Messy

by Katie Porter

  How many of Alec’s blanks am I filling in with my own imaginings?

  Too many.

  I snap the book shut and replace it on the shelf.

  Across the hall, the third room is a bathroom—a huge, fully outfitted bathroom with a glass-doored shower. It’s modern. That means he actively chose to keep from gutting this top floor. There’s no tub, which isn’t much of a surprise. The image of Alec relaxing in a tub is ridiculous. He doesn’t know how to hold still. Even trying to picture him using the rain shower is difficult. Well. Easy to picture him naked, hard to imagine him relaxed under the spray.

  I grin to myself as I duck out of the bathroom, then put my hand on the knob to the last room. It must be his bedroom. I hesitate before curiosity wins out. I’m not going to hurt anything, and after the quickest look around, I’ll go back to the study. I’m hoping Alec won’t mind if I hang out there reading a book on my phone, avoiding Dad.

  His bedroom is unimaginably cozy, which I hope explains why I lose my damn mind and crawl into his bed. The shades are drawn, leaving only light dim. Three walls are painted dark blue and the last is covered with rough cloth. It’s like walking into a cave of night. His bed is only half made, with the covers rumpled on one side and a divot in the pillow. I go full-on stalker, kick off my shoes, and wedge my body into the same spot where Alec’s has been.

  I smash my face into the pillow. It smells like him, tantalizing and expensive. The sheets have an insanely high thread count. I clench the coverlet and pull it up over the back of my head. I want a hole to swallow me up. I want Alec to come home from wherever he is, and I want to be alone forever. I wish like fuck I could cry, but my eyes remain dry and my chest remains locked in a shallow parody of breathing. Only here, in this secure refuge, does my brain unlock and lay out the facts. They plop like drops from a dripping faucet. Plink-plink-plink.

  Dad has no intention of leaving Alec’s house, even for a day trip.

  Dad has no intention of going home.

  Dad has every intention of dying in England.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Alec

  ONE OF SILAS’S NURSES, Melinda, a short woman with a fondness for cartoon-printed scrubs, is waiting for me in the kitchen when I get home from meeting with my business manager. I draw up short. It’s been difficult getting used to having a steady stream of people in my house. Having one expectantly sitting in a kitchen chair, her gaze half trained on the door as she plays on a phone to amuse herself, means an extra level of adjustment.

  “Good evening, Mr. Davies,” she says.

  “Evening.” I manage a nod.

  “I’m sorry for ambushing you, but Mr. Tate would like to see you.” She gives me an apologetic smile. “He promised he’d stay in bed if I waited here for you. He says it’s important.”

  I lift an eyebrow but otherwise keep my annoyance under control. It’s not Melinda’s fault that I’m not used to being summoned like a pageboy. “Certainly. You can move on to your other duties as you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  I’m being somewhat petty, taking my time before going upstairs. I make a cup of tea and drink it in the conservatory. I try to fend off certain memories from the night of the party, particularly what happened after the guests went home. I shouldn’t have come downstairs in the dark. I knew I would find Harlow there, and I acted as if nighttime were an abeyance to everything that should not happen between us. I sought connection with Harlow on the basest level and she took what I offered.

  There’s no going back for us now, and I’m beginning to think I don’t want to try.

  It’s evening by the time I make my way to Silas’s room. A single light is on—the one above the head of his bed. The bulb is hospital fluorescent, and it pools a blinding white glare over Silas’s head and shoulders. His hands rest on his narrow chest, which rises and falls rapidly as he pants, even though he’s receiving steady oxygen via a nasal cannula. His eyes are closed. His thin lids flicker as if he’s trapped in dreams.

  I move closer. He smells like illness, sharp and acrid, as if fear is a monster hiding under the bed. Overlaying that is the antiseptic scent of hospitals and medicine. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to come back to this room once it’s empty, but I don’t want to dwell on what events would precipitate its abandonment.

  “Silas,” I say quietly. “You wanted to see me.”

  He comes awake suddenly and easily, as if his sleep was shallow. “Alec. Hello.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m well, I’m well.” His smile is thin. The hospital bed whines as he keys it into a more upright position. The blanket slips and he fumbles when he tries to tuck it around his lap.

  “Here, let us help.” I try to tug it up, but he doesn’t let go, and our hands collide.

  “I’ve got it.” His tone is peevish.

  I let go. He pulls the beige coverlet to his waist. He blows out a short sigh, only to immediately begin to cough. There’s a rattle in his lungs. He bows forward. His face goes red.

  “Christ, Silas. Should I get your nurse?”

  He shakes his head no and points toward an inhaler on the bedside table. I place it in his open hand. He sucks a shot into his lungs, and although he coughs a couple more times, he seems to find relief. The wracking spell finally ceases. He falls limply back to the bed and stares at the ceiling.

  “No surprise if I tell you that my last doctor visit didn’t go well,” he eventually says. His voice is unsurprisingly weak.

  “How long do you have?”

  “I don’t know. They won’t give me a straight answer.” He fidgets with the blanket, plucking at a stray string. He used to make guitars whine and cry with those fingers. Now his nails are blue. “Not long.”

  “My home is yours as long as you wish.”

  “Thank you.” He drags his gaze to me. “There’s something else I’d like to ask of you.”

  I brace myself for whatever will come next. Silas’s demeanor has weight, as if he’s girding himself to request something momentous. I shift my stance. I don’t know what I’ll say if I can’t deliver. The question will be how to say no. “Go ahead.”

  He points at the bedside table again. For a moment I think he’s asking for a tissue or water from the pitcher. I shoot him a questioning look.

  “The second drawer,” he says.

  The drawer is filled with the random accoutrements of a man’s life, though fewer than if he actually lived here. A notepad and pen. A tube of lip balm. A small tangle of charging cords and headphones. “What would you like?”

  “There’s a flash drive on a red lanyard. Do you see it?”

  I find it amongst the headphones and untangle it. “Here you go.”

  “It’s for you. Some files. Listen to them.”

  Dread strikes, a weight in my stomach. Three little words I haven’t heard in a long time. He was always imperious when he rang to say he was sending over demos. In the early days, my creative urges sparked to life with the possibility of creation. Toward the breakup, those cassettes signaled an oncoming storm of mismatched ideas, fights, long silences, and the occasional compromise.

  I shake my head no. “Silas.”

  “Please. I don’t know that I’ve ever used that word for you before. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Have I asked much of you since leaving for the States?” He’s talking fast, in a panic, as if he’s trying to get the words in before I stop listening entirely. If I could close off my ears, I would. “Pick only one new song. They’re all mine, but you don’t even have to tell anyone. You don’t even have to tell Ian or Lee or Nicholas it was from me. Tell them you wrote it.”

  “Bloody hell no.”

  He leans up toward me, his hand on the bed railing. His eyes gleam with frenetic light. “Listen to them once.”

  “I can’t.” What I really mean is I won’t. I can’t believe this man, that he would ask this of me. I’ve done my best to prove to the band that I’m no longer a bastard who live
s in deceptive shadows. This isn’t crack but it’s a lie nonetheless.

  “It’s a favor for a dying man.”

  Goddamn it. Goddamn everything. Rage burns up my spine and catches fire in my body. I fist my hands. Yet I’m unable to vent my anger because yes, he is dying. Fucking doomed.

  “I’ll consider it.”

  He falls back against his pillows, but despite the fall, a weight seems lifted from his pinched bones. “Thank you, Alec. That’s as much as I can hope for.”

  My neck cracks when I nod. I’m holding myself too tightly. Fine. If he can ask such conscienceless indulgences of me, I can ask the same of him. “Where is Harlow?”

  A slight smile plays around his mouth. “I convinced her to go sightseeing. I’m glad. She shouldn’t be shut up in here with me.”

  That doesn’t sound like the Harlow I’ve come to know. I can’t imagine her traipsing carelessly from Big Ben to London Bridge or riding the Eye. I twine the lanyard of the flash drive through my fingers. “Where did she go?”

  He waves vaguely. “It’s a big city. There’s a lot to see. She’s a grown woman.”

  All true. None of which answers my question. I hum agreement anyway. Surely she doesn’t know what Silas wants. I hope Harlow would see fit to warn me. I close my fist around the USB stick. It’s so slight and small for something carrying the weight of so many expectations.

  Silas and I make small talk for another few minutes, but it’s obvious he’s wearing thin. His head droops. The whistle in his breathing becomes more pronounced. He’s exhausted.

  I pat the railing in one of those meaningless gestures that comfort no one. “I’ll let you sleep. Should I ring for the nurse?”

  “I have a button.” He lifts the remote attached to the bed. He gives a smile that’s a shadow of his old leer. “I like having birds at my beck and call.”

  “Goodnight, Silas,” I say, rather than indulge his crass bait. I’ll check with Sophette tomorrow and make sure she doesn’t have complaints. “Sleep well.”

  “Listen,” he says when I’m at the door. “Once. Just... listen.”

  I nod, because I can’t do anything else. But as I mount the stairs, I’m still wondering whether I’ve lied to him.

  The first sign of Harlow is a purse in the corner of my reading chair. Bright orange catches my eye when I switch on the light at the desk. Nothing else is out of place. Maybe she left it behind when coming to look for me. Maybe she actually went out. I toss the USB drive in a drawer before carrying on to my bedroom. If I don’t have to look at it, I don’t have to think about it. Yet.

  I find Harlow on my bed. She’s on the edge, facing the window. She looks back over her shoulder. Her eyes are red and watery, and her smile is shaky. “Sorry to intrude. Say the word and I’ll leave.”

  “Your father thinks you’re sightseeing.”

  She bites her lip. “I only wanted to see one thing tonight.”

  I know the coquettish look she tries to muster. I see through it and I fall for the false enticement, all at the same time. Her cheek is soft when I cup her face. Her bottom lip is even softer. “What’s that?”

  “You,” she says, so simply. The truth flutters in between her playacting, a frightened sparrow seeking crumbs.

  I have no defense before her naked need. I bend to take her mouth. She tastes like black licorice, wicked and dark. I kiss her deep and she opens her lips and teeth and mouth for me. She stretches across the bed, leaning precariously on one elbow in order to reach me.

  She tugs at the collar of my shirt. “Take this off.”

  I don’t obey. I stand beside the bed, bent at the waist, holding her face and studying her. Does she know about her father’s request? How arrogant and how pleasing it is? Surely this desperation can’t be coincidental. I stroke her hair back. The dark blonde strands cling to my fingers. She hides truths from herself. It wouldn’t be a big step to hide truth from me as well.

  Her brows quirk. “What is it?”

  I want her to be better than that. I want us to be better than that. But we’re not.

  “I can’t promise what will happen between you and I, but... I hope you know how much I care about you in this moment.”

  I’m not sure what reaction I expected, but it certainly wasn’t a gratitude explosion. She scrambles across the bed and throws her arms about my neck. Her mouth comes over mine, her kiss energetic. She smashes her body against mine.

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” she says against my neck. The slip of air over my skin tingles. “Not in the kind of way that makes forever stick around. But you have no idea how much I needed to hear that right now. I... It’s been a bad day.”

  I hold her close and rub the length of her back. The bumps of her spine are delicate islands. I push under the barrier of her blouse, seeking nothing sexual—just the connection of skin on skin. She’s right that forever is out of reach for us.

  We have now. I trust who we are when we’re together. I believe that’s enough. It’s enough to kiss her right now, to let the moment spin away. I breathe with her and feel our heartbeats link.

  She sinks back to the pillows. I follow her. We strip our clothing bit by bit until we’re both naked and the only protection we have is silicone. Her strong body arches under my touches. Our sex is dangerously gentle. She cradles my hips with her legs. I twine our fingers together and press them into the pillows next to her head.

  Each kiss drags into the next. Each caress suggests another way to touch. Every time I put on a condom and drive into her wet, scalding heat, I can’t pull away. And she doesn’t want me to. We drive higher and higher together, caught in our mutual mesmerism. Harlow digs her nails into my skin.

  “There,” she breathes, just when I don’t think I can be any deeper within her. “There, I like you there, I want you there.”

  Then she’s coming apart on me, squeezing tight and tighter still. I grind. Pleasure short-circuits me. I groan and bury my face against the curve of her breast. She gasps. Bliss contracts in my balls and rushes out of me. As if we’re of one mind, we find each other’s mouths for more drugging kisses, prolonging the moment. We walk outside time, in a place that doesn’t count, in a place that isn’t real.

  Harlow falls asleep curled up along my side. I shift from beneath her, cover her with a blanket, and leave her nestled on a pillow. I only breathe evenly when she remains asleep.

  There is a weight in my brain roughly the equivalent to a small USB drive. Putting it out of sight did not put it out of mind. I take the drive from my desk and walk it into my music room, where I keep the computer I use for transcribing and creating demos. It’s hooked to a good sound system, but I use headphones. This is too private to be played in the open air.

  Standing beside my desk, I begin the playlist of a couple dozen songs. It’s not Silas’s voice, which isn’t surprising. From the bits and clues Harlow provided during these past weeks, he’s been too sick to sing for a long time. The demos are stripped down, played by a guitarist and a pianist.

  I cross my arms over my chest as I listen. I try to give them my best consideration, but I’m not sure I have an open mind. They’re trite. Hackneyed. I keep listening. It’s hard to judge how much of my opinion is about the songs, and how much I’m willing them to be something worthwhile for the woman in my bedroom.

  The fifteenth song begins to play.

  Chills start at the back of my head and work their way down my bones. My arms and thighs are awash with gooseflesh. This is good music. Not just good. It’s the best Silas has ever written. Loss and heartbreak. Regrets and the difficulty of living with them. Delicate words. Particular words. The poetry of a lonely man.

  This is a song Silas would want to be known for. This is a song part of me was hoping I wouldn’t find. Now I have a decision to make.

  Tell the rest of the band or not. Tell Harlow... or not.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Harlow

  “OKAY, THE NURSES HAVE my cell phone number, n
aturally, and they also have the info about my hotel room.” I tick off each point on my fingers. “Besides, I’ll be calling to check in regularly.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” my father says coldly. “If I’m good, will the babysitter let me stay up late?”

  He’s in bed. He hasn’t been up and about for a few days. It makes me nervous, but he swears he’s fine. Plus the doctor came by yesterday and said he’s doing as well as can be expected.

  “I’m just anxious.” Which is completely true. My stomach is a pit of acid. I haven’t been able to eat all day. My carryon suitcase waits for me in the hallway, a small hardsided bomb of betrayal.

  Maybe this is the wrong thing to do. He seems tired. Quiet. I’m leaving my terminally ill father to go to a concert by his ex-band. If that’s not the most fucked up thing I’ve ever done in my life, I’m not sure what is.

  No, Alec and I are pretty fucked up. It’s an ugly competition.

  “I’ll be fine.” He pats my hand where it rests on the bed railing. The gesture isn’t much comfort because it reminds me how thin and bony his fingers are. “I’ll be right here when you get back. You’ll tell me all about Wales, although I don’t know why you want to visit a bunch of sheep fuckers anyhow.”

  “Your nationalism is showing, Dad. Cardiff Castle is beautiful.” Not that I’m actually going there. I shift from foot to foot, uncomfortable. That’s the other side of this coin. I’m even lying to him about where I’m going.

  I’m a terrible human being.

  “I gotta go, Dad. Gotta get to the station.”

  “Sure. Have a great time.”

  I don’t know how to measure his acrid tone, what it’s from. I give him a quick kiss on the forehead and wave as I head for the door. “Bye. Love you. See you in a couple days.”

  I’m halfway gone when I hear him call, “Hey, my cherie.”