Love And The Real Boy - Coming About, Book 2 (23 page)

More often than not, Rich would spend Saturday nights at John-Michael’s. They would all have dinner together and the brothers would play with Josiah until he was ready to drop from exhaustion. Rich would hang out and watch TV while J-M put Jos to bed, and then they’d watch movies together usually until they fell asleep. Sometimes Patrick would even join them—Rich found himself secretly thinking that those were the best days, the days when the ‘whole family’ was there.

That Saturday evening started like any other. Patrick and John-Michael were arguing at the dinner table about rugby something-or-other because J-M inexplicably loved the game. Patrick seemed pleased to have found a kindred spirit when it came to his favorite sport.

Rich was happily ignoring them in favor of the much more interesting pastime of making funny faces at Josiah when his dad wasn’t looking. Of course, John-Michael knew what he was doing, but every time Jos tried to suppress his giggles, J-M would look over at him with mock suspicion. Jos would try and keep a straight face, but predictably failed each time.

“Looks like it’s time to get the little guy to bed,” John-Michael said.

“’m not tired,” came Josiah’s canned response. The kid was practically falling asleep in his tortellini by the time dinner was winding down.

“I know you’re not, buddy.” J-M winked at Rich before lifting Jos up and resting him on his hip. “Let’s go sit in your bed, just in case. We can read a story or sing a song.”

Josiah’s scruffy blond head was already resting on John-Michael’s shoulder as he was being carried out of the room. He lifted a little hand and squinted at Rich and Patrick. “’night, Unca Rich. G’night, Unca Patrick,” he mumbled.

“Night, kiddo,” Rich croaked. It never failed to get him right in the gut whenever the kid called him ‘uncle.’ Looking over at Patrick, Rich could tell he was having a similar reaction.

For some reason, Rich had the sudden urge to get one more glimpse of the kid. He padded down the hall after John-Michael and stood outside Josiah’s room. The door was cracked open a few inches, and Rich could see J-M sitting in a chair beside Josiah’s racecar bed, while the boy was curled up under his covers.

His brain was so busy processing the unfamiliarity of the quaintly domestic scene that he was startled when John-Michael started singing. His voice was strong and clear and surprisingly beautiful. He was singing some kind of lullaby to Jos. Intrigued, Rich leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms, and settled in to listen.

Rich smiled to himself, watching J-M lean in and stroke Josiah’s hair…he moved in so close, it was almost like he was trying to breathe him in. And then Rich heard the words.

“Godspeed…”

He swallowed hard.

“Sweet dreams…”

He saw John-Michael’s hand grip the sheet, as if he were resisting touching his son for fear of waking him but just couldn’t bear not to.

“My love will fly to you each night…”

Goose bumps broke out across Rich’s skin, and his breath caught. This thing—this undefinable, intangible thing…this was what his life had been missing. God help him, he hoped he’d given a little of that to John-Michael, but this was what had been leeched from his soul and never given back.

But somehow, John-Michael had it in him. He had it to give to his boy. “…on angel’s wings. Godspeed, little man…”

He’d heard more than enough. Rich literally couldn’t stand to hear another note, another word. He’d reached his limit, the point of no return, the inevitable last straw. That door, that one deep inside him that kept his beast, his inner rage-monster caged, that one he’d locked away the day he racked that shotgun; that door was broken down, burned, and disintegrated by one little lullaby—one goddamn lullaby that no one ever sang for Ricky Dalton.

This had to be the worst of it. Rich thought he’d hit rock bottom those couple of weeks when he’d spewed his venom all over poor, unsuspecting Justice Crawford. But no.
This
was rock bottom.

He closed his throat against the scream that wanted to worm its way out. He stumbled drunkenly away from his brother, from his nephew. Weaving, blind, he felt his way through the living room. He passed Patrick without a word, ignoring his calls, hauled the front door open and practically fell out.

Gulping great lungfuls of air, Rich made it halfway down the walk toward the curb before his legs simply gave out and he came crashing down onto his knees. Heedless of his bare skin scraping against the concrete, he clutched his hands to his chest. His fingers curled into claws, gripping the fabric of his shirt until he heard a ripping sound.

Doubling over, Rich let go of the last of his control over the beast, that foul creature that lived in the place inside where he’d stuffed all the anger, all of the self-pity, all of the hate…the ‘why-me’s’ and the ‘how could you’s’…and he let it fly.

He let out a howl that dissolved into the kind of aching sobs that felt like they could shake a few ribs loose. Somehow he managed to stuff his fist in front of his mouth to muffle the worst of it. Last thing John-Michael needed was for the neighbors to call the cops. Wait, John-Michael was the cops.

Rich’s mind swirled with flashbacks from the past—both the one he had and the one he should have had—interspersed with his sad, boring adulthood since then, until he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

And then he felt strong arms encircle his shoulders, a heavy chest covering his back. Patrick leaned forward and rested his chin on Rich’s shoulder, breathing him in deep just the way John-Michael had with Josiah. Maybe…
maybe
…that’s what people did with those they loved. Rich could only hope.

“T-tell…me s-something,” Rich stuttered through his waning sobs. He had to fight against the blinding pain in his chest just to be able to talk, to breathe.

He felt Patrick nod against his neck.

“Is this as bad as it gets?”

“I think so, baby,” Patrick whispered. “Maybe it’s time to let go.”

“Will it always be this hard?” he asked, leaning into Patrick ever so slightly.

“It gets better. You have to feel what you feel…” and Rich knew he was thinking of Emmaline. “You have to feel what you feel, and then you have to give yourself a break.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You just have to let us in. John-Michael, Josiah…me. You can acknowledge what was and grieve for what should have been…but then you have to make peace with it and start to deal with what is—get to know the family you have right in front of you.”

Patrick squeezed those impenetrable arms around him as Rich shuddered, gasping from the sobs that stole his air. Finally, he eased back into that solid embrace and just let Patrick hold him up for a little while…just a little while.

Rich felt rather than saw John-Michael approach and come to stand just off to the side, while Patrick still held on to Rich’s back and allowed him to rock back and forth. Rich concentrated on breathing, in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to get a hold of himself long enough to speak clearly.

“
Burn it
,” he said through clenched teeth.

“What?” Patrick whispered, no doubt having forgotten about the run-down old house their grandparents had left them. John-Michael said nothing, but Rich knew his brother knew exactly what he meant.

“We need to burn that fucking house to the ground.”

John-Michael stepped into Rich’s field of vision, his posture innocuous, hip cocked lazily, hands in his pockets.

Though he was looking out toward the street and the dark beyond, he gave a slow nod. “Let’s do it.”

* * * *

Avendore Plaza.
It was such a fancy name for such a shit-hole. Since the old house was partially collapsed and condemned by the city, and because it was outside the actual city limits, Rich and John-Michael were able to get the fire department to come out and do a controlled burn. If the house had been totally intact, they might have been able to use it for a firefighter training exercise, but as it was, it just had to be destroyed so the land could be reclaimed.

The fire trucks came and parked on the street, effectively blocking it off for residential travel—just a precaution since the neighborhood was pretty much deserted. A couple more engines pulled onto the grass close to the house but at a safe distance from the blaze. The firefighters clustered around the trucks, watching the house, hoses at the ready in case the fire crept past the perimeter in which it was to be contained. Rich and his little brother stood in the front yard as close as the firemen would let them get, surrounded by brown dead grass and a shit load of weeds. They watched as light gray smoke began to exude from the house via the doors, windows, chimney, and various holes in the external structure, and gradually turned black.

Josiah was spending the day with John-Michael’s parents who were visiting from Sammamish. Patrick was with Rich at the demolition, but he’d stayed with his truck, parked safely across the street. He leaned against the side of it, legs crossed at the ankles, arms crossed over his chest. His auburn hair was begging for a cut. It was starting to grow out a little wild and was blowing in the light wind. Rich liked it that way.

Rich had needed his silent support, but this moment of cleansing, of closure, was just for him and his brother. He tensed for a moment when John-Michael slid an arm around his shoulders, but then he relaxed and leaned in. Rich was beginning to learn that it was alright to seek comfort from family—and he was having to relearn what it was like to let people in.

Raising his face to the sky, Rich studied the heavy clouds. The rain had been threatening since yesterday morning, but wasn’t supposed to break through until nightfall. Still, he kept a close eye on it, because a steady rain would jeopardize the burn.

A rushing sound pulled his attention back to the house, and he gasped when he saw that just in the few seconds he’d been looking away, the fire had really gotten its teeth into the old rotten wood. It was only a matter of moments before the dilapidated house was completely engulfed within the flames.

Strangely hypnotic, the fire danced and leapt, popping and crackling and giving off a cheery warmth that was incongruous with the treacherous entity that it was. Rich thought about how people often said when a person has a near-death experience, their life flashes before their eyes. Apparently, destroying one’s childhood home could evoke a similar reaction.

He supposed it was sort of like a death—the death of those memories, of that part of his life. Watching the fire but not really seeing it, Rich saw flickers of moments, images from those dark times…they taunted him from within the flames. Years’ worth of experiences, good and bad, crowded his mind in a matter of seconds—movie nights with John-Michael; Bonnie backhanding him for getting them kicked out of yet another boyfriend’s house; keeping vigil over John-Michael’s crib when he was a newborn in this very house; that one time Bonnie took too many pills and he’d thought she was dead…

Rich experienced a bizarre moment of panic when he felt that last connection with his past being severed. Their lives had been miserable growing up, but there’d been some good times dotting the quagmire that was Bonnie Dalton’s world. It was those few, fleeting happy memories that made Rich lunge forward in a sudden need to stop this.

He wasn’t sure if he would have actually crashed headfirst into a burning building, but John-Michael’s arm tightening around his shoulders stopped him. Instinctively, Rich wrapped his arm around his younger brother’s waist in return. J-M gave him a little squeeze and looked down at him—because, yeah, his brother was almost as big of a Sasquatch as Rory.

“We have to let it go,” he said. “It’s time. We’ve got a new family now.” He cut his eyes in the direction of Patrick, and Rich followed his gaze.

Patrick was still there, a solid wall of safety, backing Rich up. His posture was relaxed, but there was this underlying tension throughout his body that made Rich believe he would spring into action at a moment’s notice if something threatened them. It was disconcerting, comforting, and more than a little arousing, all at once.

When Patrick noticed Rich looking, he raised two fingers to his brow in a mock-hat-tip and nodded his encouragement. It was then that Rich experienced the most stunning moment of clarity.
This man
—this man whom he’d refused to call his boyfriend except when pretending—had been his rock over the last couple of months, and Rich hadn’t even noticed him sneaking into his heart.

Rich’s battered and bruised psyche had been so concerned with keeping himself alive and sane, that he hadn’t noticed he’d begun to depend on Patrick, that Patrick had become family. And then the most important realization caused his legs to go numb. He probably would have collapsed if it wasn’t for John-Michael’s grip on him.

I love him
. Little Ricky Dalton, of a drugged-out mother and an absentee father, who’d never learned to love anyone but his brother, was heart-stoppingly, irrevocably in love with that man.

Part of him wanted to run. It was a big part, too. But the rest wanted to charge headfirst into Patrick’s waiting arms, where he’d never have to be alone again, where he’d never have to live only for survival again.

Rich slipped out from under John-Michael’s arm, patting him on the shoulder to let him know everything was okay, and he went where his feet took him—back to his safe place…back to his comfort…back to his big, rowdy Irishman with the laughing gray eyes.