His phone pinged, and he hoped it would be John, just a single word from John. Of course it was Simon because Isaac was in the waterfall, hurtling toward jagged rock. He landed with a bloody splat when he read John starting late today? and opened the attachment: a photo of John’s house.
SIMON’S CAR WAS parked outside, South Carolina plates, and Isaac heard the scuffle as soon as he walked in, although it was quiet—just fabric against fabric—until John said, “Stop,” and Isaac barreled into the kitchen. Simon had John trapped against the counter, hand buried in his hair and tugging. John’s chin pointed to the ceiling, fists pushing into Simon’s chest. John had never looked so damn small, and Isaac had never felt so angry.
He took a step closer but stopped when Simon pulled roughly on John’s hair. “Not another step, Isaac.”
“Simon, just let him go.”
John stayed perfectly still except for the rapid rising and falling of his chest, fingers clenched in the front of Simon’s shirt.
“I suppose I can see the appeal.” He studied John’s face. “Someone so delicate, easy to push around. Easy to get a real good grip on his hair.”
“Fuck off,” John whispered and shoved but might as well have been fighting a wall.
Simon only leaned closer until John was basically crushed against the sink, head tilted at an unnatural angle. “Nice lips. Wonder if they taste sweet.” He ducked down as if to give John a kiss, which was when Isaac moved—but apparently John had had quite enough, as well.
Despite being glued together from chest to knee, he managed to scrape a Converse-clad foot down the front of Simon’s shin. Simon yelled and fell back, which gave John enough space to punch him in the throat. It wasn’t a perfect punch, but it had enough force to make Simon choke and bend forward at the waist. John hid behind Isaac, and Isaac was only so happy to play shield as Simon wheezed.
“Well.” Simon laughed with no humor, a cold impression of joy. “Not so easy to push around then. Nice punch, John. Maybe I’ll press charges, just for fun.”
“You’re in my fucking house.” His voice shook, so Isaac reached back and grabbed his hand.
“I’m just kidding. I’d be in more trouble than you.” Simon rubbed the front of his neck. “We did have a nice chat, though. I told him about the baby, Isaac. Thought he might want to know.”
“Get out of my house,” John said. “If you ever come back, I’ll fucking murder you.”
“I might let you.” Simon itched his upper lip. His eyes went fuzzy as though his body remained but his mind left the room, revisiting happier times filled with Isaac’s now busted promises. He blinked back to reality. “Isaac, I took the liberty of making us dinner reservations for tonight. I’ll text you the details.” When he circled the island to leave, John noticeably stepped to the opposite side of Isaac. Before leaving, Simon said, “John Conlon. Jesus, I wish it was easier to hate you.”
As soon as the front door shut, Isaac reached for John’s face. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I mean, maybe?”
John had already been dressed for work when Simon arrived, so his light-blue chambray shirt was crooked and untucked under his corduroy blazer. Isaac tugged at both, lining things up, as though in fixing the fabric he could fix the situation.
“I didn’t know you knew self-defense,” Isaac said.
“I’m a loud-mouthed gay guy who looks like a girl. I’ve been getting in fights my whole life.”
He ran his thumbs across John’s cheeks and kissed his forehead again and again. “Why did you let him into your house? What were you thinking?” He tugged John closer and hugged him and kissed him.
“I thought we could talk. Isaac—hey, stop. You’re hurting me.”
“I…”
“Shh, calm down. Calm down.”
He buried his head against John’s shoulder and clung.
“Come here.” John guided Isaac to his bedroom and lay him down the center of the bed. He curled up at Isaac’s side and rested his head on his chest. Together, they breathed, slow and deep. After a long bit of silence that involved nothing but gentle caresses, John said, “The abortion wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it was,” Isaac said.
“It was Elizabeth’s decision, not yours.”
“She made the decision after I told her I was gay and leaving her for a man. If that’s not a catalyst, I don’t know what is.”
John leaned up on his elbow. “You didn’t know she was pregnant.”
“It doesn’t matter. That child isn’t here because of me.”
“Isaac, what kind of world would you have brought it into?” John asked. “One of lies and infidelity where kids shoot each other?”
He pulled John’s face down and kissed both his cheeks. Isaac wanted to bathe in the familiar scent. “Are you saying the world should stop having children?”
“I couldn’t do it.”
“You’d be an amazing father.”
“No. Don’t say that.” He sat up, cross-legged, and stared down at his feet. “I can’t imagine you loving him.”
Isaac scooted up so his back rested against the headboard. “He wasn’t like this. I made him like this.”
“So what was he like?”
Did Isaac even remember? His time in Charleston, his time before John, seemed like an alternate reality lived by someone else. The memories were movie clips that scrolled through his brain, pictures of a time that belonged to a stranger. He had been the stranger, his whole life, until he had met this deceptively strong creative writing teacher who taught him how easy it could be to love and laugh. But he had loved Simon, too, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he? “Simon was handsome and confident and smart. So very Charleston—the accent and the style. He charmed me right away. For a long time, we would only see each other in the afternoon. Meet in hotels, that sort of thing. Then, when Elizabeth would go on archaeological digs, I would stay at Simon’s place. He would bring me breakfast in bed, these grits covered in butter.”
John patted Isaac’s tummy. “So you like men who cook.”
“Obviously. But more than that, Simon showed me something. He was openly gay. Everyone knew, and no one cared. I’d never been in a relationship with someone like that before. Hell, I’d never even known someone like that, not with my upbringing.”
“He showed you what was possible,” John said.
“Yes, but I also always knew he had a temper. Our fights used to be brutal, especially about Elizabeth. He hated that I didn’t love her anymore, but I stayed with her anyway. And the sex was…” He pressed fingers to his temple. “Looking back, I don’t know if we were ever making love, John. I think we were just fucking.”
John averted his gaze and plucked at the comforter. “Sometimes, you just need to fuck.”
“Do I ever make love to you?”
John blushed. “Yeah.”
“You can tell the difference?”
“Yes.” He climbed onto Isaac’s lap. “What’s going to happen at dinner tonight?”
“I think I’m going to quit my job.” He buried his face against John’s chest.
“No.” He tried pushing Isaac away but failed. “God, don’t. I’m not worth it.”
“Yes, you are,” Isaac said against the soft fabric of his shirt.
“No, I—”
Isaac put his hand over John’s mouth. “Stop it. I love you. Stop it.”
John hid his face against the side of Isaac’s neck. His stillness did not belie the fact that he cried.
STEPHEN’S WAS A block off Union. Isaac had never heard of the place because he and John never went on dates. They always ate at home, away from prying eyes. A bright, modern interior battled with the old-world scents of tomato and basil. Simon waited in a booth wearing a familiar navy-blue suit coat and shirt that had never looked so shabby.
A bottle of wine arrived as soon as Isaac sat. The waitress poured and smiled and talked about dinner specials when all Isaac could think about was running back to John, who he�
��d walked to campus in the rain earlier that day.
“Two plates of the pesto with chicken, please,” Simon said.
Sure, fine. Isaac didn’t want to eat but might as well get right to it.
Simon took a long sip of Cabernet.
“I’m quitting my job,” Isaac said.
Simon nodded as if he’d expected as much. He might have been mad, but he wasn’t stupid. “I understand what you see in him. He’s strong. Much stronger than me.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
“Is he okay?” Simon poked at the breadbasket.
“You scared him.”
His jaw clenched and relaxed. “I really did just go over there to talk, maybe make him see what a horrible person you are. Instead, I was horrible. I really wanted to hurt him.”
Thank God Isaac had arrived when he did. “If I quit my job, will you leave us alone?”
“You love him,” Simon said. “I saw it that first day in the classroom—the way you ran to him when he was scared. I’ve never seen you like that, not even with me. We were never like that.”
Isaac looked down and straightened his silverware. “Maybe I never thought you needed protecting.”
“We all need protecting.” Simon finished his wine and poured some more. “I think I was crazy to believe we’d work out. We’d been each other’s dirty secret for so long, and the thing about secrets is they lose their power once they’re told.”
Isaac blinked away the burning in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Simon.”
Simon wouldn’t look at him so instead observed the restaurant bar. “You seem happier here. More alive—which is messed up, considering this whole town is wearing a shadow. It’s like you can feel it, feel something bad happened.”
“Southern superstition rears its head.”
“No. It’s haunted here, and your sweetheart, I think he bears the brunt of it. You’re going to lose him to that eventually, you know.”
“To what?”
“The dark place.” Simon put his napkin on his lap. “I always just wanted you to be happy, Isaac. I don’t think that Yankee boy will make you happy forever, but I’m done with you. I’ve hurt enough, don’t you think?”
Isaac folded his hands, a prayerful petition. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve said that. Maybe someday I’ll believe you.” He grabbed a piece of bread and nibbled the edge. “Will you tell John I didn’t mean any harm?”
“I doubt he’ll want to hear it.”
Simon buttered the bread, methodically covering every edge, but didn’t eat. “One thing I’ve learned through all this, Isaac? About love.” He leaned his elbows on the table and looked like he might fall asleep or break down in tears. “The reality of love, it’s not wonderful. It’s living in fear every day of someone finding out what you really are.”
Isaac left before the food arrived.
It took much longer than usual for Isaac to reach the crest of the hill where John’s house waited, porch light lit. An unexpected weight clung to his back. Isaac opened the door without knocking and saw an obscure shape huddled against the foyer wall. The shape altered and moved until John emerged. Sitting a moment ago, he now stood, abandoning his whiskey glass on the tile floor.
Isaac turned on the light. Something about John in shadow—in that moment—actually frightened him.
“It’s over,” Isaac said.
The stricken look on John’s face made Isaac rapidly reconsider his words.
“I mean, Simon’s leaving. He’s going. He knows I love you, and he’s going. Our jobs are safe. You’re safe.”
“Are you sure?”
“He lost,” Isaac said. “He doesn’t like losing, but he knows how to gracefully accept defeat.”
John hugged himself. “It wasn’t a contest.”
“No. I didn’t mean that. He won’t bother us again, though, I promise.” He extended his hand. “Come here?”
John took quiet, shuffling steps forward until he could rest his cheek against Isaac’s chest. He swallowed John’s small frame in an aggressive embrace.
“Everything’s all right now,” he whispered into John’s hair.
A puff of laughter displaced the quiet. “All right?” John’s hands clung to the back of Isaac’s coat like claws. He wondered if the fabric might tear.
Chapter Twelve
EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, Isaac rolled over in John’s bed to find himself alone. The empty space at his side wasn’t warm, even though Isaac’s glowing cell phone read only 5:30 a.m. He sat up and listened, house quiet. From somewhere far away, he thought he heard the clunk of a coffee mug. He wrapped himself in an afghan and lumbered into the hall.
He smelled coffee immediately. A light was indeed on in the kitchen, but the unmistakable scent of sweet smoke floated from the direction of the front foyer. Hazily illuminated by dim office light, Isaac followed the cloud. As soon as he stepped inside, next to the bookcase, he shivered.
“John, it’s freezing in here.”
John’s head popped up at the sound of Isaac’s voice, curls bouncing. Isaac swept past and closed the open window, but it did not escape his notice that John slammed his laptop shut. Coffee and a half-smoked clove languished near his elbow.
“What are you doing?” Isaac asked.
“Uh…” John’s entire face wrinkled up as he tried to hide a smile. “Watching porn?”
“You don’t watch porn.”
He leaned his elbows on the desk, folded his hands, and hid his mouth behind his fists.
“John?”
“Look, I didn’t want to tell you yet, because it’s early days.” He leaned back in the expensive, aged leather chair Isaac knew was more comfortable than any furniture at Hambden. It had been John’s since his time as a graduate student.
“Hey, Conlon. I don’t play mind games before seven a.m.”
John smiled up at him.
“Wait,” Isaac said. “Are you writing again?”
“I…might be?”
Isaac tingled from his fingers to his toes. “Oh, my God!”
John spun the chair and stood. “No freaking out. I do not want you freaking out right now. It’s only a couple chapters, and I don’t know if it’s any good.”
“It’ll be brilliant. You know it’ll be brilliant.” Isaac grabbed John’s face and gave him a smooch. He’d already finished reading everything of John’s—everything—every novel, short story, and academic treatise. Isaac had consumed every word, and with every word, he’d fallen more in love.
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“No.” Isaac shook his head. “Okay.”
“I don’t want people to know yet.” He turned away and paced to the window and back. “I don’t know, it feels like too much pressure if people know I’m writing again. They’ll want to know what it’s about, and—”
Isaac’s eyes widened.
“No. I don’t talk about projects until they’re done. I need my safe little creative vacuum.”
“Yes. Sure.”
John stared up at him and eventually laughed. “You look ridiculous.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just really excited. Can I ask what brought this on? I know you haven’t written since June. Is it the literary magazine, reading submissions?”
He shrugged, and they leaned against the desk, hip to hip. “Maybe.” He cleared his throat. “Or maybe because I cut back on my meds recently.”
“Oh. Your therapist’s idea?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Isaac didn’t want to say it, but he thought that might be bad. Isaac wasn’t sure of the specific diagnosis, but John seemed to be doing well on the meds. He needed them, especially during panic attacks, so cutting back…
John nudged Isaac’s arm. “Stop worrying. I just played with my dosage a little. Monday actually.” He didn’t say it but the day Simon showed up throwing fists. Isaac’s face still wasn’t completely healed.
Simon had left Lothos Thursday morning with nothing m
ore than a final farewell text that Isaac had received while wrapped around a still-sleeping John. He was gone for good.
A big group had gone to dinner Thursday night to remember Demi’s birthday, and although Janelle had gotten a bit drunk, she hadn’t screamed at anyone. She and Anthony were back to playfully picking at each other.
Tommy and Isaac still weren’t talking. Any camaraderie they’d once shared would have to be rebuilt. Isaac didn’t blame him. How could he forgive someone who’d almost broken his best friend’s heart? However, according to John, he’d argued a strong case in Isaac’s defense—ironic since Simon was the lawyer. John had said something, had said enough, to keep Tommy from outright hating Isaac. It was a start at least.
“The drugs are good,” John continued. “They help. I mean, I haven’t had a nightmare in months. But I used to tell myself stories all the time. I’d be walking around campus, running dialogue or outlining scenes. It was how I’d put myself to sleep, too, the stories.”
“Boring stories.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s just how my brain relaxes—by imagining things. I could erase the concerns of the day by disappearing into characters that weren’t me, conflicts that weren’t mine. Then, after the shooting, I could only see that day in June, over and over. The curse of a vivid imagination.” He reached for the clove cigarette that had burned out and used a match to relight it. He took a long inhale and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Hence, the drugs.”
“What are the drugs for exactly? PTSD?”
“Mm-hmm.” He tapped the clove on the ashtray. “For a while there, I couldn’t leave the house. Like, at all. You know I still have episodes. I’m not good with loud noises or big crowds. Sometimes, I swear I hear Chris’s voice on College Green. It’s fucked up.”
Isaac rested a hand over his. “I can’t imagine how hard it was for you to come back here.”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t hide forever.”
“Thank God.” He gave John’s hand a squeeze. “I want to know about this stuff. Your mental health. Is that okay? You’ll let me know if you’re having a bad day?”
John nodded and stubbed out his smoke.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were writing again.”
We Still Live Page 13