Too Soon For Love (9 page)

In his lap Michael twisted his gloved hands together.

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Obviously, Alan was uncomfortable after what had happened the other night. Hell, he probably didn’t even like hockey and had only said yes to be nice. Get the poor grieving partner out of his big empty house. God, it was humiliating.

He wondered if it would have been better or worse if he had actually kissed Alan. No way to know. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be trying a bonehead move like that again.

Just get through the evening, that was all he had to do. At least once they got to the game they wouldn’t have to talk.

Alan finally settled on a station. Some bluesy jazz flowed from the car’s speakers to fill the silence.

“Can I ask you something, Michael? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

“Sure.” Michael’s tone was casual but inside his stomach tensed.

“Have you been blind your whole life?”

So that was it?

Relief washed through him and he relaxed a little. This was old ground he’d tread a thousand times.

“No, just since I was five.” He paused, waiting for the next question which was usually how did it happen. But Alan surprised him.

“Do you remember what it was like to be able to see?”

“Some things, mostly just stuff a kid would notice.”

“Like what?” Alan paused. “If you’d rather not talk about this—”

“No, it’s fine. We can talk about it. I’d rather people ask questions if they have them.”

And he’d rather talk about anything than sit here in silence wondering if he’d fucked things up beyond repair.

“For example, I remember colors.”

“Yeah? So if I told you something was blue, you’d remember
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what that looked like?”

“To a point. There’s a lot of different blues. For example, you could tell me your car is blue.”

“It is, as a matter of fact.”

“But that’s a lot different than if you tell me the sky is blue or that your eyes are blue.”

“Different how? The shades of blue?”

“Not exactly. More like different in what I see in my head.”

“My eyes are blue, too, by the way,” Alan said very quietly.

Something fluttered low in Michael’s belly, some tickle of awareness that told him maybe he hadn’t totally fucked things up after all.

“That’ll be fifteen dollars, sir.”

“Fifteen bucks to park. Are they kidding?” Alan reached for his wallet.

“Put your money away. I got it.” Michael held out bills.

“You don’t have to,” Alan said.

“I invited you, I’m paying.” Michael reached for his hand, tucked the bills into his palm. “No argument, okay?”

That little electric thrill from Michael’s touch, just like the other night, raced up Alan’s arm.

“Okay.” He closed his fingers around the money then passed it to the parking attendant.

“We got here in time for the pre-game skate,” Michael said as they settled into their seats.

“Yo, Mikey! How’s it going, man?” A large scary-looking character seated on Michael’s other side, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and thumped him on the back. The guy’s face was painted orange and black.

Alan did his best not to stare.

Face-paint guy’s gaze skidded past Michael and settled too soon FoR Love
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briefly on Alan. He had a bushy black unibrow that resembled a caterpillar. It rose inquiringly. “Where’s Phil tonight?”

“Pete, Phillip died a few weeks ago,” Michael said.

“No. Ah, Jesus, Michael. I’m sorry.”

To Alan’s astonishment, Pete’s eyes teared up. It was an even stranger sight than the orange and black face paint, or maybe because of the face paint.

For the rest of the game, Pete didn’t allow them to buy anything. When he went for beers during the first period, he brought two back for them. Likewise with hotdogs and nachos in the second. And by the time he brought back soft pretzels to chase the dogs and nachos, Alan thought he might bust right out of his jeans.

Alan watched, not really understanding the action, but enjoying everything anyway. The excitement of the crowd, the tangy bitterness of the beer and the way the players moved, all speed and grace with an edge of desperation and sometimes outright violence.

Michael sat beside him, a radio in his lap, one earbud plugged into his ear.

“Man, did you hear that hit?” Michael’s cheeks were flushed with excitement as he turned to Alan. “Dude went right into the boards, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, and it looked like it hurt too.”

When the final horn blared, ending play with a 3-1 victory for the home team, Alan and Michael rose to leave.

Pete leaped to his feet and caught Michael in what looked to be a bone-crushing embrace. “If you need anything, Michael, anything at all, you call. Jeannie and me’d be more than glad to help any way we can.”

“Pete’s all right,” Michael said as they walked out to the parking lot.

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“He got teary when you told him about Phillip.” Alan fished in his pocket for his car keys. Pulling them out, he chirped open the lock with the remote.

“Yeah?” Michael chuckled. “That’s pretty funny, especially considering that a couple years ago Phillip nearly kicked his ass.

He would have too, if I hadn’t stopped him.”

“Pete’s a big guy.” Alan opened Michael’s door.

“He pissed Phillip off, and Phillip had a temper when you pissed him off.”

As he got behind the wheel Alan asked, “So what happened, to set him off, I mean?”

Michael clicked his seatbelt and settled back. “It was the first year Pete had the seats next to ours. Phillip and I got stuck in traffic and we were late getting to the game. As we were squeezing by to get to our seats, Pete made some comment because I was holding Phillip’s arm. And Phillip turns around and says, really loud, ‘you want to say that again to my face, asshole? Or should I just see you outside after the game?’”

“Shit. So what happened?”

“I stepped in and explained to Pete, who we didn’t know from Adam at the time, that I was blind and that Phillip was my sighted guide. And Phillip told me later that Pete turned as red as a beet and he started stammering out this big apology. For like five minutes it went on. Then I told him that Phillip and I were also life partners and we’d appreciate if he’d keep his opinions to himself. After that he didn’t know what to say.”

“So after that it was all good?”

Michael nodded. “At the next game his wife invited us to the house for homemade manicotti.” Michael laughed. “And we’ve been friends ever since.”

“You went for the manicotti, I take it.”

“Of course, we weren’t stupid. Who passes up homemade manicotti?”

“Even if it’s served by someone with a wide streak of too soon FoR Love
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homophobia?”

“You sound like Phillip.” Michael sighed. “But I’ll tell you what I told him at the time. You change one person’s heart, and you’re on your way to changing society.”

Alan turned the car into the driveway.

“Are we home?”

“How did you know?”

“It was about the right amount of time. And I felt us drive over that hole at the end of the driveway.”

“Pretty slick.” Alan laughed. He wondered if Michael would ask him to come in. Thought he probably wouldn’t. And on some level he was relieved. All night he’d been thinking about those pictures on Phillip’s laptop, worrying over what he would say when Michael asked about it. Agonized over whether or not to tell him.

As much as he’d wanted to see Michael again, and as great as it was to sit next to him and listen to him talk, Alan had been a wreck ever since he saw those pictures. He suspected, though he couldn’t be sure, that Michael had sensed that something was wrong, especially at the start of the evening.

Now here they were in Michael’s driveway, and the subject of the laptop hadn’t come up. Maybe it wouldn’t come up.

“I’m glad we did this.” Michael reached for the door handle.

“It was good to get out for a while.”

“Are you okay getting up to the door?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” Michael picked up his cane from the floor and opened the car door. A cold blast of air filled the interior.

With one foot out of the car, he turned. “Hey, did your brother have a chance to look at the laptop?”

Crap. So close
.

“Tommy was busy today,” Alan lied. Well, it wasn’t a total lie.

His brother was always busy.

“Oh.” In the glow from the dome light, Michael’s face showed
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his disappointment. He had such a beautiful, expressive face.

Alan’s heart began to pound. “He promised he’d do it soon.”

“No rush.” Michael reached over, trailed his fingers down Alan’s sleeve until he found his hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

“Thanks for everything, Alan. Have a good night.”

Michael got out of the car and Alan watched him go up the front steps.

So there was no attempt to kiss him tonight, not even an aborted attempt. He couldn’t help the disappointment that weighed on him. Nor could he help the guilt he felt over the lie he’d told. But what choice did he have?

How was he supposed to tell Michael that the man he’d loved, the man he grieved for, had naked pictures of some blond hottie secreted on his laptop? Certainly that would hurt him, and hurting Michael was the last thing Alan wanted to do.

He leaned his head against the steering-wheel and closed his eyes. “Christ, Phillip, man, what the hell were you doing?”

Michael checked his watch for what felt like the twentieth time in the last five minutes. He swore and reached for his cell. If the goddamn cab didn’t get there within the next ten minutes, he was going to miss the reading altogether. And that would suck; for him, for Joanne, the manager of the bookstore, for Lea, the salonier who’d booked his reading, for all the potential readers who’d come out to hear him tonight.

Fucking taxis
.

As he opened his phone the wind blew, rattling the bare tree branches. A big wet snowflake splashed against his cheek and he took a step back away from the porch railing. He dialed the cab company’s number from memory then stood, tapping his foot and shivering, while the call connected.

“I hope so,” he said when the operator asked if she could help him.

Twenty-five minutes and another call later, Michael was still waiting. The salon would start in ten minutes and he was stranded here at the mercy of a taxi that, even if it showed up in the next thirty seconds, would get him to his destination a full half hour after the agreed upon time.

He swore and snapped his phone closed. Not only was he stranded like a castaway in his own Goddamn house, but he was freezing his ass off standing out here on the porch.

He had only just returned the phone to its belt-clip when it rang. Yanking it free, he flipped it open.

“Hello?”

“Michael, it’s Lea Chandler. Where are you?”

Michael shut his eyes. “Hi Lea. I’m still at home. I called a cab forty-five minutes ago and it hasn’t shown up yet.”

“Oh … Well, is there any other way that you could get here?”

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Fly, maybe, Michael nearly snapped. But he managed to control himself. It wasn’t Lea’s fault he was a prisoner of the cab company’s ill will.

“Not really, since I don’t drive for obvious reasons.” He tried to make it sound like a joke.

She made a little heheh noise and said, “I guess we’ll have to start the salon without you. It’s too bad. We have a good turnout tonight. Everyone was looking forward to hearing you read.”

“Maybe we can reschedule.” He hoped they could reschedule.

Lea Chandler’s LGBT literary salon was a great way to get local exposure. He’d read there before and seen a definite spike in sales afterward.

“I’ll have to check my schedule and let you know.”

He thanked her, apologized again and hung up.

Fucking cab company
.

Dropping his phone into his pocket, Michael let himself back into the house. He took off his jacket, tossed it on a chair and toed out of his shoes.

He could have taken the train, he supposed. Not that he’d done that, not in years, and never from here. Hell, he hadn’t taken public transportation of any kind since he’d met Phillip.

He could remember when he was younger, in high school and college, taking buses, trains and subways all over the city at all hours. Back then, as long as the bus or train went there, so did he.

God, that felt like a lifetime ago, maybe even someone else’s lifetime.

Michael wandered aimlessly through the downstairs from living room to dining room to kitchen and back. His sock-feet made no sound on the hardwood as he moved. He ran his fingertips lightly over the silky wood of the dining room table, traced the curves of the old-fashioned molding.

God, he loved this house. Both he and Phillip had loved it.

And they’d been happy here, tucked away in a quiet and yes, exclusive neighborhood with lots of trees and very little traffic too soon FoR Love
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aside from their neighbors, and, oh yeah, no sidewalks. Not that anyone walked anywhere. Perish the thought.

When they’d first looked at the house just over five years ago, Michael remembered feeling some concern over the lack of sidewalks. Back then he had still maintained the illusion that he would, more like could, if he wanted, actually go places on his own, just as he’d done during his pre-Phillip years.

He had even commented to Phillip on the lack of sidewalks.

And his lover had given his hand a squeeze.

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll take you wherever you need to go,”

Phillip had said.

And for the entire time they’d lived here he’d done just that, driving Michael anywhere he needed or wanted to go. Readings, book signings, both his own and for friends, literary events all over the tri-state area, there was nowhere Phillip wouldn’t go with him.

But now Phillip was gone.