by Kris Ripper
I may not have an eye. But I did have the ear of his agent, so I’d gently nudged Colin in the direction of the piece. He was paid a lot more to fight those battles. I still didn’t know the outcome of that particular one, though I was relatively confident that my assessment of the piece was spot-on.
Still, it wasn’t a huge series. But now I saw what they were planning to do with the rest of the space.
“Oh my god. Is this…real?”
Ms Macintosh laughed. “It’s real. You can get closer if you want.”
“But don’t touch,” Colin added.
I shot him a death glare. “I look like a six-year-old to you?”
He smiled. “Only sometimes.”
Exhibiting a whole lot of willpower, I did not engage with Colin. I turned back to the actual, for real, authentic Hazeltine I was staring at. And said, “Oh my god.” Again.
Mixed media, ink and collage. He’d done something with the glue to make it peak at certain points—a nipple, a raised eyebrow, a swell of what looked like tissue paper that suggested a belly or maybe an ass—and handwritten quotes ran almost like ribbons through the piece. It should have looked disjointed, fragmented, but he’d made it work. Maybe by writing on paper and then gluing it, so it had the same texture, though it seemed like that should have made the ink bleed.
It was called Neat Little Bow. All the quotes were about childhood. Fear isn’t a shadow, but a hole. I dig sideways and escape. I rise up and make him hit me harder. It always ends the same.
I realized I’d pressed my hand to my heart.
“I met Rick when he was nineteen and high as a kite. We swapped a lot of stories, had similar upbringings.” She drew her finger along one line, hovering just over the surface: You only win if they lose control.
I cleared my throat. “I was lucky. I didn’t…grow up afraid.” I didn’t know why I’d said it.
“There are all kinds of things to fear, I’ve found. Sometimes the most obvious don’t hurt us nearly as much as the ones we least expect. Let me show you some more.”
We toured slowly through the other pieces, and Ms Macintosh (who invited me to call her Myrrh) had a story about all of them. We finished in front of a table with sketches I half recognized, and a notebook.
I gestured to the sketches. “This is The Shortest Day, isn’t it?”
She beamed. “Good boy. It is.”
“Oh god. May I take pictures? Just for Chad. I only found a few mentions of it online, and one sketch. I wouldn’t publicize them or anything. I could delete them after the show, just, if he finds out I saw them he’ll freak out.”
Colin snorted. “Freak out?”
But I didn’t take it back. “He’s a beast when he thinks there’s something he needs for a project and he can’t get it.”
“You my take pictures, though these have never been printed, so you know that I’ll know if I see them anywhere, you’re the one to sue.” She was still smiling, but I didn’t think she’d hesitate to sue. Not for the money. For the lack of respect.
I shook my head. “I would never. This is such an honor. I really…when I was a teenager, I…” had a big-ass crush on your late friend. “His work meant so much to me. I can’t believe I’m standing in the same room with things he actually touched. Sorry, that sounds creepy.”
And oh god, I blushed.
“I think I understand. I once visited Monk’s House, which was the country home of Virginia Woolf. I kept telling myself that it probably looked nothing like it had when she was there, that it was staged to make you feel, and I shouldn’t give in to it, but…” She looked at the table. “Well, maybe it’s not so bad to touch that place in yourself that connects to someone you can never speak to. Or never speak to again.”
I bit down on the inside of my lip.
“Rick kept a lot of notebooks.” She flipped open the one on the table to a page of scribbled words and a sketch of a penis. Myrrh Macintosh laughed. “We played a game where we’d sketch people’s genitals and make each other guess whose they were. That’s terrible, right? Anyway, I thought you might like to see his handwriting.”
“I so do.” I leaned over it, trying to decipher the words. “God, you had to transcribe this?”
“It was a labor of love and grief. And you know how it is, with handwriting. When I look at his writing, I can hear his voice in my head speaking the words.”
I couldn’t, of course. He’d made some short films, but none I could find on YouTube or buy on Amazon. In the days before video phones, people didn’t get recorded as much. Even if they were artists, writers, activists.
But I knew what she meant. Even now I could picture Jamie’s scrawled notes on the refrigerator at the Saints house: Treads or risers 1st? Ask Denny. Paint or stain? Untreated floorboards in attic? All in her voice.
Much further back in time, Alex’s voice, in carefully printed block letters: I’m staying with Ma. Come home when you can. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of her. Lines written on binder paper, folded up, sealed in an envelope the nurse had opened in front of me for safety before letting me read it.
Myrrh grabbed my arm again. “Take your photos. I trust you.”
And I did. Eventually. But first I stood there for a few minutes, letting her keep me steady, not quite crying, my eyes on the cusp of overfilled. As long as I didn’t blink, it’d be fine.
I blinked.
Chapter Twenty-Six
THE BACHELOR PARTY was at a club. The first person I saw was Paul.
I gave him a hug, since that seemed appropriate for the man’s bachelor party. “I just crammed through a tiny door, how’d you get in here?”
“Service entrance. This place has high sentimental value, but I had to basically overrule everyone to choose it. How are you?”
Pathetic, lonely, and miserable. “Good. Where’s the bachelorette? No offense, but she’s prettier than you are.”
He laughed. “No argument. She’s around here somewhere, stressing over stuff. Confidentially, Jus, weddings are kind of a nightmare.”
Jus. Yep. It had spread. They’d been talking.
I sighed. “So I hear.” A group came in behind me, all of whom shouted, “Paul!” I got the hell out of there.
Avery found me before I found Ally. “Hey, you! Come sit with the kids!”
“I really object to being called a kid when I’m not—”
He rolled his eyes. “Come on!”
I did manage to give Ally a quick hug on the way to the table my fellow workshop goers had snagged. She was truly glowing, in that way people are supposed to, but mostly don’t. And she kissed my cheek, which probably shouldn’t have been such a big deal, but I felt it deeply.
“Justin!” they chorused.
I shoved in beside Miguel and waved at Madison. “So, this is a couple’s bachelor party.”
“Not only that, but guess who’s here.”
“I’m really not guessing.”
Miguel nudged me. “Hugh Reynolds. Brother-in-law to the bride, naturally.”
“I’ll add him to my list of humans to avoid, thanks for the heads up.” Not that I didn’t like the guy. But like was too simple a concept. He’d once gotten me hard, entirely without touching and probably on purpose, by verbally sketching out a scene of being fully restrained while someone took their pleasure from my body. And that was just a normal day for him.
Yeah, no. Avoid, avert.
“So, Jus,” Madison said, and was it just me, or were they going out of their way to call me that a lot? “How’re things with your people?”
I groaned and banged my head against the high back of the booth seat. “I’m not talking about it.”
A poke in the chest. So that was probably Avery. “See, you say that, but it seems like there’s something to talk about.”
“There’s really not.”
A pause while they considered badgering me further. Thank fuck they decided not to.
“So Maddy’s still seeing that GQ who likes spa
nking.”
Oh good. A distraction.
“Tell us tales,” Miguel said, settling in with his beer.
“I’m not telling you anything. Except damn, ze is fucking hot. You don’t even know.”
“Maybe you should introduce us!”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “When Justin introduces us to his people, I’ll float the idea to Adrian.”
“I thought—” Avery raised an eyebrow. “They’re coming to the wedding, right?”
Shit. “Um.” Were they coming to the wedding? We’d exchanged text messages (less frequently than usual, somewhat more stilted than usual). But surely they were still…or wait. Maybe surely they weren’t?
I pulled out my phone and opened the threeway thread. I’m picking you two up at eleven tomorrow for the wedding. And send.
Literal seconds later, Jamie: You better be. This dress cost a fortune in Goodwill prices.
Seconds after that, Alex: My dress was way cheaper, but J says it looks good on me, so.
Oh fuck me running. I closed my eyes, except then I was picturing them, so I opened my eyes and downed the rest of Miguel’s beer.
Avery leaned toward Madison. “I can’t tell if that’s good news or bad news.”
“Probably good. If it was bad news, he’d just act smug.”
It would have been nice to say something snarky to that, but instead what came out was, “Alex is wearing a dress. To the wedding. Oh my god.”
Eyebrow raises all around.
“He’s not trans,” I explained. “Dude likes dresses. Well, mostly he likes skirts. Dresses are for special occasions. Like weddings.” God, I was babbling. “Anyway.”
Miguel leaned all the way into my space. “Jesus. You’re blushing.” He leaned back. “He’s fucking blushing. I need another drink.”
“I think it’s cute!” Avery waved a hand at the table. “I’ll get next round. Jus, what’re you drinking?”
Is there anything that will make you stop calling me that? “Beer. Please. Whatever Miguel’s drinking is fine.”
“Cool.” He walked away and I braced for an interrogation, but sudden cheering and an announcement of dancing made any potential questions moot.
God. Bachelor party. What the hell.
* * *
I participated only as far as absolutely necessary. Which involved dancing (with my friends), teasing Ally, and threatening Paul if he didn’t treat Ally right. Madison threatened Ally if she didn’t treat Paul right.
Also, a lot of drinking. Arguably more than was necessary. It all felt necessary.
Miguel eventually strong-armed me back into our booth. “You are shitfaced.”
I did the thing shitfaced people do: acted totally affronted. “I am not!”
“Jesus, Justin. Drink some water.”
A figure appeared beside me. Out of nowhere. Or my brain wasn’t tracking very well, which was also possible. “What excellent timing I have. Bottle of water?”
Fuck me. Hugh goddamn Reynolds.
“Thanks.” Miguel grabbed a bottle, opened it, and forced my fingers around it. “Drink.”
I sighed deeply. “I’m not that drunk.”
Hugh slid into the seat across from us, which was empty, because Miguel had basically been blocking my escape.
Now I really couldn’t escape.
“I hope you’re enjoying the party.”
“Some of us are. Some of us are brooding.”
“Ah. Do tell.”
Which is when I finally looked up at him. It had been a few months since the workshop and obviously adults don’t actually change, but his appearance still sort of surprised me. Short, glasses, hair just starting to silver at the temples. He looked relatively benign until you got to those sharp goddamn eyes.
“Nothing,” I mumbled.
“Brooding about nothing can be exhausting.”
I groaned. “Oh my god, why do you talk like that?”
Miguel hit me. “He’s still brooding about his people. Except he had sex with them and we can’t figure out what his problem is.”
I slammed my hand flat on the table. “That was the problem! Why did I do that? It was so fucking stupid. If I’d just fucking said no, everything would be normal and we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Which mess is that?” Hugh opened his own bottle of water and drank from it, looking at me the whole time. “The mess where you can’t control how you feel about them, or the mess where risks don’t come with guarantees?”
“Seriously, why do you talk like that? Normal people don’t talk like that.”
He smiled crookedly. “I’ve never been accused of being normal, so maybe that’s your answer. And I suspect it’s self-protective. Or was. The more words I wrap around a thing, the less power it has to hurt me.”
Which felt so real I couldn’t even snark back at him. “Oh.”
Miguel, apparently oblivious, elbowed me in the side. Like a jerk. “But you had sex with them and it was good. It’s just so irritating, watching you waste a good thing. I get that’s my shit, but I really want to punch you.”
“Was it good?” Hugh asked. “Being with them?”
“It was…” Good was a stupid word. I flashed, not to sex, but to the paddle, to feeling Jamie’s presence through her flogger. To both of them having their hands on me afterward. “It’s the reason nothing could ever work between us. They’re too sentimental. They think I’m… I could never deserve them.”
“They think you’re what?”
“Decent. Kind. Better than I am.” I sniffled. “The only way to keep them from getting hurt is to keep myself apart from them.”
“Ah, I see. So you are purely motivated by saving them from the damage that would inevitably follow more intimate involvement with you.”
Miguel made a rude noise. “Yeah, right. God, you’re such an ass.”
“I am! I mean, I’m not. I mean…fuck.” I used to handle my liquor better. Maybe. Or I used to drink less of it in public. No, that wasn’t right, either.
Hugh leaned in. “Let’s pretend—”
I rolled my eyes.
“—that your friends didn’t need to be saved. If I told you right now that I could guarantee they would be just fine, that they would not be irredeemably harmed by your presence, would that change your current course of behavior?”
“That was…a lot of words.”
He smiled. “You’re not protecting your friends. You’re protecting yourself. And I think you know that, Justin.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Only it came out like a J.K. Rowling magic spell.
“Really think about it. If you were the only one who might get hurt, would you risk it?”
“But I’m not.” Now I just sounded petulant. “You don’t understand. This is the only good thing I’ve ever done. Most of the time I’m a dick to them.”
“Oh, picture that,” Miguel muttered.
I elbowed him, missed, and slid halfway into his lap. He laughed and picked me back up.
“You don’t get it.” I rubbed my eyes, dangerously close to crying pathetically (drunkenly).
“Who do you deserve?” Hugh asked. “If not them, then who?”
“Someone horrible. Someone mean and fucked up and selfish. I deserve a bastard. Like me.” And shit, shit, now I actually—I was actually—oh goddammit—
“Jesus.” Miguel pulled me against him. “I can’t believe you’re making me feel sorry for you. You really are a bastard.”
“I know.” Ugh, snot was running down my face.
He huffed. “You don’t deserve a bastard, you jerk. But you’ll be lonely forever if you keep telling yourself you do. The world doesn’t revolve around you, okay? You’re not the only one whose opinions matter, and if you love them as much as you say you do, maybe you should take their opinions into consideration. Dummy.”
“Put another way”—Hugh was always putting things another way—“everyone gets exactly what they deserve. If all of your actions add up to yo
u being unhappy, then you will, in fact, deserve unhappiness. Is that what you’re saying, Justin? You deserve to be unhappy?”
Miguel patted my shoulder as I whimpered.
“I don’t think I’m looking at a man who wants to be unhappy,” Hugh said, voice contemplative. “Your old ‘normal’ didn’t seem to make you happy and you were brave enough to try something different. I understand how frightening that is, and I honor the risk you took.” He reached out, this man who never seemed to touch anyone, and squeezed my shoulder, high up, by my neck.
This man who might even know what it meant to me.
“You’ll figure this out. I have faith. Enjoy the party, gentlemen.” He walked away.
Miguel whistled low. “Seriously, I find him really hot in a super strange way. Like it’s not really that physical. Just, sometimes he talks and I kind of want him to tell me what to do.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he basically did tell you what to do, so you’re set.”
“He did?”
He shook his head, a motion I could feel through his side pressed against mine. “How about I take you home? You’re looking a little rough.”
I stared at him, my eyes still watery, feeling shitty and ugly and so fucking alone my skin prickled with it. And I said the worst possible thing anyone could say to a friend they knew was attracted to them when it so wasn’t mutual. “Will you fuck me? Please? I just really don’t…I don’t want to be alone anymore. Please fuck me?”
All right, I begged. Drunkenly. While still sort of crying.
“Jesus, man. Come on, up. You can crash on my couch.”
I think I was still crying as he led me out of the club, but the rest of the night was hazy. Miguel’s couch was uncomfortable, but he draped a blanket over me and kissed me lightly. I think he said something—“Goodnight” or “Sleep well”—but by then I was fading fast, and no longer able to concentrate.
I got up just after five the next morning, fought my way through a horrific hangover, called myself a cab, and went home. I left a note on the back of a utility bill envelope that read: Thanks for not taking advantage of me. I know it was hard. See you at the thing. —J
