by E M Lindsey
Mat bristled. The one thing he hated more than anything was being his injury. The crash had destroyed his career, had brought out the true colors in his ex-wife, had shown him exactly what he meant to his family. He was only worth something when he was on his way to being a doctor—prestigious and rich and respected.
Now he was a behavioral health patient who couldn’t always speak right, who would never read again, who didn’t have much beyond his disability payments that just barely covered rent on a shitty apartment. And definitely not in Silicon Valley.
“W-wh—” He took a breath, frowning at the picture. “When? And why me?”
“Because your art is good. You have a unique perspective, but you also have talent. My sister’s an artist,” Dr. Adebayo said with a faint smile. “She’s a lot older than me, practically raised me, and I grew up around it. I can’t pretend like I’m an expert, but you have something a lot of people don’t. I think you should go for it. If anything, it’ll give you another way to look at your future.”
Mat winced, because he knew Dr. Adebayo was likely familiar with Mat’s biggest obstacle in therapy—the fact that he didn’t think he could offer anyone anything. Not now. Not like this. “I don’t have anything prepared.”
“It’s not until March. You need to submit a portfolio by January, and if you’re selected, they’ll fly you out and cover room and board.” The doctor smiled at him, his eyes kind and encouraging. “It’s something to think about.”
Mat bit his lip, reaching out for the paper. He traced his finger around the edge of the photo and breathed out slowly. “Do you really trust me to do this? I’m a suicide risk.”
The doctor blinked at him. “Are you? Because your file says you aren’t. Your file says you were, and you’ve been making progress, and you feel like you have control over those impulses now.”
That also wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t truly felt suicidal for months. “I’m scared to trust myself,” he admitted.
“I would be worried if you weren’t,” Dr. Adebayo said softly. “But I think we all are. That’s not unique to you, Mat.”
He huffed a laugh. “Sure. I guess that’s true. I was Dr. Harlow once, and even with my education and training, I didn’t have total faith in myself.”
“You’ll be a good doctor, if you ever get back to it,” Dr. Adebayo said. “I think I’d look forward to being your colleague one day.”
Mat startled, because frankly he’d never considered it to be an option. His doctors had all-but told him that when he first woke up. His life as he knew it, was over. “They said…”
“Doctors say a lot of things, and people defy them all the time,” Dr. Adebayo interrupted. “And maybe they’re right. I can’t say. But you can at least try this, right? Nothing more than submitting an idea. The worst they can do is say no.”
Mat felt that in his bones. The worst they can do is say no. “I need to get a pass so I can grab some things at the art store.”
Dr. Adebayo smiled brightly, his eyes lit up with pride. “There’s a van leaving at three. You want me to add your name to the list?”
Mat nodded. “Yeah. What do I have to lose?”
“I like this. Wow.” The voice came from Mat’s right, and he turned, startled to find two men only a few feet away from him. He was a little overwhelmed with the showing—the travel and the anxiety of displaying both his work and his story to the public had been a lot for him to handle—but he was glad he did it. He had four canvases on display in the massive room on the third floor of the museum.
He wasn’t the only one, and that was probably the saving grace for Mat. Not all eyes were on him, so he was able to blend into the crowd a bit.
Having seen his work standing next to others, he struggled a little with feeling worthy. Dianne, his art therapist, had called it imposter syndrome, and she told him it was common in almost all professions. “I get waves of it myself,” she had told him just days before his flight was set to leave. “Sometimes I’ll be in a session and not entirely sure where to go next with my patient, and I’ll wonder if I wasn’t just faking it this entire time. Maybe everything I’ve accomplished to this day was just luck.”
“That’s not true,” he’d told her quietly, and she smiled at him.
“On good days, I know that. On bad days…” She trailed off with a shrug.
It left him feeling better able to deal with it, knowing that even the people in charge of his recovery dealt with the same thing. But this was a big step, because it also meant when he got back, he’d be on track to leave the center and start his life again. Melissa hadn’t renewed the lease on their shared apartment—in fact, he hadn’t heard from her since the divorce hearing, which he’d attended over a teleconference. He didn’t know what she was doing, or where she was, and it was hard to care.
She’d been large part of his life—they’d met freshman year at USC, she’d followed him to Stanford, they’d broken up six times before he got his head out of his ass and proposed to her. Their wedding was the April after he began his residency. They went to Boca for their week-long honeymoon, and then he started working full-time. She seemed thrilled with the track they were on—they were looking at houses, talking about kids, planning their future.
Then an ill-timed left turn by a person texting on their phone had changed everything. Now, it was a miracle he could string together more than two sentences. It was more than a miracle he was standing right there in that museum, listening to two men talk about his painting.
“I want this,” the taller one said.
Mat turned slightly to get a better look at the guys. They weren’t the typical art-show types. At least, not from where he was from, though Colorado seemed to have a different vibe from Northern California. Both of them were heavily tattooed, one with darker skin, a sharp undercut, gauges in his ears.
The one who had spoken, the one who wanted the painting, stood a little taller. His legs below the hemline of his shorts showed off an intricate-looking set of prosthetics which looked to be top of the line, and probably very expensive. The metal ended in heavy combat boots, and there was something about his posture which told Mat he was holding a lot of weight on his shoulders.
Swallowing thickly, Mat took a breath and turned to them, choosing his words carefully. “Can I ask you what you like most?”
The two men looked a little startled, and maybe even a little defensive. The shorter man took a protective stance at the taller man’s side. “I like that it’s just so in your face. I didn’t get to see the artist talk, but I read the bio, and you can tell he’s unapologetic about everything he felt when he painted this.”
Mat turned and looked back at the canvas. The guy wasn’t entirely right, but he wasn’t wrong either. Mat was still apologizing for who he had become since the accident—the person that had let down so many, but the art allowed him to speak without words, and that was important. The painting was abstract, a lot of reds and greys, some white in the middle. There was no image to it, and it felt sophomoric in the face of people with the ability to paint images that seemed to come to life, so he was surprised that anyone had locked on to it.
“You don’t like it?” the man challenged.
Mat let out a small laugh. “It’s not my favorite. But I don’t think it’s bad.”
The guy snorted. “What the fuck would you know about art, man?”
The shorter guy seemed to catch on though, and he rolled his eyes and nudged the taller one. “James, dude, I think he’s the artist.”
The one called James whipped his head around to look at Mat, and his face went faintly pink, his eyebrows raised. “You serious?”
Mat shrugged. “Yeah. I did these right here.” He waited a beat. Usually people who got aggressive with him got very apologetic after realizing he was a disabled artist, but this guy didn’t. Maybe it was because he understood—or maybe the guy was just an asshole, or both. But when James smiled, Mat couldn’t keep himself from smiling back. “Honestly, I was j
ust trying to create something worthy of the gallery showing. My therapist made me submit these.” Not entirely true, the decision had been his, but feeling so inadequate in this room, he liked having someone to blame it on.
“I went through your sketchbook,” the other guy said, jutting his chin toward the table where Mat’s leather-bound book sat. “I actually think I like those better.”
Mat couldn’t stop his grin from going a little wider. “Yeah?” He had to agree, and he was surprised when he’d been allowed to submit them for the showing. He did better with sketches. They were more raw, more…everything. They were his diary of how his little world felt now that he was cut off from such an important way of communication. He’d briefly considered not adding them to the showing, but in the end, he figured people should probably see him for the person he was. A little dark, a little restless, a lot hurt, and a lot hopeful.
“It’s shit I’d like to see in my shop,” the guy said. He stepped forward and extended his hand, grinning when Mat took it. “I’m Tony. I have a little shop in Fairfield—Irons and Works. Tattoos,” he clarified when Mat looked confused.
It made sense—the ink, the piercings. Mat hadn’t ever considered getting a tattoo before, but that was when his life was on a very specific path. It had been his choice then too, but every decision felt myopic and narrow. Now, strangely enough, the accident allowed him to feel free. “You want some of my art or…”
“I think he was askin’ you if you might consider a job,” James said with a half-smirk.
Mat blinked rapidly with surprise. “Oh. Uh. I wouldn’t know the first thing about tattooing.”
“Well sure, but we all start somewhere, right?” Tony said, his smile still wide. “Tell you what, let me give you my card and maybe you can stop by, yeah?”
Mat took the offered card, but he licked his lips and stared down at his feet. “I can’t…uh. I can’t drive. My head injury…” He didn’t want to admit he couldn’t read, either. Not yet. He wanted to prolong the moment these two saw him as just a person, and not the brain damage.
“No worries, man. Call us up, one of us can pick you up. It’s a cute place, too,” Tony said easily. “Shit, James is here in Denver all the time trolling for dick.”
James flushed and punched Tony. “Fuck off, dick head.”
Mat laughed quietly. “I don’t want to impose.”
James’ eyes were a lot harder than Tony’s, his expression a little meaner, but he got the feeling James was more fierce than cruel. “You ain’t. I don’t mind, if you really want to check it out. Tony kind of has a way of bowlin’ people over though, when he sees somethin’ he wants.”
Tony shrugged. “So what?”
Mat laughed. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
Tony gave him a long, considering look, then said, “Tell you what. You come by the shop—have this asshole here drive you, and you can take a look around. I’ll even front you your first piece if you want.”
Mat’s eyes widened. “A tattoo?”
Tony laughed. “Yeah. Nothing big, something I can get done in an hour. Only if you want, but you can’t know unless you experience it, right?”
“I…” Mat’s thoughts stuttered, but he didn’t hate the idea. In fact, the idea of getting something inked on him felt right, settled, like a way of bookending the part of his life he’d never get back. No one would judge him for being a doctor with tattoos because he never would be that man. That was over.
His grandma would have said something about fate, if she’d been alive to hear this story. Something about how the universe always provides a path to where you’re meant to be. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was bullshit, but he couldn’t ignore it.
“I think I’d like that,” Mat said quietly.
James punched Tony lightly. “You’re such a fuckin’ bully.”
“No, I’m observant, and I have observed that Mat here would fit in nicely at our shop,” Tony said with a shit-eating grin. “When’s good for you?”
Mat shrugged, glancing up at the clock, which looked just as much like gibberish as the letters on his bio. By the way the sun was low in the horizon, he figured it was somewhere near five or six. “I fly out tomorrow afternoon.”
“Tonight, then? You wanna hitch a ride with James?” Tony offered.
“I don’t want you to keep your shop open just for this,” Mat said with some hesitation.
James laughed. “First thing you’ll learn, we’re night owls. We open at eleven—if any of us can get our asses off the couch—and we close whenever we’re ready to drop. Usually that’s around one or two. Trust me, you’re inconveniencing exactly no one.”
Mat shuffled his foot, then nodded. It was time to take a leap. He kept his gaze steady as he looked at Tony first, and then James. “Okay. I’m in.”
Tony grinned, like he’d just won a prize. “Hell yeah, Mat. I think this is the start to a beautiful friendship.”
Chapter Three
Wyatt’s hands were shaking, and the very fact that he didn’t have Pomme at his side was gutting him. Not just because he felt a little at sea, but she was more than just his guide, she was his companion. She’d been with him for nine years, and a lot of the time she was the only one he could trust. He peered through his small window of sight, at the fuzzy blur in the center, and the fading shapes and motion. He’d never been able to see well enough to call himself sighted, but it was in this moment when he wished he had a better understanding of his surroundings that he realized just how much his blindness had progressed.
It was just as well, the rest of his sight falling apart as his life did, as his job, his marriage, his family. Wyatt had spent all of his life fighting desperately for what little independence he was allowed to have. He finished school, went to University, spoke two and a half languages, got married to the man of his dreams—or so he thought. Funny how that turned out.
Ioan had been the dream. The day he stepped foot into his parents’ house, Wyatt knew there was something unique about him. Ioan had been curious about Wyatt—about how he lived, how he navigated, how different his life was from other people. But he hadn’t babied him, hadn’t patronized him, or used what Wyatt couldn’t see to take advantage of him.
He didn’t feel like a thing—a fetish, a curiosity to be sated. It was why he begged Ioan to stay, to not go back home to Wrexham, to make it work. Ioan was the son of Wyatt’s father’s old flatmate back before Lewis Adley had immigrated to a tiny, Francophone village just north of Trois-Rivières.
Instead of blending in, Lewis had created a hybrid home with his sons—French, English, and a little Welsh. He worked hard and had those same expectations for his boys. At least, until Wyatt had been born too small, with dancing eyes and the inability to track much except bright light.
Wyatt had grown up fragile, subjected to hormone treatments and health scares. He’d learned to read braille early, but went to a French speaking school in the village because his parents were determined for him to be normal—whatever the fuck that was. Wyatt never felt like he was missing out there. His brothers had been just as rough and tumble with him as they were with each other. He was still punished for his bad marks, and rewarded for his good ones.
He’d been named by his dad—a strange sort of man who had an obsession with the American Old West, and by the time Wyatt was six, he could quote every line to every John Wayne movie ever made. He went to church like a dutiful, devout Catholic every Sunday, clinging to his mom’s skirts with one hand, and his short cane with the other. He was sixteen when he realized he wanted to kiss boys more than girls. He was nineteen when a pretty Welsh boy with big dreams stepped into his life and changed it forever.
When he had dropped to one knee and asked Ioan to marry him, he’d never imagined he’d be here. Facing down a crumbling marriage and accusations of sexual misconduct after his husband was caught sleeping with a student in his office. It wasn’t enough for Ioan to take responsibility for his actions. No, he had to
drag Wyatt into it too—and that shouldn’t have surprised him.
As the years went by, he noticed more and more the excuses Ioan would make, every time things went wrong, every time he was the one responsible for the chaos and destruction. Wyatt was forever apologizing for things that were not his fault, and Ioan was forever forgiving Wyatt for things he had no right to forgive.
He should have seen this coming. He should have been expecting this. Though, how does one really expect their spouse to not only get caught cheating, but then to turn around and insist that it was his husband who not only orchestrated it, but demanded it. With the student corroborating Ioan’s story, Wyatt was now facing a disciplinary panel regarding his job. And the truth was, even if he was able to exonerate himself, life as he knew it was over. There was no coming back from this. It was easier to blend in to Montréal than it was to blend into Quatre d'Arbres, which boasted a population of two-thousand, and that was being generous and likely counting future children and cats.
His reputation—the scandal of it—would spread like wildfire. He’d never teach again. No one would trust him to be around students even if he found a way to clear his name. So, what was the point of sitting through this, he wondered. Why put himself through the trouble.
“Monsieur Adley,” a man to the left of the table said. “Wyatt Adley.”
Wyatt tried to angle himself toward the voice, but in the end, it didn’t matter. They knew he was blind. “Yes.”
“Wyatt. That’s not a French name, is it?” came another voice.
Wyatt frowned. “No, my father chose it for me. Is that a problem?”
“Mais non,” the same man said, and Wyatt found himself frustrated that he wasn’t entirely sure who these people were. He was familiar with the structure of the disciplinary board, and he knew some names off-hand, but he worked for a prestigious private school and these people hadn’t been in his day to day life—not even a little—in the ten years he’d been teaching there. He used to joke with a few people in his department about it reminding him far too much of Hogwarts—and all the benefactors far too much like a Malfoy—but it never seemed so clear to him until today. “Just curious.”