We Still Live

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  John gave him a quick hug, which was a definite no-no. They didn’t touch much in public. Isaac took a hurried step back, almost pulling John with him, but no one seemed to notice.

  “Good day?” John smiled.

  “Sure. You?”

  He shrugged and did a little dance step closer to the stage, closer to Cleo.

  “What do you want to drink, Isaac?” Tommy nodded to the bar and kept nodding—a silent prompt to come closer.

  “I’m good, thanks.” Isaac whispered, “How does he seem to you?”

  “Honestly? Great. What did you say to him this morning?”

  Isaac tried to think of one thing in particular, but his day was muddled with memories of lectures and poorly written papers. “I guess I said a lot of things.”

  Tommy shook his head and downed a shot of something gold. “Well, keep saying them. Or keep having the sex. Whatever. He hasn’t been like this since before, you know, murder.”

  Isaac knew his face was wrinkling and didn’t care. “Are you sure?”

  “Seriously. He seems lighter. And, well, drunk, but we always used to get drunk together before he went away for the summer. He’s been a lot more subdued socially since June. This is…” Tommy grinned so big, the room lit up. “He’s back, man.” He clasped Isaac on the shoulder just as John came sprinting toward them.

  “Cleo wants a shot of honey whiskey for her throat!” Although he’d barely lifted his voice above the crowd noise, the bartender rushed over and poured a shot without question. John, the dutiful assistant, took it back to the stage but didn’t abandon his post without bowing to the blushing songstress twice.

  “He said he talked to Ben earlier,” Tommy said. “So maybe that’s helping too.”

  “They’re close? He hasn’t mentioned him much.”

  “They were really close when they were younger, but they still keep in touch. I mean, Ben was, you know.” He glanced up at Isaac and immediately took a sip of his drink. “Or maybe you don’t know. Ben’s the only guy John ever loved. Dropped the L-word. Hasn’t happened since.”

  Isaac felt the room tilt as he realized how desperate he was to hear that very word from John. He struggled for some sense of levity. After all, he was in a great bar listening to great music standing next to a great friend while watching, possibly, the greatest thing that had ever happened to him—and all Isaac could feel was an ache in his chest.

  “Maybe I’ll have one drink.”

  “My man.” Tommy smacked him on the back. At least things were back to normal between them, despite the Simon disaster.

  Isaac ordered a whiskey-scotch blend with a couple ice cubes and almost choked on a sip when John skidded to his side. “Hey, Cleo’s asking for requests. You want to hear anything?”

  “We don’t have a song, do we?”

  John pressed his lips together until they wrinkled. “Damn. Guess not.”

  “You seem to be feeling better.”

  “That’s because I heard you this morning.” He jumped when a full beer slid right at him from down the bar. A little liquid sloshed over the top as he glared at a smiling, toasting Tommy. “You told me I couldn’t let every shooting affect me. They’re happening constantly. It’s the new fucking normal.”

  “John—”

  “No. Listen. I’m alive. I need to start acting like it.”

  He allowed himself a single touch—a poke to John’s forearm. “You’ve always felt very alive to me.”

  “Well, hold on to your hat, cowboy.”

  “John!” Cleo’s voice, loud on a good day, echoed through the microphone. “Song request?”

  “Uh…” He looked at Isaac and looked some more. “How about ‘Smile,’ by Charlie Chaplin?”

  Cleo winked before conversing with the band.

  When the music started soft and slow, John leaned close and hummed along—until Tommy handed him a shot and dragged him to the crowded dance floor to chat up some young ladies who had to be grad students. Although Tommy wasn’t the best-looking guy, he made them laugh almost immediately while John smiled and existed. The women listened to Tommy, but their eyes kept going to John. Maybe they knew him as the “Hambden hero” or maybe they were wondering how a Botticelli angel escaped a fresco.

  Isaac wouldn’t have stayed so late, but he worried about John and his ambitious alcohol consumption—so he stayed until the final set ended and Cleo bowed to a clapping crowd. Canned jazz music replaced the live band, and John took one turn around the floor with Cleo before seeking Isaac.

  “I’m going home,” he said.

  “I’ll walk you.”

  John yawned and started walking as if this was the expected outcome. His eyelids floated at half-mast, and he wore a constant close-lipped smile. Once outside, they simultaneously shoved hands in pockets.

  Isaac shivered. “I need to buy you gloves.”

  John walked quickly up the sidewalk—as quick as he could, veering slightly left and right with every step. “I have so many gloves. I need to buy you gloves.”

  “Don’t have a pair to loan me?”

  John giggled and almost fell off a curb. “My gloves would fit your, like, pinky.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Away from the gentle glow of downtown Lothos, they walked closer, arms brushing with every step. A block up the hill, Isaac slung his arm around John’s shoulder and kissed the side of his head. John hummed his pleasure. Two blocks up and close to John’s house, Isaac offered his back. John jumped on without question, arms around Isaac’s neck as he rode him up the driveway.

  Isaac didn’t even pause in the foyer. He carried John to the bedroom and tossed him lightly on the unmade mess of blankets and pillows. He huffed when his back hit the bed and immediately rolled onto his stomach, burying his head in a pillow.

  “The room…is spinning,” John said.

  “How bad?”

  “Umm…”

  When he didn’t respond, Isaac realized he’d passed out. He leaned forward to check. Yes, eyes shut, lips parted, breathing in gentle puffs. Isaac hurried to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. There it was, the Prazosin. He grabbed a pill and glass of water before doing a light jog to John’s bedroom.

  He rested his hand on John’s shoulder and shook.

  “Mm?”

  “You need to take your pill,” Isaac said.

  John’s right eye cracked open before he leaned up on one elbow and took the proffered goods. Pill swallowed, his head crashed back to the pillow. “If you want to hump some part of my body, you can. Just don’t wake me up.”

  “It’d be like having sex with a corpse.”

  “A warm corpse, though.”

  Isaac twirled a piece of John’s hair between his fingers. “I’ll pass.”

  “Mm…” And he was out again.

  Isaac watched him for a while—this unexpected, delicate creature he was allowed to touch. He remembered saying it once; he hadn’t thought John would be a problem for him. Historically, he’d wanted manly men—men his own size and strength. Perhaps, he’d been trying to get as far away from Elizabeth as possible in that respect. And then along came John Conlon.

  Isaac could fit both his wrists in one hand. He bruised too easily. Kissing his mouth was like kissing an exotic, rare fruit, and he rarely needed to shave. A Disney princess would scalp him for his hair, yet there was the surprisingly deep voice, the huge feet, and those thick eyebrows that screamed man. There was the way they sometimes wrestled during sex like two teenage boys, laughing until the laughter was replaced by pleas and groans.

  Isaac liked being able to cover John’s entire body with his. He liked throwing John around. He liked how John felt fragile, a thing to be cherished and protected—but what an illusion. John wasn’t fragile at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  JOHN CALLED IT “Loser Thanksgiving.” In other words, it was John’s Thanksgiving celebration for those unfortunates either without family nearby or, conversely, with family they didn’
t like. From Isaac’s point of view, though, no one was losing anything at John’s Thanksgiving party because not only was John cooking but he was also being cute. For instance, he currently stood in the kitchen by the open fridge, holding the last pumpkin beer of the season.

  “Give that to me, Conlon.” Adam, in a very Ramones-type getup of leather pants and black tee, extended his hand.

  “I don’t know, man.” John wrinkled his nose. “I was thinking I might just pour it down the sink. One for my homies.”

  Football fans cheered from the living room where the Green Bay Packers played…someone. Isaac didn’t care.

  “John.” Adam took a cautious step forward. “Put the beer down.”

  Tommy nudged Isaac as they watched the showdown, standing safely in the space between football and food with a nice view of the backyard, which was sadly getting deader by the moment. Without the leaves, Lothos had become a graveyard of grim trees—sharp fingers reaching out to grab hair, jackets, and sky.

  “Maybe I’ll just drink it myself.” John flipped the lid with a bottle opener and took a sip. “Fuck, I am going to miss this.”

  “That’s it.” Adam lunged, and although John tried to juke out of his way, Adam’s wingspan covered his entire escape route. John attempted a run in the other direction, but Adam latched onto the back of his sweater—an atrocious thing decorated with a rainbow turkey—and dragged a laughing John back into his arms. Maybe Adam was a little handsy while they tussled, but it was just Adam. Isaac had met the guy several times by then. Flirting with John was his part-time job, but he never tried to go further. They’d slept together once, and although sleeping with John only once would have killed Isaac, it seemed the two friends had just needed to get it out of their systems.

  “Don’t tell me you’re getting jealous,” Tommy said.

  “No. It’s just how they are.”

  Tommy drank IPA from a mug. Isaac could smell the piney hops from where he stood, over the scent of turkey in the oven. “I hear things are getting pretty serious in your forbidden tryst.”

  Isaac shook his head. “We’re not from dueling families in Verona, Tommy.”

  “You’re skyping with his parents tomorrow.”

  He watched John pour the pumpkin beer into two equal portions. Under the recessed kitchen lights, the little, round cups glowed like jack-o’-lanterns. “Well, I am going home with John for Christmas. I suppose they want to make sure I’m not a psychopath.”

  Tommy sighed. “But psychopaths look like everyone else.”

  He tilted his chin down and glared at Tommy from under his brows.

  “I’ll put in a good word for you. John’s hot mom trusts my opinion.” He tugged at the front of his Ohio State sweater as though adjusting a tie. “What about your family? Aren’t they going to want to see you for the holidays?”

  Isaac swished a bit of scotch around his mouth before swallowing. “They haven’t spoken to me since I came out.”

  “What? Assholes.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Ten feet away, John and Adam chopped vegetables at the island. Meanwhile, Sasha the drag queen—dressed in full regalia for the occasion—stood behind and braided pieces of John’s hair.

  “My parents are conservative Southern Catholics,” Isaac said. “Not only did their son come out as gay, but he also divorced his wife amidst massive scandal. It was too much to ask for them to stand by me.”

  “Bullshit. They’re cowards.”

  “It wasn’t—”

  “Nope. I will not stand here and listen to you defend your asshole family.” He clinked his beer against Isaac’s glass. “You’ve got a new family now. A bunch of gays, drag queens, and bitter singles.”

  Isaac would not get choked up. He would not. “Thanks, Tommy.”

  “No problem.”

  “Speaking of family, shouldn’t you be with yours in Columbus?”

  Tommy shuddered and pulled his chin back until it almost disappeared into his neck. “Yeah, because I want to spend the day listening to my brother-in-law talk about computer engineering and how pot should be legal. I mean, it should be; I just don’t want to debate over dinner. Then, my aunt will get too drunk and call my mom a whore. Yep, sounds fabulous. Plus, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but John makes the best food.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Of course, you have.” He poked Isaac in the side. “Dating John, how are you not fat? Oh, right, because you run two million miles every day.” He wandered off toward the football game, so Isaac joined the kitchen crowd.

  “John, do you need help?”

  He looked up, half his head in braids. “You don’t know how to cook.”

  “I could peel a potato?”

  John snorted, and Adam pointed a paring knife. “Do not snot in the food!”

  “You could snot all over me, baby.” Sasha smirked and kept playing with John’s hair. Her red sequined dress shimmered as a club mix played quietly from John’s cell phone, his iTunes set to shuffle. She rolled her hips left to right—right against John’s ass. “Come on, baby.”

  “No, I’m the chef, I—”

  “Dance break!” Adam announced. He put down his knife and, instead of grabbing John, went right for Isaac. “Come on, big boy!”

  Isaac just had time to put his drink down before being dragged into the living room. The reorganization was practically choreographed. Someone muted the football game. Someone else turned on the stereo. The coffee table was moved while Tommy, for his part, hid against a wall. As soon as a salsa beat started up, people hooted and hollered. John, despite being a foot shorter than Sasha, spun the drag queen and led her across the floor.

  Adam put Isaac’s hands in the right places. “I heard Cleo taught you how to do this, so just pretend I have tits.”

  True, Cleo had been the first to teach him, but John had perfected. They’d spent quite a few nights lately dancing around John’s living room—but not surrounded by people. Isaac looked down at his feet for just a second to make sure he had the count and then did his best to lead a smiling Adam around the room. Even though Adam was a beanpole like John, Isaac wasn’t used to leading someone his own height. At least he didn’t step on any toes.

  When the first song ended, everyone clapped, but another song started right away—a slow jitterbug. Adam reached for Isaac again, but John got in the way.

  “Mind if I cut in?”

  Adam rolled his eyes. “You would.”

  There was no way Isaac could hide their familiarity, not while dancing. He’d never cared for the activity before, hadn’t seen much point. There were steps and songs and movements—but why? It just seemed like a lot to learn with no benefit.

  Well, he understood dancing now. It was closeness and connection, foreplay with hips and hands. With John, dancing was a shared sway that almost always ended in bed.

  “Damn, Isaac!” Adam hooted. “You’ve got moves.”

  Sasha snapped her fingers in the air, and John pressed the top of his head against Isaac’s chest and laughed.

  “OH, MY GOD. I’m never eating again.” With the TV on mute, they all heard the sound of Tommy’s stomach gurgling.

  By then, it was just the three of them: Tommy, John, and Isaac. Which was why it was okay for John to be sitting between Isaac’s legs on the floor while Isaac slowly untangled all the braids from his hair.

  “I think he’s hypnotized,” Isaac said.

  Tommy leaned forward and squinted. “John, quack like a duck.”

  “Quack.”

  “Give me a hundred bucks.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Not hypnotized.” Tommy leaned back and sipped from a tiny glass—one of a special set John reserved for “digestif.” According to John, it was a French after-dinner tradition to drink a magic liqueur that aided digestion. That night’s selection tasted of sweet pear. “Dinner was amazing, as usual. I can’t believe you made turkey and duck.”

  “It was easy.” He leaned his fore
head against the side of Isaac’s knee.

  “Says Sleeping Beauty.” The braids loosened, he put his fingers in John’s hair and ruffled the locks free. “You look like you’re going to an eighties prom.”

  John groaned and stood, stretching his arms over his head. No matter that he’d put away enough food to kill a cow, the trim bit of stomach revealed was flat as usual. “I’m going to bed. Tommy, you can stay as long as you want.”

  “I’ll probably join everyone at the bars once I finish my tiny drink.” He held up the tiny glass.

  John leaned down and gave Tommy a hug. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “You too.”

  John shuffled toward the hall.

  “Be there in a bit,” Isaac said. When he realized he was checking out John’s ass, he looked back toward the TV but felt Tommy watching him.

  “You do make him really happy.”

  Isaac sighed, full on food and love. “Well, he makes me very happy too.”

  “You might want to decide what you’re going to tell the school before your wedding.”

  Isaac smirked and closed his eyes. “Jesus. Yeah.”

  The light from the TV reflected off Tommy’s glasses, hiding his eyes. “And I think people are starting to notice.”

  He sat up straight. “What? What people?”

  “Well, Adam, for one,” he said on a laugh. “And I quote, ‘Wonder if Isaac eye fucks him that hard in bed.’”

  He grumbled. “Anyone else?”

  “No, Cleo’s clueless. She should have that word on a T-shirt.” Tommy studied the glass in his hand. “Just be a little more careful.”

  Isaac yawned, having caught the tired bug from John. “Pretty sure Janelle is onto us.”

  “Yeah, thanks to her wildly inappropriate relationship with John, she sees right through the guy. They’re like two hipster-goth peas in a pod.”

  “She knew John and I had crushes on each other before we did.”

  “Crushes?” Tommy winced. “I know we work with kids, but you are way too old to have a crush on someone.”

  “But she was right: that’s what it was. I did have a crush on John.”

  “You and everybody else.” He finished his drink like it was some huge pour of scotch and not a sweet treat.