Chasing Forever

by Kelly Jensen

  “If you say ‘young,’ you’ll do yourself out of a good fucking tonight.” Brian glanced over to meet Mal’s eyes.

  “Sorry. Now’s not the time.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Mr. Kenway?”

  A man stood by a glass doorway. He had what Mal would term a dumpy shape, barely held in check by a dark wool suit. His fleshy face carried an unhealthy pallor, and his expression indicated he hadn’t particularly enjoyed the walk to reception.

  Brian extended a hand. “Brian Kenway.” He gestured toward Mal. “My associate, Malcolm Montgomery.”

  “Xavier Billings. If you’ll follow me?”

  Billings led the way to a conference room right behind the lobby, another wide space with views, and held the door before following them into the room to hover by a chair at the head of a long table. That he didn’t sit indicated he didn’t have a lot of time for them. Mentally, Mal cut their presentation in half and then spent a full thirty seconds panicking about whether or not Brian would understand that they didn’t have time to start at the beginning.

  He’s a professional.

  This job is as important to him as it is to you.

  Stop panicking.

  Brian laid out the portfolio and reached for a picture of the Wheelhouse Building.

  “We’re here on behalf of the current tenants of the Wheelhouse Building in Morristown.” He handed Billings a photo that showed the building to good effect. There was no hiding the age or neglect, but the afternoon light picked out the glorious red of the brickwork and the faded lines of old renovations. The period windows and doors. The bar and café signs were lined up in an aesthetically pleasing way and didn’t seem quite as tattered as they did from the front.

  Nostalgia rose up inside of Mal as he took in the details. This was his town. His home. His bar. A place he wanted to make for his kids.

  “I’m familiar with the building,” Billings said.

  “We believe it would be a mistake to tear it down,” Brian continued, “and have a proposal for renovation that would add value to the community. Are you aware of the building’s history?”

  Billings looked up from the photo. “The Underground Railroad connection? It’s been mentioned, yes. It’s not verified.”

  Mal nudged a packet forward. “We have verification.”

  Billings raised one eyebrow. “Do you know how many buildings in the northeast were supposedly a part of the Railroad? It’s barely noteworthy.”

  Sensing they were losing control of the meeting, Mal said, “The historical implications tie well into the proposed use of the upper floor. A local organization has raised the funds necessary to create a drop-in center for disadvantaged youth—”

  Billings held up a hand. “I appreciate you gentlemen coming all this way, but a center for homeless kids isn’t the sort of property we want across the street from our hotel. Nor a rundown bar and café. Morristown has a vibrant city center. There are dozens of other eating and drinking establishments, many with a history all their own. The fact is, neither of these businesses is necessary—”

  “We’re not talking about homeless kids,” Mal said. Brian put a warning hand on his arm, but Mal pressed on. “The LGBT community has little to no support, and those kids need this center. They need a place to go when they feel threatened or uncomfortable. A safe space. They just want the same opportunities as everyone else.”

  “I’m sure you have a YMCA.”

  Brian’s expression hardened. “I think you misunderstand—”

  “No, I think you do, Mr. Kenway. There is nothing special about this building. It’s not performing a unique—”

  “This is an opportunity for the Billings Group to give back to a community that welcomed it,” Brian said.

  Mal jumped in. “Outside any past history, the bar and café have a lot of recent history. Did you know the bar is named for the high school . . .”

  Billings was checking his watch.

  “Morristown doesn’t need another soulless glass building. There is no view, there, Mr. Billings,” Brian said. “There’s local flavor and pride.”

  “Pride.” Billings sighed. “Yes, that word gets thrown around by you people a lot, doesn’t it?”

  “‘You people’?” Mal felt a flush rise across his cheeks. “Did you really just—”

  Brian put a hand on his arm. “I think we’re done here.”

  “No, we’re not. We’re not close to done. They’re going to—”

  “Mr. Billings’s mind was made up when he got out of bed this morning.”

  Billings affected a weary expression that clashed with the snap and burn in Mal’s chest. How had this meeting gone so badly? How had they failed? He couldn’t even process the idea they’d had no chance of winning. That their trip to the city had been for naught.

  Brian started gathering their papers, stuffing them into the portfolio.

  Mal grabbed one and slapped it down onto the conference table. “No. We’re leaving one here because this is a damn good proposal, put together by a community, including the kids who will one day look at your hotel, your name, and either regard it with respect or bitterness. A community you came into, that accepted you, that was excited by the prospect of hosting your business. Think about that and about what ‘pride’ means when you’re asking someone to throw it away for you.”

  He turned and stalked out on stiff legs.

  Mal thought he was going to be sick. “How did that go so badly?”

  Brian shook his head before glancing over his shoulder to check traffic on the interstate.

  “I mean . . . I . . .” Don’t have words, apparently. Thoughts swimming, Mal tried to figure out where they’d gone wrong. “Should we have gone through the whole presentation?”

  “I read the situation, saw we had maybe five minutes, and went with the most compelling image.”

  “Maybe Simon’s sketch would have been better.”

  After a few seconds of tense quiet, Brian nodded. “Maybe.”

  Intellectually, Mal knew Brian’s choice of presentation matter hadn’t made a lick of difference. As he’d said, Billings had woken up that morning knowing the answer to their question. Heck, he hadn’t even had to consider it, which was probably why their appointment had mysteriously disappeared off the company schedule.

  Mal studied Brian’s profile. His jaw was tight, a muscle flicking below his ear. His posture straight and square. But he had a lazy grip on the steering wheel and his expression didn’t register the same turmoil Mal felt in his gut. He hadn’t sabotaged the meeting on purpose, had he? Set them up for the wrong date?

  “Are you not upset about this?”

  Brian gripped the wheel a little harder. “Of course I’m upset.”

  “You don’t look it.” Stop, Mal. This isn’t the time.

  “And you’re an expert on how I look now?”

  “No, I didn’t mean . . .” Mal rubbed at his forehead, then removed his glasses and let the traffic outside the car blur. His eyes ached. “I feel like I lost a race and you’re . . .” He gestured with his glasses.

  “I’m what? Not torn up enough?”

  “This is stupid. I’m sorry.”

  Brian blew out a breath but kept his gaze straight ahead.

  Mal pulled out his phone and scrolled aimlessly through Facebook, not really seeing anything, even with his glasses perched back on the end of his nose. The longer he bent forward, the sicker his stomach seemed to get. He sighed. “I’d have thought with a gay receptionist, they’d be more open to our pitch.”

  “That was rather naïve of you, then.”

  Mal snatched another glance at Brian. “I heard Vanessa asking you about the West Coast. Is that why you, we . . . Does this mean you’re done?”

  Brian jerked his head in Mal’s direction. “What?”

  “At Winterfest.”

  Brian turned back toward the road. “Can we talk about this later? I need to concentrate on driving.”

 
Swallowing, Mal leaned back in his seat and fiddled with his phone again, turning it over and over in his hands. His thoughts tumbled along with the steel and plastic, reaching no useful conclusion by the time Brian merged with Route 24.

  Then he took a breath and a chance. “I just need to know if this means—”

  “It means the Billings Group is going to knock down the Colonial. That’s what it means, Mal. That, and only that.”

  Not quite the answer Mal had been looking for, but Brian’s refusal to address the other issue had to mean something, didn’t it?

  “So what do we do now?”

  Brian didn’t respond for a while, leaving Mal to wonder if he’d actually spoken. Then, quietly, Brian said, “I don’t know.”

  “You inquired about other property for the youth center, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I did. There are a couple of alternatives, but none of them are as central as the Wheelhouse Building.”

  “None have the history, either.”

  A shrug.

  “Brian, I’m sorry about the West Coast thing. I know it’s probably none of my business and I shouldn’t have brought it up now. I . . .” Like you. Which shouldn’t be relevant, except that it felt like it was.

  “Is that what the quip about the receptionist was all about?”

  “No. Yes. I . . .” Time for another forehead massage. “I’m working on my confidence. I am. It’s been . . . I’m sorry.”

  Brian glanced over at him. “I did look. But do you want to know what I saw?”

  A young face, lightly tanned with impossible cheekbones and warm brown eyes. Black hair showing no hint of gray, and gelled away from a nice, square forehead. Lips that would—

  “I saw you, Mal. Your face. I saw the face of the man I am with. The man I like being with. The man I went to Jersey City for. The reason I started on this project.”

  Ouch.

  Not knowing how to answer that, Mal let an uncomfortable quiet blossom between them for the remainder of the drive. He didn’t fiddle with his phone. He didn’t adjust his glasses. He sat there, feeling like stone. Dry and sort of achy. Guilty. Still a little ill. And wrapped around it all like a heavy cloak, a sense of failure was weighing him down. By the time Brian turned into Mal’s street, Mal had nearly convinced himself the entire venture had failed because of something he’d done. Maybe he hadn’t been pushy enough. Had he let Brian do most of the talking? If he’d spoken up earlier, could he have saved the proposal? Had his lack of confidence sabotaged their efforts from the start?

  He didn’t notice the car had stopped until Brian touched his hand. Glancing through the window, Mal saw his house. “Thanks.” His voice creaked over that single word.

  “Mal?”

  Mal met Brian’s calm blue gaze.

  Brian didn’t say anything for a while. The radio hummed softly, and a light wind buffeted the sides of the car. The afternoon faded beneath a low-hanging crochet of soft gray clouds. Looks like it might snow. The urge to check his phone for a weather update tickled Mal’s fingers. But he kept his eyes locked to Brian’s until Brian spoke again.

  “What was your longest relationship?”

  Brow wrinkling, Mal shook his head. “What?”

  “You know all about my most significant ex, but I know nothing about yours.”

  “Oh.” Mal went to turn away, and Brian caught his chin. Gently.

  “What did he do that made you feel like you weren’t worth the effort? Did he . . .” Brian’s swallow was audible. “Did he cheat on you?”

  “No.” Mal curled his fingers into his palms and squeezed. “We broke up about seven years ago.”

  Brian let go of his face, but Mal didn’t try to turn away again. Quietly, he ordered his thoughts. “It ended because he wanted kids and I didn’t. Not . . . not with him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my life tied to someone who thought I was less.” But hadn’t that always been his story? “Noah was . . . is a money-market guy. A trader. I don’t know what he did, really, except make money. I don’t even know what he saw in me, except an easy lay. Convenient? I was always home. Because I’m boring. But I’m reliable and I guess he figured I’d be happy to raise his family because he knew I liked doing things for him.”

  God, he sounded like he was twelve, and thinking back, he must have seemed . . .

  Mal moved one of his hands through the air, before curling his fingers inward. “He was the gorgeous one, the confident one, the guy everyone liked, and I was the awkward one, cute and sometimes adorable, but not . . . I don’t know. I was okay with that because I thought we were in love. But literally the second he mentioned kids I knew it was a lie. That I didn’t love him, that I hadn’t for a while, and that we weren’t right. So I left, which was damn awkward as we were living in my house. I went to live with my brother until Noah moved out, and then I redid everything. Kitchen, bathroom, painted the outside blue.”

  Tears misting his vision, Mal peered through the gloom at his house. At the place he’d made his and his alone. Beside him, Brian maintained one of those silences he was so good at.

  Finally, Brian asked, “How long were you together?”

  “Eight years.”

  “Fuck.”

  The gray afternoon made Brian’s profile granite. Mal resisted the urge to touch the side of his face, to try to warm one of his cheeks.

  When Brian turned to face him again, his expression seemed deliberately blank. “I’m not planning a move to the West Coast. I’d thought about it, briefly, when it seemed like this town might be getting ready to chew me up and spit me back out. But then you and I did what we’ve been doing and I forgot all about it.” He drew in a quiet breath. “I don’t want to spend the next however many years reassuring you that you’re worth it, though. That might be a selfish thing to say, and it’s not that I don’t want to do it; I just wish there was a way to let you know now, once and for all, that you’re . . . you. And that’s exactly who you should be. I chose you because you’re you. I chased you.”

  Mal bobbed his chin in tacit agreement and allowed his thoughts to take a further step. Would now be the right time to tackle Brian’s asshole complex? That’d make this conversation feel more even. But then he wondered if they were having a conversation at all.

  “I’m going to head home,” Brian said.

  Mal’s heart dropped through his chest. His stomach pushed upward.

  “I’m tired and I want a drink. I want not to think for a while,” Brian continued, apparently oblivious to the organs shifting around inside Mal’s torso.

  Mal swallowed dryly. “Okay.”

  Brian took Mal’s hand again, cupped his fingers around the palm and squeezed. “We’ll talk tomorrow. The next day. Let’s chill for a bit. Then we’ll figure out what we’re going to do.”

  “About us?”

  “About everything.”

  Mal got out of the car, watched Brian’s taillights disappear into the gathering gloom, and then continued to stand beside the curb, wrapped in a weird bubble of unreality. Outside his skin, snow had started to fall. Inside, his heart was moving in a different direction. Up and out, as though the top of his head had split open and his self was flowing over the sides of his skull, spilling out and getting lost. He didn’t understand the feeling, but could guess at what lay behind it.

  The day’s failure loomed large. Felt unreal. Surely he’d wake up tomorrow with good news to share with the school, the students in his club, with Leo. Shit, Leo. But the fact Brian wasn’t running felt larger. For once, Mal didn’t feel quite so alone. Yes, he had Donny. He always had Donny. But contrary to twin theory—which as often encompassed fraternals as identicals—they were separate people and had been for most of their lives.

  Brian was . . .

  Brian had gone home alone to brood. He’d given Mal something to think about and then taken off to go wallow—and as suddenly as Mal felt the cold seeping through his insubst
antial layers, he understood what was wrong with that picture. Why he continued to stand on the side of the road, looking after taillights that were long gone.

  Now wasn’t the time for him to be awkward. Now was the time for him to show Brian he was here. Could be and would be. That their partnership was more than a failed business venture. That he was committed to this.

  That fear wasn’t going to hold him back.

  Mind made up, Mal hefted the keys in his hand and approached the garage instead of the front door.

  Brian sat in the car for a while after pulling into his driveway, watching the first snowflakes melt against the windshield. The failure of the meeting nibbled at the edges of his thoughts, and his conversation with Mal prickled, but he let the icy frame forming on the cooling glass take precedence, drawing his mind into an ever-narrowing circle of coldness. Not that he was packing his emotions away. He was saving them for later.

  When he couldn’t see anything through the windshield, Brian got out of the car. He thought he heard voices from his house. Tucking the folio under his arm, he strode toward the kitchen door, ears tuning in along the way. Had Josh mentioned having someone over this afternoon? Maybe Josh and Ethan had sorted themselves out. God, he hoped so. Mopey teenagers were particularly unfun.

  Brian had his hand on the door handle when one of the voices shrieked, “Now.”

  A shiver pinched his shoulder blades together. It couldn’t be . . .

  Brian pushed open the door, and sure enough, there in his kitchen stood a tall woman, hair the same color as his had been before he’d realized his highlights were actually silver, not gold, and eyes a similar shade of blue. Her profile was familiar but not quite how he remembered. Older. Harder. More attractive in an odd and startling way. But she looked like him. She looked like her son.

  “Ellen.”

  His sister turned to face him and the years fell away. It was her expression—fury and disgust. “You.” Spittle flew from her lips with the single word. Tucking her hands onto her hips, she said it again. “You . . .”

  Apparent anger sliced through the rest of the sentence, rolling across the space of the kitchen to nearly knock Brian back out of the door . . . and for a second, he nearly let it.