by AJ Rose
He nodded, grasping at any olive branch I could extend. “That’s okay. I mean, I don’t write good, but I can do it if that’s what you want.”
I cringed a little. “Yeah, okay. I’ll leave my address with the main office.” The thought of that made my whole body roll with nausea. “Then we’ll go from there.” The little give in the constriction of my chest that had allowed the first words through suddenly lifted completely away. I needed out of there. I croaked out something akin to keeping in touch and leaned forward to hang up the phone, but Craig grabbed my wrist, his eyes asking me for permission to take it. I let him have it, pleading wordlessly with him to make it fast.
“Davis,” Craig said, holding the phone flush to his ear. On the screen, I saw my father’s lips mouth a reply, but I heard nothing. “If this is some kind of ploy on your part to hold power over Dane, or if this attempt to get into his good graces is in any way insincere, I will cut you off from Dane permanently, and you can hire all the PIs in the world, but you will not find him. If you hurt him again—even an iota of what you’ve done before—I will see to it that you die alone. Are we understood?”
My father’s eyes widened, and he spoke a couple words I couldn’t quite make out, but Craig nodded and bid my father goodbye. He hung up and the screen went dark.
I stared at Craig, who crouched in front of my chair and gripped my hands so strongly my fingers turned purple.
“What did I just do?” I whispered, mortified and barely held together.
“You, my beautiful boyfriend, just forgave yourself for all your father’s bullshit.”
The dam broke, and I keened, leaning forward. If he hadn’t been there to catch me, I’d have pitched onto my head on the floor, curled into a fetal position, and cried myself to sleep.
Three months from West Virginia
There’s no beach in Oakland, California, and from our condo in Rockridge, we can’t even see water. Our condo does, however, have really good lighting, along with cherry-wood floors, white cabinetry and doors, two bedrooms, where one was converted to a studio, and a nice-sized balcony.
This time, we remembered the barbecue grill, and Craig’s dad came through on the clock.
The water, we could drive to. Better yet, we could cross the bay to San Francisco and go to Golden Gate Park, eat in Chinatown, and see world-class art in a city where no one thought twice if we held hands in public.
Craig loved Pixar, so even if we’d had to live in a hovel, it would have been worth it. He’d gelled with his new coworkers like a gear in a clock, slotting into his place and turning with barely a blink, adding just that much more smoothness to the whole team. The terms of his employment were for the duration of the film they were storyboarding now. He had a couple years, at least, to live the dream before they’d determine if he would be good for the next project.
Me? Well, I was enjoying how warm California was, even in early April. While New York was only just beginning to bloom, and people were shaking out jackets and putting away winter gear, Californians were clip-clipping around in flip flops—that never got put away—and shorts.
We were still waiting on the last of Craig’s paintings from the gallery showing in New York to find their way to California. He’d sold all but three, he said, and those three, he was going to try to sell himself out here, not as part of a show, but maybe in a display window as a collection in itself. The new paintings, however, had taken on a more watercolor landscape, with softer hues and less contrast. There was a depth to them I couldn’t put my finger on, until one night he pointed out he was trying to paint like his autistic kids. Then I saw it. Craig was keeping them with him, in his own way, even though, for him, saying goodbye to those five kids had been one of the toughest things about leaving New York.
For me, my tearful goodbye had been with Dr. Rodriguez, who’d assured me the recommendation she’d given for a therapist in Oakland was stellar. I would trust her with my life, so of course I trusted the new therapist. Her name was Kate, and she had an unflappable demeanor, sharp humor, and even though she bristled at the knitting in my lap, saying she had a slight aversion to wool, she was cool. She was proving herself extremely capable in helping me deal with my continued contact with my father.
But at the moment, I didn’t want to think about that. That day in the prison, I’d nearly had to be carried from the visiting room. With the kind security guard’s help, Craig had gotten me into the car, where he’d blasted the heater to combat my shivering. When we’d arrived back at the hotel, I’d calmed some, the rhythm of the road having finally stopped my inner earthquake enough to allow me to get to our room under my own power. Craig was sweet, helping me to the tub where he left me to soak while he ordered dinner and had, for the rest of the night, pampered me so I could face the ache unleashed by opening myself to my dad. Then he’d held me through the night, promising me what I’d done was huge and made me more of a man than my father could ever be. In the morning, we’d made love, and afterward, he’d asked me to come to California with him.
“If you can forgive what he did to you and hope for a relationship now that he’s sober, then you’re the kind of man I want in my life.”
Of course, I’d said yes immediately.
I hadn’t had to say a tearful goodbye to Holly. She and Braden were transferring, Braden having just finished up his fellowship in cardiothoracic surgery. He was well into the interview process at UCSF Medical Center and was practically a shoe-in. Holly was pushing him to live across the bay near us and commute.
There’d been no tearful goodbye with Lawrence and Isabelle, either. They weren’t moving, but they’d gotten a timeshare in San Francisco and intended to visit several times a year. It would feel no different than when we were in New York.
I felt good. I could breathe here. The job search was promising, mainly due to the fact that I was once an MD. Specialized knowledge of surgical procedures made me a better PT. Yeah, the sound of a bone saw used to set my teeth on edge, but understanding the surgical repairs that landed people in my care made me a desirable commodity. So desirable, in fact, that even with a handful of decent offers, I was considering starting my own practice if I could find a partner to share the cost. It meant setting my own work terms and solidifying the roots I put down with Craig. He saw that, and it made him smile. It proved my commitment to him.
Craig and I, we had an idyllic beginning, and in the years that had followed, we’d had a relationship others envied. It had been based on lies, a rocky foundation, and the illusion of a future. The only thing that had been real was the love.
Crumble reality piece by piece until it washes away on a cascade of terrifying diagnoses, and you find out real quick what matters and what doesn’t. For me, it’s the beauty in the sunshine.
And my sunshine is an artist.
It began with a Halloween themed short story assignment from a second grade teacher, and from then on, AJ Rose fell head over heels in love with writing. Time has seen the beginning and end of many things, college and graduation, a finance career, and a marriage, and through it all, writing has been her first love. Now, AJ is also head over heels for her wife-to-be, fellow author Kate Aaron, who gets it, the twitchy fingers when word counts are low too many consecutive days, the thousand-yard stare when an idea turns AJ’s vision inward, and the jitters when the word-babies go out to meet the world. Nothing could stop the tall tales about imaginary people that refused to be ignored. With a life full of this much passion, it’s no wonder AJ chose romance. The voices in her head are mostly of the male persuasion, so m/m romance was about the only option. But don’t be surprised if the occasional ghost still pops up.
AJ’s work can be found on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and All Romance eBooks, Scribd, Page Foundry, iTunes, and Tolino. AJ tweets as @_AJRose, Facebooks at https://www.facebook.com/aj.rose.5473, Tumblrs at http://ajrosewrites.tumblr.com, and blogs at http://ajrosewrites.wordpress.com, where there is more information about future titles.
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