by E M Lindsey
Wilder wasn’t sure anyone had ever done that for him before. He had vague memories of his childhood, of his dad holding him at night and sitting him on his knee as he signed storybooks. But as he got older, and his mother’s resentment simmered hotter and richer, his father backed off. Wilder knew his dad loved him, but he had never loved him enough to risk that anger turning around on him.
He’d suffered alone, for years. When he got out of the hospital, his mother had given him a look of disdain, had called him weak for staying with Scott as long as he had. He recovered in his childhood bedroom with drawn curtains and perfunctory health checks. No one had hugged him when he felt too close to shattered. No one had called him brave for leaving. He’d pieced himself back together entirely by himself and held the weight of it all in his own hands. He was proud of having made it this far, but he felt a rush of terror now because Lorenzo’s affection was going to get addicting.
He took a breath, then turned the screen on and saw two messages from his sister. He knew what they were, and for a brief, wild moment, he thought maybe if he didn’t bother to open them, they wouldn’t be real. He wouldn’t have to deal with it.
But he was no fool. Not really.
Willow: Things bad. Mom want to know if you have ticket already.
Willow: Dad gone. Heart stop at one, and not bring back back. Come home.
Wilder let the phone clatter to the floor, and he rolled onto his back as Lorenzo startled beside him. He felt his lover shift, press against him, the vibration of a sleepy grunt rippling up the side of his arm where Lorenzo had pressed his chest. He knew he should turn on the light, maybe put in his hearing aids, maybe explain why it was suddenly impossible to breathe, but it felt like his limbs were filled with lead.
He didn’t realize he was shaking or gasping for air until Lorenzo was pushing up on his elbow and reaching for the light. His hand touched Wilder’s cheek, and he barely felt it, but he was able to fix his gaze on his lover’s eyes, and suddenly, the room stopped spinning. It wasn’t vertigo, but it was close. He was off kilter, and the only thing that kept him from tumbling off the side of the world was the press of Lorenzo’s warm fingers.
‘Talk to me.’
Wilder swallowed—he could do that much, at least. His tongue was thick and heavy, and he wasn’t sure he could make his words come out clear. “I.” It was the best he had right then.
Understanding flashed in Lorenzo’s eyes and he dropped his head, pushing their noses together in a careful nuzzle. He felt a puff of air, the zinging vibration of words he couldn’t hear. Lips brushed his own, and then Lorenzo pulled back to sign what he’d said. ‘When?’
“This morning,” Wilder said, and he was startled that he’d found his voice so quickly. He wanted to wrap both arms around Lorenzo and bury his face in his broad chest and lose himself there. If he was there, reality outside that embrace didn’t exist, and he wouldn’t have to deal with any of it. “One AM, I guess. My sister texted me. I have to go.”
He wasn’t sure if Lorenzo tried to speak, but he didn’t think so. He didn’t feel the motion of words, just easy kisses dropping to his hair, his temple, across his forehead. Lorenzo’s fingers drew soft lines up and down the sides of him, and the bed beneath them kept him from sinking beneath the earth.
“I don’t want to go. I don’t want to do this. God, I don’t want to see her.” He felt the sob lodge in his chest, but it wouldn’t break free, and he gave a frustrated growl because he wanted to just fucking cry. Maybe it would make the knot in his gut unclench. Maybe it would stop that itchy sort of ache just under his skin that hadn’t gone away since he read Willow’s text.
Lorenzo pushed up on his arms, but his stomach still weighted Wilder’s hip down to the bed. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
Yes, he did. More than anything. He felt like he might lose himself and never find his way back again if he had to walk into that house and face his mother with his father gone. His father hadn’t done much, but he’d done enough—like a cheesecloth thin buffer between Wilder and her poison, and now there was nothing. Her grief and anger would make her worse than poison, and his father’s small protection had slipped beyond the veil with him. Wilder had no idea what to expect.
“I need to do this alone,” he said.
He wasn’t surprised at his words, but they filled him with an old self-loathing, because he too often refused help when he needed it. He was his own worst enemy on the best of days, even when he didn’t have to be. But, as much as he wanted to cling to Lorenzo like a crutch, he knew he couldn’t do that. Just like he couldn’t allow himself to rely on Lorenzo’s soft touches or easy words. His own two feet, his own strength, had to keep him upright, because he might not have Lorenzo one day, and he needed to know he could trust himself.
‘Ok.’ The two letters flicked through Lorenzo’s fingers with steady acceptance, and Wilder winced inwardly. He wanted Lorenzo to fight him—to fight for him—but he’d never ask for it. ‘How long will you be gone?’
“I don’t know.” And he didn’t. He had roots here. He wasn’t going to pull them from the ground and set them ablaze because of family tragedy, but he also knew that once his mother got her claws back in, it would be hard to break free. “I need to get ahold of Dmitri. I need to get a flight, I need to…”
His words stopped when Lorenzo touched his cheek. ‘Let me call Dmitri. You go online and book your ticket. I’ll drive you to the airport.’
Wilder blinked, watching Lorenzo’s hands, letting it all sink in. He wanted to turn away—or maybe he wanted Lorenzo to beg him to stay, but he wasn’t a child. He had to face this. Pushing up, he eased himself away from his lover and moved to the bathroom. The door shut with a firm click, and he was profoundly aware right then he wasn’t home. He missed his space—and he was glad to be here with Lorenzo, but in that moment, he wanted to be in his room, with his things.
He’d have to go and pack anyway, and he needed to get things prepped before he did, and he had to get Dmitri ready to handle the business by himself, and if he was gone for too long, things would fall apart, and…
He was on his knees, and it must have made a loud enough sound because Lorenzo was instantly behind him, pulling him away from the sink to hold him. It had been a while since he’d had a full panic attack, but he felt the familiar tug—the room closing in on him, the feeling like he was about to die, the fear that it would never stop, and he’d be stuck in this terrible loop for the rest of his life.
He counted. He breathed. He tapped his fingers in a soft rhythm against the side of his thigh and let that be the only thing he felt until his chest began to loosen. Lorenzo was still holding him, but his arms were loose and ready to pull back when Wilder needed him to.
“I have to go home. To my apartment,” Wilder said.
Lorenzo nodded against his back and let go. They moved from the bedroom, and Wilder dressed before he changed his hearing aid batteries, then slipped them in and turned them on. He pressed his palm to the wall as he adjusted to the sudden rush of sound, to the pressure in his ear, and the inevitable surge of vertigo. It didn’t last, and he regained his balance enough that he could bend over for his phone without falling on his face.
Lorenzo was waiting for him, sleepy-eyed and dressed in sweats. His hair was a mess, and he had a cardigan on that looked softer than anything Wilder had ever touched. He wanted to bury himself in it, but he couldn’t bring himself to take another moment of physical comfort from this man. If he was going to be gone for an indeterminate amount of time, he had no business making Lorenzo any sort of promise, spoken or otherwise.
He appreciated that Lorenzo didn’t try and talk on the drive over. He appreciated that the sound of soft classical music accompanied them back to Indulgence, and that Lorenzo didn’t turn the car off or get out when he pulled up to the curb.
“So…”
Wilder shook his head. “I don’t know how long this is going to take.”
“I know.�
� Lorenzo offered him a small, sad grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “I get it.”
“I’m not—” Wilder said, then cut himself off with a growl. “I don’t want to go.”
“I know,” Lorenzo repeated, his smile getting a little bit softer. “What do you want?”
Wilder blinked, then he laughed in spite of himself. “For none of this to be happening. To take you with me. To tell you I’m falling in love with you without the weight of my dad’s death hanging over it.” He stopped, because while it was true, he’d been trying to save that moment for somewhere important—somewhere good. Somewhere untainted by the pain of his past. The damage was done though, and he could see it in Lorenzo’s face. “I want to be an easier person to love.”
Lorenzo gripped the wheel, then he let go and opened the door, walking around the side of the car. Wilder was barely on his feet when Lorenzo reached for him, and he went pliant as one hand dug into his side and the other into his hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Wilder shook his head. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. And you have a home to get back to, and…”
“I do have to go back there,” Lorenzo said. “I have shit to take care of, but I found what I’m looking for.”
“Please don’t say me,” Wilder begged, his throat thick with emotion. “I can’t handle that weight, Lorenzo. I’m…I want to be enough, but I’m not.”
“You are enough, but that’s not what I meant.” Lorenzo’s grin was a little tight, but it was also as honest as his words sounded. “You’re what I want. You were most certainly not what I was looking for, but you’re not hard to love, okay? You’re an effort, and I’m not scared of hard work.”
Wilder started to shake his head, but Lorenzo’s grip tightened just a fraction—just enough to remind him that he was being held. “I can’t make you promises.”
“I don’t need them. My life has been full of bullshit and fake promises, and I’m not looking to corner you into a vow you’re not ready to make. I don’t know if this—if you and I—are end game, but I know this moment right here is a good start.” Lorenzo closed his eyes and breathed out. “I think I’d like to stick around for a while. I have to go home and end all those things that were making me miserable, but I know that you’ll be back here when you can. And I’ll be waiting.”
Wilder was desperate to believe him and desperate not to, because he wasn’t sure he could take a broken promise. Not one like that. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say you’ll text me,” Lorenzo told him, simple as that. His hand moved to Wilder’s cheek, thumb caressing his warm skin, then moved down to trace his lips. “Then tell me you’ll miss me, and that you’re looking forward to seeing me when you get back. And then kiss me.”
Wilder gave in and curled his hands into the front of Lorenzo’s sweater, letting the soft fleece brush along the pads of his fingers. His eyes closed for only a second, then he nodded. “I’m going to miss you so fucking much.”
Lorenzo smiled. “I know.”
“I can’t wait to see you when I get back.”
With a breath, Lorenzo eased Wilder’s head back, urged his lips to part with a thumb at his chin, and Wilder leaned in to him. Just like Lorenzo had asked. It was sour from sleep, and warm, and perfect. Wilder softened, just a fraction, half-melting into the arms that held him steady. Lorenzo indulged, but only for a moment, and then he broke off with a series of easy pecks across his bottom lip and the edge of his jaw.
“I’ll text you,” Wilder said, fulfilling that last bit of promise Lorenzo had squeezed from him.
Lorenzo smiled a moment, and then he let him go and walked back around to the driver’s side of the car. He didn’t wait for Wilder to get to the bakery door. He didn’t even wait for Wilder to start moving again before he pulled away from the curb and disappeared around the corner.
There had been no goodbye. None at all, and Wilder realized what it was. Lorenzo wasn’t letting him go, even with their vague, uncertain future. He really did think Wilder was worth the effort, and that wasn’t a gift he planned to squander.
Wilder hadn’t been gone more than a few years, but it felt like a lifetime as his rental car pulled onto the long, winding dirt road that led to the property. He saw it in the distance, along the rolling fields that gave away miles of terrain. He was missing the mountains like a physical ache, the sky too blue here, the horizon too damn empty. This wasn’t home anymore, and he had never been more profoundly aware of it.
The flight had been short, the landing rocky from summer wind, and the heat and humidity threatened to choke him until he passed out before he was able to get the AC cranked high enough. Once upon a time, this had been in his blood. He hardly noticed the way walking through the summer air felt more like swimming, like his lungs were filled with humidity as he ran with the chickens and used every excuse he could think of to avoid going inside.
To avoid her.
His car rolled to a stop beside his sister’s little station wagon, and he took a breath before he found the courage to go in. His father’s body had already been cremated, and Willow said they were just waiting for the funeral home to secure the date of the services.
They had never been particularly religious, though his mother had grown up protestant, and his father had come from an old Spanish Catholic family—but the practices had died out a few generations before Wilder and Willow were born. In truth, his dad would have wanted something small, something spiritual. He would have wanted it outside in rain and cool weather. His father should have died during a late autumn storm and his ashes released into a creek.
Instead, they’d tell childhood stories inside a stuffy mortuary chapel, and everyone would pretend to laugh and pretend like they cared. They’d eat stale potluck food, and then his father would sit entombed in a small ceramic jar on his mother’s mantle until she died and Willow decided what the hell she was going to do with everything left behind.
He wasn’t going to be there when his mother died. She had drained the life out of him for years, and it was only because Wilder felt like he owed his father bare bones of mourning that he’d left Cherry Creek behind and showed up for this.
His palms were so sweaty he nearly lost grip in his suitcase, but he made it inside. It smelled the same as it always did—like baked bread and dust from the fields. The AC was blasting, just enough to take the edge of humidity out of the air, and the floors creaked and bowed beneath his feet.
The evidence of his mother’s hatred of him was all over the walls. Each framed photograph showed not only the smiling face of his sister, but his own stark absence from family gatherings and childhood accomplishments. Every single one of Willow’s mediocre accomplishments were displayed like grand trophies. She had graduated college after two extra semesters because she was too busy partying to pass her freshman year. She lost her financial aid, and it was only when her mother wrote a tuition check that her education hadn’t gone down the toilet.
She worked for a credit card company’s online support now, and made enough to fund her small apartment and her weekend drinking, not that Wilder was judging. Willow was a grown adult and lived as she saw fit, and he was happy for her. But it was a tough pill to swallow when everything he’d ever done was a failure. Every accomplishment of his own had been weighted with his hearing.
‘If you were Deaf, you’d have to work twice as hard for that,’ his mother had told him when he won third prize at the state science fair. His father showed up to the award ceremony and took a single picture, but Wilder wasn’t sure it was ever developed.
He graduated with honors, but his mother left before his name was called for him to walk across the stage. He’d signed for every choir performance she never showed up to, and he’d interpreted every parent-teacher conference she made time for only for her to spend the next three hours telling him his education by hearing teachers was a waste.
He was grateful for the Deaf Community outside his home for embracing him—the li
ttle lost CODA who didn’t know what his life was meant to be or where he was supposed to stand. He was grateful to them because they were diverse, they made him feel welcome and wanted, and they showed him that his mother was just broken inside somewhere in the empty space her heart was meant to be.
It wasn’t him—it was her.
It wasn’t him—it was her.
It was a mantra he’d been telling himself since he’d been brave enough to inwardly whisper the word abusive parent, even if he’d never been able to say it aloud. He was Deaf, and he belonged to that identity, but not because of her.
Never because of her.
He passed by a photo of his aunts—his mother’s sisters who had visited twice a year and always brought him and Willow the most wonderful, random little puzzles they found when they traveled. He passed by images his grandparents who had died within four months of each other when he was sixteen. They had loved him until he couldn’t breathe, but his mother had chosen to settle in a place a thousand miles away from the people who might have loved Wilder the way he deserved.
This place was not home. It was just a stark reminder of when he existed on an island, entirely separate and alone. He wanted to go back to his life—desperately. It was hard to believe he’d woken up that morning wrapped in Lorenzo’s arms, and now he was here, in the house that had never brought him a moment’s peace.
With a fortifying breath, Wilder made his way down the hall to his room, dropping his things off on his bed, which hadn’t changed since the last time he’d been there. His mother had cleared it of all his childhood things and set up the room as a guest bedroom. The bed had a floral duvet, the curtains light blue, the walls a soft coffee. There was a brown dresser and a matching rug, and the closet held some of his father’s old coats.