by Roan Parrish
“Yeah?”
“Yep. This car is just for showing you guys stuff, so it’s no big deal. It’s a, what do you call it, learning tool.”
They all seem to relax a bit after that. It’s fun to show them stuff about cars—things that’ve become such second nature to me by now that I don’t even remember when I first learned them. All week at work, while I was doing repairs and maintenance, I imagined how I could best translate that stuff to explain it to the kids. What would be useful for them to learn. What they would think was cool or interesting.
While we’re working I forget about everything except their questions and trying to keep up with their jokes, which all seem to start out being about the car and end up being about sex. And something about how they’re trying to come up with a better nickname for me but none of the characters the actor they have in mind for me has played have interesting names, only Jack and James.
All the while, I keep reaching for tools and trying to do things with my right hand, forgetting that it’s messed up. I definitely need to change the bandage when I get home because now it’s filthy. In fact, by the time 1:00 p.m. rolls around, all our hands are grubby from the insides of the Beretta and a few of the kids have endearingly comical smudges of grease on their faces.
Rafe assures the kids I’ll be back next week when they seem reluctant to leave.
I try to catch Ricky’s eye to say good-bye, but she doesn’t even say good-bye to her friends, just drifts away, kicking at the pavement with her heavy black boots.
“Any interest in going for a run?” Rafe asks.
“Yeah, sure. But I don’t have any stuff with me. I drove the Beretta here so I was just going to grab the train home.”
“I have gear in my car. We can run near your place and you can get changed, okay?”
We walk the few blocks to his car in silence. Rafe seems distracted by something, and now that I’m not, I can feel how much my hand hurts and I become aware of the dull throb in my head.
I like the way Rafe drives. He’s so tall that even with his seat all the way back, his head still nearly touches the ceiling. He keeps his hand on his knee, holding the steering wheel loosely in a few fingers, maneuvering through cross-town traffic smoothly.
I change quickly at my house, eager to run away yesterday and last night. I’m practically vibrating with the need to move.
“You don’t have to hold back today,” Rafe says. “I know you were taking it easy last time.” I nod. “If you pull ahead, just circle back for me.”
Right from the start, I’m pushing hard. Each pump of my arm sets my hand throbbing, but within minutes it’s coalesced into a constant ache I push to the edges of my attention, alongside the throb in my head and the lingering roiling in my stomach. All I care about is that as I move, my breathing thing disappears and I feel like I can outrun my own body, slough it off like a rusty coat of paint. Rafe’s keeping up with me, his long stride helping him, but I can tell he’s not going to be able to maintain this pace for more than another mile or two.
After a while, I loop us around Wilson Park, the faded grass mostly worn to dirt from baseball and rain and neglect, and turn us so that Rafe has a straight shot back to my house.
“Go ahead,” he says. “I gotta slow down a little.”
“Just go that way and I’ll meet you back at my place. I’m gonna loop around.” The desire to just reach out and throw myself on Rafe wells up suddenly, so big it’s almost irresistible. To fight, to fuck—I don’t know, but I know I need to run, run away from it.
Rafe nods and I leave him behind in minutes. He’s a good runner. But no one can touch me when I feel like this. When I need to get away.
About a mile from home, I can tell I’ve pushed too hard. My stomach is in my throat and there’s a metallic taste in my mouth. My ears ache and my thighs and calves are burning so much I don’t even notice my hand anymore.
Rafe’s been sitting on the porch long enough to catch his breath when I stagger to a stop in front of my house. I have just enough time to catch the edge of a smile when he sees me before I bend over and retch onto the ground. There isn’t much to come up—just a little coffee and the remnants of the peanut butter sandwich I ate last night—but it burns through me and feels like my whole stomach is coming out my throat.
Rafe’s hand on my back is cool against my flushed skin. He’s holding me up by my shoulders, steering me toward the porch.
“Jesus Christ,” he says. “What the hell, Colin?”
“I’m fine,” I insist, pushing his hand away from my face. “Just happens sometimes if I go really hard.”
Rafe’s messing with my bandage, which I forgot to change before we left. It’s pretty gross: all dirty and, now, sweaty. He pulls me to my feet by my biceps. It takes him no effort at all, even though I’m practically dead weight.
Inside, I find myself at the kitchen table, a little spaced out, water next to me and my hand on the table. Rafe unwraps the bandage and jerks his eyes up to my face.
“You are an absolute fucking mess, do you know that?” he says, and he sounds pissed.
“Thought you liked lost causes?” I say, but it comes out with none of the levity I intended.
Rafe opens his mouth and closes it again. “I have a proposal,” he finally says, voice very calm.
“Is it indecent?”
Not even a smile.
“I propose that you take a shower while I go out and get some food. I think your hand needs stitches—no, hold on,” he says when I start to argue. “If you don’t want to go to the hospital”—I shake my head definitively—“I can do them. If you’re comfortable with that.”
Now it’s my turn to gape. Um. Who the fuck would be comfortable with a random stranger sticking a needle into their flesh?
“Uh, are you… a paramedic or something?”
He shakes his head.
“But you know how to do stitches.”
He nods. Well, shit, I guess it can’t really be worse than it is now….
I shrug my assent and Rafe nods. I stand to go to the shower and immediately start to sway. Rafe catches me with one hand on my back and the other around my shoulder. My head is swimming, and I want to just collapse. And somehow, I know Rafe would catch me. I’ve never felt like that about anyone. I mean, maybe Pop when I was a really little kid… but, no, he would’ve just told me to shake it off….
I shiver at how close Rafe is, and he gives me a little squeeze. I press my forehead against his shoulder before I’m even aware I’ve done it and pull away as soon as I notice. But when Rafe runs a hand up my back I have a much worse problem.
I try and shift my hips away from Rafe so he won’t feel it, but he pulls me back toward him and tips my face up. His eyes are burning. For a second, it’s like everything is suspended—Rafe’s arms around me, his warmth, his smell, that damned hair I keep wanting to touch. I feel like he could do anything to me. I want him to. Want to just float away from myself and let him do what he wants—no responsibility, no repercussions, no blame.
Then he leans back and the moment is over. He shakes his head, like I’ve done something confusing, and takes a deep breath.
“Okay,” Rafe says. “I’ll be back in fifteen.”
I nod and close the door without meeting his eyes. When the hot water hits my cut hand, it feels like razor blades. After soaping up, I slap my stupid dick, trying to get my hard-on to go away. No dice. I can’t get the feeling out of my head—Rafe surrounding me. The warmth of his chest, his heavy arms around me.
“Fuck,” I groan, getting more turned on just thinking about it.
I grab my dick and stroke hard, my hand slick with soap. I picture Rafe pushing me up against the wall, eyes blazing, hair wild. He’d give me no choice, just hold me there, pinned like a butterfly—no. I shake that image off, replacing it with Rafe biting my neck, hands all over me. I stroke faster, so hard it’s almost painful, and that turns me on more.
After only a few more strokes
, I come, a pathetic, gasping orgasm that leaves me light-headed. The moment it’s over, hot shame rushes through me and I squeeze my eyes shut to try and disappear.
I can’t believe I just jerked off in the shower thinking about a guy I’m going to see in five minutes. But, more, I can’t believe I feel the same way I always do after some stranger sucks me off: so fucking ashamed I want to die.
I blast cold water for a minute and drag myself out of the shower. I hardly ever look in the mirror if I can help it, but catching a glimpse of myself as I brush my teeth confirms that I look as bad as I feel. Jesus, I look tired. The kind of tired that a good night’s sleep won’t ease. The shadows under my eyes are matched by the ones under my cheekbones, sharp and dangerous looking.
My mother’s eyes look back at me, but where hers were a soft blue, mine just look empty. I have her light brown hair, too, but it’s usually buzzed so short you can barely tell what color it is. Rafe is right, though. I haven’t had it this long in years—maybe an inch long—and it’s lighter even than I remember. My brothers all have Pop’s dark hair and pale skin. Daniel has green eyes, though, where Brian and Sam have brown, like Pop. I’m not sure how Daniel ended up with them. It’s like genetics conspired to mark him as different.
By the time I throw on some sweats, Rafe is back. I don’t know how I’m going to look him in the face after what I just did, so I linger in the bedroom, zipping my sweatshirt up to my neck and running a cautious finger over Shelby’s sleeping back.
I drink some water while Rafe showers. My hand hangs at my side, a giant, throbbing heartbeat of pain, and my legs feel weak and shaky. I sip the water slowly, and my stomach is so empty that I can feel the path the water takes as it trickles down my throat and into my intestines. I feel… miserable.
Dangerously miserable.
I haven’t felt quite this bad in a while, and last time—
“Okay.” Rafe’s out of the shower, his hair braided back. I’ve never seen him wear a braid like that before. He sits down next to me and settles a hand gently on my wrist, turning my hand to examine the cut.
“It’s swollen, so this is going to hurt. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital?”
“Naw, man, just do it.”
The sting of the alcohol takes my breath away and makes my stomach clench.
“What’d you do?” Rafe asks, probably trying to distract me.
“Oh, I leaned onto a saw blade that was next to a truck I was working on.” Yeah. Because I was thinking about you and your comment the other night. Stupid.
He threads a curved needle with ease.
“They have this glue now,” Rafe explains, “where you can stick the edges of the skin together, but I don’t have any. These are the dissolving kind, though, so they’ll just melt after a week or two.”
“Seriously, how do you know how to do this? Do they just sell this stuff at the drugstore?”
“Nah. I learned at a workshop on radical nursing.”
“Uh, what?”
“Radical nursing. It was about basic home care, like sutures, remedies for the flu, how to pack wounds, bind sprains, treat infections, that kind of thing.”
“Sorry, radical as in, like, hey, man, far out, or….”
“Radical as in invested in a break from traditional hierarchies of knowledge and embracing modes of transmitting knowledge other than the official, sanctioned ones.”
“Whoa.”
“Okay?”
I blow out a breath. “Okay.”
Rafe puts on gloves and rests my hand on a paper towel on his knee. “Let me know if it’s too much.” His concentration is intense.
I look away when the needle pierces my skin with a punching sound that makes my stomach heave, and try to distract myself by naming every sound I can hear. The hum of the refrigerator. The buzz of the overhead light. Neighborhood kids playing. A car driving past that has an exhaust problem. The sound of Rafe’s deep, calm breaths.
“One more,” he says. It’s not so much the pain that’s getting to me; I just feel queasy.
“All done.” He strips off the gloves and peers at me. “Shit, you’re green. I should’ve had you eat first.”
I shake my head. “I’m okay.” The stitches are in a perfect line, uniform and straight. “Wow. You should be a doctor or something.”
He smiles and bandages my hand, then squeezes my shoulder. “All set,” he says softly, moving his hand up to my neck. He clears his throat. “I didn’t know what you liked so I got cheesesteaks.”
“That’s fine. Thanks.”
Rafe unpacks the food but doesn’t say anything. I can’t stand the quiet. The wet sounds of chewing and swallowing.
“That kid, Anders. He reminds me of my little brother, kind of,” I say into the silence.
“The one you work with at the shop?”
“No, the one who just moved away.”
“The professor. How so?” He’s turned back to the food, but I can tell he’s interested.
“Um, just, like, last week, the way he was really into Harry Potter. Daniel was like that—always wanting someone to read to him. My dad always babied him, you know. Treated him like he was delicate or something.”
“I think that happens a lot with youngest kids.”
“Nah. It’s like he didn’t expect him to be as tough as the rest of us. Like he knew even before Daniel told him.”
“Told him…?”
“That he was gay.”
“Wait, Daniel’s gay?”
I nod. “After he told Pop, Pop coddled him even more, you know. Like, he was so polite to him. He’d never be that way with me.”
“You mean if you were to come out to him?”
“What? No! Just, in general.”
“So, your dad was fine with Daniel being gay?” Rafe asks. He sounds confused.
“Well, no. I mean, he thinks it’s disgusting—freakish. But once Daniel told him, Pop started treating him all… I dunno. Like a girl or something.”
“Like a girl?”
“Just—you know, not wanting to offend him or hurt his feelings or something. Like he was a—”
“What?”
“A sissy. A faggot.”
Rafe’s eyes flash. “I don’t like that word, Colin.”
“Sorry, sorry. I just mean, you know, he started treating him like he wasn’t a man.”
“I see.” The silence feels like it lasts hours but is probably only minutes.
“So, um,” I say, trying to break the silence. “You said people know about you?”
“That I’m gay? Yeah.”
“Like, your family and stuff.” He nods. “And they’re cool with it?”
“Cool.” He laughs a little bitterly. “No, not cool. My sisters are fine with it, though they don’t quite believe it because I’ve never brought a boyfriend home or anything.”
“Not even Javier?”
Rafe’s face goes instantly blank.
“Javier wasn’t my boyfriend,” he says. “We were never lovers. Though—” He shakes his head, like he’s embarrassed. “My mom has come to accept it, I think. It’s gotten easier for her. Especially once she had grandchildren to worry about. I know she wishes I would just settle down and have a family of my own, but….”
He’s staring off into the distance, like he wishes for that too.
“Your dad?”
Rafe clucks his tongue. “No. My father would not be okay with it, but he hasn’t been in the picture for a long time, so.”
“What’s his deal?”
“He was pretty much gone by the time I was twelve or thirteen. He went back to Zamora—Mexico—with some of his cousins and left my mom with three kids and no money. Not that we were sad to see him go, since when he was around all he did was make us wish he wasn’t.” He shakes his head in disgust. “So, what did your mom think about Daniel being gay?”
“Nothing. She died when I was twelve.”
Instead of the empty “sorry�
� most people say in response, Rafe just moves closer to me and squeezes my arm.
“What would she have thought, do you think?”
What would she have thought? She always wanted me to have a wife. A family. Like Rafe’s mom, I guess. Maybe all moms want that. Would she have been disgusted if Daniel told her… that? I don’t know. He was her baby and she loved the crap out of him. I know that. Fuck, I don’t know.
“I think… she would have loved him,” I choke out, and it isn’t what I meant to say.
“And your dad. Does he still love Daniel?”
“I don’t know.”
“But he loves you.”
“Yeah.”
We eat in silence for a bit, and though I’m clumsily using my left hand to avoid getting food all over the nice, clean bandage Rafe put on, so far I haven’t actually slopped food onto myself.
“So, what’s the deal with you and your brother?” Rafe says, blatantly changing the subject. “I mean, you seem angry with him. But I would think that if you’re both gay, you would’ve stuck together.”
“Hey! I’m not—I never said—I don’t—”
Rafe has this glint in his eye, like maybe he’s provoking me on purpose. But, as usual, even if he is trying to throw me off balance, there’s a core of sincerity. And I don’t know how to answer him. Am I angry with Daniel?
“I’m not mad at him. I barely even see him,” I insist.
“But you think about him all the time. You talk about him a lot.”
“Not usually. I don’t usually talk about him at all.”
“Well, I’m glad you feel like you can talk about him with me.” I don’t know how Rafe can say this touchy-feely shit and still sound tough. “So? Why are you so upset about him? Don’t bother saying you aren’t. You get this look on your face whenever you mention him.”
“What look?”
“Just a kind of… jealous, pissed-off brother look, I guess.”
“I’m not—I just.” Jealous? Ugh. I’m too tired to talk about this shit. But Rafe keeps looking at me expectantly, like he’s daring me to finish the sentence.
“Daniel didn’t care, okay? It was easy for him to risk us all hating him because he was gonna be out of there. He had nothing to lose. I mean, he didn’t even want to hang out with us, so no big deal. He didn’t want to work at the garage, so who cares if no one wanted him there. He didn’t give a shit about Pop, so whatever if he thought he was a freak. Well, that’s great for Daniel, but I—”
