone from Hong Kong. Though if Tian Di were honest, he didn’t make much of an effort; mostly he tried to annoy the Los Angeles transplant not understand him.

  “When did you start drinking at noon? We’re playing tonight. The Dark Angels and their management will be arriving in a couple of days.” If the three little parasols turned over were the number of pink drinks Indigo had, Tian Di would be carrying the asshole home.

  Indigo shrugged.

  Was strangling him a crime or justifiable homicide? “Some of us don’t have a trust fund along with a father who will bail us out of our mistakes,” Tian Di growled.

  “Fuck you. I’ve earned my bank account with my royalties off the songs I wrote and composed. And please, spare me the pauper-by-choice act.” Indigo’s words held none of the venom Tian Di had come to expect.

  This was an issue. Indigo might be a self-centered asshole, but he was dead-serious and band-focused when it came to their music. “Come on, Indigo. Did you forget? Tonight is our first night back since Knock Your Socks Off aired.”

  Indigo sniffed and glanced away from his drink. “Li separated the beds in our room.”

  “So? You two fight all the time.” Tian Di knew this because his room was across the hall from theirs. Their makeup sex was rough enough to knock pictures off his wall.

  “He never put space between us like this… not since I was old enough to be fucked.” Indigo spun the pink parasol.

  “You’ll make up.” Right? They would. They had to.

  “You don’t know how stubborn Li can be.” A small bitter laugh came out with the slurred words. “Do you know, he wouldn’t touch me until I wasn’t jailbait in the USA? I kept saying in China the age of consent is fourteen, but he wouldn’t lay a finger on me… and I made it difficult.”

  “I bet you did.” Tian Di didn’t know the full meaning of age of consent or jailbait, and he wouldn’t ask. Though he could only imagine the drama, begging, and seduction a younger version of Indigo would pull.

  “He kept saying he didn’t want to take my virginity.” Indigo shook his head. “I was tempted to lose it with someone else just so he wouldn’t have the excuse, but—”

  “Why do you sleep with other men?” It made zero sense to Tian Di. If he could find a good man, whom he loved and who loved him back, he’d never want other people.

  “I don’t sleep with anyone but Li.”

  There was no time to sort the tea leaves. “You know what I mean.”

  “You mean have sex with other men. I want to keep the excitement.” Indigo slurped more of the pink liquid.

  “Sounds more like you’re keeping the misery.”

  “No, but Li—”

  “Shǎguā! He doesn’t want other people.” Much to Tian Di’s disappointment. There had been a time when he would have been pleased to show Li that not all men were total jackasses like the American in front of him.

  Some men wanted monogamy and a true love to share everything life threw at them. Hopefully, after he’d established his career and could live in a place with more acceptance, he could have that. Unless Indigo screwed up his chances.

  Indigo tilted his head and grinned. “Why’d you call me a melon?”

  “You’ve got the intellect of one. It means you’re a fool.” Tian Di texted Jin, who’d tell Li and Styx: I found him. We’ll be there tonight.

  Indigo snorted. “Chinese insults are da bomb. They’re so stupid.”

  “You’re incredibly insulting. It’s—”

  “No.” Laughing, Indigo shook his head and threw his hands in front of him. “No. Stupid means good. It’s slang.”

  Tian Di promised himself he would never ask if this was similar to taking back slur words, because he didn’t care. “Well, saying something is stupid sounds rude.”

  “Okay. Okay, but I’m paying China a compliment. What’s that one insult? Oh yeah, thirteen o’clock. That’s just a brilliant way to say someone is crazy.”

  “Whatever.” Tian Di would never admit to loving the simplicity of whatever. Whatever felt good to say and was the perfect dismissal.

  His cell pinged with Jin’s text: Good. Counting on you.

  They were all counting on one another. Without one of them, Made in China was like a pile of rice with no sack.

  “Right, whatever.” Indigo dragged out the words.

  Tian Di pushed the drink away from Indigo’s reach. “You’re slurring your words.”

  “I. Am. Not.” Indigo enunciated every syllable.
“I’m speaking in cursive… and I’m not a melon.”

  He needed to stay angry at Indigo. “Yeah, you are. I remember what you’re like when you drink.”

  “I rarely drink.” Indigo wagged a finger at him.

  “Night we first met, you were drunk, and you still don’t quite remember what an asshole you were, do you?” Maybe Tian Di did like to taunt Indigo.

  Indigo frowned and shook his head. He traced his fingers along Tian Di’s leg. “I remember most of it. Hey, maybe you’re interested in—”

  Tian Di slapped Indigo’s hand away from his thigh. “Hands off.”

  “Come on, maybe that’s why you’re so uptight. You never get any.” Indigo offered sex like one would a handshake.

  “I don’t want just anyone.” Tian Di understood why some men didn’t look for love. Sex was hard enough to come by, especially for a gay man in China. But he was done settling.

  Argh! Indigo’s wide eyes and open mouth told Tian Di he’d said way too much. Hopefully, Indigo’s drunkenness would prevent the memory from sticking. Tian Di didn’t need someone reminding him he didn’t have much hope of finding what he wanted. He was in a soon-to-be-famous rock band in Asia. It wasn’t like he could afford any kind of attachments that would work against him right now.

  His pile of mangas, accompanied by his hand, worked well enough. He bottled the emptiness that mode of operation created and used the absence of happiness in his music.

  Indigo rested a heavy hand on Tian Di’s shoulder, drawing his attention back. “You just haven’t found the right guy… guys. Me and Li could—”

  “Right now, there is no you and Li, which is why you’re sitting here crying into your flowery pink drink.” Maybe that was too harsh.

  “Hey, crying doesn’t make you less of a man unless your mascara runs, and I’m not wearing any right now.” Indigo attempted to chuckle, but the sound caught in his throat. He ducked his head and stared at the floor. “What am I going to do?”

  Tian Di couldn’t take him back to the apartment yet, in case Li wasn’t ready to accept the apology for whatever the asshole had done. “You’re going to get sober and come to the nail salon with me.”

  Indigo slid off the stool. Tian Di steadied him while Indigo tossed several hundred yuan notes on the table.