Cross Island

by Santino Hassell

  Instead of slowing down so I didn’t make a fool of myself in front of them, I wound up drinking even more. Yet, I felt nowhere close to intoxicated. My stress level was through the rough, and there was so much tension in my back that it ached.

  “Clive?”

  I looked up from my phone, where I’d been eyeballing Stocks Live for no reason other than something to do, and noticed Stephanie had switched places with Tonya. She was breathtaking as usual in a long wine-colored dress, but her resemblance to Victor was almost shocking up close. I’d met her before, but I’d never paid much attention to her features. Now, her large almond shaped eyes, wide mouth, and even her nose and brow reminded me of him. Honestly, they were both art.

  “Did you ask me something? I was focused on the stock market.” I held up my phone, keeping my voice dry. “I’m really fun at parties.”

  She smiled, eyes crinkling at the side. “My boyfriend is scrolling Twitter to look for to-the-second updates about the fight, so you’re in solid company.”

  I glanced at her boyfriend, Angel, who was indeed intent on his phone. “Party animal.”

  “Right?” Stephanie rolled her eyes and yet seemed endeared by his desire to focus on anything but the celebration going on around him.

  “Did you ask me something when I was preoccupied?”

  “Yes.” Her smile faded a bit. “So, I know we don’t know each other well, but I wanted to ask how my brother was doing? Victor.”

  My first instinct was to look over at him, but I’d been doing my best to give him space while he was doing his job. Especially while we were in the company of others. For appearances, but also because I was falling into an alarmingly familiar pattern of caring a little too much once I found someone who I, well, actually began to care about. There tended to be no transition between me coldly regarding the people around me with complete indifference, and me latching onto one of the few people who struck a chord in my chest.

  The last person it had happened with was Michael.

  “What about Victor?” I slid my phone into my pocket. “He’s at the door if you’re looking for him, but he tends to not be thrilled with distractions when he’s on the clock.”

  “Isn’t he always on the clock for you?”

  “He’s assigned to me,” I said slowly. “But I’m not his boss. I don’t sign his paychecks. He works for Kenneth Stone and QFindr.”

  “I know, but I meant, he’s living with you.” Her usual ease of communication was lost to the point of her boyfriend glancing in our direction. “I’m just wondering if he’s okay. Every time I try to call him, he says he’s busy or can’t talk. And when I get pissy about it, he says he’s just trying to take his job seriously.”

  I stopped himself from raising a skeptical eyebrow. If Victor wanted to bullshit his sister to get out of communicating with her, that was his choice. But it was definitely bullshit. My stalker friend had been missing in action for the past few days unless he’d gotten better at being discreet, and most of Victor’s day was spent lurking around or in the house with me. It was probably mind-numbing after a while.

  “I can pass on a message if you want, but I’m sure he’d find a moment to talk to you now?”

  Stephanie glanced in Victor’s direction. A line drew between her eyebrows, and she eventually shook her head. “I don’t want to bother him. But if you don’t mind, can you just tell him to call me when he gets a chance? His birthday is soon, and me and Angel were trying to plan something for him. He really liked Junior’s before going to Chicago, so…”

  She trailed off, looking a little defeated. Out of nowhere, my empathy chip kicked in. I wasn’t so oblivious that I couldn’t identify a person in distress. And despite Victor and I spending several days venting to each other in what had started to become an echo chamber, I was starting to have the feeling that his thoughts regarding his sister weren’t entirely accurate.

  “I’ll tell him,” I promised. “Or… you can tell me when you want to take him out, and I can go there. As my faithful bodyguard, he’ll come with me, and you can surprise him.”

  The shock on Stephanie’s face really showed that she had not expected any generosity from me. At least, that was how my overly negative frontal lobe interpreted her response.

  “I’d really appreciate that,” she said, smiling. “Can I get your number?”

  I pulled out my phone again, and we exchanged information. Since I had no social media other than a Twitter account I rarely used, we left it at phone numbers. When it was done, I stood up in an attempt to excuse myself from further conversation about Victor—or her making small talk out of a sense of obligation—and left the table. I made it about three feet before I realized Michael had gotten up at the same time.

  My pulse jumped. I walked faster and developed tunnel vision as voices blurred around me. I jogged up the staircase to the second floor of the loft, seeking refuge somewhere. Anywhere. My gaze fell on a single door just as Michael’s voice rang out behind me.

  “Clive, can you hang on a second? Please.”

  There were few times in life when I’d felt unprepared for what was coming, but Michael talking to me, in such close proximity, was sending me into a panic.

  I was not ready for this.

  Cross Island, ch 11

  Chapter Eleven

  Clive

  “What can I do for you?”

  I’d been going for indifferent, but the words had a similar chill to the arctic tundra. When he didn’t immediately respond, I turned so we were face-to-face and far closer than I’d expected. If I took a single step forward, I’d be able to touch his handsome face. A face that was now cast in confusion with a furrowed brow and a skeptical squint because… Oh, right. He thought I was the asshole in this situation. He thought I’d been the one cheating on him.

  It was funny how I sometimes forgot the role I’d created for myself in our breakup.

  “If you want me to fuck off, I can do that,” he said, no nonsense as usual. “But this is starting to feel ridiculous.”

  “What exactly is starting to feel ridiculous?”

  Michael gave me that same sideways look, the one that meant he knew I was bullshitting him. “We’ve been rubbing elbows for over a year now. Since my brother and Nunzio started rubbing elbows with Ashton and Caleb and all their people.”

  Their people.

  If I was in a smirking mood, I would have flashed one. Same old Michael. Same chip on his shoulder. It was so evident that he was willing to be polite and friendly, but there were still lines between where he stood and where wealthy Manhattanites stood.

  “Yes, I’ve seen you around,” I said vaguely.

  “And yet you manage to disappear as soon as we lay eyes on each other?”

  “Did you want to have a chat about something in particular?” I was being a dick, and I needed to stop, but I couldn’t. His dead-eyed exasperation only egged me on. “What topics should we pick? The upcoming mayoral election? The tragedy of the Common Core? The fact that this country is becoming a—”

  “You’re being an asshole.” Michael didn’t crack a smile. There was no fondness or humor in his tone. If there was one thing Michael didn’t mess around with, it was someone mocking him when he was trying to be serious, and he’d never hesitated to call me out. “I’m just trying to talk to you. It’s been nearly four years.”

  “It’s been four years because we broke up. We don’t need to speak to each other.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why, though? Obviously queer New York is a smaller world than I’d ever thought, and we keep running into each other. Why can’t we be civil?”

  “Again—why do we need to be?” I pressed, irritation becoming more evident with each word. “We’re not together. We’re not friends.”

  “We could be,” he said gruffly. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, since my desire to have additional friendships is right up there with my desire to hangout with coworkers after work, but it is possible for us to speak to e
ach other in a civilized way when we cross paths.”

  “Michael. I understand what you’re saying is possible. I’m not saying it’s impossible. What I’m asking you is… why would you want to do such a thing?”

  He blinked in apparent disbelief and gestured between us. “Clive, we weren’t together for two years because we hated each other and had nothing in common. We had some good times. We had good discussions. There was a point when we actually liked each other, you know.”

  My heart thudded.

  “What I’m saying is,” he continued, aggravation bleeding through with his sharp hand gestures as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Is that it’d be nice to be able to see you at a wedding, walk up to you, ask about your fucking life and then your thoughts on current political situations or the stock market, because I know we’d have a good sarcasm-laden conversation about it.”

  The need to get away from him grew stronger the longer we spoke, not because I couldn’t stand to be this close, but because it was painfully obvious that I still craved the closeness. It was a sickness. A disease. It infiltrated my veins and my blood stream until I was feverish with memories and thoughts.

  There had been times in the past when we’d debated just like this—with his same impatient tone, and me goading him because I’d always been turned on by his how serious and gruff he could be. I could remember a time, very vividly, when we’d gone off on each other about something political regarding the education system. I’d called him a bleeding heart and an idealist, and he’d called me a cynic who’d given up on the possibility of change. It had been ferocious, but we’d wound up ending the argument with sex since it was oftentimes more constructive than continuing to argue when neither of us seemed capable of conceding.

  Now, as he frowned at me, those moments were all I could think of. I could see it. Me caging him against the wall and kissing him until he dropped his attitude and stopped his self-righteous ranting long enough to taste coffee and cigarettes on his tongue. I remembered the way I’d licked over his full bottom lip to his chin and then down to his throat… The way he’d groan, deep and low, then press his body to mine.

  I cleared my throat and glanced over the balcony to the lower floor. “You have plenty of friends, Michael,” I said quietly. “You don’t need me.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “There is no fucking point. There’s just you forcing your presence on me.”

  The look on Michael’s face was pure astonishment. “This is bullshit. I’m trying to be nice, and you’re acting like I’m the one who did you dirty.”

  A reckless laugh tore out of me, low and ugly. “Right. Michael Rodriguez, the innocent victim of my cheating.”

  “Is that not what you said when you dumped me?” The question pelted me like a bullet, hitting me straight in the chest. “You told me you’d had a backup man waiting in the wings because we weren’t working out. Because you couldn’t deal with the fact that I’d been closeted. You told me you were fucking someone else, and—”

  “It was a lie.”

  Michael went still.

  “I made it up,” I growled. “I made everything up. And then I blocked you everywhere so I wouldn’t be tempted to tell you the truth.”

  He held up a hand as if to ward away the words, then jerked it back to once again run through his hair. He was shaking his head and squinting, clearly unable to comprehend what I was saying. “I don’t know why you’re saying this right now.”

  “Because it’s true, Michael.” This wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the place. Yet, I couldn’t stop. Everything that had built inside of me over the past few years was boiling over, and I had no way to bring the words back into the pot. “I knew saying I’d cheated, and making a fool of you, was the only way you’d leave me. You’re too… loyal, too noble, to walk away without putting every ounce of effort in first. You would have dragged that relationship out, and we’d have both suffered.”

  “What? Clive, I’m sorry but this—I have no fucking idea what you are trying to say to me. You lied about cheating just so I’d stay away from you?” He jabbed a finger at me. “If you wanted me gone, you could have just told me without humiliating me.”

  “Humiliation?” I boomed, taking a step closer. “You want to talk about humiliation, Michael? Then why don’t you consider how fucking stupid I felt every time I welcomed you back into my life after you spent a night with Nunzio while blacked out drunk? How you’d come back with weird bruises, or finger prints on you, with your clothes on backwards or inside out.”

  The indignant storm that had begun to brew in Michael’s expression stalled, and the color drained from his face. “You can’t really think… You really thought we were sleeping together while I was with you?”

  “I don’t know what you were doing,” I thundered. “And neither do you, because you would never remember what had happened at all. You’d come to my house sheepish and hungover and admit you both got wasted. There was no way for me to know what had happened. But what I did know was that Nunzio wanted you. He wanted you so blatantly that he hadn’t cared how obvious it was to me—your fucking lover.” My voice was growing louder with each word, but I couldn’t stop. It was an avalanche of years of frustration and anger, capped off with the reality of being single and lonely while he lived his best life with the man who’d wanted him all along.

  “Clive.” Michael held up both hands this time. He pressed them together. “Please believe I wasn’t sleeping with Nunzio while we were together. I would never do that to you.”

  “You have no idea what you were doing while you were drunk,” I said scornfully. “And even while sober, it never occurred to you that I might feel hurt or disrespected by you blithely spending nights and weekends with another man. You didn’t care.”

  “That’s not true,” he argued. “And you’re not being fair. Me and Nunzio, we…” Michael’s words tangled, and he threw out his arms. “Goddamnit, Clive. I don’t know how to explain, but you need to understand that I was never unfaithful to you. I cared for you.”

  “Cared for me,” I repeated, putting every ounce of dry disgust in my voice. “I wanted you in my life forever, I wanted all of this—” I gestured at the dim golden lights, the flowers, and decorations. “—with you, and you cared for me.”

  Michael pressed his hand to his forehead and briefly closed his eyes. “I feel like there’s nothing I can say right now to change your mind. To make you believe that our relationship mattered.”

  “You can’t because it didn’t.” I didn’t react to his flinch, or the way he dropped his head. “Our relationship was a stepping stone to your current marriage. It scared Nunzio enough to decide he needed to make a move besides the drunken grinding and dancing and who knew what else, which is why he planned a summer trip to Italy with just you and him.”

  “That’s not true,” Michael growled. “You don’t need to make him sound like—”

  “A lowlife scavenger? Well, Michael,” I said with a cold smile. “To me that’s what your precious husband is.”

  Michael’s gaze cut away and fixed to the wall over my shoulder. His flared nostrils and he pursed his lips. “Are you finished?”

  “Yes. I’m finished.” I watched him for a beat longer, memorizing the barely concealed anger directed at me, because I’d dared to besmirch his beloved’s honor. “Goodbye, Michael.”

  He didn’t stop me when I walked around him to once again descend the stairs.

  ***

  Victor

  The little blond dude kept looking at me, probably because I kept grilling his man. But I couldn’t help it. The worst part about once again being trapped in the same room as Raymond was the fact that he barely spared me a glance. If it weren’t for his relationships with Stephanie and Tonya, I’d deadass be wondering if he’d forgotten who I am.

  The more likely scenario was that he remembered, was over it, and no longer cared. Being inconsequential to a person whose very existence had had a p
rofound effect on my life was crushing. I felt like a loser. And because I was me, and I deflected like a champ as my uncle had liked to say, it just made me angry.

  Over an hour into the reception, Stavros strode over to me wearing his usual serious face. “Go take a walk, kid.”

  “I thought we talked about you calling me that,” I said, making no move to leave my spot by the door.

  “When you act like a kid, I’ll call you one. I said the same to Maldonado when we first met.” His jaw set, and he lowered his voice. “This is a wedding, and you look fit to punch someone. Take a walk, cool out, and get your head together. They won’t keep you if you make their people uncomfortable.”

  “Fuck their people.”

  Stavros mashed his lips together and stared at me. Over his shoulder, I saw the blond dude once again glance in my direction.

  “Fine, whatever. When do you want me back?”

  “Fifteen minutes, unless you leave with Mr. Baptiste.”

  I jerked my head in a nod and did an about face. There were only three options for a quick escape—the kitchen, upstairs, and going down to the lobby of the building. Of them all, going downstairs was the only choice that had more of a guarantee of getting me away from people. Especially tiny blond white people who looked fit to spark up a conversation about why I kept mean mugging his man.

  I moved through the loft with long-legged strides, keeping my head down to avoid making eye contact while subtly casting a look around. Clive had seemed miserable during the ceremony—absolutely defeated and heartbroken. It had killed me to see someone so strong withering in the face of something as bullshit and superficial as a fancy wedding. To me, weddings were nothing but a giant performance put on for the benefit of people’s friends and family. A not-so subtle brag and look at me!