Thomas tore through the park, breaking through the calm currents of breeze that the evening so serenely offered. Once in the shadows of the pine trees, he felt the crushing of fallen twigs and cones through the thin soles of his shoes. The light from the street lamp on the other side offered a bit of consolation. It urged him to move faster. He bounded over a dense thicket of weeds, having lost the dirt path. He landed on the sidewalk.
Harrington Street was quiet, though, had there been sound, he would not have heard. The blood pounding through his veins pulsated in his ears. A constant beat that his feet moved in sync with. He easily scaled the uprising of earth on Corey’s lawn, using his arms, clutching the grass to aid him. On his feet again, he ran up the cement steps onto the wooden porch. He hit the door hard with his fist. His knuckles immediately reddened, but he hit it again, more anxiously. His knees buckled, locking him into position. The sound of the rattling doorknob roused him even more. A torrent of necessity made him push it open. Timothy Evans stood before him, his eyebrows furrowing gravely with instinctive concern. In the background, Thomas saw Carol Porter staring at him. He held his side and spoke but one word. “Corey.”
The frigid, empty atmosphere of the Sadie Memorial waiting room oozed an uninviting aura. Had Thomas a choice, this room would be avoided at all costs even if simply because of the numbness that so readily presented itself here. The walls were naked and thin, no windows, little light. Primitive style chairs sat in a square along the perimeter of the room, with two round tables in each corner. The white tile floor became a nuisance after a short time, for every time he moved in his seat or took the smallest step, a continuous shrieking insisted on accompanying him. A noise - just for the sake of having it. It did provide a flicker of distraction, and refused the formal quietness that could drive an otherwise sane man lunatic. The air stank of sanitation agents with a base of rubbing alcohol. Thomas closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. Images of Corey, somewhere under this very roof, held solid. He recalled the sound of him. Words, phrases that he so passionately relayed in his own delicate way. Certain places in time he had kept on the forefront of his memory. They rang through him, vibrating his consciousness, dulling his awareness of the dismal surroundings. He returned to those moments, reliving them. He went back to their meeting in his bedroom. The conversation, at least a fraction of it, replied to his silent beckoning with immense clarity.
Thomas heard his own voice; “I have this intuition. It helps me know who’s good and who’s not. You’re good.”
“How do you know your intuition isn’t wrong?” He remembered Corey saying, his tone rising teasingly.
“You make me smile... not a lot of things make me do that anymore.”
Corey’s subsequent expression, shy grin, downward glance, made Thomas smile even now. Thinking back on all the conversations they had shared over the previous summer, the most prevalent ones surfacing now, were those he most regretted. The times he was cruel. The times he behaved as if he was indifferent, as if he didn’t care. He regressed again;
“Did you talk to your Father?” Corey had asked as he perched on the bench beside Thomas.
“No.”
“Oh.” The disappointment in his voice was more obvious to Thomas now than it had been before. “You just sounded so passionate about telling him. I thought you would have.”
“What for? It would be pointless to tell him. I will someday, when I find someone I want to make a part of my life, until then I see no reason.”
“I see... I- I thought you said that I inspired you?” Corey said, reminding him of a previous conversation.
“I said someone inspired me. I never said it was you.” What a vile reply. How could he have been so openly spiteful? How could he have lied so convincingly? Thomas’ scorching jealousy caused him to misrepresent his more relevant feelings, tainting the purity of his love for Corey. He opened his eyes and leaned forward. He felt a rush of self-hatred. What if Corey died tonight? It was a devastating notion, but the fact remained, if Corey left this world, he would never know the extent of Thomas’ love. Thomas could never apologize for having been so uncaring, so ruthless with his denials, with his travesties. “God... Please don’t take him away from me,” he thought out loud. “I’m sorry, Corey. I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice trepid. He buried his head in his hands, his back undulating with his gasping cries.
The feint sound of rubber soles on the floor of the hallway beyond the reception room brought his eyes upward, glaring at the doorway. He heard the muffled vice of a woman, he could barely make out her words. “We’ll let you know as soon as the tests come back. You can wait in there.” Anticipation welled in Thomas’ stomach. Who was out there?
He watched as Gabe appeared in the doorway. They leered at one another through torrid eyes. Visible tension bloated the room. Gabe was the first to break the stare as he walked to the opposite side of the room and sat down. They each wanted to pretend the other wasn’t there, but nothing could take away the resounding quietness that scolded them.
Gabe rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head in an attempt to avoid looking in Thomas’ direction. It was the only way he could contain his swelling anger.
Thomas did exactly the opposite. He probed Gabe intensely. There were endless things he could have said, but, out of respect for the circumstance, he kept them to himself. The old Thomas, the easily agitated street kid was gone, but subtle resurgences occurred. The villainous side of Thomas, the one he so valiantly defeated, dared Gabe to speak, dared him to provoke a stir that Thomas would willing rise to challenge. Until then, though, he would repress his desire for vengeance. He recognized that this was neither the place, nor the time for them to verbalize their own conflicts. Thomas took pride in being above that. This was an undeniable testament to Thomas’ own growth from the careless deliberate delinquent he had been. A definite contrast to the more studious, attentive individual he was now.
The transformation brought with it specific understandings of his past. Now able to look back through coherent eyes, it all fell into place. Thomas had been a kid with nothing to lose. Nothing he had offered loyalty or emotional solitude. He believed his Father hated him, his Mother deserted him, love in any form denounced him. What reason did he have to try? What value did his life carry? He thought none. And if no one else cared, if in fact he mattered so little, then he could act without guilt. Sure, had he chose to go on that way he would almost certainly have ended up in prison or dying an early death, but either fate interested him more than wandering aimlessly. Soulless. “What a sad boy that was,” Thomas thought, sympathy welling as if it were for someone else, rather than himself. A time not so long ago, but seemingly worlds away. The ultimate change came on his own ability to recognize his direction, a path that was so smoothly laid, leading straight to his own impending demise. If asked, Thomas could not pinpoint an exact event or situation that initiated his sparking hope. Maybe God, maybe his own intuition, maybe he bumped his head. Whatever, it happened. And then Corey came along, motivating him to strive for the life he so dreamed of. Corey made him realize that it was possible. With time and effort, as well as an honest wanting, he could be whatever he imagined.
He would tell him this. He would come forth with all the things he longed to concede. No more evading the truth or foolishly denying the magnitude of his love. All this time... wasted. Now, here in this place of sickness and decay, staring into the gullet of possible loss, Thomas mourned all the instances passed where Corey was with him, able to hear him, able to reply. If given another chance he would rectify his wrongdoings. He swore to himself that if Corey lived, he would expound on the actual impact Corey had on his life. He would never lie to him again.
Odd how, in explicit moments of sheer devastation, we tend to examine the proportion of our history. Specific conversations, actions, anything we’ve archived as having meaning, we remember with amazing particulars. Perhaps an internal mechanism comes into effect, allowin
g one compensation in an otherwise maddening state. It is here where change takes place, decisions are made, forks in the life road present themselves. Rationalization comes with ease and we are compelled to view our present standings, exactly where we are, what position we have taken, how our existence has affected the lives of others, how theirs have affected us. The past shrivels and the future expands. We step into it newly educated.
Gabe and Thomas had little, if nothing, in common except for their despisal of the other. Unbeknownst to them both, their standard of thought ran parallel. Gabe had trouble sitting still. His nerves were going spastic. He had to move. He had to get out of this frame of mind. The element was suffocating him.
He decided to speak, just to alleviate the weight of the solid air. “I saw you talking to the cops. What did they say?” He asked, as if he were expected to.
Thomas glanced up at a browned water stain on the ceiling, “They asked me what happened. I told them,” he replied vaguely. He wasn’t about to share anymore information with him. It was none of his business. Thomas was convinced that Gabe’s involvement in the incident was purely with the intention of self-promotion. A convenient, opportune time to exploit someone else’s mishap and gain notoriety at Corey’s expense. A way to maintain his popularity. Assure his name remained in the local papers.
Gabe cracked his knuckles one by one, cursing Thomas’ vacant offerings. The joints popped loudly, amplified by the acoustics of the room. He jumped to his feet, linking his hand at the back of his neck. “I can’t stand this. What’s taking so long?”
Thomas didn’t answer.
Gabe turned to him, “What happened back there? Tell me who did this.” Gabe demanded aggressively.
Thomas closed his eyes, rolling them beneath his lids, expelling a distinguished breath through his thin lips, “Why? So you know exactly what to say in your next interview?” Thomas shook his head as he looked down at the controlled patterns in the floor tiles, “You must be getting pretty desperate for attention. I’m not going to let you use this to publicize yourself.” The implication eroded his composure.
Gabe dropped his arms to his side, doing all he could to prevent a physical altercation, “You’re pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you? You think that you know me, Tom? Don’t ever assume you know me. You know nothing. Nothing. Just because you did one good thing doesn’t make you anything but what you are. You can get off your pedestal. You’re not fooling anyone but yourself.”
Thomas stood up, refusing to allow Gabe to look down upon him, a semantic gesture, “That’s right Cavanaugh. I don’t know you, don’t believe I ever care to, but let’s get one thing straight. You don’t know me either. So, before you start throwing stones, make sure those aren’t projections of yourself.”
Gabe laughed condescendingly, “Forget it. I’m asking the wrong person. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
Thomas held firm in his stance, “You’re more diluted than I thought. I remember a time not that long ago that you almost broke your neck to inform me that Corey was gay, you wanted me to hate him, and you thought I would... You must’ve forgotten that night, Cavanaugh... Or is it a selective memory you suffer from?”
Gabe raised his arm, pointing his finger at Thomas as if it were a gun. He rose his voice an octave, “I wanted you to stay away from him! That’s what I wanted! He’s not like you.” He scowled unsparingly.
“Corey’s not like anyone! But that doesn’t mean you can take upon yourself the role of savior. He doesn’t need saving. Save that for your Sunday school class.” Thomas retaliated, sustaining an impenetrable hold on his rival with equally assuming eyes.
“Obviously he needs saving from you. This might have never happened in you had just left him alone. Funny how you seemed to be right there after he was attacked... where were you before? How do we know it wasn’t a gang of your lowlife friends?” Gabe suggested coldly.
Thomas took a moment to assess the accusation. He turned away from Gabe and stepped back to his seat. Falling into it, he once again met Gabe’s stare tenaciously, with arresting conviction. “Those stones you cast... So self-righteous. You’re one to speak of lowlife friends, Gabe.” He paused for a moment, his words still dangling mid-air, “Given the fact that the ‘friends’ who beat him were your own.”
The affirmation stunted him. His only response was an incredulous expression baring observable disgrace. His body was constricted by a paralyzing heat, ushered by Thomas’ revelation. A sudden, deliberate cough was heard, destroying the heightening of temperaments. Gabe and Thomas turned to the door simultaneously. Much to their amazement, there stood Lola Collier, clutching her purse to her abdomen. Though it was night, she had a pair of sunglasses sitting amidst the thick nest of red curls on her head. Her eyelids were decorated with bright blue shadow, lined in thick black pencil, her lips a tacky red. She wore a long iridescent cloak over her polyester pants suite. Several entangled strands of pearls and golden chains hung around her sagging neck. She smiled despite herself, having heard the argument. “Do either of you need a ride home?”
Their eyes grew so wide they could’ve fallen out of their heads. “NO!” They answered in unison, and then looked at each other through flaring eyes.
Thomas stood again, “On second thought,” He was speaking to Gabe now, claiming the moment as his own, “It is a long way to walk home.” His voice, low and unmistakably threatening, gripped Gabe by the throat, leaving him speechless. And then he was gone.
Corey layed motionless beneath the crisp sheets of his hospital bed. An oxygen tube had been strapped across his face, with two adjacent tubes positioned into his nostrils. His skin, pale as it was, appeared a ghostly white, plainly inconsistent with the dark black and purple welts that defaced his beauty. Wires spilled over the bedside, some attached to the tall monitor that registered every beat of his tired heart. Others led up to the metal pole that held his plastic bags of medication which were released at slow intervals into his open vein.
Timothy Evans sat closes beside his sleeping son. The regular beeping lulled him. The halogen bulb in the drop ceiling above hummed continuously. All sounds seemed to merge into one audible design, making themselves less of a nuisance. Timothy paid them no attention. He was with his child, holding his hand. He had not moved for three hours. The nurse had already come and gone, and would not return until the next hour. Timothy needed this time with Corey. He had been so negligent over the past few months. So busy with the reestablishment of his career that he completely disregarded any of Corey’s issues. How could this happen? Why would anyone ever want to hurt him? The questions came in a rushing tirade competing only with wanton explanations.
With the crawling of time, his search for some justification slowed. His only concern was for his son’s wellbeing. The police had called it a hate crime. The reference stung Timothy’s ears like a scorpion. He had heard of it before, many times, but never in association with someone he knew. It seemed unimaginable, how someone could take upon themselves the unjustifiable act of hurting, sometimes killing another. Those terms had always been familiar to Timothy. Murderer. Rapist. Molester. Eventually, after encountering so many accounts of unlawful activity, he grew numb to their effects. He had heard it all. But now he understood the helpless devastation displayed on the victims and their families by someone who takes the role of an immoral God, passing violent, even fatal sentences. In works of fiction, the said victim always gets up and moves on, still with their loved ones, still retaining their hopes and dreams. They still get up in the morning and brush their hair, eat their breakfast. In reality, all to often, those brutalized never awake. Their voices silenced forever. Their families can never touch them again, never see them. Those left behind to remember the dead are burdened with a pain that can never be eased. Even with the eventual prosecution of the perpetrator, the dead cannot return. Everyday evil flourishes in our cities, in our streets, and good people, people who have something to offer, even
if it’s simple kindness, are taken away from us, robbed of their possibilities. A future stolen. Those people could have killed Corey. They WANTED to kill him and they tried. Though they failed, in Timothy’s eyes, they were still murderers because that was their intent. Death is not redeemable. One can never be brought back.
Carol Porter crept quietly into the room. Stopping just beside Timothy, she handed him a cup of coffee and glanced into Corey’s sunken face. “Has he woke up?” She whispered, careful not to disrupt the serenity of the room.
“No. They gave him strong medication. He should sleep through the night.” Timothy lifted the lid off of his Styrofoam container and a cloud of steam lifted from the surface.
Carol moved over to the opposite side of the bed and sat in a rocking chair beside the dark window. “I called Rachel. She was pretty scared. I told her I’d be home in the morning.”
Timothy took a small sip, then sat the cup upon a folding tray, “You don’t have to stay Carol. The doctor said he would be okay.”
“The tests came back?” Carol asked as she reached up and flipped off the overhead lamp, darkening the room significantly.
“He has a concussion,” he paused, as if hearing this for the first time, “two fractured ribs and internal bruising. Luckily, they didn’t find any bleeding. If they had kicked him one more time they probably would have broken his rib completely and it would’ve punctured his lung. They’re just keeping him for observation. He’ll go home tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to go? I mean, I don’t want to intrude, I just thought that you might not want to be alone,” she stumbled over her words, trying not to appear assuming, “I thought you may want someone to talk to.”
Timothy smiled at her, “I’d like you stay. I could use the company.”
She returned his gesture with mutual admiration. She leaned backward, holding the arms of the chair gently. She had a distant glaze over her eyes as she thought out loud, “I remember when Rachel was a baby, she was so happy, always smiling. I always thought of myself as a good mother. I knew that if my baby ever needed me I would be here for her, through thick and thin. No matter how old she gets, she’ll always be my little girl. It seems odd now, that baby that I cared for, that baby who needed me, depended on me to guide her, nurture her, love her, well, I find that I need her much more than she needs me. I learn things from Rachel. We’ve sort of reversed roles. I am proud of the woman she’s turning out to be, because it’s the woman I always wanted to be. I think I could still be...” She folded her hands in her lap and rocked softly back and forth.
Timothy glanced down at his son’s hand that rested in the palm of his own. Corey’s fingers were long and slender, his skin milky and warm. Like the hand of a porcelain doll, unmoving. Timothy’s large rugged hand, worn, flaws evident of age, seemed to devour Corey’s. That if he should hold that tiny, frail hand with any effort, it may crumble beneath the sheer weight, much like a fine glass. He looked at Corey’s body swallowed up by the enormity of the bed. He had been here before, nearly eighteen years ago. It was December Thirteenth, 1982, Corey was an hour old. Having been born six weeks to early, his first welcome to this other world came from the transparent walls and warming light of an incubator. Timothy remained by his side for seven days straight, barely eating, sleeping only when Corey would. With his wrist propped upon the rubber rim of the porthole, it was then too, that he held that miniature hand so lovingly. In the depths of his mind, Timothy spoke to his newborn son, believing that somehow his innocence would allow words unspoken to be heard and understood. That their bond, so immense, would provide a channel for his prayer, transpiring telepathically. “I will give you the world. To say I love you would be understating the meaning. You are a part of me now. I thank you for blessing me with your life. Thank you for letting me be your father. I will never let you down.”
He blinked hard, then once again. No matter how much he fought, his cries defeated his will. He bowed his head. “I promised to protect him. I promised. I should have paid more attention. I had no right to drag him here like this. If we had stayed in San Francisco this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Things like this happen everywhere, Tim. No matter where you went, no matter how far.” Carol explained, knowing it was not what he wanted to hear, but fielding the reality with unrestrained compassion.
“I will not accept that my son can only find peace in death.”
“Nobody’s asking you to. Corey’s a wonderful kid. He’s got a bright future ahead of him. He’s a leader, he can influence people, he can change their ways of thinking. All they have to do is meet him to know that there is so much more to him than that one thing.”
Timothy tasted the salt of his own tear as it crept over his lip, “I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost him.”
Carol slid to the edge of the rocker, “You didn’t lose him. He’s still here. He’s going to leave here tomorrow, he going to go home, and he’s going to let this pass. Corey is a strong young man. He will not let this take away from who he is. He knows that if he were to let that happen it would be giving those boys who did this exactly what they wanted.”
“What if it happens again? There are people out there, sick people who don’t even know him, but want to take him away. They want to take my son away from me. He trusts- he trusts to easily. He wants to find the good in people. I cannot imagine what was going through his mind when they were beating him.” His voice shook.
“Don’t do this, don’t do this to yourself. Don’t do this to Corey. You just said that you will not accept that he can only find peace in death, but you speak like he would be better off if he had died. You have to trust him, he knows the ways of the world... he may not want to, he may pretend like this is a wonderful place to be, but in doing that, he is making it a wonderful place. He was happy. He’ll need you to help him through this, to make his world a happy place to be again. Don’t force him to live in fear.” Carol smiled, “He’ll be okay.”
“I have to do something about this, Carol. I can’t bear the thought of them getting a hold of someone else, battering them like-“ He paused, wiping the forming sweat from his brow, then continued. “My son is lucky, perhaps the next child may not be so...” He caressed Corey’s arm gently, his moment of confusion and anger ebbing.
“I’ll be there to help you. I’ll fight right alongside you, Tim. We can do this together,” Carol promised as she lean back in the chair once more. She turned her head, her eyes looking up to the open window.
Timothy noticed the way the sweet embrace of moon captured her, graciously bestowing its shimmering elegance of heavenly light, outlining her graceful features in a frame of white luminance. Her hair draped over her left shoulder like a sheet of silk, glowing. He hadn’t noticed another woman in such a long time. Not since his wife. In some ways, Carol reminded him of the woman; how she chose to be where she felt was she was needed, offering all she could to subdue his stress, even if just by bringing him coffee and sitting with him. For a moment he felt guilty, comparing her endearments with those of his wife’s, but it soon dissipated when he realized that he wasn’t weighing the two women against each other, but allowing a comparable emotion. A feeling that he believed would never, could never, find him again. Timothy loved his wife, he still loved her, and he would for the rest of time, but it was in this split second of wonder that he knew he could love another. That he hadn’t let his ability to feel passion toward another woman die with her. How any man could take Carol’s selfless affection for granted was unfathomable.
He made a faltering attempt to turn away, digress his thoughts, but he liked looking at her. Almost as if she were an apparition from a dream he once had, trying to unravel before him. As if sensing his eyes upon her, Carol met them. She tilted her head to one side curiously and grinned. “Are you okay?” She asked quietly.
“Yes, I’m fine. I was just thinking.”
“What were you thinking about?”
“My wife was like you,” he answered with an ounce of hesitation.
Carol didn’t answer. She sat in content silence, aware that if he found it within himself, he would continue.
“At times when I was falling apart, she always kept her head. She could always clear the air and somehow make it a bit more bearable. She had this way about her... the way she would talk; she had this soothing voice... like you. She gave me hope. She died very suddenly... I believed that, to some extent, I had as well. There was never a last good-bye, never a final embrace or a parting glance. One day she was there, the next she was gone. I remember being at the hospital that night... It was raining outside, and although the room had no windows, I could hear it against the building. I stood beside her as she laid on the metal gurney in the morgue. My fist notion was to put something beneath her so she wouldn’t catch a chill. It was only when I touched her skin... it was so cold... that I realized that what lay before my eyes was not by wife. She was gone. It was just an empty physical shell that needed shedding. I had little comprehension as to the void I would have inside me until I sat in our bedroom, on our bed, alone. I was angry for a long time. I had no closure to speak of. And so I grew into the habit of being without her. Months would pass before I stopped listening for her rustling beneath the sheets next to me. As my expectations left me, I found only reminders, evanescent moments where I actually believed I heard her voice, but it was only the sound of a woman passing in the street. I would smell a fragrance, or see a piece of jewelry I knew she would enjoy. Small things. Things I never had noticed before all became scathing representations of the woman who was gone from me forever. And yet she haunts me.” His sentence faded with execution, into the solidarity of the room.
Carol admired his unwavering love for his departed. Any woman, to partake of that rapturous offering, would be eternally blessed, for that love provides the sanctity every human being hungers for. Real love. A tear crawled over her lash and splashed onto her hand, still warm. “Your wife,” she stopped to gather her swelling emotions, “was a very lucky woman.”
“I was the lucky one. A love like hers is rare.” Carol used her bent finger to push away the wetness beneath her eye, “It gives me comfort... to know that such a love exists. The way you love her brings me this inner peace, like a joyous celebration for the emotion I always believed in, but never found. When I met my husband, I thought it was magic, you know. We met on New Year’s Eve, we talked and we laughed. I remember him being so charming. When midnight came, we held hands and watched the fireworks. It’s like I just knew that one day I would be his wife. It was to perfect... to perfect. I loved him the only way I knew how. The way I wanted to be loved. I guess it just wasn’t enough. I tried to pretend he loved me as much, but he always made sure I never actually convinced myself. Even though I knew there were other women,” she laughed breathlessly, “I ignorantly believed they were mere playthings, that had he not loved me, he wouldn’t have married me. I kept faith, hoping and praying that one day he would see what he meant to me, and he would change. He never did. Here I am now, old and alone. I don’t feel pity for myself, I am not stupid... I’m just a believer. I refused to give up my dream, and I made a valiant effort to find it, staying with him, searching through the wreckage of our marriage. I chose not to give up. More for myself than for him. I never asked him for anything, I just wanted to be loved. I wanted to feel loved, and know that he felt the love I gave in return. Knowing how your wife loved you, how you loved her, it’s like a confirmation... now I know that all my hopes were not in vein. A love like that does exist. At least it did for someone,” She lifted her thumb and began biting at the nail.
“You felt it... you gave some of that magic, so all of your hopes were not in vein. Your confirmation came years ago when you felt that love for him. He just didn’t know what to do with it. He took it for granted. Any man who knows you like I have come to know you would never belittle that love.”
“That’s a nice thought... But at my age.” She looked to the window once again, “Most of the men I know are married. They’ve already established their lives. So had I, but now I have to start all over again.” She straightened her sleeve as if trying to lessen the true impact of her declaration.
“So, then you are giving up your dreams,” Timothy stated cautiously.
Carol stiffened, “No. I’m just leery of putting my faith into another relationship and getting disappointed. I’m tired of chance.” She said, actually sounding exhausted, as though the storms of life had taken all of her hope, and cast it on the winds.
Timothy held her in his sight, “You’re afraid of loving again.”
Carol seemed suddenly shaken by his comment.
Timothy continued, “You are. Just like me, I know! I know how it feels, Carol. I know that fear.”
Carol leaned upright disagreeing, “No. No, Tim, it’s not the same. Your wife died, she didn’t decide to stop loving you. You’re afraid that if you ever fall in love again you’ll be betraying her... I’m afraid I’ll be betraying myself. Your wife would want you to love again. She wouldn’t want to deny you that.”
Timothy grinned, “You’re right. You are absolutely correct. She would want me to be happy. I want me to be happy again. But if I can overcome her death and love someone again, so can you. You should want that for yourself.”
“I do. I’m not going to lie! But the likelihood of me finding a guy like you is slim!” Instantly Carol hushed. She shouldn’t have said that. It was a superfluous statement that would only complicate their budding friendship.
Timothy sunk deeper into his chair, “Why would it have to be a guy like me? Why... can’t I be the one?” He swallowed hard, an awkward discomfort writhed under his skin. He hadn’t been in this position in years. He was definitely out of practice. Had he sounded infantile? Presumptuous? The shy side of him, long dormant, had once again surfaced. An obstacle that hindered his ability to keep her in his sight. “I’m sorry. That was wrong. I had no right to violate your space like that. I don’t want you to think I have any ulterior motives, I’m just grateful that you’re with me tonight. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Carol couldn’t remember the last time a man had shown an interest in her. It struck her as a bit unfamiliar, that feeling. She had stopped regarding herself as desirable years ago so this came as quite a shock. She had always thought Timothy to be a highly attractive man. Respectable and studious. His sensitivity and sincerity was seen through the love he expressed for his son, his deceased wife. Carol had always wanted that. “Say it again.”
He watched her from over the bedside, “I don’t know if I meant to say it out loud, but I meant it.”
“Then why did you apologize.”
“I was afraid it was an unwelcome comment. I didn’t want you to interpret it as a matter of disrespect. I’m usually not that forward. I think it’s just been a long night and I’m being very careless with my words. I didn’t-“
“-I want you to be the one.”
fourteen
The Death of Innocence
Sadie Stories Page 12