by Anyta Sunday
Nothing to do with him.
Which was fine.
He dropped his head against the pane of the window and watched the road fly by. Wanting, and hating that it sickened him.
Fine.
He seemed to like that word.
Just before midday, they pulled into the cemetery. Headstones and large trees spotted the area as far as Karl could see. Paul parked, theirs the only car in the lot. Instead of climbing out of the car, Paul rested back against the chair. Without the music, Karl heard each of his deep intakes of air. "Okay." The word came out a sigh. The belt clicked open. Paul climbed out and trudged around polished marble and stone arches.
Karl quietly did the same, stepping on the grass flattened by Paul's boots. Air fogged in little clouds at each release of breath. Karl dug his hands into his jacket pockets. Sharp icy breezes punched his open neck. The lump in his throat that still hadn't disappeared from the night hardened with it.
Karl pulled his gaze away from the names in gold, silver and black begging for remembrance. Then pulled it away from the gray, leafless trees. Then again from the dark sky. He focused on the back of Paul's neck, the little goose bumps and prickly hairs.
"Here." Paul stopped moving. Karl stood silently next to him, forcing himself to look at Laura's grave. If it were hard for him, just how much worse was it for Paul? The yellow marigolds already looked weather-beaten. But one in the middle stood tall, as if determined to survive.
Such a little thing, but it made it easier to keep his gaze rooted on her headstone.
"Dear Laura . . . " A breeze whipped up Paul's words, smashing them in Karl's face. He took a step back, planning to give Paul more privacy. But Paul's hand darted out as if to pull him back again, only without touching him. "Please stay."
He resumed his spot. Listened as Paul reminisced about his favorite Laura moments. About how their son was doing. About how much he missed talking to her. About how much he loved her.
Karl swallowed over the now crystallized lump in his throat. He had an icy heart. Must have. Good people didn't think ill of the dead. And he hadn't even known Laura. What right did he have to resent her? He should have more feeling, more compassion, because she meant something to Paul. In truth, he owed her enormous thanks. She'd helped Paul when others ignored him. She was every good thing Paul needed—the exact opposite of what Karl had been. Without her, Paul wouldn't have grown into the man he was. The forgiving, beautiful man he was. Yes, he should think only good things.
He would.
When Paul crouched, Karl debated whether or not to go with him. Somehow it seemed disrespectful to be looking down on Paul. He lowered himself, too.
Paul splayed his hands on the cold, damp ground in front.
"Things are so much harder without you around, but, Laura, I—" Paul fell silent, his mouth still partially opened. He stroked at the grass as Karl had Paul's hair last night.
Karl followed each gentle movement, until a growing pain clamped his gut. If Laura hadn't died, Paul would be kissing, holding and sharing laughs with her still. Stroking her hair. They'd be a proper family. Mama, Papa and Charlie. Paul would have no reason to hide kisses and even innocent touches. He'd have things the way they were supposed to be. Not even a whiff of 'disability' in sight.
Karl being there—he was making this all harder on Paul. A complication too many. Karl had seen the admiration, the love as Paul looked at Laura's picture. He hadn't moved on. Because under that look, there'd been pain, and—and guilt.
If Karl were a better guy, he would distance himself. Would let Paul and Charlie go. Wouldn't make it harder on Paul. But, hell, he couldn't. That pained him, not being able to give Paul what he needed, but his desire to stay close controlled him.
Jesus, he was a selfish ass.
Paul straightened out of his crouch and looked down at Karl, still frozen almost in a cradle.
"Karl?" Paul asked, breaking Karl from his thoughts. The first time he'd said his name since Laura's parents . . .
He pushed himself up, wiping his dewy hands over his jeans. "Your words to Laura were very kind."
"Not all of them," Paul said, sadly shaking his head. "Not the ones I didn't s-say aloud."
"And what ones were they?" Karl asked, immediately wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. Obviously Paul hadn't wanted him to overhear. Stupid.
Paul didn't say anything, his gaze cast to Laura's grave once again, but Karl caught his rapid blinking. Caught the tear Paul roughly wiped off his face.
Karl held out his hand. "Please let me drive us back."
For a moment, a stubborn resistance passed over Paul's expression, but it faded almost as quickly. Paul nodded and placed the keys into Karl's hand. Their skin touched, a sharp zing. Karl chased for Paul's gaze, but it wasn't forthcoming. Paul hadn't done it purposely.
He cleared his throat, gripped the keys so their outline indented his palm, and with a hurried step made it to the car.
The first half of their trip, music fumbled to hold its grip over their silence, but it didn't work. Karl switched it off. Better proper silence than this meek covering for it.
"Thank God," Paul said. "It was giving me a headache."
Karl laughed, dryly. "I only had it on for you."
Paul owned up to a small smile himself. Then a few seconds later: "Thanks for coming, today."
Karl stared ahead. "Sure." But inside, again, he wondered whether it would be easier if he wasn't there. Today. In general. "Look, I was thinking," Karl's heart raced, he should say it, he should. He didn't want to be selfish, "maybe I should leave for a while. I mean, give you some proper space. I know having me around is confusing, and you just—you seem to have a lot to deal with at the moment. I don't want to be . . . complicating things."
Paul's hand flew to Karl's elbow. Stunned, Karl released his pressure on the gas.
Panic filled Paul's voice. "You, you want to leave?"
"Not want, but look, you need a solid friend right now, and—"
"Yes, I do. And you're my friend, too, aren't you?"
Karl nodded somberly. "But I'm also selfish. I like you, Paul, and that makes things more complicated, and you don't need that right now. I just, I don't want to be drawing more energy away from you that you need for you and Charlie."
"No, you don't take anything away, Karl. I like having you around me and Charlie, your humor helps lighten the load. Makes me smile. Just, please, don't leave us."
The urgency, the conviction in Paul's voice shattered any attempt to do what he thought was right. Karl gripped the wheel, feeling and refusing to let loose a smile as big as Texas. It suddenly didn't matter that Karl couldn't touch him, that there were heavy awkward silences between them. Paul still wanted him around.
Paul squeezed his elbow. "Please just bear with me. I admit, a part of me dislikes the confusion you add to my life, Karl, but there's a much bigger part that likes you in it. A much, much bigger part." He let go, dropping his hand on his lap. "Last night. I don't know. It came out of left field. And on a number of levels all at once." Paul opened the glove compartment, fished inside, then, coming out empty-handed, shut it again. "I don't even know where to start."
Karl bit his bottom lip. "Ah . . . I sort of overheard some of your conversation."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, the cemetery party . . . "
"Right." A pause. "Anything else?"
"Not much."
Paul nodded. "Well, hearing that upset me. I was so frigging angry, I could barely respond. I thought 'how could people be so insensitive? So immature? Laura doesn't deserve that.' And then my thoughts spiraled off to Laura." Paul sighed. "There was a lot she didn't deserve. To die young, to never see Charlie grow up . . . but there's—there's what I did, too." Paul stopped. When Karl glanced over, Paul seemed to be struggling with something, his expression pained, confused. Karl didn't want to pressure him to say anything, so he remained quiet.
Many minutes later, Paul spoke again, "Remember when I said I was
n't perfect? You gave me such praise for forgiving you, but the truth is—it was self-seeking. I made a lie of Laura's life. Of our love. And when I so easily forgave you, it was me wishing I'd just told Laura. Wishing she'd be able to forgive me. Only I can never get that. Neither do I deserve it." Paul dropped his face into his hands.
Karl pulled over next to a grassy paddock and turned off the car. He wanted to reach out and hold him, but how would that help? He unbuckled and twisted on the chair, giving Paul his full attention. Paul rubbed his temples and looked up, out of the front window.
"I've . . . known for as long as we were friends. Well before we married . . . I did love her, though . . . really. Just . . . just . . . " He turned his head further away from Karl. "It just lacked.
"It makes me feel so goddamn guilty. I wished it could have been different, the real thing entirely. But a . . . a simple kiss with you does more to me than the most physical I'd ever been with her. I should have told her right from the beginning." Paul rested back against the headrest, staring at the sunroof. "Should have told her many, many times." He closed his eyes. "Sometimes I just wouldn't try at our marriage. Didn't put the effort in where I should have. Picked on the tiny things she did that annoyed me, like never putting her clothes in the hamper but always on the chair. I picked at lots of stupid things, things I should've let go. All in the hope there might be another reason to break apart. So I didn't have to tell her. I wanted her to leave me, so she'd feel justified—good about it. I—" Paul's knuckles whitened on his thighs as he pressed down. "Fuck. I just didn't want to be the one to break her heart. That's how selfish I am, Karl. The honest truth of it. I was too weak, too ashamed to tell her. And I never did. And I'm still that weak person inside. Still afraid to let the world know—the people I care about know—who I really am."
Silence settled between them for a short moment. Karl gathered his thoughts, somehow to respond, but again, he was lost for what to say.
Paul hadn't finished yet, his frown deepened, and he focused on the guilt? hurt? love? he felt inside. "When she was seven months pregnant, Laura said she didn't feel I loved her as much anymore. Although it was night, I heard her sniffles next to me, knew she cried—though she kept her voice so steady.
"We stayed in silence for a few minutes. I didn't know what to say. One part of me was like: this is your opportunity—own up to the truth, give her her life back.
“I rested my hand next to her, holding my breath, willing for the strength to possibly explain. Then the baby kicked against my hand. It was amazing. And Laura was amazing, and I convinced myself I was just being stupid. This was what I wanted. It didn't matter that much sexually and—and it wasn't like I couldn't fantasize about who I was . . . when we . . . And I thought even if I admitted to being gay, that didn't mean I'd find anyone that I cared about as much as Laura. And didn't every relationship have its issues? Why should I give up on something if it was pretty okay? And above all, why would I risk breaking her heart for it?
"She loved me right to the end and with such a loyal passion. How on earth could I ever say I hadn't fully meant it back? That the nine years we'd been friends, I'd hidden this from her?" Paul's breathing came out in shuddery puffs. His eyes remained closed, but that didn't stop the tears from escaping. But Paul was getting this all out, this was good. God, he hoped so.
"What's worse . . . there may have been . . . the very smallest inkling on her part. When we had sex, once—twice she asked if I liked it." The tears grooved a think wet path to Paul's ear. Karl shifted his gaze out the front window. "I remember laughing and throwing out an 'of course', but underneath I wasn't laughing at all. I was agonizing, because I was trying hard to speak, fighting with my weakness, and losing every fucking time." Paul shifted, lowering his head and opening his eyes to stare out across the empty paddock. "There were so many lost opportunities to tell her, because I am gutless.
"Year by year went by. I kept idolizing the good bits, hoping they made up the difference. But how many times were there, when I saw a guy I thought was hot and had to consciously force myself not to look? After those moments I'd always end up getting mad at Laura like it was her fault or something. Or other times, I did catch a guy's eye, registered an . . . interest . . . those times I would be extra kind to Laura, as if I could make it up to her by showing her how special she was. But partly—no, if I'm honest, mostly—it was because I was excited to feel that—that buzz. I wanted to take advantage of it and use it on her somehow."
Paul lifted his feet onto the seat. Hugged his knees. Sighed. "I was both loyal and betraying her at the same time. And I hate myself for it, Karl. Today at her grave I told her the truth. But it's too little, so very, very late. So very, goddamn late!" Paul voice grew louder at each 'very', until he kicked the dash board. "I should have told her! I should have fucking told her. If I had—if I had—"
Karl guessed where this was going, and he had to stop it. He nipped at the horn, startling him. "No. No ifs. You can't live your life by ifs."
"But if I had, she'd still be alive."
There. Right there was the seed of his guilt. If only there was some way to weed it out of him. To help. "Paul?" When Paul didn't say anything, Karl spoke in a firmer tone. "For God's sake, look at me, Paul."
A reluctant turn.
"That is not your fault. Do you hear me?"
Paul dropped his gaze again.
"It's not your fault. We're not leaving, until you say that."
"But if I hadn't kept it a secret . . . "
"It's not your fault."
"She would have married someone else."
"It's not your fault."
"Would have found a truer love."
"It's not your fault, and I don't think she could have. In one afternoon, I've seen more love from you to her, than I've ever seen from . . . anyone."
Paul hiccupped. "You really don't think it's my fault?"
"It's not." Karl hoped he was pushing this to help Paul. That's what he wanted. Though he couldn't deny that if Paul did forgive himself, there'd be more chance for them. In horror, he shoved the thought to the back of his mind. It really wasn't Paul's fault, and he wanted him to know it.
Paul gave a shaky nod. "I want to say it. I do . . . but I can't. Not right now."
Fear lined his gut, but he forced himself to nod. With reluctance, he twisted the key in the ignition. "When you're ready then, Paul. And—and whatever you need from me, to stay . . . or to go, I'll do it."
14
Something about 'fishes'
PAUL’S SMILE SEEPED through him. The same one, the same sincerity, as the last twenty-one days. They all said: Thank you. As in thank you for understanding, for giving me space, and for being here.
In turn, he replied with a smile of his own. Of course.
They never spoke about it more than in those moments. Paul clicked back into his laid-back, humorous self. A mask he fooled the world with. Had fooled Karl with for much too long. Karl fast understood now it was a cover—a wall he used to block the other issues in.
Except, it wasn't entirely a cover. It seemed to Karl, when he tried to read Paul, there was a longing mixed in it. Like the way he acted was the way he really wanted to be. When he laughed, joked, showed interest in something—he really wanted to mean it but just didn't. Quite. Except maybe with Charlie.
Paul's step crunched over the crumbs Charlie had made making crackers and sandwiches.
"Papa, I made you lunch." Charlie gave Paul a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches folded into triangles, their crusts cut off. Karl glanced to the left of his laptop, at his own plate, a single bite taken out of one.
"And you won't get any dessert if you don't eat your sammich."
Karl smiled. He always wanted to remember this. Charlie was so sweet. Yet the possibility of mischief lurked there beneath the surface.
"Okay, Mo—." Oh, so not the right thing to say. Not only would it be completely lost on Charlie, but . . . He stole a glance at Paul, who,
thankfully, didn't seem to have noticed his almost-slip. Karl picked up the bread and crammed it into his mouth, quickly getting rid of the taste. Bleck. He gave Charlie a smile. "What's for dessert?"
"Jam crackers."
Pass. Could he pass? "Um . . . " Charlie spread jam on a cracker, then licked the knife.
"No licking knives," Paul said, removing it from Charlie. "I don't want you to cut your tongue."
Charlie's bottom lip wobbled.
"Hey, is that cracker for me, or what?"
He nodded and passed it to Karl.
"Mmmm, good."
Paul gave Charlie back the knife with a warning stare. He turned to Karl, eyes flickering to the laptop. "What are you doing?" he asked curiously.
Karl looked at the email he was writing to Will, then bit the inside of his lip. Could he explain it to Paul if he barely grasped the reason why he was doing this himself?
Or did he grasp the reason perfectly but refuse to admit it? Dammit, he wasn't sure. Karl had the urge to shut the laptop so Paul wouldn't see. Not that he should have anything to hide by it, but—
He closed the window with a quick brush-and-click over the laptop pad. "Just answering an email, nothing important."
Though it must have been a little bit important since this was the fifth one in three weeks he'd written to Will. Karl frowned internally. Why? It was just—just sometimes, especially the last three weeks, he still needed him . . . The guy had cared, loved him. Was it so bad he wanted to have a little contact with that again? That was partly why he continued to email.
The reason he'd initiated anything to begin with was he felt he owed Will a more sincere apology. Not for the nose, not for that day, but for not having been honest about how he felt sooner. Something he understood about Paul's guilt. Not anywhere near the same degree, only, when he thought about how he'd been with Will, using Will's mistake as a chance to leave . . . well, why hadn't he said something sooner? He wished he had now. Saved Will from more hurt than was necessary. He judged himself for that weakness. How was it, though, that he could hate that part of himself but not the same part that was in Paul?
