Spanish Bay (5 page)

Neil put his hands over his burning hot ears. “Dad!
Please!
You’re embarrassing me.”

His dad shook his head and grabbed the coffee pot to pour himself a cup. “Neil, if you’re going to get embarrassed about it, then don’t do it here. Then again, if Chris dropped you off after a night at his place, your mom and I would still put one and one together…”

“Seriously…” Neil said, giving his dad a pleading look.

“Don’t worry, son, you’re a grown man, and we know you have to live your life. It’s as much your house as ours, but you don’t see me being embarrassed every time your mother and I make love, do you?”

“
Dad
, that’s gross. Enough already!”

By now, they were both laughing, and Neil had got the point his dad was trying to make. Their family was okay with him and Chris.

“Dad,” Neil said, after a few minutes of silently enjoying their coffee. He waited for his dad to look up. “Do you think it was too soon? Do you think we should’ve waited?”

His dad shook his head. “Who am I to be the judge of that? Honestly, Neil, I had one-night stands before I met your mother—meaningless sex to get your rocks off—so I’m not going to judge you. I know things haven’t always been easy for you, particularly after your diagnosis and with the chair and all. And Chris seems to be a golden boy, so you go for it, no regrets, just make sure you’re honest with each other, and if you feel that you’re destined for more, take your time. Don’t ruin something better by just giving in to your lust. Get to know each other. Go on dates, talk, learn about each other. Don’t just spend all your time in bed. Make sense?”

Neil nodded. “I think so. Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

“I love you, too, son.” His dad got up, grabbed his briefcase and gave Neil a kiss on the forehead.

***

The day went by excruciatingly slowly for Neil. All he could think about was the night before, and how he and Chris had ended up in bed just moments after having clarified their status as
without label
. The kisses had quickly become passionate, and before Neil could muster a protest, Chris had unbuttoned his shirt and began to caress his chest.

In every class, Neil’s mind drifted, replaying their lovemaking, the sensation of Chris’s tongue circling his nipples while he’d fondled Neil through his jeans. That hadn’t worked out so well, because it had made Neil giggle, and they’d agreed to move to the bed. Neil felt safe in Chris’s arms and had let himself fall back, while Chris had quickly undressed him. At first, Neil had laughed nervously—he hadn’t been naked in front of anyone since he was a kid, and only his mom and his doctor had seen his spindly legs—but Chris showed no sign that what he saw bothered him. Quite the contrary. He’d gently kissed Neil’s legs and caressed his entire body, inch by inch, showering Neil with kisses while ridding himself of his own clothes. They were at it for the longest time—kissing, petting, caressing, hugging—until finally Neil had stopped Chris and told him; he’d never done it before, and he didn’t know if he could have anal sex. But Chris had just put his index finger on Neil’s lips and shushed him, telling him not to worry. They’d take it slowly, at his pace, and do it in a way that worked for Neil.
And if you want to fuck, we’ll be gentle and careful. I promise.
They’d resumed kissing, but the seed had been planted.

It had all been so unexpected, because Neil had convinced himself that no one ever would see him as attractive. After they had made love, Chris had casually walked about the place, naked, giving Neil a great view of this beautiful hunk of a man. Six foot two, short blond hair, hairy chest, muscular legs and arms, and an ass to die for. Just looking at those cheeks as Chris disappeared into the bathroom made Neil hard again.

Moments later, Chris had returned, cleaning himself with a towel. The look on his face when he’d seen Neil’s erection was priceless.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Sorry, but I saw your ass, and I kind of thought what it would be like to fuck you…”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

Later, having cleaned themselves a second time, they had lain next to each other, spooning, and tired.

“Chris, you are my first. Thank you for making it so special. I’d love to return the favor and have you fuck me, too. I just don’t know how.”

“Hey,” Chris had shushed him. “Don’t you worry about that. If and when we get to that point, we’ll figure out a way. Maybe we can install a bar over the top of the bed, and you can swing from it.” Chris had laughed at the thought, and pulled Neil tighter toward him. “As long as we do it at a pace you’re comfortable with, I’m good. And if you turn out to be a total top, I can live with that quite happily. Let’s catch some sleep. I have to get an early start.”

It was amazing to think how quickly Chris had found a solution to the topping and bottoming problem that Neil had spent years trying to wrap his head around. Chris was at ease around him and saw past the chair—his family were the same, but they’d known him before his condition affected him—but in school, on the streets, wherever Neil went, the chair was the first and only thing people noticed. He’d literally become one with it, and people in general found it difficult, if not impossible to see the boy, the man, sitting in it. They’d warned him about it in rehab, all those years ago, when he’d learned to use his first chair.

Neil had a strange relationship with his chair. It was a good chair, comfortable and with great wheels—a Mustang of wheelchairs—but it was still a wheelchair, and no one else appreciated that it was special, lightweight, made from aluminum and carbon fiber and with snazzy rims. To them it was just a wheelchair.

He owed his mobility to that chair; it allowed him to move around and live his life almost as independently as he had before. Yet, despite all this, whenever he came to a flight of stairs, or needed help to get in or out of a vehicle, he felt the weight of not being able to get up and just walk. Some people felt pity for him, like his grandma Alice—his dad’s mom—who’d tear up every time she saw him, sorry for his condition, reminding him painfully of what he’d lost. It had gotten to the point where he no longer went to see her. It was just too painful for both of them. Then there were the bullies, like Bob and his cronies, who simply saw him as a target for their frustration and their own low self-esteem.

But mostly, people ignored him, trying hard not to talk to him or engage him in any way, because they were unsure what to say or where to look. It was above and beyond Neil to comprehend how the chair could be such a hindrance in communication. Sometimes, when they stared, he’d just tell them to take a good look and get it over with. It didn’t usually go down very well, but like everyone, Neil had days where he couldn’t stand the stares and glares.

And then there was Chris. Handsome, kind Chris. It were as if he didn’t even see the chair. He saw Neil. He helped when Neil needed it, and let him have his freedom to maneuver himself the rest of the time, almost as if Chris had been around wheelchairs before.

If only class was over so I could go over to Sally’s and see him.

CHRIS MILLER WAS BORN twenty-one years ago, to Francine and Andrew Miller of Lubbock, Texas, where the Millers owned a cattle ranch and cotton farm on the outskirts of the city. They were an average, god-fearing family and had lived in the area for generations. As was the case for most farming families, Chris wasn’t an only child; he was the third of six little Millers. His eldest brother, Andrew Junior, was four years his senior, followed by Alexandra, himself, Jack, Jessica and little Frank.

Frank was a real late-comer, fifteen years younger than Chris and born with cerebral palsy. Yet, in spite of being unexpected, unplanned, and not really wanted, he was the sunshine of the family, and Francine and Andrew knew better than to question the Lord’s wisdom. Frank relied heavily on his family’s help and care from birth, and even though he eventually gained fair control of his bodily functions, he was confined to a wheelchair.

By the time Frank was born, Andrew Junior was already nineteen, enabling him to take on more of the responsibilities and help his father around the farm, while Alexandra was tasked with helping around the house. As the middle child, Chris had always looked after his younger siblings after school—not easy when he was so young himself, but he took it very seriously—and made sure Jack and Jessica stayed out of trouble and out of their mother’s hair. When Frank came along, Chris had expected to help out with looking after him, too; his mother had other ideas.

Chris had always been drawn to Frank, as if there were a magic tether binding him to his youngest brother. Sometimes, he’d catch Frank looking at him—just a quick glance—and it would stir up the oddest sensations. It made Chris want to drop everything just to take care of Frank, but their mother was overly protective of her youngest son and kept the other kids at a distance, afraid they might injure him by accident.

It wasn’t as if he’d had nothing to do; Chris had still been at high school, and Jack and Jessica had kept him busy. But school never was a big priority for Chris. He’d got passing grades and quickly realized he was no brainiac, or—as one of his teachers had once commented—not the sharpest tool in the shed. What he did have was a huge heart, and he was liked by his peers in school, although there were few he had considered true friends. It was hard to make friends when he had to race home from school every night to look after his siblings.

For Chris, there was a very clear distinction between before and after Frank was born, and hardly any of his friendships survived the birth of his brother, because things changed drastically and quickly. Francine was no longer able to focus on the farm or the household; she barely had time to cook or do laundry, with Frank requiring care, twenty-four seven. They couldn’t afford any outside help, so the kids had to pitch in. It was how things were done, and there was no discussion.

Once Chris got into high school, he developed a keen interest in shop and started to plan to buy his own truck—something to work on. There wasn’t much else to do, and he’d been saving up money for years. One day, he found an ad in the local paper for an old Chevy truck: a 1966 C-10. It was in really bad shape, rusted in more places than not, and he had to look hard to see the bright-yellow color it once wore.

The Chevy had been parked in a leaking barn for fifteen years, after the old farmer had passed away and his wife had decided she would rather take her Oldsmobile to town. When she died as well, her kids had been quick to try and monetize their newly inherited assets. Chris inspected the chassis, engine and undercarriage, confirming the substance of the truck was in good shape, and offered $250 for it. Rather than haul it to the junk yard, the Masons accepted his offer and made a buck. Win-win.

The old C-10 quickly became Chris’s everything. He spent every free moment he had on it, grinding off the rust, priming the body and painting it in a beautiful crimson red—his favorite color. He overhauled the engine, taking it apart, bit by bit, cleaning it, and putting it together again, changing rubber gaskets, seals and filters. The work he was most proud of, though, was lifting the entire truck three inches, by changing the suspension. With a set of new nineteen-inch tires, he had a truck like no one else in town; polished chrome details, new exhaust pipes and some extra lights perfected the look. It was not a monster truck by any means, but it was an expression of Chris’s personality—a bit larger than life, yet still kind.

It had taken him several years to get the truck roadworthy, with helping around the farm, looking after the kids, and studying. When he finally graduated high school, college was not in the stars. Chris had no interest in books, and his grades and SAT scores lacked the luster needed to attend anything but local community colleges. Besides, with all his other responsibilities, he didn’t have the time to study for tests or worry about school. Not that he minded, seeing as he didn’t like school anyway. He’d graduated, and it was enough for him. The day after graduation, his dad woke him at sunrise to work the farm, and that was pretty much Chris’s life for the next couple of years—work, work, work and then some. On weekends, he’d spend as much time with Frank as he could; his little brother loved to be around him, and it gave their mom a much-needed break.

By then, Chris was the oldest of the Miller kids still living at home. Andrew Junior had joined the navy right after high school and was his parents’ pride and joy, currently serving as petty officer first class, somewhere in the Pacific. Meanwhile, Alexandra had gotten herself “knocked up”—as if it had been her fault alone—in her junior year, and the Millers and the Johnsons agreed that their kids should do the decent thing, bring the fruit of their transgression to life, get married, and settle down. Alexandra had moved to the Johnson farm, to live with her husband Skip, and then, after kid number two, they moved into the city, to a small apartment. Alexandra was now the mother of three kids, miserable, but honorable, and she’d long since stopped visiting the family farm. There was too much resentment, not to mention too much reminding her of what her future held.

Chris had watched his older siblings grow up and move away, knowing his own future would be nothing like theirs. He’d always known he was gay, and it had never bothered him. Nobody knew, nobody asked, and the Millers assumed their son was too busy with his truck to even look at the ladies. They were grateful for it, particularly with Frank around. But on Chris’s twenty-first birthday, something happened at the Miller house that would change the dynamic of their family forever, robbing Frank of his hero brother, and Chris of his family.

The Millers didn’t really celebrate birthdays the way others did. Francine didn’t have time to bake a cake, and there was no money to buy one, let alone time to have someone run to town to get one. Instead, they would stick a candle in whatever breakfast food was on the table, whether it was toast or butter or an egg. It didn’t matter. And they’d sing “Happy Birthday.” There were no gifts—except for the smaller kids—and Chris was all grown up, so he only got the candle. Period. He didn’t mind.