The Art of Hero Worship (23 page)

Maybe I’m the most selfish person in the
world to break up with a guy for being a hero. But I know one
thing: I can’t love him as much as I do—literally worshipping him
as my hero and more importantly as my partner—and lose him if I
don’t absolutely have to. But this is exactly what I did. And I
didn’t even do it the honorable way: face-to-face over a steak
dinner and a few sorrowful glasses of red wine. I told Dacia to
tell Liam that it’s over. And so, I’m done.

And I don’t know how things are going for
him, but this break up isn’t working out very well for me. As is
typical, on Saturday morning I run home to my mother with my tail
between my legs, having no idea what I expect her do to make me
feel better. In fact, her “Mom knows best/Mom knows all” attitude
is nearly insufferable, on a good day. But it’s also all I know.
It’s familiar like the old pair of scratchy wool socks she gave me
for Christmas in tenth grade; they’re always there when I need them
to prevent a case of frostbite, but even as they keep me warm,
they’re irritatingly itchy, to the point of being nearly
intolerable. And maybe because Liam’s behavior, in terms of
heroism, is not predictable, I require a taste of my familiarly
irritating home life.

“There’s far too much drama going on in the
theaters near your college, dear. You would have been wise to have
transferred out of Batcheldor this summer.”

I wonder if Mom realizes that what goes on
in theaters is
supposed
to be dramatic. “There wasn’t even
an actual fire, Mom. Just some electrical problems that led to a
lot of smoke.”

“That’s nothing but a minor detail….” She
places a bowl of pasta sprinkled with veggies in front of me on the
kitchen table and then pops open my can of soda. “So tell your
mother what your friend Liam did that caused you to run home
without him, not that I’m disappointed to see you.”

I’m not hungry for Mom’s Double Veggie Pasta
Primavera and I’m not up for this conversation, but since I
voluntarily put myself in her line of fire, so to speak, it’s my
duty to respond. “Liam can’t look the other way when someone needs
to be rescued. He’s willing to risk his life and… Mom, I’m not
willing to let him risk it.”

Mom places the can beside my plate and sits
down across from me. “Not to be argumentative, because you know
that’s not my way, but you met Liam
only because
he was
saving your life.”

I don’t know how she can keep a straight
face, trying to pass herself off as politely agreeable, but I don’t
call her on it.

“And tell me if I’m wrong, but before you
met Liam it was always girls, girls, girls for you…. Something
about Liam made that status change. Some quality in that boy… well,
I’m not sure it
turned
you gay, but it made you unable to
look away from him.”

I’m amazed how clearly my mother sees the
situation between Liam and me. I’d always wondered how she
rationalized that I was straight and then all of a sudden, after I
survive a mass shooting, I’m gay. As it turns out, she saw what was
right before her eyes, and simply took it at face value.
Wonders
never cease.

“You liked what you saw in him. Enough to…
son, you liked him well enough to take him home to meet me. That
says a lot.”

I roll my eyes and dig into the pasta,
hoping it will excuse me from responding to her remarks.

Mom, however, hasn’t lifted her fork. “Did
you fall for him because of his bravery… his compassion, maybe? Or
was it his dependability, strength, patience, and kindness?”

Her point is clear—I love the heroic
qualities of Liam Norwell—and I’m pretty sure that her questions
are rhetorical. But they make me think, which, apparently, was the
point. “Point taken.”

Mom folds her hands on her lap and presses
her lips together primly. She then delivers a line that she must
have learned from me. “Just saying, dear. And put your napkin on
your lap.”

Her point is that I fell in love with the
man who saved me, time and time again. I fell in love with my hero…
and I was never happier than when I was taking care of him, largely
by letting him take care of me. Being a hero is, in part, Liam’s
nature but it became more prominent in his character after years of
chastising himself because, his parents constantly accused him of
having failed to save his younger sister in the house fire when he
was fourteen.

If we are to go on and build a future
together, I must accept that a combination of nature and nurture
causes Liam to be a compulsive hero.

***

Lying in bed, I toss and turn, knowing that
if Liam were near, I’d drape myself across his burly chest and be
fast asleep in a few seconds. Liam is probably tossing and turning
in his own bed right now, and it hurts to acknowledge this.

My phone buzzes. It’s after midnight, so I’m
both surprised and alarmed. I pick it up and read the text.

Liam: I miss having you in my bed so much,
Jase. I think I’ll sleep on the futon tonight.

Jase: I miss you too. But I just don’t think
I can live without you, and when you risk your life, you also risk
my heart.

Liam: You’re living without me right
now.

Jase: I don’t know what to say…

Liam: I do. I love you. Night.

My heart does this crunching-up thing that I
didn’t know it was capable of, and if I weren’t suffering serious
emotional trauma right now, I’d go to the emergency room to check
it out. But I know the pain comes from the simple fact that he’s
there and I’m here, and it’s by my choice, and I don’t yet know
whether it’s a permanent situation.

***

I decide it’s in my best interest to skip
classes, at least for the beginning of this week. I went about my
class-skipping in a responsible manner, though; I emailed all my
professors and told them that I’d been at the Oakwood Theatre
downtown where there had been an emergency situation on Friday
night, and thanks to my experiences at Harrison Theater last
spring, I needed some time to deal with my emotions. The professors
were all very kind and allowed me the time off to overcome my
anxiety. But what I really need is to sort out is whether I can
continue to love a hero.

Mom is at work today, which comes as a
relief to me. I don’t have to pretend I’m okay and that being
separated from Liam isn’t tearing
me
apart. I guess I hadn’t
realized what a friend he’d become. Sure, our relationship has
blossomed significantly in the romance department, which had
originally been my big concern, but our friendship started on the
night he saved me at the theater and it has grown, as well. I had
no idea how much his daily presence meant to me, until now.

So, what do I choose to do with my solitary
freedom? I stretch out on the very same couch on which I spent the
better part of the summer wasting away. And I think and remember. I
weigh and measure.

The memory of Liam’s eyes is vivid; I can
close my eyes and see him looking at me… studying me. In the past I
always laughed when guys said things like “her eyes could see into
my soul, dude,” but Liam’s truly can.

“Shit, if I worship the guy this much after
knowing him for barely six months, how would I survive if he
decided to rescue a bunch of nuns from a fiery bus crash and died
doing it?” I’m alone in our house, so it makes no difference if I
speak aloud, which I don’t hesitate to do. “I’m no good at dealing
with stress without Liam. And if he was ever gone for good because
he sacrificed his life saving someone we didn’t even know…. Well, I
know I couldn’t deal with that.”

On the coffee table beside the couch, my
phone buzzes.

Liam: Missing you today, Jason.

Jase: You aren’t alone in that feeling.

Liam: Last night in bed I was thinking… part
of what you love about me is that I’m a hero—you always tell me
that I’m your hero. How can I stop being who I am?

Jase: I know who you are. I love who you
are. That’s the problem.

Liam: How can loving me be a problem?

I have no answer for this.

Liam: Let me just come and see you. We can
talk. I can hold you.

Jase: Part of loving you right now means
keeping my distance from you.

I can’t decide something this huge while
looking into his eyes and listening to his voice. I need to be
alone.

Jase: And you need to stop texting me, Liam.
I broke up with you because loving you hurts. Give me some
space.

I can almost hear his pained gasp and see
his watery eyes. But I put the phone down and decide it’s time to
go for a run.

***

I haven’t been this much of a wreck since
last summer. On my run, I suspect every driver of every car that
passes me of having a secret desire to run me down. When my mother
drops a brownie pan on the kitchen floor, I run for cover behind
the reclining chair. A dog barks in the yard next door and I leap
to the window in search of blue lights. I’m not doing well.

I’m not doing well without Liam.

Mom comes into the room and sits beside me
on the couch. “How long are you planning on staying home? I love
having you here, but you must be missing a lot of classes.”

“I figure I’ll go back on Wednesday. Or
Thursday, maybe.”

She pats me on the knee. “Pardon the
expression, but you are a hot mess here without your friend Liam.”
The timer goes off in the kitchen but the awesome smell signifies
that the brownies are done. “I’m not
telling
you to go back
to Batcheldor on Wednesday, Jason, but I really think you should go
back sooner, rather than later.”

“Point taken.” I experience déjà vu because
this isn’t the first time I’ve spoken these words to Mom this week.
Looks like I’ll be going back to school on Wednesday.

***

It’s been five days since we last saw each
other and this time, Liam has not given up on me like he did last
summer. After a half-day text hiatus on Monday, Liam’s messages
resumed. I get texts from him… pretty much hourly. They inform me
that he loves me. That I’m his priority. That he would never choose
to save another above me because he is
my
hero. That I’ll
always come first in his mind, in every way. And the weird thing
is, I believe him. And I’ve surprised myself by responding to each
and every one of his texts, but maybe not in exactly the way he
wants. Especially when he asks would I please just talk to him
face-to-face? Because, like I told him, part of loving him right
now requires me to keep my distance, and if I communicate with him
at all, it’s by using neither eyes nor smiles nor voices nor
bodies. But it looks like I’ve allowed the stripped down, texting
method of word exchange.

I’m not heartless. I’m not cruel. And I love
Liam more than I ever knew it was possible to love another person.
I think the fact that he’s not a hot babe, which would probably
cloud my true feelings with a haze of sexual attraction, has
allowed me to see him more clearly, to know him more thoroughly,
and to love him more completely.

Another text from Liam comes in. According
to his class schedule, he’s texting me in his weekly Info Systems
Workshop.

Liam: Are you back at school now?

Jase: Yeah. I’m in my dorm. This might seem
random, but there’s an old song… “Billy, Don’t Be a Hero.” Every
hear it?

Liam: Maybe I heard it a long time ago. My
parents used to have some oldies records, back before the fire.

Jase: Well, the song is about a girl who
begs this guy named Billy not to be a hero when he goes off to
fight in a war. So he can come home to marry her.

Liam: Is this a proposal? LOL

Jase: I just mean that I’m not the only one
who feels this way, and who wants the one he loves to stop trying
to save everybody else, and to just save himself.

Liam: I don’t need to save myself. The way
you love me saves me every day.

After a short pause, another message.

Liam: And I promise, Jase. I’ll come home to
marry you.

Jase: OMG. Come to my dorm after class.
Okay?

Liam: I’ll be right there. And I mean right
there… cuz I’m at your door now. And I talked to BJ. The room is
ours for the whole afternoon.

I hear a soft knocking.

Am I ready for this? Have I decided how… or
if… I’m going to let Liam back into my life?

I open the door before the third knock and
stare at him. He looks better than he’s ever looked before, but
that could be because I missed him so much. Not only is he wearing
a crisp black jacket and a dark plaid bow tie, his hair is pushed
off his face in soft spikes, to indie rocker perfection. Plus he’s
wearing my favorite pair of butt-hugging jeans. And he’s holding a
dozen long-stemmed red roses, partially hiding the sexiest pout
ever.