Crash: M/M Straight to Gay First Time Romance (5 page)

Reid

              When I get back to my bedroom, my heart is still pounding in my chest. I am not sure why I did that. I knew he was just kidding. I knew he was just trying to make this uncomfortable for both of us. That’s his way of protecting himself. I understood him very well, but the person I seem to be clueless about is me. Why did I do that?

              I suppose some part of me wanted to call his bluff. If you don’t set boundaries early, you will have problems later on. At least now he knows that if he tries to play with me, he had better be prepared to go all the way. But part of me also wanted to ease his frustration and give him some relief. That sounds crazy, but it's true. I watched him fight for his life for days. I watched him fight for every breath while he was unconscious. During that time, I wiped his chest and hands; I watched basketball games on the cable tv in his room. I even read to him. Even after he woke up, I didn’t stop visiting him or caring for him. After all of that time, it began to feel natural to help, doing whatever needed to be done so that he would be healthy and comfortable.

              While he was in the hospital, I began to enjoy our visits. It was nice to have somebody to eat dinner with after a long day at the center. Sometimes we fought, mostly about what to watch. Sometimes we didn’t say anything at all. Some nights I didn’t leave until the nurses put me out. When he had a rough day, and he was hurting, he would say things to make me angry or boldly flirt with me in front of one of the hospital staff until we were all uncomfortable. When he was exhausted, he would listen to me talk about my day until he fell asleep. He never asked me to come back, and I never told him I would, but we both knew better.

              During his entire stay, I was his only visitor. You would think that after a guy has an accident like that his friends, family, somebody,
anybody
would come to visit. Nobody ever did. Just me. He spoke to his agent and a few other business associates regularly, keeping them updated on his progress, but nobody came. Maybe it was an extreme case of sympathy, but I got the feeling that I was the only person who might miss him if he died.

              “You’re getting soft in the head, Cummings,” I said to the air, picking up the weights from my floor and doing a few curls to help get my blood flowing in the right direction.

              Even if I could justify giving him a hand job, why did I kiss him? Did I mean it? Having him in my personal space was messing with my head. I was doing the kinds of things I never thought I would do. Frustrated, and having no more answers now than I had ten minutes ago, I decide to take a shower. I let the hot water hit my body and sooth my muscles, scrubbing away the sweat and grime of the day. Out of habit, I let my hand grip my manhood, stroking it absently as I stand under the hot jets. I’m not aroused, but the oblivion of an orgasm sounds like the perfect solution to a troubled mind.

              I empty my mind, focusing on the pleasure, letting thoughts and images float through my head without paying much heed. Still, his face fills my mind without my permission. I try ignoring it at first, pushing the lingering image of his flushed face away as I indulge myself, only to have it replaced by the image of him in the throes of passion.

              “Why now,” I murmur, resting my head on the tiles on the wall.

For several minutes, my mind is at war with itself. I keep pushing thoughts of him away from me only to have them come back harder as my body inches towards release. Finally, I give in and let my body do whatever it wants. The thought of him looking up at me with those penetrating eyes, biting his bottom lip the way he does when he is engrossed in his work, makes my cock so hard I think it might explode. The sound of my groan echoes off the tiles and I finally cum. I stand, chest heaving, under the water that is now cold. I don’t mind. A cold shower seems to be just what the doctor ordered for me.

My limbs feel exceptionally heavy as I climb into bed, and I am grateful for the darkness and the silence. The last thing I recall before falling asleep is the boy I once knew, my Liam, sitting behind me in class, smiling slightly every time I looked over my shoulder and our eyes met.

****

Liam is still asleep when I leave the house in the morning despite the racket Buster and I make. I make enough breakfast for two and leave his portion in the microwave with a note. I should feel lucky that I don’t have to face him first thing in the morning after last night’s episode, but I don’t. Some part of me was looking forward to seeing him. A part I am not ready to fully confront. Not yet at least.

When I get into my office, I lock the door and leave the lights off. In the dim light of the early morning I practice my morning meditation. It sounds a little hokey, and I suppose it is. I know I never used to be one to go in for myths and fairy tales. But meditation was one of the “alternative therapies” they had at rehab. It was one of the few things that worked when it came to keeping sober long term. Instead of running from the things in my head and reacting mindlessly, I learned to sit still and be okay with my thoughts, my memories, and my feelings. I learned how to clear space in my head so I could think clearly. Most importantly, I learned to be honest with myself and others.

Not thinking was a lot of my problem. Running from things I couldn’t control and didn’t want to accept only made things worse. It got to the point where I was so wrapped up in who I was supposed to be I had no clue who I was. This morning I feel a lot like that again. I feel lost and distracted, and my kids need me present. So I make the intention to get focused and deal with whatever I am feeling so I can help the kids who are going to arrive in an hour, hungry, sleepy and not quite ready to face the day ahead of them.

When the first kids arrive for the before school care program, I am ready to welcome them warmly. The food service employees, volunteers, parents, mostly single mothers, and I have become a team. I stop long enough to exchange a good morning with each one of them and help them wake up with a healthy breakfast. This morning it’s oatmeal and fruit with orange juice. For the few dollars I am forced to charge the parents and the funding I have scrounged up, I can offer them something better than the school option of sugary cereal and flavored milk. For some of these kids, this is the first thing they have eaten since yesterday afternoon. It breaks my heart to acknowledge it, but even in this country, childhood hunger is a problem.

I think about Liam, at home alone with Buster. Has he woken up yet? Is he eating the food I left for him? Is he like me, wishing that we had a chance to see each other before I left, or would he rather not deal with me yet? I resign myself to making a call home later in the morning to check on him and push through the morning. As the last of the school buses pull out of the parking lot, taking the kids to school, I hustle back to my office and begin checking my messages. I make a list of people I need to get in touch with and then stare at the phone as if I expect it to explode.

“Just call him,” says Darlene, popping her head into my office.

“Who?”

“Whoever it is that you are worried about,” she says, sitting on the corner of my desk.

“Don’t you have a job you need to get to?”

“Yes, but not before I drop off some lunch for my bro and tell you I am going to pass by your place this afternoon, so make sure that you and hubby are decent,” she says, sliding a heavy lunch tote across my desk.

“Sure,” I say, putting it away in the mini fridge in my office.

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive. I am just teasing. I think it's sweet how you are willing to go all out for this guy. I just want you to be careful. He could be a psycho.”

“Then he is in good company.”

“Or a rapist.”

“With two broken legs and a broken arm, he isn’t going to be having his way with anybody anytime soon,” I counter.

“Or a conman,” she says triumphantly.

“I checked him out. He is legit. And if he is a conman, he is the worst one ever. He has given me more money than he will ever be able to make off of me.”

“Unless he sells your organs on the black market,” she says with a glint in her eyes.

“Again, the lack of usable limbs might be a problem. Besides, this isn’t China. People don’t just harvest your organs and sell them here,” I say, not at all comfortable with the direction this conversation has taken.

“It happened to my co-worker’s cousin while she was on vacation in Mexico. The last thing she remembers is ordering a daiquiri at a restaurant. She woke up in a hotel room in a tub full of ice and no idea why she had an eight-inch incision on her side,” she says. Her delighted smile and her pixie frosting hair make her look like the most deranged elf ever to get thrown out of the mystical forest.

“Who hurt you?” I laugh, patting her head like a pitiful puppy.

“Nobody you know,” she says, pushing my hand away and bouncing up from her perch. “Just remember, I will be there tonight. And make that phone call. Don’t just sit there worrying. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I call after her as she disappears around the corner.

She is right. If I don’t call him I will just worry. If I do call him and things are weird at least I will know what I am up against. The problem is, I still don't have any good answers for last night. I still don’t know why I kissed him, other than that at that moment, it seemed like the most natural thing on earth. It seemed like kissing Liam was something we both wanted to happen, even if it was only one time, on the spur of one crazy moment. Everything else is unimportant. I hope he sees it the same way, but something tells me he won’t. If I am honest, I am as afraid of his rejection as I am that he might like it and want more from me. My counselor used to say you never know what the real situation is until you confront it. He was right.

I take a deep breath and dial.

Liam

When the phone rang, I already knew who it was. He was the only person who would bother to call before noon. I put down the breakfast bowl I had retrieved from the microwave and picked up the phone.

“I’m working,” I said.

“Okay, good. Just making sure you found everything okay,” he said, unconcerned about the nastiness in my voice.

“Yeah, I got it under control here.”

“Okay, great. I will see you tonight. My sister should be dropping by, so if she gets there before I do, try to be nice to her,” he says as if he knows me.              

              “Don’t bite the sister, got it,” I say before hanging up the phone.

I look at the food and lose my appetite. I love the way he talks to me. I hate him for making me like it so much. I hate the fact that, except for his smile and easygoing manner, everything about him is different. The Reid Cummings from my memory isn’t the same man who sat beside my hospital bed for the last few weeks. But I am too much of a skeptic to believe in what I can see. People don’t change; they just change tactics. Con men don’t stop being cons. They just find a legal loophole and work for Wall Street. Vacuous jocks don’t become mild-mannered do-gooders. They just find a new target for their venom and continue being vicious.

Rolling through the house, I notice he hasn’t kept many mementos. I assume most ex-athletes would have trophies and plaques on display. I know for a fact that he has more than a few. I was there when he received them. When I am honest with myself, he was never particularly nice to me. He was too caught up in his world. But when he did look at me, when he noticed me, it was like sunrise after a thousand days of darkness. Thinking about it puts me in a foul mood, and I return to my room to work. How many times do I have to remind myself to mind my business? This isn’t a vacation. We aren’t going to play games and do team building activities.

The hours tick by without me noticing. It’s the pain in my stomach and lightheaded feeling that force me to look up. Reid would be home soon, and I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. Normally that wouldn’t bother me. Writers, by nature, are disgusting people. Things like shoes, combs, mirrors, even clean shirts, all become optional after a while. Every two or three days I realize I am a filthy mess and do a deep cleaning, picking up discarded instant noodle packets and energy drink cans on the way to the shower. Then I pay somebody to do my laundry and clean my house once a week and begin the process all over again.

Knowing that Reid will be coming home and that his sister will be on his heels prompts me to be a little more serious about my personal hygiene. I wash my face and take a long, hard look at myself in the mirror. The curly red hair I hated so much as a kid has deepened to a decent auburn and the curls look less like an afro and more like waves on a rolling ocean. I have my mother’s eyes. I will never forget her. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I feel as if I can see her staring back at me from behind my own eyes. It's creepy and comforting at the same time.

It takes me entirely too long to get into a pair of sweatpants and a fresh shirt. By the time I have washed my bowl from breakfast, Reid is walking through the front door. He has a large bag full of groceries in his arm. Buster comes tearing through the house at the sound of the door and nearly tackles Reid to the ground. I sit and watch, feeling a little jealous of the dog’s closeness with its owner. Life isn’t fair. I don’t remember anybody being that excited to see me since my mother died. It’s funny the things you miss.

As if he can hear my thoughts, Reid’s eyes meet mine, and a smile spreads across his face. Shifting the bag to his hip, he takes three large strides toward me and kneels down so that we are face to face.

“How was your day?” His face is so open and focused I can almost believe that he cares.

“I came, I saw, I wrote some stuff. That counts as a win in my business,” I say with a shrug.

“You have to tell me more about your work. Writing a screenplay sounds exciting. How did you end up doing that? Is it going to be a big film or like a made for tv movie?”

“Have you ever read my books?”

Reid pauses as if it never occurred to him that I would care.

“No, I am not much of a book reader,” he says.

“You seem more like a pulp fiction guy,” I say in an off-hand way. The truth is that was the only thing he ever read in high school. Stupid, yellowing copies of fantastical escapist fiction you picked up at small bookshops because the big publishers wouldn’t touch the stuff. He loved it; those books and comic books were the only books I ever saw him read. Although I saw him carry textbooks and he did manage to graduate on time, so he must have done
some
reading…theoretically.

“Pulp fiction?”

“Pretty girls, exotic islands, tin men from the moon,” I reply.

“Oh yeah, I guess so,” he says with a smile, unpacking the bag and putting the contents in the refrigerator.

“So what does it matter to you? You don’t like my work, and you probably won’t go to see my movie even if the premiere was in your bathroom,” I say, dismissing his line of questioning.

“Hey, if you asked me to, I would read it.”

“What?”

He turns until his whole body is facing me and crosses his arms and legs in front of himself as he leans on the countertop.

“If you asked me to read it, I would read your book. I might not like it, but I would read it,” he says seriously.

And I am tempted. Even though I have made it a habit never to ask anybody for anything, I want to break my lifelong rule and ask him to read my books. I wonder what he would think about my tragic love stories and gory murders. I wonder if he would like my characters or keep reading to see who survives to the end. I wonder if he would be proud of me, of knowing me, of being my…

“I’m not desperate for readers. Read it or don’t. I don’t care,” I say, turning the wheelchair around and heading back to my room. As I pass the front hall, the doorbell rings a second before what looks like a reject from a children’s ice show bursts through the door and skips down the hall.
Skips
!

“You must be Liam. I am Darlene,” it says, shoving a pale hand with pink sparkle-tipped fingernails at my face.

“Yes,” I say, somewhat taken aback. It’s only the smile that tells me that “Darlene” is Reid’s sister.

“Oh, hey, I just got in a few minutes ago. Great timing,” calls Reid from the kitchen.

“Don’t worry, make yourself comfortable. Liam and I are making introductions,” she says as if there is more to this process and I have yet to be informed.

“So! You are my brother’s new husband,” she giggles. The pale pink iridescent hair distracts me, and I slowly nod as I try to figure out if it is a wig or if she intentionally made her hair look like pixie puke.

“I always knew the only way he would be able to catch a wife was if she was already unconscious when he got there,” she says, enjoying the unfortunate circumstances of her brother’s “marriage.”

“I always thought that when I found myself a husband, he would be in it for my money instead of my body,” I reply, quieting her giggles.

“So how are things? Are you adjusting well?”

“Pretty good. Your brother is easy to get along with and stays out of my way most of the time. I can’t complain,” I say, watching the mirth fade from her face. I know this look. I have caused it to manifest on many people’s faces over the years.

“I guess it’s just lucky for you that he doesn’t know how to mind his business. Anybody else would have walked away once they medevaced you off the side of the mountain,” she says, more seriously.

“Anybody else would have been at home watching football instead of hiking around in the woods on a Sunday afternoon. So yes, I was very lucky,” I say, smiling.

“How long until the doctors think you can start living alone again,” Darlene says, getting to the real reason why we are talking. She wants me gone. She stands with her back to the kitchen, her feet planted and her chin tilted slightly upwards. On her, the mother bear routine is simply adorable.

“My head should heal, but the limbs are my main problem. I have managed to find a couple of guys who specialize in sports medicine and rehabbing athletes. They should have me in fighting shape in no time,” I assure her. 

“Oh,” she says, all of the pleasantness returning to her face.

“It was nice meeting you,” I say, rolling down the hall and back to my room. I sit staring at my blank screen for a while, listening as the siblings converse back and forth. I can’t make out the words, but I can tell by their voices that I didn’t leave the kind of impression on Darlene that Reid might have hoped. I can tell by the pleading note in her voice that she wants him to get rid of me. But I paid him good money to be here. Even if he wanted to get rid of me, he would have to give most of that money back, and chances are it’s probably gone already. He may have been blinded by the money, but I had my eyes wide open.

Whether she likes it or not, they are both stuck with me for a while.

Then

              When I opened my eyes again, I was alone. It was cold and dark, and I was still tied to the cross suspended over the pit that was once a bonfire. Red plastic cups and condoms littered the ground like confetti. I screamed out loud, a hoarse and pitiful sound that dissipated into the empty night sky. How long would it be before somebody found me?

              “He’s over here,” called a voice behind me.

              “Dad,” I wept.

              “I got you, son,” he said, walking around into my field of vision.

              It took him several tries before he was able to cut through the ropes with a small emergency ax he kept in the car. All the while my mother stroked my legs, trying to comfort herself and me with soothing words.

              I closed my eyes to it all. I didn’t want to see my father’s eyes as he cut me free. I didn’t want to see the pity and the disappointment on his face as he looked at his son, the loser who got pranked, pissed himself, and passed out at a party. I fell to the earth and stumbled around for a minute as the blood began circulating freely into my extremities.

              “Let’s get you home. It will be alright,” my mother said, hugging me tightly.

              “Here are your pants,” my father interrupted, holding out the pants to me while turning his head away from my naked body. I took the pants and slid into them soundlessly.

              “I-I-I-“

              “Don’t worry about it, son. We all have rough nights. When you let people in, you let the good in with the bad. We won’t make a big fuss about this one, okay?”

              “DAD!” I screamed. Shame and anger twisted my features into a mask of pain. “I am s-s-sorry.”

              He stopped walking and exhaled loudly. I watched his fingers tighten around the handle of the small ax in his hand until the knuckles turned white and made soft popping sounds. My father, Professor Joseph Hasker, turned and looked at me with an expression I had never seen before.

              Anger…and something else. Something that was raw and painful and all for me.

              “You don’t ever have to be sorry. This,” he said swinging his ax in a wide arc “isn’t your fault.”

              “I d-d-d-“

              “I am so proud of you. You never disappointed me,” he said, cutting me off. “Never. Not once. I could live a thousand lives and never be as good as you are. And they know it! Your mother and I, we know it. Only you don’t know how amazing and strong you are. And I don’t know how to show you. If I knew how to show you…goddammit, Liam! Maybe I don’t say it enough but, son, you are amazing. I couldn’t ask for a better kid.”

              Tears filled my eyes as he spoke. My father had never once said a disparaging word to me despite all of my “issues.” He never once held me back or laughed at my awkwardness and overactive imagination. He told me he loved me every day, even when my thirteen-year-old self explained to him that I didn’t like girls. I liked boys. He always patiently sat as I stuttered and lisped my way through our conversations. But until that day, he never once told me he was proud of me.

              My father marched across the litter-strewn ground and hugged his gay, stuttering, urine soaked son hard, kissed him on the cheek and told him he was amazing. He looked me in the eye as he spoke, and I knew he meant every word. No amount of social anxiety or panic disorder would change that.

             
No matter how many years pass between that day and this one, I will never forget that night. If I knew then that it would be our last one together, I would have held him tighter and lingered longer. I would have told him how grateful I was to have him as my dad. But there are some things we can never know, and some words that will have to remain unsaid. But I am so grateful that the last ones he said to me were those.