by V. L. Locey
“Guess you want to hear it all, huh?” I asked, letting my lashes drop to my cheeks as his firm, strong body pillowed me while his arms protected me.
“Only if you want to tell me,” he replied.
The man was so polite. I knew he wanted to talk about this, and it was time. He’d bared his all to me about Jim so it was time for me to repay his honesty with my own. Sated and rested, safe in his embrace, the world far away, I began to spit things out. Tiny tidbits from my childhood, how things had always been for me. The love and acceptance from Jacob, the disdain from Chris, and the cold detachment from Dad. Bran listened quietly, rubbing my stomach when I’d hit really rough patches, kissing my shoulder for support, cinching his arms tighter when I got to the day I came home from a game and ran inside to tell my father that I’d gotten a hat trick while Jacob struggled to wrestle my gear into the back room.
“I found him in the bathroom, somehow still alive…”
“I’m so damn sorry.” He rubbed small, tight circles on my stomach, the rhythmic touch easing me.
“Not your fault,” I mumbled, took a breath and a swig of quickly warming milk, and proceeded to let the rest of it out in choppy expulsions that left me winded and weak when I’d gotten to the trip to Barstow to say goodbye. “I’m glad he’s gone. I know that sounds shitty but if he had died years ago when he’d wanted to, maybe Chris wouldn’t hate me so much.” I paused and chortled sourly. “Or maybe he would have. He told me that whenever he looked at me, he saw the reason our mother left.”
“He knew her much better than you, didn’t he?”
“Oh yeah, he’s like fifteen years older than me. It really wasn’t me that made her leave, I mean…it was but not. She never wanted three kids, three boys at that. And she hated being a military wife. She just couldn’t take being alone all the time with a trio of boys, so when I came long when she was thinking she was done I guess she…I don’t know,” I inhaled deeply then let it out. “I guess she bolted, leaving Dad with a toddler a teenager with anger issues, and a middle son who felt it was up to him to make everything right.”
“Your parents’ decisions shouldn’t be placed on your shoulders.” I nodded, sunk back into him, and let the ball of emotion in my throat shrink. “No child has control over what the adults in their life do.”
“Tell Chris that.”
“Maybe you should?”
I shook my head strongly. He patted my belly in a soothing pat-pat-pat. “No, I’m done with him. Bran, I’ve tried. For years, I’ve begged and pleaded, but he cannot see past her leaving because I was born. He’s a trigger for me. I can see that now. His poison seeps into me and kills off any good feelings I have about myself. He wants me to suffer like he did, taking on the care of Jacob and me, watching Dad drink himself into a dark pit where a bullet seemed to be the only way out. He hates me. He envies me, and he cannot get around that. He might be family, but he’s a toxic thorn that I’ve got to dig out of my flesh and throw away. Forever. The only family I have now is a mother out there somewhere.”
“You are not alone, Nate. You have me.” He pressed his lips to my neck, and it made me shiver with delight. “And you have Dixie and Phil, and my aunt and uncle.” I snorted so loudly it rattled my sinuses. “Give him time. He’ll come around.”
“Mm, yeah, well, I won’t hang by my balls until that happens,” I tossed out. The warmth of the day mingled with the shelter of his arms and the lightening of my confessions making me lazy and languid. “I have a bunch of old people too who love the way I cultivate those crops.”
“That you do.” He laughed lightly, easing me up and then snuggling me back down, the chaise creaking under our combined weight. A light breeze ruffled the edges of the umbrella. “Any way we can sign-off from life for a few days and just stay here?”
He rubbed his cheek against my wind-dried hair. “That would be amazing but…”
“Yeah, but always shows up.”
“Nate, are you sure about missing your father’s funeral?”
I let myself ponder that one for a while. A long while. “Yeah, I’m okay with it. He really left a long time ago, you know?”
“As long as you’re sure. If you ever change your mind and decide you’d like to do something on your own, let me know.”
“Something like what?” I asked, the words torpid as my body decided it needed a nap even though I’d slept for nearly half a day.
“We could plant a tree in his and your brother’s memory, maybe out at my place?”
That sounded okay, like something that was doable and wouldn’t rip me open too badly. “Yeah, okay, we can do that. Not now though. Now I just want to crash on you, that cool?”
He kissed my hair. “That is as cool as cool can be.”
“Anyone seen Maggie?” I asked of the crowd of oldsters as I escorted Mrs. Dibble to her seat. The gardens had been transformed, or one end of them anyway. A tiny stage had been set up and festooned with potted plants and flowers. The entire cast of the Canal Area Theater Arts & Stage Company—again with the canal in every damn title—was here to perform their rendition of Fiddler on the Roof and man were the old folks thrilled.
“Did you look behind the curtain?” Phil shouted over the sounds of songbirds, bees, and senior citizens talking far too loudly.
I shook my head then gently placed Mrs. Dibble and her walker into a seat in the front row. Mr. Carmichael got mad about her walker and pushed it with his cane. A small skirmish broke out, which only ended with me shuffling Mr. Carmichael and his cane down two seats.
Taking a moment to check things out, I smiled at the attendance. All forty folding chairs were now filled. The air was heavy with humidity, and I didn’t envy the performers in their heavy wool costumes.
I slid around the stage and pulled back the curtain, a glittery shimmering thing that Dixie had hung up between two fat maple trees. The cast chatted nervously. I saw Bran’s dark head moving among the performers, passing out bottled water and good cheer. His eyes met mine. I smiled and waved then mouthed “Maggie?” at him. He shrugged then was waylaid by his niece who rose to her toes, grinned like a cat with a mouth full of canary, and then wiggled her fingers at me. Not wishing to know what she was filling his ear with, I left the chaos between the trees and went off to find Maggie. She was puttering around here somewhere with all the large print programs. I ducked out of the garden, the gate slapping me in the ass, and jogged to her van.
“Don’t be in there hogging all that dank weed,” I joked and tugged the sliding door open.
There is a reason that we’re taught to knock before entering as toddlers. I blame my fucked-up childhood on my lack of social graces. There was Maggie on her knees giving Mr. Forde—the dude who never could find his shoes—a blow job. And seriously the worst part wasn’t seeing that although I’d never be able to scour the image from my mind, it was when Maggie pulled off and looked at me over her shoulder and gave me a gummy smile.
I slammed the door shut and ran back to the gardens, my eyes burning, and threw myself at Bran as he was exiting the curtain area. He held me close as I babbled about the damage to my eyes and tender sensibilities, and then he threw back his head and roared.
“See what you have to look forward to dating an older man?” he teased, his arms snaking around my waist.
“Dude, do not even go there.”
He kissed the side of my throat, right under my ear, and I slid my fingers into his hair to keep his lips on my skin. Someone old and grumpy cleared their throat. I knew that harrumph. I’d heard it three times of late. It was always attached to Judge Cavanaugh.
I turned to face Mr. and Mrs. Judge, my arm draped over Bran’s shoulders. Mrs. C smiled warmly. The judge’s face was expressionless. I’d seen more emotion on a cyborg fresh from the factory in a video game. Dude needed an emotion chip installed stat.
“We brought our own seats. Where should we put them?” Mort asked and I bit down hard not to say what I wanted to say, what I would have
said a few months ago.
“Let me get you set up. Meet me over by the shed. We can watch from there.” Bran gave me a quick kiss on the cheek which did not go unnoticed by the elder Cavanaugh’s. Bran, and the two folding lawn chairs, moved off, followed by his aunt and uncle. I blended into the shadows that were slowly creeping over the garden, passing plot after plot of well-tended gardens thick with veggies. Finding the small stone bench in front of the shed unoccupied, I claimed it for Bran and myself. Back to the shed, legs out in front of me and crossed at the ankle, I was ready for the show to start. I’d never been a big fan of musicals, but Dixie was cool and so I’d do this for her.
“Next time try knocking,” Maggie said as she sat down beside me, her teeth back in her face, thank God.
I crossed my heart with my finger. “Trust me, I will.”
“Your face though,” she sniggered into her hand. “For a boy who has sucked as much dick as you have, you’d think seeing someone doing the same wouldn’t freak you out so.”
With that, she rose, patted my face, and tottered off with Mr. Forde, who was still barefooted.
Bran dropped down next to me then, with a resigned sigh and hand to my thigh.
I snuggled in close, despite the heat of the night, and let him loop his arm around my neck.
“Maggie accused me of being a big dick sucker,” I confided as the announcer for the theater troupe took to the small stage. All talking fell off. A lone cricket, anxious for the darkness still a couple of hours away chirruped once.
“And was she wrong?” he enquired on a whisper.
“Sure, side with the old woman.”
He chuckled, tugged on my shoulder, and sat back to enjoy the show. It was a good performance, lots of singing and dancing. The old folks loved it, clapping and shouting when the final bows were completed.
Morton had sprung for a little buffet sort of thing in the office area, finger foods mostly according to Bran. We whippersnappers filled plates and toted cups of punch out to the seniors in the gardens. The ones who were more mobile filed into the showroom to fill their plates.
“Hey, you,” Dixie said, sneaking up beside me, in shorts and a tank top, her homespun costume ditched as soon as the performance was over. “Why are you hiding back here in the shadows with your food?”
I jerked my chin at Morton and Bran smiling and chatting as they dished up tiny meatballs and macaroni salad to hungry theater fans.
“I try to keep a distance between the judge and myself. He hates me and Bran,” I said then popped a meatball into my mouth.
She wrinkled her nose. “He just doesn’t know you.” She leaned against the log wall with a plate of food in her hand.
“Oh no, he knows me. That’s why he dislikes me with Bran.”
“Well then he doesn’t know the new you,” she quickly said, picking a carrot stick off her plate and dabbing it into a glob of ranch dressing.
“Is there a new me?” I asked because damned if I saw much of anything new about me. Aside from being sober for close to three months. This was the longest stretch of dryness I’d ever had since I’d started partying hard.
“God yes!” She waved her carrot at me. “Just look at you. You’re here of your own free will, helping out cranky old people. You volunteer with kids and weed Barney’s place simply because it’s the right thing to do.”
“I do that to make amends,” I quickly reminded her, forking another meatball.
“Mm-hmm, and you’re making amends because doing so helps you stay sober.” She bit her carrot with attitude. “Also,” she said around the bite of carrot. “I love how you look at my uncle. You and he are so utterly perfect for each other. I bet you two end up together forever.”
I thought to say something about how I agreed and how much I loved her uncle, but then reality reared its head. This summer thing of ours was coming to an end soon. I was training like mad now, honing myself into a fucking lethal weapon that the Marauders would not be able to pass up. When September arrived, I would be sent to the Big Apple for training camp, they’d keep me for the season, and my address would forever change. Morton was banking on that, and so was I. It was what I’d worked so hard for, what Jacob had wanted for me.
“He’s really special,” I said in reply which made her beam. “So, your character. She was supposed to be Jewish, right?”
“Oh my God, Nathan!”
That got her right off the wedding bells in your future talk in a big hurry.
Chapter Thirteen
August disappeared like a cool drink on a hot summer day. It was a month of hard work both on and off the ice, nights of passion, hours of cuddling on the couch watching Kirk Douglas movies, and the slow acceptance that Neil Diamond really was pretty fucking good. My time with the Ponies and the gardeners had trickled down to a few hours a week as I put my all into working myself into shape for training camp. I’d be working on paying back this community until I was eighty at this rate.
Bran and I had reached a sort of plateau in our relationship. It was like we both knew that this fling, as wild and intense as it was, had reached its zenith because of hockey. Neither of us talked about it, which made his announcement this morning in the shower that much more shocking.
“I want to take you out tonight. It’ll be our last night, and I’d like to do something special.” He worked the lather into my newly-dyed hair as he spoke. Bubbles ran down over my face, so I kept my eyes tightly closed.
“Okay,” I replied, grimacing at the taste of shampoo.
He kissed me on the ear and resumed washing my brilliant pink hair. The sides had been buzzed down to mere fuzz, the top trimmed up and dyed. I was ready for the Big Apple. So fucking ready. I had a lot to prove to the Mustangs organization.
“I’m going to miss…washing your hair,” he whispered as he led my head into the water to rinse. I reached back to touch his hip, to give him some comfort, but he moved away, angling his hip from my fingers. I let him have his space, and we moved along in our routine, him leaving for Sunflower Acres and me heading to spend one more morning with my trainer.
There were no long goodbyes at the gym. We were all athletes. We knew how the game was played. I bumped knuckles with all the Syracuse players that I’d become friends with, shook the hand of the man who had worked me into a monstrous, lean machine. I’d dropped ten pounds and added a few seconds to my speed sprint time. That would translate well on the ice. Lighter meant faster. No one would fucking ever catch me on a breakaway. This would be my year to bask in the bright lights of Broadway. My skin tingled with expectation.
Bran picked me up outside my place, his Apache rolling in to park beside my dusty Mustang. I thought of asking him up but the place looked like someone was moving out, which I was. I’d started boxing things up, throwing winter clothes into trash bags, and doing some light decluttering, not that I had a lot of shit. Arn had secured me a small place in New York, a block from his office, that was only four blocks from the barn. There were some odds and ends to take care of, like what I was going to do with my car until I could get my license reinstated, which would be late December/early January at the earliest. I hated to leave her here unattended when I was in Manhattan.
“You look far away,” Bran said when I climbed up into the truck.
“Yeah, just things is all.” I leaned over to kiss him, not wanting to bring tomorrow into tonight if I could avoid it. “Damn you taste good.” I licked at his upper lip then his lower. He gave me a playful shove.
“Sit down and stop that or we’ll be late for our amazing afternoon and evening of romance.”
“Wow, that’s impressive.” I chuckled then pulled my seatbelt around my waist and fastened it. “This outing has a title.”
“It does.” He backed up slowly, taking care not to bump my car with his truck. I liked the way the cords in his neck stood out when he had his head craned so deeply. I liked a lot about the man. Too damn much. Falling in love should have never happened, I should have ke
pt it all about the sex, but somehow he’d softly won me over. I cleared the wad of emotion resting in my throat and tossed out something stupid about nothing romantic to be found in Syracuse. “Well, that’s where you would be wrong.”
He gave me a smile that should have dazzled but didn’t quite. “I’ve done all kinds of online research.” We pulled away from my car and crept over two speed bumps before we were out in traffic. We talked about inconsequential things as we went, the garden center, the Ponies, the weather, politics, his aunt’s pug dog Pongo. We deftly avoided the elephant in the cab with us all the way to Onondaga Lake Park. I inhaled the smell of Onondaga Lake on the warm September winds, anxiously hoping for him to say he’d rented us a boat to cruise the lake on. But no, Bran, the ass, took me to the salt museum. When he pulled in and parked, I gave him my most scathing look.
“Really? The salt museum. Are you fucking shitting me?” I asked, waving a hand at the building that housed shit about salt. Salt. Salt. Fucking salt.
“Hey, this was listed online as one of the ten most romantic things to do in Syracuse, so it’s number one on our list.” He left me sitting in the truck, gaping at him as he made his way to the front door of the salt museum. Salt. Motherfucking salt.
I slid down to the ground, slammed the passenger door, and pounded up to him. His blue-gray eyes were light and mischievous.
“Salt?” I finally asked.
He nodded and offered me his hand. With a pointed exhalation of disgust, I let him drag me inside. And oh, the exciting time we had. Not. I mean, sure everyone likes salt, but I did not need to have a tour guide in period clothing try to tell me that kettles and wooden barrels were exciting. Bran smiled and chatted with the tour guide, his humor rather high considering what the morning held. Finally, it was over, and I jerked the jerk outside. He was giggling like a girl as I spun him around and backed him right against the wall.
