The Coil

by Gilbert, L. A.

  He’d had a rough upbringing—he hadn’t been beaten or abandoned, but he’d grown up invisible to a drunken father, dropped out of school at an early age, and ended up sleeping on different couches until he was eighteen. He’d simply slipped, unnoticed, through the cracks of all child service and educational authorities. His father was gone now, and he was trying to make his life better, but if he had to occasionally hook to do it, to get by? Fuck anyone that wanted to look down on him for it.

  “I’d only have to pay you back, Ty,” he said quietly, slicing open another baguette. He cut Ty a quick glance, and it was obvious he was struggling to come up with another solution. “Hey,” he said quietly, glancing around the room to ascertain they were still alone for the moment. “Thanks, but it’s okay. You know it doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  It was a lie; it made him feel dirty and unlovable. And judging by the look Ty was giving him, he wasn’t a very persuasive liar. He sighed and put the knife down. “Actually, tonight this guy I….” This guy I’m blowing for money. “This guy I’m seeing has a spare ticket to the Voice 1156 Gallery show tomorrow night.” He shrugged. “I gotta go see him to pick up my ticket, so I can’t hang, sorry.”

  Ty contemplated him for a second, then smiled, convinced. “You love that art stuff, don’t you? You still sending shit off?”

  Mattie laughed. “Yeah, I’m still sending parts of my portfolio off, though printing and shipping is killing me. It’d be easier if the Art Institute of New York wasn’t in fucking New York, but what are you gonna do, huh?” He shrugged, kidding.

  “Well, why not somewhere else? Somewhere local? That’s gotta be cheaper, right?”

  Mattie sighed. How to explain? He shook his head. “It sounds stupid,” he began quietly, “but I’ve always wanted to go to New York.” He shrugged, glancing up at Ty. “Everyone has goals and aspirations, right?”

  Ty nodded.

  “Well, I’ve got just the one. New York.” Licking his bottom lip quickly. “I remember this one New Year’s Eve, I was sleeping on someone’s couch, and they were having this party.” He shook his head briefly. “I think I was seventeen, and life had pretty much gone to shit round about that point. I didn’t want to be at the party, so I snuck down into their basement to hide out.” He grinned and shrugged. “Happy people pissed me off, for some reason.”

  Ty smiled, nodded. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

  “Anyhoozles,” he sighed. “They had this old TV set, and I decided to watch the ball drop and….” He bit his lip. “You know what?”

  “What?” Ty asked quietly.

  “It looked so great there. So… big. Like it wouldn’t matter if you’re a screwup there.”

  “You’re not a—”

  “Ty.” He shook his head. “It looked like a place to start a life, to make one. Just… so big, with so many opportunities to start again.”

  Ty was quiet. “Jesus, just about everything you tell me depresses me. Asshole.”

  Mattie laughed. “Sorry. You know, it’s a great school. I’ve looked it up online.” He shook his head. “One of the best, they cater to so many different medias, and I could learn so much. It’s just getting in that’s proving to be a son of a bitch.”

  “Pft, you’ll get in, full ride, just you wait and see.” Ty pulled the dishcloth from where it was tucked into the back of his belt and flicked it at him as he pushed off the counter with his hip.

  “Have to get my GED first, and to do that, I have to learn to fucking read.” He shook his head, a tinge of “why the hell am I bothering” sneaking in.

  “Hey,” Ty said firmly. “You’ll do it.”

  “Ty, I have to write an entrance essay, I have to provide high school transcripts. I’m a twenty-six-year-old who makes fucking sandwiches.” He flushed faintly. “All the other students would be coming out of high school. I’ll be old compared to them.”

  “Oh, fuck off.” Ty leaned close. “Goddamn senior citizens can go back to school if they want, so that ain’t a reason, and if you truly believe you don’t have a chance, then what are you doing sending work samples off?”

  He had him there. A part of him still hoped that something would happen to pull him out of the pit his life had become. So he continued to paint; he continued to check all possible avenues open to him. At first, he’d sought after financial aid, because there was no way in hell he could pay for tuition. A sincere and humbling conversation with a very kind and understanding admissions representative over the phone had dashed most of his hopes, but they had discussed the few options open to him.

  He could take out a loan to cover half, and then work part time. The loan itself wouldn’t have to be paid off until he was earning a higher salary. There had been a confusing conversation about credits and written references, but there was no getting in there without a high school diploma or GED test scores. There were just so many hurdles.

  “Look.” Ty leaned close. “You’re going to your night classes, yeah? The one for adults?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, wiping absently at the counter as he looked anywhere but at his friend. He hated it when he got all sullen, and appreciated a swift—although metaphorical—kick in the ass sometimes.

  “Right. And don’t say you can’t read, because you’re getting there.” Ty shrugged, almost apologetic. “I’ve seen you reading the menus, and that’s awesome.”

  Mattie looked up quickly and pressed his lips together in a tight line. He didn’t think anyone’d been looking. The idea of someone seeing him hunched over a menu, trying to break down the words and sound them out in his head was mortifying. He swallowed and dug his hands into his pockets.

  “So you keep going to your classes. Then you study for your GED. I can help you with that. Then you apply.”

  Mattie smiled. “You rock as a friend, you know that?”

  “Ah, shut up.”

  “No. You’re awesome. You keep me from pulling out the violins and going all maudlin and shit.” He smiled almost shyly, just the corner of his mouth lifting as he affectionately pushed at Ty’s shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, no problem. Just remember me when you’re a rich and famous artist, all right?”

  The bell above the door sounded, and a familiar, gorgeous face appeared, heading to his usual booth.

  “Oh look, lover boy is here,” Ty teased quietly as he picked up the coffeepot.

  “Shut up.”

  “It’s one thing to choose balls over breasts, but you don’t even have good taste in guys.”

  “You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” Mattie practically whispered back, and grinned as he stole a quick look at the customer in question.

  “Hey, I may not be gay, but I can appreciate a good-looking guy when I see one. You, for instance, are hot.”

  Mattie laughed despite himself. “You switching teams on me?”

  “Hell no. Just means I wish I looked like you. You could be a fucking model.”

  “Shut up, asshole.”

  “Seriously, all the attention you get from women—”

  “I swear that’s the only reason Don hired me—to pull in horny cougars,” he interrupted.

  “—and nothing. It’s like Superman not using his powers.”

  “Oh, I use my powers, just not on women.”

  Ty rolled his eyes. “The guy’s a geek.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s all sophisticated looking. You know, good-looking in a down-to-earth way.”

  “You getting your period, or something?”

  “Fuck you.” Mattie barked a quiet laugh.

  “Are you telling me that if, I don’t know, that blonde dude from 90210—the one that plays a gay guy—or someone like that walked in, you’d pick this guy?”

  Mattie shook his head. “That guy knows he’s hot. This guy?” Mattie nodded discreetly toward their patron. “He’s totally unaware of how cute he is, which is a whole other level of hotness in my opinion.”

  “I’d pick the 90210
guy, personally.” He rolled his eyes at Mattie’s questioning raised eyebrow. “That’s just common sense,” he explained. “I don’t have a gay bone in my body. If I did, I would have worked the magic on you by now.”

  “Pft, you wish.”

  “You’d choose four-eyes over there instead of me?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “You need your head examined.”

  “You know who he does remind me of?”

  “A science teacher?”

  “Shut up. You ever watch Frasier?”

  “Duh. That’s some classic TV right there.”

  “You know Frasier’s brother, Niles?”

  “What?” Ty laughed.

  “I’m not talking about the germ phobia or the snobby attitude, but just how intelligent he is, how sweet and earnest—”

  “Actually, you may have a point there. I got no problem admitting that I teared up when Niles and Daphne finally got together. Man, they don’t write sitcoms like that anymore.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “So you’re telling me you’d pick Niles over… say, I don’t know, Shepherd from Grey’s Anatomy?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’d go for cute over hot?”

  Mattie sighed. “How can I explain this in a way you’d understand…?” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “Ah! Okay, it’s like picking Jennifer Anniston over Angelina Jolie.”

  Ty narrowed his eyes in thought, but slowly began to nod, a grin tugging at his lips. “So you mean you’ve got the super-hot vixen versus the gorgeous, sweet girl next door?”

  Mattie smirked. “The irony being the vixen is overexposed and loses that something that makes your dick that extra bit hard, while—”

  Ty was nodding. “While the girl next door you want to not only introduce to your parents, but then take home and bang the hell out of in private.” Ty laughed and held his hand out for a fist bump. “Dude, we are so on the same wavelength. I get you now.”

  Mattie bumped his fist, grinning. “Finally.”

  Ty nodded, wiped his hands down his apron, and waited a heartbeat before: “He’s still a geek, though.”

  Mattie shook his head. “You’re clueless.” He glanced back over at the booth where the guy was turning on his laptop. “He’s gorgeous, end of story.”

  Ty shook his head, muttering something about being a lost cause as he strode away, coffeepot in hand. Mattie sliced open another baguette and settled in for what was one of the best parts of his day—watching Mr. Handsome click away at his keyboard.

  Chapter Two

  SIMON huffed as he flicked through the stack of postcards he’d picked up from a newsstand on the way to the diner. Generally, when his writing wasn’t flowing as smoothly as he’d like, he’d look for sources of brief inspiration. Anything from a song, a passage of a poem, or even an old photograph could usually inspire something.

  Not today. He wrapped the red rubber band back around the stack of postcards depicting various landscapes, and dropped them back into his satchel. He was finding it more difficult than ever to get the gears turning with his latest manuscript, and with deadlines set not all that far off in the future, he was starting to worry.

  He reached into his bag for his laptop, frowned, and then pulled out a crumpled juice box. He snorted softly. When was his boy going to learn that daddy’s bag wasn’t a place for his trash? He looked up when hearing someone—the waiter—clear his throat, and smiled his thanks at the young man who filled his mug. The guy smiled back, and Simon frowned slightly. That hadn’t been a smile so much as a knowing smirk. Why did he always feel as if he were the butt of some joke when he came here? He shrugged absently. It didn’t matter. It was close to the school, it was usually quiet, and they allowed their clientele to hang around as long as they kept ordering. He usually got there at around nine thirty, got himself a coffee, and wrote for a few hours until lunch. He’d buy a sandwich, write for two more hours, and then pick Jamie up from school. He smiled. Sometimes he’d bring Jamie back here; he liked the kid’s menu.

  He couldn’t quite pinpoint what type of diner this was. You could sit and hang out here, order coffee and sandwiches, but you could also order a cooked meal and use their Wi-Fi. It wasn’t exactly a five-star restaurant, but it had a cool fifties theme with black and white framed photos of Frank Sinatra, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Elvis hanging on the walls. The employees were friendly and laid-back, and they played dated music, just quiet enough to be pleasant and ignorable. Most importantly, he liked to write there. It had a glass front, and he could look out and people-watch during moments of writer’s block, not to mention that Jamie loved the mac ’n’ cheese.

  And if he were to be honest, the lecherous old man in him liked to catch a glimpse of the young guy who cleaned up and made the sandwiches. Because, good God, he was utterly, utterly charming. He was a similar height to his own, had the prettiest blue eyes, dimples that peeked out when the guy smiled, and mousy brown hair with short back and sides and bangs that begged to be tenderly brushed away from his brow. His body was trim and in shape, he had the smooth curve of muscle, his T-shirts clung nicely to his slim biceps and hinted at a beautiful abdomen, which somehow made him appear all the younger. He couldn’t be more than twenty-two, twenty-three, probably a good ten years younger than himself. There was an irresistible hint of vulnerable bad boy to him, sexy and tough, maybe a little sweet.

  Gah, I’m a pervy old man.

  But really, he was the kind of typically gorgeous Adonis you’d see in an Armani ad. Simon ventured a quick glance, and wouldn’t you just know it, as if the guy could feel his stare, he looked up from the bar and offered Simon a half smile—a shy hello, almost. Simon glanced away, feeling heat bloom in his cheeks at being caught looking.

  It’d been a while since he’d looked, more than a year, in fact. He wasn’t so sure if there was actually any point in attempting to catch another man’s eye. First off, he was no longer the catch he sort-of-almost-was before Jamie. He’d had a modest number of lovers, the intellectual writer apparel appealing to a certain few, but any care taken with his appearance, his clothes, just felt insignificant now. Who had time to glance in the mirror when he had a son who needed his constant care? It wasn’t as if he could just leave Jamie with a sitter and go out dating. Sarah was the one exception and genuinely cared for Jamie. She was happy to watch him on the odd occasion Simon had to be away from him, but even that felt like an imposition. The woman had her own life to get on with, after all.

  He knew he needed to invite more people into Jamie’s life. He needed to get his son to interact with others in a way that other parents didn’t have to worry about. The integral interaction and the social rules that came along with growing up came naturally to other children. Not his child. All social rules had to be pounded into Jamie, taught to him. Please and thank you. May I. Excuse me. Hello, my name is Jamie. None of this would ever be forthcoming from Jamie; he had to be pushed. And it was all well and good teaching him these words and the reasons for them, but without putting them into practice, how was Jamie to understand the importance of them?

  He could stand to be a little less protective, perhaps. He needed to get it out of his head that anyone new would hurt or disappoint his son. But how to explain to that person their significance to Jamie, if his son were to ever allow them into his life? For Jamie to learn to trust another person, only for them to leave when the going got tough, would be devastating to his son and any routine of his that involved this fictional person. It’d happened before.

  He’d been in love with Tim Arnold: a flirtatious and generous man, four years younger than himself, a wannabe actor with a love for life that had inspired Simon. They’d been together for five years, and he had actually thought that, yes, this is the person I could spend the rest of my life with. But then his sister… Jamie….

  He had to give Tim a little credit. He hadn’t signed up for being a parent—a parent of a high-functioning autistic c
hild, no less—but neither had he. The only difference was that Tim hadn’t been obligated to stick around. Only loyalty had kept Tim with him for so long, but even that had not been enough.

  Their lives had been turned upside down. They’d gone from concerts, traveling, and mornings spent leisurely fucking, to changing diapers and midnight feeds. And then later, rigorous doctor appointments had occupied their time, extremely upsetting temper tantrums from a child that was faced with a world with colors that were too bright, noises too loud, and hands that wanted to touch when being held was terrifying. He and Jamie were settled now, they had their routine, but at the time when Tim was still on the scene, they’d still been trying to find their way, fumbling as they went, and the tantrums that had been fucking traumatic for all parties involved took their toll.

  Tim couldn’t cope. “I never wanted this, I don’t want this, I’m so sorry,” he’d said, and then left. Two years together, blissfully happy, and then three years together as a small, struggling family. To be fair, he’d half wished he’d been the one to say that, the one with the luxury of walking away. Jamie had been three, diagnosis new and still earth-shattering. Every moment revolved around what he’d considered at that time to be their child. Somewhere along the way, they’d just stopped looking at each other, and life with him and Jamie had become a chore for Tim: painfully exhausting and totally encompassing.

  He remembered sitting on the bed watching Tim pack. They both cried. He’d surrendered his last ounce of dignity, taking Tim’s hand, pressing it to his brow as silent sobs wracked his frame, and he’d begged. He’d begged Tim to not go, to not leave him alone, that he couldn’t cope without him. And there’d been this horrible moment where Tim had flinched and pulled his hand away, as if he couldn’t bear his touch. Simon knew now that his touch had been a shackle to a resigned life that was suffocating Tim, but he hadn’t known that then, and it had hurt him like hell at the time.

  All Tim could do was say that he was sorry, his mind utterly made up and desperate for escape. The worst of it was that Jamie had noticed. He’d only just begun to speak, but Tim had been one of his caregivers. He’d been a strict part of his routine that, thanks to his ex, had gone completely up in smoke. It hadn’t mattered that he was heartbroken, that Daddy needed a second to catch his breath or a few moments to grieve the life he’d envisioned for himself, because there was absolutely no understanding empathy for Jamie. Not when he was three, and not when he’d be a grown adult.