Her kind eyes smile at me as she escorts me to the door. “I’m not saying to give him everything you are, but start small. See what he has to offer. You might be surprised.”
I smile back at her, folding the small rectangle of paper in my hand as I walk out of the office. After I make an appointment for the following week with the receptionist, I start back toward the office.
When I get back to work, I pull the prescription out of my pocket, chuckling as I read it over.
Go for it is scrolled across the main part and in the box where the dosage is usually listed, it reads, now.
The phone rings once before he picks it up. “One week,” his words mingle together with a hearty laugh. “Not bad. Figured it would take at least two for you to call, if you did at all.” Conner’s humor-filled voice forces a smile to curl at my mouth as I kick my legs up on my coffee table when I get home later that night.
“Does last week count?” I’ll admit, my question seems out-of-the-blue, but it’s important, nonetheless.
“What?” The vision of his coffee-colored eyes squinting in confusion forces me to relax.
Muting the television drowns out all the ambient noise. Conner’s voice and the background noise of weights clanking and gym members chatting fill the background of our conversation. “Does our date last week count in your little three-date-challenge?”
The other noises fade away, the sound of his hand covering the mouthpiece overriding them. “Hold on,” he adds quickly as I hear a barrage of sounds filter through the line. Treadmills pound in the background; television newscasters report the latest stories; women make grunting noises in the name of self-defense. Finally, a door slams shut and we’re alone, albeit telephonically.
“It counts as far as I’m concerned.” I can hear the smile in his words; I can envision the smug, confident look taking over his face. “Under one condition.”
Already feeling like I’m giving in, I can only hope this term is one with which I can deal. “Okay.” Skepticism colors my response.
“You have to make the plans and it has to be more than just a meal.”
“That’s actually two conditions.” We both laugh as the tension evaporates. He doesn’t say anything after the laughter subsides and I consider his idea. My weekend plans run through my head and I actually have the perfect idea. “I’ll pick you up Saturday morning at nine. Wear work-out clothes.”
“What exactly do you have planned?”
“Well, Mr. I-need-to-get-to-know-you-better,” I joke, “you’re just going to have to wait and see. Now, are you going to give me directions to your place, or do I have to google you, after all?”
After giving me directions, Rachel’s voice fills in the background. I can’t hear exactly what she’s saying, but I know that Conner’s attention is needed. “I gotta run. I’ll see you Saturday.”
“Okay.”
I’m ready to end the call just as Conner says, “I’m glad you called,” before hanging up.
To be honest, I’m glad I called, too. The thought of finally moving forward in my life is simultaneously exhilarating and scary. It’s unrealistic to say after two therapy sessions and one date with a man to whom I’m ridiculously attracted that I’m healed. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid of giving it a try.
Excitement wakes me up on Saturday morning for my date with Conner. It’s more than just the idea of seeing him that has me all anxious, though. Knowing he’s going to see part of who I really am only adds to the giddy nervousness. Conner’s apartment building is a simple three-story brownstone. Nothing is all that special about the exterior. It’s clean and modern – the front porch looks like it’s in desperate need of an update – but other than that, the building actually reminds me a lot of Conner; sturdy, a little rough around the edges, but probably comfortable and relaxed on the inside.
He told me to call when I got here, not wanting me to have to deal with parking, but since there’s a spot out front, I park, deciding to do the right thing and actually pick him up properly. A little old lady is walking out of the door as I jog up the steps. As I hold the door open for her, she wobbles under my arm. “Thank you very much, young man.” Her voice is soft and her eyes are kind. “Here, let me help you the rest of the way.” She nods, smiling brightly as she clutches her purse under her arm.
There’s a stack of phone books dumped in the corner of the foyer, so I use one to prop open the door as I escort her the rest of the way down the stairs. The handrail nearly comes out of the concrete as she leans her weak, can’t-be-more-than-ninety-pound frame, against it. She places her wrinkled hand in mine shakily and we slowly walk down the crumbling steps together. “Thank you again,” she pauses, waiting for me to add my name.
“Dylan,” I tell her.
She pats the top of my hand before releasing it. “Mrs. Keating, but you can call me Cindy.” As she tries to readjust her glasses, her purse drops to the ground. I hand it back to her as she says, “Well, thank you, Dylan. Are you here for that pretty new girl? What’s her name, Raquel or Randy, something like that?” Her expectant face lifts up to scan mine.
“Do you mean Rachel?” I clarify the confusion over her name, assuming that she must be talking about Conner’s sister. Since they were pretty much starting from scratch, Conner and Rachel decided to share an apartment until the gym took off. He explained that much to me over the phone, not wanting things to be weird for any reason should I find out on my own.
“That’s right.” Mrs. Keating snaps her fingers, and then taps the side of her head. “This old thing don’t work like it used to.”
Shaking my head, as I laugh with her, I say, “No, ma’am, but I am here to see Conner, her brother.” It’s been a long time since I’ve been afraid of or even ashamed of openly saying I’m gay; it’s not something I’ll ever hide. And it’s not that I’m either of those things right now, but it’s odd to feel like I’m waiting for some kind of reaction. Having only known this seemingly kind old lady for less than two minutes, I don’t know what’s going through her head as she scans me from head to toe.
“Oh.” Astonishment, but not an ounce of disdain rings alongside her single-word response. “You boys have a good day then.” Her cheeks turn rosy pink and she waves goodbye before strolling slowly down the street.
Just as I turn to walk back toward the building, I catch the sight of Conner bending down and tossing the phone book back into the foyer. He turns and sees me standing on the sidewalk. A warm, but surprised smile spreads across his face. I take in the sight of him as he casually strolls toward me. The Michelson’s MMA t-shirt he’s wearing pulls tightly across the hard planes of his chest, the sleeves stopping just above the edge of his tattoos. His black, mesh athletic shorts hang low on his narrow waist, stopping in the middle of his thick, muscular thighs. I’ve never in my life been more jealous of a pair of shorts, but the way they hug his body sends my mind in a craze. As he gets closer, his full lips pull into a lopsided grin. His face looks calm and relaxed, and even though it’s not the first time I’m looking at him, it’s almost like this is the first time I’m seeing him. His chestnut hair is messily spiked, as if he just ran his hands through it after waking up. The golden flecks in his deep, brown eyes shimmer in the morning sunlight.
“Hi,” I greet, taking the full view of him in as he stands before me. His eyes scan over me from head to toe, and I wonder if he is thinking about me the way I just thought about him. When he croaks, “Hey,” I know that he is. His voice exudes a calm sexiness, fogging my brain for a second.
“You ready?” I wink and he wordlessly nods as we walk back to my car.
The five-minute drive is filled with casual pleasantries – how is work going? What have you been up to? It’s relaxed and easy, a mood which I’ve come to expect when I’m around Conner.
The gravel of the parking lot crunches under my tires and a cloud of dust trails behind us as we park at the local little league field. Conner shoots me a wry look fr
om the passenger’s seat. “Baseball is more of a team sport. Not really sure what we can do with just the two of us.”
Leaning over, I unclasp my seatbelt. Pitching my voice low, I say, “Oh, there’s plenty just the two of us can do, but not today. We still have another date left. Don’t you remember?” I add the last part facetiously, reminding him that this was his plan in the first place.
When we both get out of the car, I fold my arms together, and lean on the doorframe. Looking at Conner over the hood, I try as best as I can to explain our date. “You said you wanted to know me, to do something that was more than just a meal.” As if on cue, the bus from Hamilton Home for Boys – a local group home for orphaned boys - pulls into the parking lot. “This is how I spend my free time.” I swipe my hand to the side, just as the bus pulls to a complete stop.
Like clowns out of a small car, the fifteen twelve-year-old boys who make up the Elmira Tigers file out of the bus. Excitement rushes off them in waves as their voices smash together in a loud cacophony.
“Coach Hopkins! Coach Hopkins!” They jump and clamor around me.
“Hey, guys.” Immediately, they fall in line, waiting for instructions. “Before we get started today, I want you to meet my friend Coach Michelson.” A twinge of quiet nervousness descends on us. “If it’s okay with you, he’d like to help out today.” As soon as they realize I’m not being replaced, they loosen up and greet Conner with open arms.
Kieran, a kid who I’d consider a natural-born leader, calls out above the group. “Hey Coach, can I pitch today? Last week you said you’d show me how to throw a slider.” His big, blue eyes are begging me with more enthusiasm than usual.
“You got it, Kieran.” A proud look washes over his face as I pat my hand on his shoulder. “Kieran and Brett, you two lead warm-ups today. Three laps, short toss and then long toss. After that, we’ll do some drills and then batting.”
“Yes, Coach,” they all call out at the same time. Eager to please and thrilled to be at practice, the boys race out to the field as Conner and I get the rest of the equipment from the trunk.
As I sling a bag over my shoulder and Conner tucks a few bases under his arm, I worry that maybe this isn’t what he had in mind. “I hope this is okay?” The trunk slamming closed is the only sound for second.
“It’s more than okay.” A proud smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. Warmth blooms in my chest as his mouth pulls into an appreciative smile – not just because I’ve chosen to include him in this part of my life, but that it even exists at all.
The two-hour practice passes by quickly. Kieran almost nails me in the head during pitching practice because I was too busy staring at Conner. The way the muscles of his strong arms bunched and pulled as he easily hit fly balls into the outfield served as a somewhat mild distraction. At one point, I almost choked on my own tongue as I watched the lean, cut muscles of his calves shift under his weight. Kieran had to repeat his question because I was so busy thinking about those legs wrapped around my waist.
We finish practice with some sprints. “Wanna race, Coach Michelson?” The boys have become more and more comfortable with Conner over the course of the morning and they think nothing of his size as they throw down their challenge.
Life is simple when you’re twelve. You’re invincible and pitting yourself against an athlete like Conner poses no trouble whatsoever. Sometimes I wonder if life will be that simple ever again.
After the last sprint, the boys fall into a heap on the ground, wheezing and catching their breath. “Might want to think twice before you challenge me next time,” Conner brags, laughing as he tosses them each a water bottle. They exchange a few more good-natured ribs before the bus pulls back in to pick the boys up.
We grab all of our gear and walk the boys back. Before Brett gets on the bus, he turns back to Conner. “You’re gonna be back next week, right, Coach Michelson?” The two developed a bond quickly, spending most of the practice together.
Conner quickly glances over at me, silently checking that it’s okay to say yes. I nod and he turns back to Brett who’s watched the brief exchange, hoping for Conner’s return.
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything, Brett.” Brett launches himself onto the bus, excitedly calling out that Conner will be back next week. From the small windows, the boys wave back at us as they pull away, their voices fading as the bus drifts further and further away.
We toss our stuff in the trunk and slide back onto our seats. “So how about lunch?” Despite his “no meal” requirement, I ask anyway.
“Yeah, I’m starved.” We pull out of the lot, the cloud of dust returning as we drive away. We decide on a diner since neither one of us are really dressed for anything that’s more than casual. After the waitress seats us and takes our orders, Conner asks, “So where are their parents?”
I shrug and roll the straw wrapper into a ball. “Don’t know. Some of them are dead, some in jail, some never had any – not that they remember anyway.”
“How’d you get involved?” Genuine interest accentuates his question.
“We did a few seminars there for work. After our contract was up, the boys didn’t want our time to end and neither did I. I had really grown to like them, so when they told me about wanting to join the local little league, I knew I had to help them. I pulled a few strings with the league and covered in costs what the home couldn’t. When they asked me to be their coach, there was no way I could say no.”
“That’s really amazing of you, Dylan.”
I roll one shoulder, deflecting his compliment. “So,” I venture nervously, “was that what you had in mind?”
“Nope.” Curtly, he dismisses me. He laughs before adding, “It was way more than I expected.”
I reach across the small fifties-inspired laminate tabletop, and lightly graze my fingers over the back of his hand. “I’m full of surprises; I promise.” His eyes widen at my suggestive comment and I see his throat work as he swallows; his Adam’s apple bobbing is sexy-as-fuck.
The waitress returns with our meals, not affording him anytime for a lusty comeback. Over a few plates of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, we learn about each other’s favorite movies, books, hobbies, and interests.
“Wait a minute, how have you never seen Field of Dreams?” Incredulity flows out of my mouth at Conner’s admission. “Every American boy has seen that movie,” I mumble around a mouth full of toast.
“Wasn’t much into baseball growing up, sorry.” His tongue licks along the seam of his lips, catching a drop of coffee before it drips to his chin. “I started wrestling in middle school, and didn’t stop until I had to.”
“Baseball was in my blood.”
“Was?” His confusion is clear. “Don’t you mean is? I saw you out there today.”
Thoughts of Shane haunt my vision. The more time I spend with Conner, the more I realize I’ll end up telling him about Shane, and how his death still affects me, but now is not the time. Deflecting for now, I avoid answering his question and pose one of my own. “What did you want to be as a kid, like when you grew up?”
A loud, full-bellied laugh bursts out of my mouth when he responds, “Superman.”
“Really?” I spit out through my laughter.
“Yes, really.” He crosses his arms in front of him, pushing his cleared plate to the side. “I always wanted to be the strongest, fastest, most unbeatable man out there. Worked my ass off to get there, too.” A sad tone begins to filter through his words. “I was so close, so fucking close and it was all taken from me.” Though he tries to keep it at bay, his anger hovers at the surface.
Channeling my inner Dr. Baker, I ask, “What do you want to be now?”
Anger recedes and is replaced by a flash of light-hearted goodness. “Now? Now, I just want to be happy.” The sudden seriousness of the conversation would have normally turned me off, made me bite my tongue, but not now. So when Conner asks, “What about you?” I grin back at him, more than ready to answer.
&nb
sp; “Happy, too.”
“Maybe we can help each other out then.” His face brightens, as does mine, I’m sure.
We exchange a hopeful look across the table as the waitress approaches with our check. He argues about paying, again, but since this is my date, I insist and he defers.
The minutes of our time together tick away as my car approaches his apartment building. I walk him to the door, half-hoping he’ll invite me in, but when he stops in the foyer, turning on his heel, I know extending our time together isn’t his intention.
He eyes the stairs. “Look, I’d invite you up, but Rachel had a late night last night. She gets these really bad migraines.”
A bubble of disbelief flies out of my mouth. “You don’t need to make excuses.” Raking a hand through my hair calms some of the nerves I’m feeling. Angling my head back toward the door, I explain, “It’s okay. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Dylan,” he calls me back, “I’m not lying.” He walks over, stopping only inches away from me, the heat of his body filling the limited space between us. A work-roughened hand goes to my neck. A calloused thumb traces the neckline of my t-shirt. Conner’s scent – woodsy and fresh from our time outside – curls around me, melting me almost instantly.
His eyes probe mine, begging me to believe him. And I do. My mouth just doesn’t want to work to say that I do. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than spend the rest of my day with you, but I need to check on Rachel.” A warm breath bathes over my cheek before he presses his lips there. “What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks before moving his lips to the corner of mine.
Let Love Live Page 21