He spluttered in protest, a few sad sounding syllables that served no useful purpose. He couldn't answer her. There was nothing he was willing to admit to. And certainly not at this time or place. He was grateful that they had taken a late lunch; there was no one around to overhear this far too revealing conversation.
She turned his hand over, and drew random designs in the palm with one finger while she talked, perhaps to distract him so that he wouldn't feel so embarrassed. "You would like to kiss Hunter, wouldn't you? Don't deny it. I've seen the way you look at him when you think no one else is looking. Yes, I know he's your best friend, and yes, I know he's a guy. Duh. But I think you might be in love with him."
Fisher didn't bother to respond, retaliating with, "Hunter dates women. Women love him. Haven't you seen them hanging on him, everywhere he goes?"
"Uh huh, I've seen it. Sure, he's a damn good looking guy. But so are you, Fisher. So don't sell yourself short. And haven't you ever noticed that none of those women last very long? And he's never gotten serious with any of them? Think about this then. How many of them has he brought home?"
"How should I know?" Fisher frowned, rubbing his thumb across his fingers agitatedly. He was irritated. Not at her, but at her questions that delved into areas best left alone. Questions that demanded answers he wasn't ready to give.
"Have you ever seen him bring one woman to the house? Surely you would've seen at least one, like the next morning, don't you think? Have you ever found a stray item that didn't belong there, or any evidence of a woman having being there? Lipstick on a glass, a pair of girly underwear in the laundry? In all the years you've lived together, has there been anyone who showed up unexpectedly at the breakfast table one morning? Or anyone come to the door, looking for Hunter?"
Fisher gave the matter serious consideration, but nothing came to mind. He really didn't have to think too hard. He knew for a fact that Hunter never brought women home. He'd have remembered that. He'd never done it himself, either. For his own reasons. And yes, whether he was willing to admit to it or not, he was a virgin. An embarrassing admission at his age.
"Who does he spend his real time with, Fisher? Who does he want to go to the Halloween party with? Think about it, I think you'll figure it out. He likes you, you like him, is that such a hard equation to balance?"
It was, and one that Fisher wasn't prepared to deal with at the moment. It was leading him into areas best avoided. Still he managed to open his mouth and insert his foot, his mind leaping to something that had been troubling him recently. "Holly, he's been acting funny lately," he blurted out. Skirting her issue, he chose to open another, in the process managing to release some of the tensions he had been operating under for the past several months. "It has to be a new girl…" Although it pained him to admit it.
"What do you mean, acting funny?" Holly frowned. "And what makes you think it's a girl?"
"I dunno. He comes and goes at odd hours sometimes. I woke up once in the middle of the night, and he wasn't home, at like three or four in the morning. He looks pale, like he's coming down with something. But if I ask him if he's sick, he denies it. And his appetite is definitely off. He never wants to eat any more, at least not at home. I think some girl is feeding him." Well, that was a definite weight off his chest, even though it also brought his latent anxieties to the fore. He realized he had not denied anything Holly had said regarding his feelings for Hunter. How could he? They were all true. And he wasn't a liar.
It took a few moments for him to realize that Holly wasn't saying anything; that silence had fallen between them. He glanced up to find her just looking at him, a self-satisfied smirk on her lips, and sympathetic eyes. What a strange combination.
"What?" he asked. But he knew. He really knew.
"You have it for him bad, Fisher. You have to say something to him. Soon. For both your sakes."
His stomach churned, and his head hurt. He had the feeling he was going to be ill if he stayed there any longer. "I… I gotta head back to work," he said, rising, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow. "I'll call you later. I promise." He gathered his things, tossing them into a trash receptacle on his way out of the staff lunchroom. But not to his desk. Not yet. He made a quick detour to the men's room, and promptly threw up what little he'd actually eaten. Afterward, he rinsed out his mouth and chewed on a mint, then splashed water on his face, before taking a good hard look at himself in the mirror.
Chapter Three
Nothing he hadn't seen a million times before. Just him, Fisher. Nothing special. An average looking guy, not overly tall. Five foot ten if he stretched a bit. Average build, no contender for Mr Universe certainly, but who actually needed so much muscle? Hair a light golden brown with blond highlights. It stuck up at strange angles if he didn't keep it under control with a bit of hairspray. Most of the time, though, it wasn't worth the trouble; he didn't care for the way it made his hair feel or smell. Eyes a strange blue-green hue. According to something he'd looked up once, it was called viridian. Fancy name for blue-green, but there you go. A nose a shade too big for his liking, and lips that were just lips.
Then he forced himself to think of Hunter, although it wasn't all that hard to do. Silky hair a rich brown so dark, it almost appeared to be black. It didn't obey any particular code of neatness, but on him, messy looked good. His pale blue eyes framed by the silkiest of lashes were always filled with good humor. And pretty pink lips, to die for, or to kiss. He had never admitted before, even to himself, that he wanted to kiss Hunter. But he did. Hunter was always smiling. Always happy. In other words, he was the perfect man. So why didn't Fisher want to admit to Holly that he did indeed carry a torch for Hunter Long and probably had for a very long time, and would like nothing more than to know what those perfect lips tasted like?
'Cause he was having a hard time admitting it to himself.
He didn't want to be different. He wanted to blend in, not to stand out. To do the things he was supposed to do. To be a good boy. Er, man. To make his mother proud of him. Didn't all sons want that? But it was getting harder and harder to lie to himself, even though he never lied to others. Self-delusion could be a very powerful thing. He supposed the catalyst to this new state of mind was Hunter's increasingly erratic behaviour. He knew what he was afraid of. Time to be honest with himself.
He was afraid that Hunter had found THE one. The girl of girls. Or woman of women. The holy grail of all romantic searches. The one and only, I-want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with female. That one. Which would explain so much. But would, when the time came for Hunter to make his departure into the land of happily ever after, be very difficult to take. The thought went straight to his heart and caused it nothing but pain.
He realized there was also nothing he could do about it. What would be would be, and he had no power to affect the outcome one way or another. Despite Holly's amateur detective work, which claimed to validate her assertion that he should go after what he wanted, that was just nonsense. This was real life—that was fantasy, and that was not how real life worked.
Drying his hands with two paper towels, he tossed them away, while waiting for a few minutes before he returned to his desk. Slowly but surely his skin went from pink to pale, and his breathing began to return to some semblance of normality. He had articles to write, things to look up online, and no desire to explain anything to anyone. The Halloween issue of MWH&F was available, naturally. He had already turned in his Thanksgiving thoughts, time to begin on Christmas. Oh joy.
He was pulling out his chair when he saw it. What was this? A pink inter-office memo lay upon his desk, suspicious by its very conspicuousness. It hadn't been there before he left for lunch. He picked it up apprehensively. It was from the editor. THE editor. Requesting him to meet with him the following morning at 9am. Great. Happy Halloween, here's your hat, what's your hurry.
Fisher sat there numbly, trying to think, but it wasn't easy. At least not to think of the work-related things he should be thinking of.
Other topics simply insisted on intruding. Just when he began to get the glimmerings of an idea he wanted to research, his cell phone went off in his pocket, which meant it had to be personal, not business. He kept it on vibrate when he was in the office. He expected it to be Hunter, reminding him of the party tonight. He was prepared to be annoyed, even though the thumping of his heart was not exactly a sign of anger, more like anticipation. But he was wrong, it was his mother. He held on to his annoyance, just in case. Beatrice Roberts was a very straightforward no-nonsense kind of woman, much like her son. She had raised him single-handedly since his father had left them when Fisher was ten, never to be seen or heard from again. Beatrice had encouraged him to do well academically, to rise to his potential. She had been there for every major event in his life. She encouraged him to get into journalism school, proudly watched him graduate. She had disapproved when he had chosen to buy a house with Hunter, and had been very vocal about it—she was no wallflower, she told him what she thought in no uncertain terms. It wasn't that she hadn't known Hunter for as long as Fisher had, she was good friends with Hunter's mother, Lisa. And it wasn't that she disliked him for any reason, or that she felt Hunter outshone her son in any way—although she conceded that he was good looking, she made it sound like he was very stuck on himself, and that his looks were almost feminine, which Fisher vehemently denied. But she felt that having a roommate, even one he knew well, was no substitute for marriage, children, and making her a grandmother, which was the logical orderly progression of the way life worked. Even if it hadn't worked out exactly that way for her. But, at least she'd tried it, which was more than Fisher had, which was also why she had this annoying habit of bringing up girls she met whom he just might like to date. His own personal eHarmony.com. As if. Even if he were so inclined, which he wasn't, his mother was the last person he would ever think of calling on when seeking a love life. He hoped this wasn't going to be one of those calls.
They exchanged the usual pleasantries, before his mother got down to the real reason for the call. He knew it wasn't simply concern for his health—not that she wasn't concerned, of course she was—but she invariably combined everything on her agenda into one phone call.
"Are you busy tonight? I thought maybe you could come over and I'd make us some dinner," she began, and he knew, just knew, from the way she said it that there was something more than dinner involved, even if he were free—which of course he wasn't.
"Yes, I am busy, I'm sorry," he apologized, "maybe another time. Or maybe you can come over and I can cook for you." Even as he said the words, Fisher knew that was unlikely. He could count the number of times she had come to dinner at their place on the fingers of both hands. She preferred to be in control of every situation, which she couldn't be with Hunter around. At least not in her eyes, it seemed. Maybe that's what she disliked about Hunter. He didn't give in to her, didn't always agree with her, and she hated that Fisher always did. Hunter wasn't afraid of making waves when he thought it was necessary. Fisher was always afraid, so he tried to never cause trouble.
"Are you going somewhere with him?"
How could she manage to make that one word sound so nasty, so full of scorn and derision? He knew without asking whom she meant, naturally. It was a good thing that she kept this side of herself hidden from his friend, so that only Fisher had to endure it. He just knew this conversation was not going to end well.
"Yes, I promised I'd go with him to a Halloween party." He regretted those words the moment he said them. He should have left it at yes.
"But you don't even like Halloween," his mother pointed out, "and you're much too old for it. Both of you."
"I wasn't aware there was an age limit on parties, Mother." He tried to keep his tone light, but it was hard not to show that she had the ability to get to him. "It's not like I'm going trick-or-treating, is it? It's a party."
"And what about tomorrow night? Are you telling me he won't be pulling some crazy outrageous stunt for Halloween, to entertain the children? I think it's about time you both settle down, and find yourselves wives, while you're still young, set up households—separate households—of your own."
Fisher's headache worsened. He had an overwhelming desire to go home, to get away, away from his mother, away from everyone. His stomach was queasy. It was futile to stay here now; he was worthless as far as writing went, having completely lost his ability to focus. On top of everything else, now he was concerned about being fired. For what? He had no idea, but logic wasn't exactly his friend at the moment. If anyone objected, he would simply take it as personal time; the magazine was pretty lenient about stuff like that.
"He probably will, yeah, but he isn't hurting anyone, and it doesn't matter." He was trying to ignore the part about the wives and the separate houses, hoping she'd take the hint, but Beatrice didn't.
"I met a very lovely girl today; I think you'd like her. She's your age. She teaches at the elementary school. She loves to cook and sew, and she thinks you're cute."
"Mother!" His temple was positively throbbing; he could feel the pulsations there. "How could she possibly think that unless you're showing people my picture?"
"It's good advertising," came her unabashed response. That was the last straw.
"Thank you, if I ever decide that I need to sell myself, you'll be the first one that I call. I really have to go, Mom. I'm getting a major headache. Have a good evening. Bye." And he clicked off before she had a chance to say another word. When his phone vibrated moments later, he almost didn't look at it, suspecting it was his mother calling back, but it was Hunter. He almost didn't answer. Almost.
Considering all the thoughts that were swirling through his brain, most of them about the man on the other end of the line, he managed to sound pretty normal. Kudos to himself for that.
"Hey," he greeted his friend. "What's up?"
"I'm close to your workplace, and I was wondering if maybe you could get off a little early, and we could… uh… talk or something?"
"Talk?" Fisher asked, almost nervously.
"Yeah, talk. Before the party."
Fisher's first inclination was to say no and stay where he was. Hide there for the rest of the day, and maybe the night too. Fisher sighed; that was not only impractical, but unreasonable as well. It made no sense, as he'd been in the process of leaving anyway. So why not talk to Hunter? Maybe he had something to tell him, something important. Maybe the truth about why he'd been acting so crazy these last few months. For a moment Fisher envisioned Hunter confessing to being terminally ill, but he pushed that crazy thought to the side. That was just asking for trouble.
Then the real reason that he didn't want to talk to Hunter at this moment hit him like a ton of bricks. This is it. He's going to tell me about her. That female sword of Damocles he'd felt hanging over his head for the past few months was finally going to be brought out of the shadows and into the open. He wouldn't have to live in fear and trepidation any more. That had to be a good thing, surely.
Or it could be the end of life as he knew it.
'I can do this—I can do this—I can do this.' He chanted to himself. It wasn't until he heard Hunter repeat his name several times that he realized he'd not responded to the question. "Um, sure. I was just about to go, anyway. Where are you?"
"The park across the street. Our usual spot. See you in a few." Click. Only dead air remained.
Fisher gathered all his things, packed his laptop into its carrying case, and slipped out of his cubicle without drawing attention. As luck would have it though, he ran into Holly, who was stepping out of the elevator just as he was about to enter it. He tried to smile and move past her without saying anything, but he knew better. She grabbed his arm, causing him to miss his car. Sighing, he pressed the button for another.
"Where you going?" she asked, looking pointedly at her watch.
"Out," he replied, knowing that response would not satisfy her.
A knowing grin spread across his friend's face. "You'
re going to see him, aren't you?" Why does everyone have to put such a strong emphasis on that word, he thought irritably. Why all the pretense? Why didn't they just say Hunter's name?
"Yes, I'm meeting Hunter. No big deal." He tried to move past her as the elevator doors dinged open, but she stepped swiftly to block him.
"Not yet, mister, hold your horses. I won't keep you from your appointed rounds if you promise me something."
"What's that?" he asked suspiciously, not willing to answer until he knew what he was getting himself into.
"Call me later and let me know what happens."
That seemed harmless enough. It wasn't as if anything was actually going to happen, not in any way she had in mind. "Fine," he agreed hastily, sliding her out of the way just in time to throw himself into the elevator before the doors began to close.
"Don't forget!" she yelled after him, her voice echoing all the way down.
Chapter Four
The park across the street was an old one. It was a self-contained oasis in the midst of what was otherwise a business district. It had been around since they were kids. Their moms had brought them here to play together, back when all it contained were a few swings, a couple of see-saws, and a merry-go round. They still managed to come to the park on a regular basis. Here they had picnics, drank beer, and just talked. Here was familiar. Here was safe and comfortable. It was sheer serendipity that Fisher had gotten a job just across the street from the park.
Fisher did not feel quite so safe at the moment, though. He felt far from comfortable.
Their usual spot was a particular wooden picnic table that sat in a corner of the tree-filled park, away from the hustle and the bustle. Being farther from the action, it was seldom used, so they'd adopted it for their own. They relished its exclusivity and its privacy. It wasn't beautiful, but they called it theirs.
Leonardo di Caprio is a Vampire Page 2