The Park at Sunrise (4 page)

Story of my life. I'd have missed a lot of good things—scratch that—great, awe-inspiring, life-changing things if it hadn't been for Jason, including my relationship with him and Paul. At sixteen, I'd been even more oblivious to my surroundings and the people who populated my world than at thirteen. I'd discovered the mysteries of numbers and walked around with my head in a fog, trying to prove the impossible in terms of mathematics.

One cold winter afternoon, we'd gathered to do homework, or at least I had, in Jason's studio; he was painting by then. The vast space was heated with a single electric heater. With Green Day on the CD player, we passed around a pipe for a few, and I cracked the
precalculus book to work on a few proofs. I heard Jason and Paul in the background but was completely unprepared when they tackled me and rolled me to my back. I blinked up into two earnest faces and gasped in shock at the warm draft of breath that caressed my mouth. "What..."

And before the sound had left my lips, they were covered. At first I wasn't sure, wanted to jerk away, but Jason's mouth was soft and warm, barely a pressure on my own, and Paul's replaced it so quickly, I didn't even have time to think. I watched, dazed, as their lips met above mine, saw them press and slide, then felt again the warm friction on my own. The wet glide of a tongue had my eyes drifting shut and all thoughts of calculus swept away. When one became two, or when mine joined the play, I couldn't say. It was wet, it was messy,
and it was the first moment when I really began to live and to love.

Unbelievable that I had thrown that away, that losing Paul had led to denying Jason. From the size of the larger package, I guessed it to be the portrait of us in the park from the photograph. I wanted to unwrap it, to sink into the emotions and memories that Jason had captured, this time with love instead of anger as my guide.

The other was smaller. A sheet of sketch paper was taped to it, with Jason's illegible scrawl filling the whole thing. Silly that, to bring a smile to my face. Paul's writing was big and loopy, filled with curlicues and lovely to look at. Mine was tiny, neat, and precise. Jason's would have done a doctor proud.

I picked up the package and read the note, no greeting, just a flow of words:

I've been in limbo for nine years. You wanted to know why I painted it? Because I was angry. Angry that Paul died and angry that his death cost me you. I blamed him for many years. Then I blamed myself. If I'd been a better a man, done something differently, you'd have come home to me. But when I painted that, the portrait of us in the park—I blamed you. It was your choice, always. To leave, to return. I wanted to remind you of what you'd left behind, because I wanted to move on, out of this gray hell of emotional limbo I've been stuck in all these years.

It didn't work the way I planned it though. Painting the picture reminded me. And that picture led to this one. Look at them both, Morgan. And as always, it's your choice.

My choice? I guess it always had been. But paintings played no part in my decision, and I refused to open either of these packages without Jason by my side. I'd made my decision staring at a photo on my cell phone in the park. God, was it just yesterday morning?

I picked up both packages and laid them gently on the sofa in the room Jason's mom jokingly referred to as the "front parlor." They could wait. Folding the note, I shoved it into the back pocket of my Levis and tugged on the despised wool cap. Leather jacket, Black Fly glasses, and a scarf I swiped from the pegs by the door, and I was off to beat the sunrise to the park.

I had two options for where to find Jason, and the scarcity of information hurt. There was a time when I'd have known which coffee house to cruise, which restaurant, which dusty bookstore. Now, if I didn't find him in the park, which I seriously hoped for, I would have to somehow find his gallery. If he wasn't in either of those places, I'd be forced to check old hangouts from our college days.

The roads were fortunately cleared, and driving this morning wasn't as dangerous a proposition as it had been during the storm. I made it to the park as the sun climbed above the tree line and rushed down the same sidewalk I'd crossed just yesterday. The paths were snow-covered, and no one had passed this way before me. Still, I had to tread forward and make sure. If he was here, he'd be on that bench, I knew it in my heart. It would be the perfect place to close this chapter of our lives. My palms were damp with nervous sweat in the warm gloves, and my breath came in visible puffs in the morning cold.

The bench was fairly secluded, so I had to walk quite a distance to prove that Jason wasn't there. That left the gallery, the location of which I was ignorant.

Breathing deeply of the crisp mountain air, I stiffened my spine from its dispirited slump and turned around. There used to be a coffee shop that we hung out at on the corner. I could head over there, get a cup of coffee, if they took my debit card, and rifle through a phone book.

Typically, I didn't consider how sitting in that particular coffee shop would feel. I should have gone to the Starbucks across the street. Too many nights we'd spent in this coffee shop with Jason and Paul both ripping apart movies, books, professors, talking
dreams, sharing everything, while I scribbled out formulas and solutions to equations on the backs of napkins and receipts. On many a Saturday night or afternoon, we'd staked out the front bow window, where today the same raggedy reject of a love seat sat wedged against a low coffee table. Our books and backpacks had overflowed the nook, and we'd sink into our own little world until the weary baristas turned us out at closing time.

I turned my back to that window and sat resolutely on a mismatched barstool at a graffiti-covered table with the phone book and a cup of plain black coffee, house blend. I'm not a coffee snob. I can barely tell the difference between one grade and another, and this morning all I needed was something hot to warm me from the inside out.

It took about two seconds with the Yellow Pages to realize that, of course, Jason's gallery was called Sunrise and was located just around the corner in the old part of town where vehicles were prohibited and college kids hung out back in the day. On the way out, I chanced a lingering glance at the love seat in the window and decided that looking at it wasn't as painful as I’d thought it would be. I'd bring Jason back here, some day, and we'd sit there and read Paul's book together. It would help the healing process.

Leaving my car in the
public parking lot, I strolled around the corner and dodged students until I arrived at the gallery. The front doors were locked, and it was an hour or so before the sign on the door said the gallery opened. I couldn't see any lights, but he had to be here. I followed the row of shops around until I came to a narrow alley. I tried not to breathe in the disgusting aroma of sour beer and rotting food from the Dumpsters as I slid and skidded along in my California-cool boots. I fully intended to force Jason to take me shopping for clothes and winter gear as soon as possible.

The back door was clearly marked, for delivery purposes, I suppose, but it met my needs as well. The door was fortunately unlocked, and I didn't think twice about inviting myself in. The alley ran between two rows of shops and was quite narrow. Opening the door cast only the slightest bit of light into the gloom beyond, but it was enough that I noted the huddled outline of a figure in the room. Automatically, I ran my hand along the wall in search of a light switch.

"Don't turn on the light." Jason's hoarse voice tore at my heart, and without consideration of what he asked, my fingers found the switch, and the room was flooded with brilliant light.

I started across the room, intent on reaching Jason's side, but that proved more challenging than I expected, as I skidded immediately in what I thought
at first must be a puddle of melted snow, only to realize upon glancing down that it was a sticky puddle of paint. I looked up to take in the rest of the room, which appeared to be divided between a storeroom and a studio, and found the whole place to be in shambles. Canvasses had been hurled everywhere, paint splattered walls and floors, and easels had been knocked over. Fear stalled my heart. Someone had broken in and trashed the place. Had Jason been here when it happened?

Immediately, I rushed to Jason and gathered him in my arms. "Jason! What happened? Are you all right? Have you called the police?"

He shoved me away so hard I fell on my ass on the floor.
What the fuck?
I decided to stay where I was, peering up at Jason, who glowered down at me.

"No, I didn't call the police. What the hell could they do?"

"Well," I offered in the placating tone I usually adopted with recalcitrant parents, "they could take a report for your insurance company." I studied his face as I spoke, taking in the red-rimmed eyes and full, puffy lips. The tracks of tears marred his flushed cheeks. I may be oblivious, but I'm not stupid. My not-so-agile mind came to the conclusion that Jason had not been assaulted, robbed, or any of the other horrifying things that had crossed my mind, at the same moment he apparently came to realize I wasn't planning on standing up.

"Oh, come on, Morgan. You look ridiculous, and you're getting paint all over." He sounded anything but conciliatory.

Not that I could blame him. Evidently, though I had everything worked out in my head in one of those bursts of intuitive knowledge that had freaked out my parents and professors alike over the years, Jason had still not realized what was going on between us. He'd always made a lousy chess opponent for this very reason. He had a plan and he was sticking to it, even though I wasn't moving my playing pieces according to his plan.

I directed my gaze down and noted that he was indeed correct. I was getting paint all over everything. My boots, jeans, and jacket were already spattered.
What the hell?
So I tugged off the boots and tossed them to the side, sensing Jason's bewildered gaze on me the whole while.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Morgan?"

I ignored him. Jerked off the hat, gloves, and scarf and sent them flying after the boots.

"Morgan? You're not staying here. Don't you have a fucking plane to catch this afternoon?"

Ignoring Jason, who clearly wasn't ready to hear I wasn't leaving, I unzipped my jacket and tossed it over to land in the vicinity of the clothing I'd already shed.

"Morgan! What the fuck are you doing?"

I paused momentarily in pulling Jason's T-shirt over my head. Did I really need to answer that?
Nah.
I threw the shirt and popped the top button on my jeans as I met Jason's eyes. The conflict he endured was there. I decided it was time for endgame, hooked a foot around his ankle, and brought him crashing down on top of me. I rolled us both till I had Jason situated where I wanted him, on his back gazing up at me.

I traced the tear tracks from his eyes down to his jawline with a finger, cupped his jaw in my hand, and retraced the path back up to his eyes with my lips. His breath hitched as I glided on to the other eye, tracing the same path back down.

"You know," I whispered against his mouth, which opened automatically, as though to breathe in my words, "I totally suck at talking. You and Paul"— I felt his wince and a brief struggle that I stilled with ease— "you were always so much more open, more able to express yourself. If I can't quantify it, or express it with an equation, I'm lost. Without you two, I was lost. I needed you, but I was afraid you didn't need me. I couldn't balance the equation, so I avoided it."

Jason's sigh told me he recognized the truth that I was afraid I hadn't expressed well enough. Taking that sigh as consent, as reciprocation, I played along the curve of his reluctant smile with my lips, refusing to allow him to return the pressure, rearing back when he attempted to deepen the kiss, then traced his lips with the tip of my tongue, encouraging him to open wider and let me in. I found the velvety inside of his lips and traced them with slow intent, ran my tongue along and over the slick surfaces of his teeth,
reveling in the restless movements of his body beneath mine even as I stilled them with the weight of my own. My tongue glided along his, searching for half-remembered pleasures, creating new ones with every passing second. I wanted nothing from Jason in this kiss but his acceptance of what I wanted to give him, the whole of the man I had become.

Unlike the wild kisses we'd shared the day before, which had apparently not been a clear enough indication of my emotions, I controlled this kiss. I wanted its message to be unmistakable, a promise, a vow, a new beginning.

"No, I don't have a fucking plane to catch," I whispered into his mouth before recapturing it in a kiss of deep intent. I pushed his hands away and worked at getting his clothes off. He refused to allow me to just toss them aside as I had my own, draping them carefully on an easel that lay on its side nearby.

It encouraged me that he gave in so quickly. And I set myself to proving that there was more going on yesterday than a good-bye fuck. I kissed my way down his chin, licking and nibbling my way to his collarbone, where I sucked a deep bruise. I probably should have asked, but his thrashing and moaning, hands holding my head in place as my teeth raked over the mark, were a good enough indication that he didn't mind being marked by me.

Swiping my tongue one last time over the mark, I inched on down his chest, licking and toying with the hairs there, finding my way over to a dusky pink nipple. The nub stiffened under the suction of my mouth, and I pinched the other lightly with my fingers, tugging gently.