by Fiona Zedde
In the women’s conversation before Rille fell, he imagined Sara’s frustration rising to the surface after four dormant years. Had she threatened to leave Rille? There had been many times throughout the years he saw the need for distance in her face, a need for self-preservation that disappeared all too easily when Rille poured attention and kisses on her.
He had been the one to enable all this. His presence gave her the permission to have and suggest additional lovers. He was the one to feed Rille’s hunger for more.
Still, even he was taken off guard when Rille suggested Nazrin. Stephen clenched his eyes shut.
Rille came to the shop one afternoon, bringing her smile and a rare invitation to have lunch at the place where they’d had their first date. The faint chemical scent from her morning at school drifted up from her hair and her skin. She wore jeans and a lace bra that showed through her long-sleeved green sweater. At one thirty in the afternoon, the store was full of customers. Manny was pissed. But Stephen left with her. He followed after her, mesmerized by the swaying beacon of her hips. The laughter in her voice.
At the restaurant, they sat on the patio and ordered drinks, her favorite taco salad and his standby burger since he never knew what to order at that place anyway. The idea of a British pub and its menu with things like toad-in-the-hole, bangers and mash, and Guinness pie, vaguely repulsed him and pushed him toward the familiar. Burgers, fries, and a beer. Between plucking at her salad and sipping iced tea that was mostly ice, Rille complemented his store, the way he dressed, trailing teasing fingers through his closely clipped goatee.
“I like you with facial hair,” she said, chewing on her straw.
Two weeks before, she couldn’t stand to look at it and had stopped kissing him. Only Sara’s passingly uttered, “nice” and his desire for something of his own had stopped him from shaving it off.
“You don’t like it,” he said to her.
But she leaned across the table, traced his lips with her cool tongue, nibbled his mouth until he opened, grateful and eager like a puppy, to her kiss.
She sat back in her chair, scratching the corner of her top lip with her tongue. “Rough, but nice.”
He shook his head and smiled. “What were you expecting, a Brillo pad?”
“I’ve never had a boy with a hairy face.” She tilted her head, looked at him through her lashes. “Maybe it’s something I should have done before now.”
“That’s what I’m here for, to open you up to new things.”
She laughed and stole one of his fries.
Something over his shoulder captured her attention. She followed whatever it was with her gaze before looking back at him. Must be a pretty girl, he thought but didn’t bother looking since the best looking woman in the place already sat across from him. But Rille’s lips pursed as if tasting a decision. Then she looked past his shoulder again, this time smiling at someone. When she stood, Stephen turned in his chair to look.
A girl wove her way through the restaurant patio, attracting stares of both masculine and feminine appreciation in her low rider jeans and a yellow tube top with the university’s logo scrawled across the breast.
“Nazrin.”
“Hey,” she said breathlessly, fanning at her face with one hand. “Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find parking.”
Late? Stephen looked at Rille. She reached across the table for his hand, squeezed it, and let go. On the table, his fingers closed on nothing, still reaching out for hers.
“I’m glad you could make it,” she said to the girl, stretching up to kiss her cheek. “Sit.”
They both sat down.
“This is Nazrin,” she said to him, with a possessive arm on the girl’s that could only mean one thing.
Unease squirmed in Stephen’s belly. “Is she?” He glanced from Rille to Nazrin. “I’m Stephen,” he said. “But I think you already know that.”
The way the girl looked at him, as if she had already determined who he was, was proof enough of that. Rille had told her about him, and about Sara. He looked down at his plate, suddenly nauseated at the thought of food.
Stephen signaled their server. It was time for him to go.
At the shop, Manny asked about his abrupt return and Stephen only shrugged. He could say that for the first time, he knew how Sara must have felt when Rille brought him into her home. He wondered where it would stop, how far Rille would go. Would their house swell to accommodate one more lover? Two? Twenty? Did she ever think about them and how they might feel being dropped further and further down the totem pole? At the end of all his questions, he realized that it didn’t matter. As long as they tolerated it, Rille would do exactly what she wanted to.
Stephen stared after Sara in the gray half-light of the house. He imagined her climbing into their empty bed. Imagined Rille’s hospital bed and its different kind of emptiness. The pain throbbed in the center of his chest again, threatening to suck him in. He pushed it away. None of us deserve this.
Stephen got to his feet and followed Sara into the dark.
Touching Base
Stephen/Atlanta
Leaned back in the reclined driver’s seat of the car, Stephen lightly tapped his jean-clad thigh, keeping time with Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Green River.” As far as he could tell, his was the only occupied car in the nearly full parking lot, the other vehicles waiting for their drivers in the pregnant pre-five o’clock moment just before the squat glass building in front of him emptied of its corporate slaves.
Stephen tapped fingers against his thigh. Waiting.
At 5:09, the first of the escapees came rushing out, clutching briefcases and laptop bags as they swarmed toward the parking lot where Stephen sat. Watching them, he felt a renewed sense of relief for opting out of the corporate rat race and running his own slow-paced business instead. His eyes pecked at each dark face and tall figure.
When “I Put a Spell on You” replaced “Green River” on the stereo, he stretched to turn up the volume. It wasn’t his favorite version of the song; Nina Simone sang it much better, but Fogarty’s unique and rough voice still managed to do the lyrics justice.
“I thought it was you sitting there.”
Shit! Stephen nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the voice so close to him although he’d been waiting for it, and the body it belonged to, for nearly an hour.
Stephen smiled briefly up at Lucas’s tall form, briefcased and dark-suited, standing just outside his car window. He turned down the music.
“It didn’t have to be me sitting out here,” he said. “I’m sure there’s another black man in Atlanta driving a bright yellow Smart Car.”
“I’m sure there is, but I haven’t seen him yet.” Lucas switched his briefcase to the other hand and leaned against the car’s roof. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”
And Stephen did see him. Still slim and pretty, his skin like the bark of a cypress tree in shade. Eyes hooded and knowing. A gold ring on his left hand.
“Oh, come on. You haven’t sought me out in almost two years.” Lucas’s striped orange tie fluttered in the breeze. He looked over his shoulder as someone called his name, a passing co-worker. After a friendly wave, he turned his attention back to Stephen.
Stephen stretched his mouth again. Two years. They’d exchanged holiday cards and the occasional phone call, but that was about it for deliberate contact. Occasionally, they saw each other when Stephen went out to one of the local bars with Rille and Sara. He’d heard through the grapevine that Lucas had gotten promoted to manager at the telecommunications company and now had his own office near the top floor of the twelve-story building.
“You look good,” Stephen said.
Lucas grinned. “I know.” He tipped his chin and seemed to make a decision. “Get out of that midget car. Come on. Let’s go for a drink. You can wait out traffic with me.”
Stephen made his words light. “Why are you trying to boss me around?”
/> “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Lucas stepped away from the car. “I’m parked over there.”
They climbed into his two-seater black Honda still carrying its new car smell, and Lucas put the car in motion, quickly catching the tail end of the mass exodus from the parking lot. As he changed gears, veins stood out against his muscled forearm in sharp relief. Stephen looked away.
Things had been so easy with them. Everything that Lucas wanted was what Stephen wanted—except for those last days when Lucas tried to push him to get therapy after his parents died. Lucas’s assertiveness had manifested itself unexpectedly, but by then it was too late for them.
“Where we heading?” Stephen asked.
“This place down the road that has great wings. The beer isn’t bad either.”
Stephen forced a chuckle. “Beer and chicken wings. Is that what after-hours corporate life is all about?”
Lucas tossed him a glance. “Could be worse.”
Traffic sailed past the car’s tinted windows. Stephen tried to remember what his and Lucas’s after-hours had been about when they were together. After Different Spokes closed at night, Lucas often came down to walk him home. Along the way, they’d stop for a drink with friends. Other times, they’d go straight home, play foosball or air hockey in the building’s basement game room, pretending to compete with each other before heading upstairs to the condo where Stephen would soak in the tub while Lucas read aloud from the day’s paper. It hadn’t been a bad life.
“So is that how you and your new man spend the evenings, then?” Stephen asked. “Beer bellies and greasy fingers?”
Lucas laughed and glanced quickly down at his flat stomach before putting his eyes back on the road. “Sometimes greasy fingers. But not from fried chicken.”
Naughty, naughty.
Lucas’s laugh sparked a smile from Stephen, a real one this time. He was glad to see Lucas happy, although when he’d left three years ago, he couldn’t have cared less. Stephen was glad Lucas had survived despite him.
Lucas looked at him again. “Is the current state of my domestic life the reason you tracked me down on a Wednesday evening?”
A dart of pain. Stephen swallowed and licked his lips before speaking. “Let’s talk about that when I have a drink in front of me. Okay?”
After a pause, Lucas nodded. “Okay.”
Cars packed the restaurant’s parking lot. They circled the building twice before Lucas, with a frustrated curse, finally made his own parking spot at the back of the restaurant, squeezing the small Honda between a Dumpster and the curb. They had to press their bodies through a tight alley to get to the front door.
Inside, Stephen and Lucas waited in a short line before being seated in a corner booth with a view of the front parking lot and the street. The waiter gave them menus, water, and a few minutes to decide what they wanted. When he came back, Lucas ordered for both of them, surprising Stephen.
“With that deep line between your eyes, you could only be in the mood for the Ass-kick Teaser.” The corner of Lucas’s mouth tipped up.
“Things change, you know,” Stephen said.
“Yeah, some things.”
When the waiter came back with Lucas’s mug of amber beer and Stephen’s shot of Patrón Silver with a bottle of honey ale, aka the Ass-kick Teaser, Lucas nodded his head once. “Drink,” he said and took a sip from his mug.
Stephen knocked back the tequila and leaned into the leather booth. Heat from the alcohol spread through his chest, drifted to settle in his belly. His shoulders loosened. A sigh rolled out of his mouth and he closed his eyes, allowing his head to fall back. It felt good to be back here again, he thought. Under Lucas’s gaze, knowing that whatever happened, he was safe. Lucas would not abandon him to himself, no matter what had passed between them before. When he opened his eyes, another glass of tequila sat in front of him. Stephen picked up the clear shot glass, held its cool weight between his thumb and forefinger.
“So what’s going on?” Lucas asked. “You look like someone died.”
Stephen shook his head. No. Never that. He couldn’t answer that question yet. “Did you have any regrets when we broke up?” he asked instead.
A snort of laughter from Lucas. “Other than the fact we did break up, you mean?”
“Yes. Was there anything you wished you had gotten the chance to do, that we had gotten the chance to do, before it all just…disintegrated?”
“No. I said everything I wanted to say when we were together.” Lucas studied the bottom of his glass. “Even when things were good between us, I never took any of it for granted. Life had proven to me over and over again that nothing is promised. Either do and say something now, or risk never getting the chance again.”
A shriek just outside the window, a car alarm, pulled Stephen’s attention from Lucas. Seconds later, a man jogged to a silver Lexus, circling the car to check for damages as he frantically deactivated the alarm. Beyond him, streetlights flickered on. Dusk was approaching.
“Now I know why I could never get you to shut up about love and life and everything else.” Stephen smiled, though it was an effort.
Lucas gripped his mug, leveled a cool stare at him. “Well, after you left, I found someone who could appreciate that quality in me.”
“No.” Stephen reached out across the table to squeeze his wrist. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, it’s just that—”
“You’re in pain and you have to kick back at someone.”
He quickly downed the second shot of Patrón. It burned as beautifully going down as the first.
With the alcohol in his belly, Stephen could admit that he was in pain. The days stumbling between home and work and the hospital had left a gnawing ache in him. Existence boiled down to those three places, to waiting for Rille to fall on the side of death or life and out of the uncertainty of her coma. The waiting was agony.
Earlier, after leaving the shop and Manny’s clumsy attempts to cheer him up—first with an unwanted barbeque sandwich brought back from lunch, then with a chattering parade of all the sick or dying people Manny knew and how most of them survived their illness or painlessly “crossed to the other side”—Stephen climbed in his car and put himself on autopilot. He hadn’t been surprised when he ended up on Lucas’s doorstep.
Lucas had always represented peace to him. A lulling sea that was only unappealing when presented as Stephen’s sole alternative. A few times over the years he’d caught himself wondering what would have happened if he’d offered Lucas the same deal that Rille gave Sara when she brought Stephen into their lives. The best of both worlds: Rille’s strength. Lucas’s calm. But he would have needed Rille-sized balls to do such a thing.
The booth creaked under Stephen as he shifted, his body suddenly restless at the thought of Rille.
“The woman I live with,” he said, “I’ve never told her that I love her.”
“Why not tell her now?” A note of impatience crept into Lucas’s voice. “Better late than never?”
Stephen sucked air between his teeth and dropped his eyes to the table. “She—she’s in the hospital. In a coma.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“What for? You didn’t put her there.”
Lucas slid his half empty glass across the table. Backward. Forward. In and out of Stephen’s field of vision. “Sometimes I used to wish that you’d lose everything.”
The words jerked Stephen’s head up.
“That was a long time ago.” An embarrassed look spasmed across Lucas’s face. “After you left.” He drank from the glass, wiped a thumb across his mouth, looked everywhere but at Stephen. “I wished that you’d lose everything and come running back to me. Not very noble, I know. But I was a mess after we broke up.”
Stephen knew he was staring but couldn’t stop himself. The Lucas he’d known would never wish a thing like that on him. Would never allow himself to be “a mess” no matter how badly Stephen had treated him. This had to be a lie, some sort of wei
rd mind game.
“You didn’t act messed up,” Stephen said.
“I suppose I didn’t. But would it have made any difference if I had? Would you have stayed with me?”
Stephen said nothing. Instead, his alcohol-slowed mind tried to imagine Lucas wrecked over him. But he only pulled up the image of Lucas as he’d always been—constant and stoic, his gentleness clothed in adult responsibilities and button-down striped shirts.
“I didn’t think so.” Lucas sighed into Stephen’s silence.
“I—it wouldn’t have worked out for us. You deserved more than I was ready to give you.”
Lucas shrugged and choked up a bitter laugh. “Really?”
With his chest heavy under the press of regret, Stephen quietly watched the face opposite him. “Listen, I—”
“Hey, Lucas.” A woman in a pinstriped suit paused at their table. She carried a stack of napkins and two bottles of sweating beer in her hands. “Good work on the Phoenix issue today. The whole group was stumped until you looked at it.”
“Thanks, Rita.” He smiled tiredly up at her. “I’m sure they would have figured it out eventually, though.”
Her gaze moved to Stephen, who, after an initial smile, buried his attention in the bottom of his nearly empty beer bottle.
She flashed her capped teeth at Lucas again. “Well, keep up the good work. See you tomorrow.”
“Take care.”
After another brief look at Stephen, she drifted away. He tilted his head to watch her disappear into the thin crowd. Across from him, he felt Lucas do the same.
“I think I’m done with this place,” Lucas muttered. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Okay.” Stephen finished his beer in two gulps and reached for his wallet.
“No, it’s cool. I got this.” Lucas peeled thirty dollars from a billfold and dropped it on the table before standing, barely glancing Stephen’s way, and weaving through the steady stream of customers to get out the door.
The brisk spring air needled through Stephen’s thin shirt as he followed Lucas. He hunched his shoulders against the chill, wondering at the cause of Lucas’s stiffened back and the sudden tension that had descended between them in the restaurant. They slipped through the narrow alley with the sound of Lucas’s Bruno Magli dress shoes striking the pavement in time with the slow in and out of Stephen’s breathing.
