Just Julian

by Markus Harwood-Jones

  Just Julian

  Markus Harwood-Jones

  James Lorimer & Company Ltd., Publishers

  Toronto

  For you.

  01

  It’s Over

  Julian’s cheek hits against pavement. He takes a shaky gasp, then pushes himself up and moves forward, quickly as he can. The end of the parking lot is in sight, a sprout of yellow grass marking its edge. An engine revs behind him, but Julian doesn’t spare a second to look back. The sound of his own breath drowns out his thoughts. His chest tight, knees pumping, he makes a break for it. A loud honk blares from just behind him. Try as he might, he can’t gain any ground. It’s like he’s running in molasses. His pursuers are getting closer. He can feel them hot on his back.

  A scream made its way up and out of Julian, shaking him awake. The sheets clung to his body, wet with sweat. He reached for the half-empty glass on his bedside table. Gulping down the water, he tried to wash away the nightmare. When the feelings refused to fade, Julian shoved off the bedding and reached for his paints.

  On his feet, Julian threw colours across a busy canvas. He arched sharp turns and pulled strokes to form long, bleeding lines. One foot in the past, one in the present, he dipped his brush in crimson. He ran it across the canvas and watched heavy red droplets roll down. He traced all the times he’d been chased home, all the cruel words, all the times he’d cut the pain out from his own skin.

  “It’s over, it’s over, it’s over,” he muttered, but the words were hollow. Those years of bullying would never be over. They crept into his nightmares nearly every night. Julian’s head was throbbing as he reached for another colour. Memory after memory raked across his mind.

  Darkness envelops him. Or it would, if not for the pulsing orange light from the street outside. In the endless twilight, Julian loses track of hours, even days, as he rolls back and forth in bed. Crumpled up, half-written letters to his cousin lie around his mattress beside empty canvases and unopened tubes of paint. His phone, annoying him with its buzzing, is left unanswered. Julian’s mother comes with food and kind words, but all Julian sees on her face is pity and resentment.

  Julian groaned and clutched his stomach as the guilt turned in his gut. Slapping a hand across his own cheek, he tried to break the cycle of those awful memories. He needed to come back to the present. He’d spent too long cooped up inside, unable to do much else but survive through the worst of his depression. Going over it again and again like this wasn’t helping.

  “It’s over, it’s over, it’s over,” he repeated. He doubted the words even as he said them. Yeah, maybe he had managed to get outside again, even enroll in online courses so he could finish high school. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was just one small slip away from falling back into the deep pit.

  He dipped a wet brush in the dark blue paint, letting it slide across the canvas at an angle. The half-hearted waterfall swirled against the red, turning into whirlpools. Images flashed in Julian’s mind like lightning, followed by the thunderclaps of the brush hitting against the canvas. A vision of his mother’s brow furrowed in disappointment. His cousin waiting for someone to arrive during visiting hours. His friends wondering why he never returned their calls. Julian pushed them all away with the brush. Pulling pillars of white across the canvas, watching them turn grey, he painted his emptiness. His isolation. His failure.

  Julian’s stomach tightens as he reads the email over again. A failing grade. One comment, from the faceless online instructor: “Continues to deviate from assignment guidelines.” A rush of anger pinches Julian’s nose, making his eyes water. He slams the laptop shut, nearly throwing it against the ground. He catches himself — there was no way he or his mom could afford a new one. Instead Julian just scratches his fingernails against his skin, leaving deep, swelling lines along his forearm. This is useless. He is useless. Maybe he’s just not meant to finish school. Maybe he’s not meant to be alive at all. Maybe everyone would be better off if he just disappeared.

  Julian slammed the brush into a dollop of yellow, streaking lines like fire across the painting. His stomach was so tight he was starting to feel sick, but he couldn’t stop now. He had to finish. He took the brush in his fingers and ran a fingernail along the edge, splattering black across the canvas. He let himself fall into those black holes amidst the chaos of colour. Their cool invitation reminded him of how comforting it would be to curl back up in bed, to cocoon again.

  With a sigh, Julian stepped back. He put the brush behind his ear and took in the artwork. The colours on the canvas bled into one another, a mess in all directions. The brushstrokes told a story of his fears and failures — a rainbow of regret. Hands shaking, Julian reached for another sip of water. He spit it out, feeling bits of acrylic on his tongue, realizing he had mistakenly grabbed the water for his paints. Much of the mess sprayed onto his hands. Wiping his lips, Julian was struck with a spark of inspiration and went for the brush again.

  He traced the brush against his hand, up his arm. The muddy water mapped across the veins running along his wrists and back down to the tips of his fingers. The copper tone was sweet on his skin. He pushed his hand onto the canvas, leaving his mark on the piece. Stepping back, he took a moment to admire the small handprint among the mess of colour and memory.

  Julian managed to make his way to the bathroom. He ran warm water over his skin. As he washed away the acrylic flecks, he glanced up and caught his image in the mirror. Julian studied the traces of his mother along the edges of eyes, the dimples in his cheeks, the curve of his round, broad face. But there was something else to the reflection, something he couldn’t name, that marked him as the son of a father he could barely remember. Julian tried to peer through the layers, hoping he might find something that was just him. With a sigh, he gave up and went back to bed. “It’s over, it’s over, it’s over,” he whispered, trying to mean it this time.

  02

  Collision

  Julian mindlessly unpacked chips and dips into rainbow-themed plastic bowls. Lyla and her girlfriend, Rose, puttered around their new apartment. The couple whispered to each other and broke into a fit of giggles. Julian raised an eyebrow.

  Lyla had pleaded with Julian to come over to meet her new girlfriend, to try to have fun for once. That was classic Lyla. When they were nine, she’d convinced Julian they should ride their bikes down the biggest hill she could find, just so they would crash together. At twelve, she got him to skip school with her to get slushies, so they would be caught and get detention together. When they were fourteen, she got him to sneak into an R-rated horror movie, so she’d have someone to scream with — and, of course, so they could get kicked out of the theatre together. So now, at nineteen, here they were again. This time it was her first apartment with her first real girlfriend. It was no surprise she wanted Julian there so, whatever disaster might happen, they would face it together. But this time, Julian was an afterthought.

  He heard the couple break into laughter again. Irritation bubbled under his skin. Lyla had moved on and found someone else to drag along on her next big adventure. Julian sighed, mumbling to himself, “Well, it’s not her fault her bestie turned out to be a big loser.” He went back to arranging the snack table.

  Out of tasks to keep himself busy, Julian carved out a spot for himself on the couch. He nervously picked at his nails as the party guests began to arrive. Lyla and her girlfriend, even when surrounded by people, managed a we’re-a-couple-look-how-close-we-are look. Julian scowled at his raw cuticles.

  Soon the reek of cigarettes, weed, and alcohol began to fill the place. Julian’s head started to pound. Parties got boring fast when you were the only one sober. Everything was t
oo damn loud. There were so many people shouting at each other just to be heard, a few singing loudly along with the blaring music. Julian wasn’t sure what would be worse — going through the entire party scarcely speaking to another soul, or being forced to make small talk because someone tried to strike up a conversation. As it was, he planned to sit and brood silently on the couch. He would watch people laugh too loud, spill their drinks, and dry-hump on the makeshift living-room dance floor.

  Just as Julian had resigned not to move from his spot, Paris made her entrance, all big smiles. Julian squinted as if he’d stepped into a ray of direct sunlight — and was allergic to it. There was no doubt Paris would spot him there, sitting alone on the couch, but he still had a moment as Ms. Popular greeted her unending string of friends throughout the room. While Paris posed for selfies, Julian’s anxiety sent him off the couch and deeper into the apartment, looking for a place to hide out.

  Julian made it to the bathroom and finally had a chance to take a breath — even if that breath wasn’t the most refreshing. With a sigh, he leaned against the wall. He was so over this party. Then there came yelling from the next room, followed by a few loud thumps. “I don’t even want to know,” Julian murmured to himself. Unfortunately, someone started pounding on the door. “Just a minute!” Julian called, running the tap. He splashed a little water on his face, took a deep breath, and went back out.

  Paris bounded over right away. Julian reeled back at first. He prepared himself for her exhaustingly perky disposition. But as she approached, he could see that something was wrong. Her eyes were red and welling up with tears. As Paris reached Julian, he took her arm and pulled her into the bedroom, hoping for a little privacy so she could have a proper breakdown.

  The room was a scatter of unpacked boxes and shelves full of books around a plain mattress. Paris sat on the bed and pulled Julian down with her. Tears smeared black eyeliner down her honey-pink cheeks. “He . . . I thought he liked me! So, I . . . Isn’t this supposed to be a queer party?! And then he goes and . . . he blasts it to the room that the chick he was talking to — he called me a man.” Paris buried her face in her hands. “Why would he even?! God, I just hate cis guys!” She let out a muffled scream before adding softly, “No offence.”

  Julian nodded with understanding. Even though he was cisgender, not transgender like Paris, he’d seen too many friends go through the same kind of thing. He squeezed her arm and leaned forward. At that same moment, Paris looked up and over at him. The two collided — lips first. The kiss only lasted a moment. Julian pulled back. Paris leaned in again, eyes closed. A pang of guilt hit Julian’s chest. He became extremely aware of his body. He was still hugging her. Should he let go? When was a good moment to try to back away? Was there any way now to comfort her without her taking it the wrong way? He froze, running through his options. “This is why I don’t talk to people,” Julian whispered to himself.

  “What?” Paris asked, opening her eyes and pulling back a little.

  “Oh! Uh, nothing!” Julian replied.

  Paris looked down. Her eyes were still red and puffy. She asked, “Julian, do you like me?”

  “Well,” Julian began. He started biting his fingernails. “I mean, you’re really great.”

  Paris looked up with a sparkle of hope in her eye. “I’ve always liked you,” she confessed. She took his hands with her own.

  “Wow, really,” Julian replied. He tried to sound surprised. “I like you too, Paris. But, uh, I just don’t know if I like you that way, you know? It’s just — I . . .” The room was starting to feel just like the rest of the party — crowded, loud, overwhelming. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He had to end this somehow. “I’m just going through a lot right now,” he concluded.

  “Yeah, okay.” Paris nodded.

  Julian let out a sigh of relief.

  “So maybe just one date?” Paris asked, gently biting her lip.

  Julian inhaled sharply. Paris had been through so much tonight, he wanted to do the right thing. And it wasn’t like he was seeing anyone. He didn’t even like anyone. It was just one date . . . What was the worst that could happen? “I guess. I mean, sure,” Julian replied, trying to smile.

  Paris’s face brightened, her smile glimmering like a ray of sunshine coming out from behind a raincloud.

  “How about next Friday?” Julian suggested.

  Paris’s smile spilled out over her cheeks into her dimples. “Friday it is,” she replied. She kissed him on the cheek and jumped up. As she opened the bedroom door to return to the party, she didn’t seem to notice that Julian stayed behind.

  Putting his head in his hands, Julian groaned. “Goddess, what else could possibly go wrong tonight?”

  03

  Spark

  The door opened and closed again with a click. Julian didn’t even bother to look up. But then he realized the footsteps making their way into the room definitely did not sound like Paris’s heels.

  Julian took his face out of his hands and raised his head. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It looked like an underwear model had found his way out of a magazine fully clothed and parked himself in the middle of Lyla’s bedroom. The stranger was tall, athletic, with sweet, pouty lips, and a mess of dark brown hair. The nervous look on his face made Julian wonder if he could be running away from the party too.

  Julian looked the handsome stranger over and noticed charming little bits of imperfection — a slanted nose, a scar across his hand, warm, rosy cheeks that were quickly turning bright pink. Julian raised an eyebrow. Normally, it would have bothered Julian to have someone invade his hiding place. He was surprised to find that he welcomed the company of this mysterious and handsome young man.

  After a moment, Julian broke the silence. “Hi.”

  The stranger stayed silent, so Julian took in his outfit — an oversized athletic jacket, bearing the image of a basketball on fire with some team name of which Julian had never heard. With saggy jeans and brand-name, slip-on sneakers, he stood out at a party full of hard-femmes and androgynous punks. This guy looked like the type Julian had learned to avoid. But something about him was different.

  The stranger cautiously glanced around the room, clearly making eyes at Julian. Fiddling with a golden ring on his right hand, he looked like he had something to say but couldn’t seem to get words out. Julian stood to make the first move.

  It had been so long since Julian felt a spark of attraction. Like a moth to the flame, he pulled closer. His heart was beating faster with every step. Julian tried to go slowly, savouring the moment. This guy looked like he might spook easily. Reaching out a hand, Julian brushed his fingers lightly along the young man’s cheekbones. He smirked as a shiver visibly ran through the stranger.

  That seemed to be enough to get him talking. Finally, he breathed an introduction. “I’m Romeo.”

  What kind of a name was Romeo? Julian suppressed a laugh.

  “Um, I mean, nobody really calls me that. Except my mom, I guess,” Romeo started to stammer. “Rome — it’s just Rome. I mean, it’s actually Romeo Montague. Pretty much everyone just calls me Rome. But you could call me Romeo I guess, if you wanted to . . .”

  “Romeo,” Julian said. He tested out the name in his mouth. He liked it.

  Romeo turned a deeper shade of red. He gulped and nodded. Clearly, he’d run out of words again.

  Julian moved forward, gently pushing his fingers into Romeo’s thick hair. No more words were needed. Romeo wrapped Julian in an embrace and the two connected. A spark ran through Julian’s body. He shivered with delight.

  The kiss was imperfect and incredible. Romeo was nervous, pulling back one second and then pushing deeper the next. Julian was rusty, forgetting what to do with his hands or if he was allowed to let out a moan. But, instead of embarrassment, Julian was elated. He never wanted this feeling to end.

  Suddenly, the bedroom d
oor came swinging open. The two boys were shoved onto the floor. Julian went first and smacked his head against the ground. He could feel Romeo’s weight fall on top of him. Dazed, Julian looked up at the doorway. He saw a familiar face — one that made his stomach clench with guilt.

  Ty stood, arms crossed, scowling down. His face looked strange — brows creased, mouth like a straight line. In Julian’s memories, his cousin was always laughing, sappy and sweet, full of funny stories. Now he looked cold and stony. After a moment, Julian realized his cousin’s gaze was fixed on the stranger Julian had just been kissing.

  Romeo rolled off Julian and jumped up. Ty said something to Romeo in a gruff tone. Julian couldn’t make out the words. Behind Ty, Julian saw a small crowd had gathered around the door to peer inside. It was like the whole party had decided to intrude on Romeo and Julian’s intimate moment.

  Romeo gave Julian a quick glance. Then, just like that, he was gone.

  “You okay?” Ty asked Julian, his voice now gentle. He offered Julian a hand to get up. The crowd murmured with excitement at the drama. They leaned in to see what Julian might say. Not interested in feeding their curiosity, Julian got up by himself. He pushed past the group and out of the room.

  “Jules, wait!” Ty called after him. “It’s not what you think! I know that guy! He’s a ’phobe. His buddies were the ones harassing Paris!”

  Julian didn’t want to turn back — not now. How long had it been since he’d seen his cousin? And this was their reconnection? Julian shook his head. He glanced around one more time for Lyla, but she was nowhere in sight, yet again. With a sigh, he made his way to the door. He was so done with this party.

  That night, for the first time in a long time, Julian didn’t have nightmares. It might have been because he barely slept. Instead he worked on painting after painting. Trying to remember the feeling of that kiss, he pulled out gentle pinks, sparkling silvers, and deep reds. He traced plump and delicate lines like those of Romeo’s lips. He spent half the night experimenting with colours, moving from broad brush strokes to dots of light and shadow. Still he couldn’t quite capture how it had felt. The memory was in his body, but it would not allow itself to be moved onto the canvas. Finally, as the early morning light began to break through the window, Julian let himself fall onto the bed. He slipped into fantasies of strong arms pulling him close again. He murmured to himself, “Oh, Romeo . . .”