by Anyta Sunday
Karl felt Paul’s assessing gaze on him and started to sweat. “Look, I don’t know if you want to hear this. It—I don’t know, I don’t want it sounding like an excuse for what I did or anything. There is no excuse for that.”
Paul folded his lips into his mouth and nodded. “I agree, but I want to hear it anyway.”
“Okay.” Karl took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Maybe, and this is only on reflection, but maybe I felt more like my parents. I wanted them to see and be proud of me, so I wanted to be like them. But I was the biggest dick for bullying you. Not just you, either. I was a bully for a long time.” He fiddled with the seatbelt, pulling it out of its socket, then letting it suck back in. “It’s why I loved Pop so much. He saw I was going off the tracks. Saw how unhappy I really was with myself. There was . . . there was a while where I thought I didn’t deserve to live. That no one would care if I did go—rather only be happy. Pop recognized the signs, my silent calls for help—stuff I didn’t even know I was doing. He helped me. Opened my eyes. Made me see all the pain I’d caused others, and he did it without hurting or manipulating me; he did it with forgiveness.” Karl felt an impulse to say just like you.
A tear trained down his cheek, and he turned so Paul wouldn’t see it and quickly wiped it away. “Pop said life was like learning to drive. You were bound to fuck up, make mistakes, maybe even cause an accident, but if you practice and follow the rules, people didn’t have to get hurt—and one day you’d just get better at it. Just don’t . . . give it up, he said.” Karl’s chest shuddered as he tried to control his breathing.
“Only, while I think that’s true, there’s the other side to all that. Those fuck-ups, those accidents—people who didn’t deserve it got hurt. And no matter what, I can’t take that damage away.” Forcing through his shame, Karl met Paul’s gaze. “I can’t make your childhood any better, but, again, I am sorry. I admire you for giving me a chance despite how much pain I put you through.” He smiled through his sadness. “In that sense you’re a damn good driver. I only wish I were half-so.”
Paul’s eyes watered. A sudden need for air swept over Karl. He opened the door and bounded out, stopping a few steps away and breathing deeply. Resting his palms on his thighs, he let a nauseous swell pass over him. God, he was so sorry. So very sorry.
The car doors shut one by one, and then Paul’s legs came into view on his right. He straightened himself, unable to look at the guy. Sure if he did, he’d break into sobs. He didn’t have the right to be sad. Paul was so strong. To have gone through what he did and turn out to be the guy he was . . .
“I want you to know,” Karl found himself saying, “that when I’m with Charlie, I sometimes think of us as kids. It feels like a second chance. I know I can’t take your hurt away, but sometimes I imagine I can. By doing the best I can by him.”
Paul moved beside him, his face coming into Karl’s view. Karl uncurled himself, plunking himself on the grass, gravel cutting into his hands. Paul stayed in his crouch and said one single line, “Your Pop was a good man.”
Karl closed his eyes and willed the hot tears back down. He nodded. His Pop was the best. He thought so, too.
Paul ran his fingers over the grass and picked up a small handful of gravel. He divided the lot and handed half to Karl. Then Paul sank next to him on the grass and threw, aiming for what looked like the top tier of the fountain. It passed just shy of the third tier to the left. A nudge hit Karl’s ribs. He took a stone and threw.
Neither of them managed to hit the top. But for Karl, that didn’t seem the point.
On their way home, Karl driving them this time, Paul’s tongue kept clucking—as if he wanted to say something but changed his mind. After the third time, Karl looked at him. Deep thought creased Paul’s expression. “Um, are you all right?”
“I don’t want this issue to keep coming up anymore.”
Karl held his breath, letting it out in small increments.
“What happened in the past is over. I feel bad for bringing up my feelings from before, Karl. I don’t want to judge you on that anymore. You’ve done nothing, absolutely nothing that has made me—even remotely—feel like I did back then. It’s like there are two completely different Karl Andrews’. The one I hated, and that one’s gone. And the one . . . the one that’s worth getting to know.”
Karl had to slow down, his vision of the road compromised by a watery film over his eyes. His nose blocked up too. He fumbled for a packet of tissues he kept in the console. Horns beeped behind him as he slowed further. Paul handed him a Kleenex. He blew his nose, loud and obnoxious, needing to get himself back in control. As he stuffed the dirty tissue into his pocket, Paul laughed.
“What?” Karl managed.
“It’s a good thing you’re super hot, because that was so not attractive.”
11
Quick-smart
KARL SWIRLED THE glass of merlot, surreptitiously eyeing Paul’s shirt to his right. The way Paul sat back in the chair, relaxed now that Charlie was in bed, the material taut against his chest, a little peek of chest hair at his opened collar . . . Just how expensive was that shirt? He glanced back to the red wine, wishing now he’d opted for a chardonnay.
Almost three weeks of making-out and copping feels through pants was slowly making him insane. Fantasies spiraled in his head, sometimes lavish, sometimes simple—but they were all that much more frequent.
With a little more vigor, he twisted the stem of the wine glass, imagining a perfect arc of liquid splattering over the light gray shirt. He’d help clean up. For sure.
“What are you thinking?” Paul asked, an amused tint to his voice.
“Nothing.”
Paul sat up straighter. “What?”
Karl rested a hand on Paul’s knee under the table. Squeezed. “Just . . . the shirt. Looks good on you.” Though much better off you, on the floor, and . . . Jesus, he needed to focus on something other than sex. All this channeling was enough to make him feel slutty. He needed to keep it together. Paul wasn’t ready to go further, and that was that.
The wine called to him again. Except maybe if it were an accident. . . .
Karl jumped off the chair, packing up their takeaway containers and stuffing them into the trash. Rice stuck to his fingers. He rinsed.
Paul shuffled into the kitchen behind him. “Hey, let me help clean up.”
“No. You paid for dinner.” Had paid for most of their meals since his failed interview. Karl pushed the thoughts that came with that to the back of his mind. “You can put on a movie if you like. I’ll be right in.”
A hand touched Karl’s elbow, urging him to turn around. He complied. Paul’s eyes smiled at him. Twinkled. Yeah, he liked that look. “I don’t want to watch a movie.”
Karl’s breath caught. Oh fuck it. He pressed himself into Paul, pushing him back against the counter, and met Paul’s lips with foray. Karl’s hands flew to Paul’s shirt, fumbling to open it. A nervous chuckle shuddered through Paul’s chest.
Karl pulled back. “Too much?”
He shook his head. “No.” But Karl could see a slither of anxiety cross Paul’s face. Paul must have known Karl recognized it, because he sighed. “A little. But I want . . . ” He stopped. Slipped off his watch. Then hooked a hand around Karl’s wrist and led him out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into his bedroom.
This was the first time Paul had invited him in here. In their current ‘see where this goes’ status, that was. Karl took in the large, neatly-made bed. He needed to be clear right from the start how far this was allowed to go. “Are you sure about this?” he managed in a croak.
Paul looked down. Karl would have guessed him coy or shy, except that Paul was picking at his buttons. He finished the last one, leaving a large stripe of bare skin down his middle. Chest hair and treasure trail over defined muscles. Paul met his gaze, his expression careful, serious. “I want to be naked with you.” He closed the scant distance between them. Held his hands to Karl’s T-shirt
. “See all of you.”
The heat of Paul’s palms soaked though. Karl felt each of his fingers as they skimmed to the hem. The action burned in his groin. He helped Paul peel the T-shirt over his head. Laid a cortege of kisses from Paul’s mouth, across stubble, down his neck. Bringing his hands up to Paul’s collar, he pushed the shirt over his shoulders.
Finally, it was on the floor.
Awkward hopping followed as they struggled out of their pants to their briefs. The hardwood floor could have been jelly the way Karl trembled. Why was he this nervous all of a sudden? He grabbed Paul and edged him to the bed, fighting for the confidence he usually had in the bedroom. But there was something about this that made him feel like he didn’t have a clue what to do next.
He shouldn’t be thinking so much. But it was hard not to when he could see Paul doing the same. In a moment of faux courage, he made quick work of the little material they shared between them, and lightly gripped Paul.
Paul ‘hmm-ed’ between kisses. The sound cracked through Karl’s front, and he let go.
“Hmm, what?”
A stream of light from the windows outlined Paul’s profile. Karl watched the man swallow hard. “Nothing. I just th-thought.” Paul risked looking Karl in the eye for a short moment. “You’re the only person other than Laura to see me like this.”
“Oh.” How was he supposed to take that? Was Paul upset? Should they stop? Karl shifted.
Paul snatched his arm. “Hey, um, sorry, that was a stupid thing to bring up now.”
“It’s on your mind. I guess maybe it says you’re still not quite ready for this?”
Paul shifted. Took Karl’s hand and lowered it on himself again with a slow stroke. “No, it’s okay. Actually, it feels right that it’s you.” Paul let go, leaving Karl to continue, and tentatively reached out. Karl hissed at the pleasant touch, thoughts—and the strange-prickly feeling Paul’s last words had brought—melting with it.
Karl slipped out of the room once Paul had fallen asleep. God could the guy snore. He shook his head. A part of him longed to dive under his bedcovers and sleep off the buzz that still circulated through him, but a bigger part couldn’t relax. Karl paced the length of his bedroom. Back. Forth. Trying to grapple with something, although he wasn’t quite sure what it was.
The hand job had been . . . yes, good, but also . . . intense. And, crap, if he were being honest: He’d felt a little shy. And a little bit more. A really, very little bit.
Still, that was a little bit more than he’d felt before. With Will there’d certainly been passion, but rawer. He preferred it that way. It was more comfortable—something he knew. But this was probably only a first-time thing. He and Paul would get into the swing of things.
Karl started his laptop and, to keep his mind off the earlier moment, surfed for recipes and cooking tips. He landed on a site that advertised a culinary school.
At $15,000 a semester, there was no way he’d be able to support himself through it. If only he’d been devoted to cooking and learning before he was cut off. This wouldn’t be an issue. Even if he could afford it, what if he really wasn’t good enough? That was looking more and more likely with each day he couldn’t bring himself to create something. He closed the window and opened his email. Will’s message was still up top. Other than spam, nothing new had come in. Their last conversation replayed in his head. With it came the hurt and guilt again.
I fooled myself into believing you loved me as much as I loved you. The line wouldn’t leave him alone. This was the crux of his guilt.
Because it wasn’t Will’s fault. It was his.
There were reasons he’d never been in love. Up until he was seventeen, he was a bully and knew he didn’t deserve it. Until he met Will, he just hadn’t met anyone he cared for. Will was the closest thing to love he’d felt—but a lot of those feeling were . . . forced. He’d tried hard to make it happen, which might have been how he fooled Will into thinking he loved him. He’d wanted to fool himself, but couldn’t.
Karl shut the laptop, sat back in his chair and stared at it.
In the end, he was glad it hadn’t worked between them. He didn’t want love. No. It was messy. Even the unconditional stuff. The love a mother was supposed to have for her child. Bullshit. It didn’t exist. And he’d idolized his parents. Had spent time—energy—trying to show how much he cared for them. He’d not really seen how manipulative they’d been. How . . . cruel. His signature ‘love you’ had always been real.
But all that was chucked down the garbage disposal. Munched. That’s what it felt like. Like strong teeth ripping and crunching his insides.
Karl’s head pounded; he switched off the light and crawled into bed. But shutting his eyes did nothing to close off the array of feelings inside.
After an unsettled sleep, Karl rose at seven to a rather bright Saturday morning for mid-November. He padded down the hall, nice and soft, not to wake Paul or Charlie. The percolator was the first thing to come on. Just as he poured himself a cup, Charlie zoomed into the room. He gave Karl a puzzled look as, if surprised to see him. Then his eyes lit up.
“Karly! Yay, can you make hot chocolate?” He bounced on the balls of his feet.
Karl grinned. Something about seeing the boy made his issues seem insignificant. Charlie could always bring a smile to his face. “Sure. Some toast, too?”
“’kay!” Then he skipped to the lounge.
Karl set to preparing a mug of hot cocoa, pouring milk into a pot—hey, wait a sec—had the boy called him Karly? Tut-tut-tut. He’d better not be getting used to it. Ever.
A heavier set of steps entered the room. Paul raised a brow and—like father, like son—surprise lit his face as well. He settled his jeans-and-T-shirt clad self on a bar stool. “Didn’t think you would be up so early.”
“Hey, I get up early most of the week!”
“Not weekends you don’t. And usually you’re more cranky.”
“I am not.” He was but he hid it. Well.
“You should see yourself during the week. It ain’t pretty.”
Okay, maybe not as well as he’d thought. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He smirked. “I always keep it together.”
Paul laughed. “Okay, if you say so.”
“Right, I do.” He leaned over the counter and pecked the dimple in Paul’s cheek, then added cocoa to the milk. He caught sight of Paul’s still posture, wearing a small frown.
It took a moment, and then Karl felt like kicking himself. They did the hot and heavy together, not kisses like that. “Uh, that was weird, wasn’t it? Didn’t realize I was doing it.”
Paul’s frown faded, relief washing his face. “Yeah. I don’t know. It was nice. I just don’t want Charlie seeing us this way.” He reached for the watch he’d left on the counter last night. “Not ready for that.”
Karl shrugged and smiled, but it was more of an effort than he thought it would be. “Sure. Get it.” Besides, Charlie knowing Paul and him had a little something together just made things sticky. It’d be harder to explain when he left. No, Paul was totally right. He found himself nodding hard, affirming the thoughts.
Paul eyed the pot. “Are you making breakfast today?”
“No.”
They were silent a bit. Then Paul said, quietly, “I get something isn’t right, you know. That you feel depressed about not getting the chef job. But how is not cooking going to make it better?”
Paul’s words touched on a nerve. A really big one. “Okay, it’s too early in the morning for this conversation.”
“Don’t fob this off,” Paul said gently. “Talk to me about it.”
Karl slammed some bread into the toaster. “Look, I get it’s my job to make meals. So, I’ll make sure you get your potatoes, fish and side of vege.”
Paul folded his arms. “Don’t get defensive, Karl. I’m just telling you how I see it. I think you need to get past this set-back. I’ve seen how much cooking means to you. And you’re good. I wouldn�
��t say it if I didn’t mean it. But you fall off a horse, you get back on it. That’s all I’m saying.”
“So what? Who the f—who really cares if I don’t? Maybe it’s better to cut my losses now and move on.” Yes, he needed to come up with another way to identify himself. Because if he kept going and failed again, he might not be able to handle it.
“I think that’s stupid.” Paul’s voice grew quiet, so Karl only caught the last of his next words. “ . . . care.”
Karl turned off the element, leaned his side on the counter, and watched the wooden spoon he twirled in his hand. He waited until he could keep his voice under control, and said, “I want to cook. Every day I come in here and I decide on a recipe. And each time I begin, I just freeze. I stand there looking at the utensil in my hand and think: ‘Where will this ever go? How will I ever improve on my own when I can’t see the faults of my own creations?’ Then I guess I just get disheartened, and I’m in no mood to cook anymore.”
Paul nodded and offered him a comforting smile. “Does cooking make you happy? Or is it all about success at it?”
Karl breathed in deeply at the question. Then let it out with a self-deprecating laugh. “Put it that way, and I feel silly.” He fished out Charlie’s toast.
Paul reached out, drawing the knife from Karl’s hand. “Let me help you.”
Karl closed his eyes briefly, feeling torn between a smile and a frown. Paul wanted to help him.
Karl passed the crunchy peanut butter, and as Paul took it from him, he said, “Yeah, it does make me happy. But I also want a proper career—some security.”
He let go of the jar. Paul continued to hold it mid-air. “I think it’s great if it makes you happy. I guess I overlooked the last aspect.”
