by Ella James
As we make our way back to the exit, my mind’s racing. We check out without a problem and start down the street—Luke with the mask on. When we’re a block or so from the club’s door, he pulls me into an alley, pushes me against the brick, and puts his hand on my face.
“Vance?” The word is soft, contrasting with his hard body.
I search his face—what I can see of it now that he’s wearing my paint mask again. “Yes?”
His forehead lowers to my temple. He gets one deep breath…and then another. “You’re the best person that I’ve ever met.”
My throat feels too full. Tight. I swallow hard and wrap my arm around him.
I love you. It’s what I want to say. Those words have been so easy to give him before. My heart’s pounding with the need to say them, but…I can’t. I hold him against me as cars pass by on the road outside the alley and a filmy cloud of fog drifts over us. My hand brushes through his soft hair.
Borrowed time. Those two words fill my head. We’re playing pretend. Even if he really loves me and it’s not just molly talking, it means nearly nothing. He will never be a fixture in my life. The blunt pain of it locks my lungs up. I breathe slowly, letting it move through me.
“You’re a hell of a man, too, Sky.”
Every second we stand here locked together carves itself into my heart. One day, there’ll be scars from this soft, cool, Haight night and Luke’s warm body pressed against mine.
Please. My teeth are gritted as I say it in my head—a sort of prayer. Luke lifts his head and looks right at my face.
He squeezes my shoulder…goes to kiss my lips and sort of misses. “C’mon, V.” His hand takes mine. “Let’s go home.”
21
Vance
We lie wrapped together in the townhouse bed. I’m looking at the shapes that move across the ceiling, making them into an abstract.
“V?” His voice is sleep-thick.
“Yeah?”
“I…do.”
Warmth spills through my chest, hot and thick. Feels like bliss. It feels like panic.
“I do, too,” I whisper.
His arms around me tighten.
All night, he sleeps. I can’t drift off until dawn. When I wake up, the sunlight streaming in is amber gold, and Luke is gone. That happens sometimes.
No texts all morning. I work on my Eden scene with so much zeal, my muscles sting and throb by lunch. I go sit on a bench inside the walled garden outside my atrium—the one where our port-a-room is—and watch a bird hop all around the limbs of a tree.
It’s okay, I tell myself. It’s gonna be okay somehow.
At that very moment, he strolls out the door. He’s got on one of the thousand dollar suits and a no discernable expression. He raises his hand to his neck—the nervous tell. I smile as he disappears into the port-a-room.
When I follow, he pounces like a predator. His eyes never meet mine as he peels my clothes off, and he fucks me so hard on our blanket pallet, I can barely keep from crying out.
“Tonight,” he says, after we finish, “I have to go to Manhattan.” He leans down, and his mouth claims mine. “When I’m there,” he says between hard kisses, “I’ll be thinking of you. Every second.”
There’s a new voracity to all of him. It’s enough to settle me down. The power of this thick and tangled knot between us feels near tangible. I hold onto it until I’m lying in my bed that night and find him tagged on Insa with a woman. Megan someone. Fifteen minutes later, they’re tagged again. I follow the link to Page Six—where a write-up of this charity dinner refers to her as his date, Megan Mason.
I look at the pictures again. Luke looks happy, at ease. I seek Megan out and find out that her family goes to Evermore. She’s not some stranger he was paired up with tonight. This woman is someone Luke knows.
Something shifts inside me. It’s…a tightening. I pace around the bedroom, but that doesn’t help. There’s this pressure on my chest. My thoughts are racing.
I climb to the fourth floor, where I lay the easel on its side and step on one of its legs until the wood snaps. I squeeze the fractured piece, test it out by waving it a little. Then I swing it at the wall. I hit it once, then twice, and then I just start screaming. It’s a sort of bellowed scream, like in the movies when somebody goes insane. I scream like until my voice cracks, till my eyes are hot with tears and my lungs ache and my hands shake with…rage.
“This fucking can’t be it! This can’t fucking be IT!” I flinch. Shit—my throat! I hear a keening sound—it came from me—and then I’m panting, crouching down and pulling at my hair. My throat is tight, my eyes stinging—because I don’t know how I can do this. How the fuck do I keep doing this with him?
My phone vibrates. For just a second, as I pull it out, I think of hurling it at the wall. I feel numb as I lift it to my ear. His words from my first day in San Francisco float through my head as I answer. He’s not the weak one. I am.
“Hello?” I rasp.
Loud, fast, hard breaths fill the phone line.
“Luke? Hey…”
Just gasps. A bunch of gasps and then a clipped moan, followed by more struggle breathing.
“Hey, McD. What’s up?” I swallow against my tortured throat and shut my eyes to try to find some center. “Sky?” He’s hyperventilating, I think. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”
His location comes via text, and I stare down at it. He’s at my house. No—he’s by that shoe store that’s half a block down. Fuck—but Carolina. I pull up my phone email and look at the last thing she sent. She’s on a long trip sometime…
I blow my breath out. Thank fuck. Looks like she’s back the day after tomorrow.
“Okay…look down the street there. See those neon blue lights on that big sign? That’s the Donut King. My place is right above it. There’s a door beside the donut place. Put in 113322 into the key pad, and take the stairs up.”
He’s still breathing heavy and harsh. I think I can hear him walking.
“Hey, man. Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Okay.” A minute or two later, I can hear him punching in the numbers. “There ya go. Now step inside and look on your right. There’s two cabinets, sort of locker-looking. The one numbered two is mine.” I wait as he goes in. “Put in a code there, on that locker. Are you ready for it?”
“Yeah,” he rasps.
“It’s 1109.” I hear him do that. “See a spare key? That one’s ours. Now just walk upstairs. Is it cold on the stairs? Or have things thawed since I got out here?”
No answer. He’s breathing hard again. I hear my door open. I shut my eyes, picture my place and him in his dinner clothes, but that makes me want to scream. Did Megan take his coat of? I inhale through my nose and blow out my mouth. Re-focus, Vanny.
“You’re okay now, Sky. You see the half wall? Behind that’s my room. Get yourself some water. Go tuck into my bed. I’ll stay on the line.”
I’m slightly surprised to hear the sink running.
A minute or two later, I hear the springs creak. He must be fucked if he’s getting in bed. What the hell happened?
“There’s a painting of your boat beside my bed. You see it?”
A moment later, I hear something whispered.
“What?”
“Prelude.”
“Yeah. That was sort of a prelude, wasn’t it?”
The line is silent. It’s quiet for so long. I climb back down to the third floor and pace around the bedroom again.
“Fuck. I’m sorry, Sky. Whatever happened…”
I’m surprised it’s not a lie. How fucking weird is it that I can hate him and love him so much at once? Which one is realer?
His voice comes across the line. It’s just a soft rasp. “I need you.”
Luke
I wake up and fumble in the covers for the phone. The room is pale with new daylight. The call is gone. My head aches from drinking too much. My body aches from walking thirteen miles to get here. Like a
fool—a pastor fool who couldn’t catch a cab or rideshare without smelling like the man in Vance’s joke.
I roll over on my side. And freeze. Vance. The apparition gets out of the armchair, stretches out on the bed beside me. Vance is here. He’s wearing ripped jeans, some T-shirt I can’t see, and a charcoal hoodie. His eyes look tired, but he’s smiling at me.
My eyes sting.
“Hey there, Sky.” His arms wrap around me. He gives me the best hug I’ve ever gotten. He kisses my cheeks and then draws back a little, giving me a wary smile. “You smell like you have a headache.”
I can’t seem to look at him, so I look at the space between us. There’s not much of it. I have to swallow a few times to get words to come out. “How are you here?”
“I don’t know if you’re familiar with them.” His hand ruffles my hair. “There are these things, airplanes.” He tips his head back a little, so I can see his smile and wiggling eyebrows. “There was one last redeye. Caught it right after you called.”
I try to swallow. Fail, and try again. I whisper, “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
I still can’t look up at him.
“You want donuts?”
We eat the donuts he brought side by side on the bed like we ate the Greek food that first night he was in San Francisco.
I can only do one. As I chew it, I can feel him watching me. What happened? Of course, he would wonder. Later, he can maybe read about it. I’m not sure how many people noticed the harsh words I exchanged with the senator—but I know the people at the nearest tables did. Combined with how I left right after, I could see it getting picked up by some gossip rags.
Vance scoots closer, just a little, so his socked foot rubs at my calf.
“You got any clean clothes with you?”
I look down at my briefs. All my clothes are at my hotel.
Vance sits partway up, leaning over the bed’s side, then lying back beside me with a water bottle. He holds it out to me.
“I’ve got good hangover stuff, too. Hang on a second.”
Everything’s in the same general space, but the den and bedroom are divided by a half wall. He walks past the wall into the kitchen and comes back with a glass bottle and spoon. He pours it, then seems to realize if we change hands, the stuff might spill.
“Open for me, Sky.”
I do, and it tastes like shit. “Ughhh.”
“I swear, it’s magic.”
I watch as he steps over to his chest of drawers. It’s simple—pale maple with an IKEA vibe. He takes some clothes out, then comes and sits by me.
“You think you might throw up?”
I shake my head.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of Advil. “Toss those back.”
He shifts so he’s sitting by me. I scoot closer to him…lean my head against his shoulder. His arm goes around my back, and it feels so good.
“I wasn’t there with her. In case you saw those pictures at Page Six.”
He’s quiet for a long time. I realize he’s going to stay quiet.
That’s not what went wrong. But I can’t even tell him. Just thinking of it—of what the senator said, and my revealing retort—makes me break out in a cold sweat. Too close to exposing myself…
Vance stands up, interrupting my anxiety. “C’mon.” He leads me to his shower, and we strip our clothes off. I look down at my halfie. Can’t believe there is one.
He turns on the water. When I step under, he pulls my back against his chest and kisses my nape. “Too hungover?”
I shake my head.
He gets down on his knees in front of me and blows me nice and easy. I come hard, clutching the back of his neck.
He stands back up, his own erection jutting. “See? It’s kind of good when you’re hung over.”
Vance leans against the wall and starts to stroke himself. I watch as his eyelids sag and his chest pumps, and he comes with a hoarse moan. As cum seeps in between his fingers, I realize I’m hard again.
We shower and head to the bed, and he jerks us both off. Afterward, I lie against him, feeling so relaxed it’s unreal. He smiles at me. I smile back.
“I’m taking you out. You game?”
I nod. I’m sort of surprised, but I want to go with him. Forget my trouble.
I put on a pair of his olive-colored jeans and a white T-shirt. He loans me a pair of Vans-type shoes, and then he brings out the mask. Only Vance—thinking about that before he left San Francisco.
Before we go, we brush our teeth. We stand at his counter, me in the mask, him with damp hair—the two of us looking like a couple. And my chest aches.
22
Vance
We take the subway, being careful not to touch too much as we stand for the ride toward the Upper West Side. A few times, I have to stop myself from wrapping an arm around his back, taking his hand. We exchange a few small smiles. I can’t see his mouth, but I can see it in his eyes.
Mine.
Even after the tumult of my feelings last night, being out with him makes me possessive.
We get off near Central Park, and Luke slips on the baseball cap he borrowed from me. Then he takes my hand. The air is perfect—not too hot or too warm, just a light breeze pushing my hair back off my forehead. I have the thought, as we walk a trek I’ve walked by myself many times—past the used bookseller, past the bagel place, under the worn awning of a guitar shop—that this is more than I had dared to hope for. Being with him this way, on a sixty-six degree day in late April, holding his hand, headed for The Lake.
I’ve got a backpack on, with water, food, and two blankets inside.
I try to watch his face as we enter the park and make our way toward Bow Bridge. It’s hard to discern his expression with the mask on. Still, his eyes are warm when they catch mine. When we get to the swatch of grass I had in mind, I spread a blanket underneath some trees, and we sit side by side.
Luke surprises me by lying in my lap. He grins up at me—a little squint of his eyes, and the rounding of his cheeks. Then he pulls the mask off, tilts the bill of the cap down over his face. “Vance—this is great.”
I feel buoyed by his praise. It occurs to me that this might be the outest Luke has ever been—this moment right here. I wrap my arm around him and lies on me for almost an hour—half asleep, or maybe just suspended in the moment. Then he sits, pushes his hat up on his head, and arches his brows.
“Let’s walk somewhere.”
He dons the mask again, and we walk deeper into the park. His hand never loosens its grip on mine. We pass a kid holding two ice cream cones, being trailed by a dad who looks frazzled and tired, and I see Luke’s eyes tilt in a sympathetic smile. Someone on a horse trots by, clad in knight-like garb, and I think he laughs.
“Central Park.”
His fingers squeeze mine. As we wind down a stone path, I realize he’s leading me.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
He takes me to the rowboat rentals, and he pays for one with cash. We row out into The Lake, and he takes off his mask. He pulls a blanket out of my bag, and we lie together in the bottom of the boat. The sky is cloudless, perfect blue.
He’s quiet a long time, his eyes never leaving the sky. Then he looks at me. He looks more beautiful than ever with the sunlight shining on his tiger eyes, his soft lips inches from mine.
“Do you think it’s ever really possible…to move past things?” He swallows, and his lips part like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t move. His eyes just bleed at me.
“What kind of things?” I manage.
His face is a mask of anguish. “I don’t want to tell you.”
“You don’t have to.”
He moves closer, so his face is near my throat, his knees are angled toward me. His arms are folded in front of his chest. I wrap mine around him. It feels good to have him up against me. I can keep him safe if he’s here, save him from the sort of shit that would need
to forget.
“You don’t ever have to tell me…but you can.”
And so he does. In whispers first, and then in soft words framed by gently sloshing water, he gives me his stories—those old, time-worn scenes stained strange by time; vaunted, steepled chapels that cave when their mysteries are spoken aloud.
They say secrets are the currency of intimacy. He pays me in blood money as we lie together, drifting. I try to baptize him in understanding.
Afterward, we step out of the boat like travelers from another time. I feel heavy. As we walk the park’s paths, he says, “Thank you. I feel like…someone took something off me.”
We talk about other things, like the difference between east coast and west coast bagels, the Game of Thrones finale, and how wrong it is on a scale of 1-10 that he won’t go vegan even though he knows some animals are super smart because he loves bacon (I call that a solid 6.5), and then we head out of the park.
“I’m hungry,” he says.
“Me too. How far do you want to walk?”
He looks down at his feet, and I remember what he told me on the boat—about what happened last night and how far he walked.
“Let’s get a taxi.”
We hold hands in the back seat and step out in Chinatown. The sky is indigo with dusk. The smells are exquisite as always.
“I know this amazing little place,” I tell him. “Best jiazoi in the world.”
He smiles. “I think that translates ‘dumplings.’”
“Smarty pants.”
The little place is full, but there are only seven tables, and the one we get is in the back. We place our orders, and then he takes off his mask.
“Whoa.” I mime covering my eyes. “I’m blinded.”
He gives me that skeptic’s look. I rub his leg with my foot underneath the table.
“Mr. McDowell.” I stroke his calf. “It’s so good to see you.”
We talk there for two hours, and afterward, we catch a cab in Columbus Park and go back to my place and talk some more. I paint him, and then I paint his body with my hands and tongue, and when we fall asleep that night, I think that maybe this could still be good.
