by Mj Fields
From childhood, it was family. When you were school aged, it was your very best friend. As young adults, it was that first crush or, as we called it, your first love.
It had been the type of connection that was revered, cherished, sought after, and found throughout so many steps in one’s lifetime, yet too quickly became a part of a past we looked fondly on in times of reflection or times like this, when one was surrounded by something more beautiful than they ever dared dream could be part of their reality.
The fairy tale. The connection, the fall, the acceptance that only in books comes so easily. It was not fiction, not now as I lay here, feeling his breath against my skin, smelling his manly, earthy scent.
The moment we had come together for the first time, I had felt the presence of all those I had loved and had loved me all meld into one. In his arms, I had felt invincible, whole, treasured, and safer than I had in my entire life.
He was asleep now, his arms wrapped around me tightly, and I wanted for nothing more than this. But the ache of knowing it would come to an end when I left to go back to California coursed through me. The thought of this moment becoming a memory was unfathomable.
I took a deep breath of what was real and beside me now—him. Then I exhaled the painful thought of what was near.
In my heart of hearts, I lived with not a single doubt that this man, this strong, beautiful man, would be one of those memories I cherished until age erased the memory or time ended.
“Well, I guess I should have taken a piss,” I grumble as I get up and toss the dose of reality on the new mattress.
Coming out of prison, I needed a place. Shaw asked me to move in with him. I told him I couldn’t, so he offered what used to be an apartment over the gym that he used for storage and gave me the space to sort out my shit.
The boxes in the main part were cleared out. The bedrooms, however, were not. I never went into the other rooms. I slept on the mattress in the living room, never in the room Shaw stored his and some of my family things.
That room with a small kitchen was bigger than my cell. The bathroom had walls. It was fucking paradise compared to my cell at Central Michigan’s Correctional Facility.
When Shaw died, Jagger and Tatiana moved into his place next door and offered to help revamp my dingy digs on several occasions. I never wanted it before. I still don’t want it for me, but now I have no choice since Buck’s here. Like me, Buck needs a place. It’s time to pay it forward.
I stand in the doorway I have avoided for far too long. I don’t want to see Shaw’s stuff. I don’t want anything to resemble a home in this godforsaken state I exist in.
I convince myself that, unlike me, Buck, the kid with a filthy attitude but clean record, can make something out of himself. He’s not going be a prisoner. He will have choices, but he will toe the line. I am going to make damn sure of that.
I look around the space. This small apartment is about to expand, doors shut are now going to be open, and this place is going to start resembling a home rather than a crash pad.
I think I like it. Then again, I’m in a different state of mind today.
I’m not a stupid man. In fact, my high school exams said I was borderline genius. Lot of good that did.
I remember what Annie wrote. Memories, good ones will always be there. I wonder if maybe the bad ones fade faster in time.
Annie. Tatum.
Fuck.
I run my hands through my hair, telling myself to get a grip. Reality, here and now, not that damn book. Focus.
I step inside the room, seeing all the boxes. It’s overwhelming.
With all the pent up energy I feel, I tackle them one at a time. The pictures haunt me, but the bitter pain isn’t the same, and I’m not sure why.
I blow the dust off and realize it’s not Shaw’s box I’m opening, it’s Pandora’s.
My past. Hell, not even my past. My beginning.
I hold up my parents’ wedding picture and stare at it. The way she looks at him, the way he looks at her, there is a feel to it, and the realization makes me feel foolish. But the picture... The picture of them is one that doesn’t belong in a fucking box.
One by one, I pull out framed picture after framed picture. There are dozens of my parents and my parents with Maria. They are a family. They look so fucking happy. They are happy.
My chest tightens, knowing I took that away.
The pain is real. It has a shot of regret, making the concoction even stronger.
I took a man’s life, and I never felt that pain. Not even for a minute.
I turn to walk toward the door and see Buck standing there with a bucket in his hand.
“Need some help?”
“I’m good,” I tell him, walking over and taking it from him. “Thanks.”
“You need help, I’m—”
“Said I was good,” I comment, walking toward an old dresser covered in dust.
“This gonna be my room?” he asks.
I survey the room and see the same handwriting on all the boxes. All of them have an M, and I guess this is all from my childhood home.
“No,” I answer.
“You want me to get started on my room?” he asks.
“Haven’t even opened that damn door, Buck. Wanna give me—”
“I did. It has trophies and shit.”
“Well, if you’re in such a yank, just set them to the side and don’t break anything. If there are boxes, leave them alone.”
“No boxes, but...” He pauses and chuckles.
I look back. “What’s so funny?”
He holds up his hands. “Nothing, man. You sure you don’t want the other room?”
“Said I was good, Buck.”
He nods and smiles. “Perfect.” Then he walks out.
I take a deep breath as I shake my head and feel a tad better about this little self-torturous memorial service. At least Buck seems happy.
Once the dresser is wiped down and I have the pictures I want on it, I step back and look at it.
Jonathon’s apartment has pictures, I think to myself.
I turn around and grab a box, faintly making out the scribble of “Maria’s things” on the top. Slowly pulling back the tape, I find an old, leather bound journal on top. Opening it, I find the pages are yellowed, but the handwriting is clear.
Life lessons I hold dear:
Never waste a second.
Never look back.
Live, love, and look on for family.
Omo and I are starting our own family. I have found my love, my life, and I look back without a regret. Even in the loneliest of times, when I couldn’t see things turning out this way. It’s the unexpected treasure. The love I have with this man and the future we are going to have is worth every heartache I’ve ever endured. He is my beginning, my end, and my every in between.
I set the book in the top left dresser drawer. My mother’s words, a treasure that has faded, but I will be damned if I don’t keep it.
Buck has a room. I have a room. This was mine before I was even here. Now I can give Shaw’s legacy of good on to the next person who needs it.
Hours pass. I have everything sorted into what will be donated, what I will keep, and what Buck can use.
With more anxiousness running through me, I feel the need for closure in a way I have never felt before. Therefore, I head toward Highland Park, a place I venture around but never to them. I can go there; I can be in this city; but I haven’t yet faced the finality of their gravestones.
The cemetery is nondescript. The sky is gray, only adding to the experience of loneliness encompassing the atmosphere. The iron gates are typical. There is no abundance of statues or ornate headstones. No, before me is rows upon rows of the lost.
MARIA AGATA MAZZINI,
Beloved daughter and sister.
The gray stone is weathered as I look at her final resting place.
OMERO MICHELANGELO MAZZINI,
Devoted husband, father, and friend.
>
Shaw had to take care of this. I was behind bars. Never got to say goodbye.
Beside him is her, the one I never even got to say hello to.
TERESA MARIA MAZZINI,
Devoted wife and mother.
Over the three grave markers is a plaque centered over the stones.
Never waste a second.
Never look back.
Live, love, and look on for family.
I try to think back to a time we weren’t lost. However, our family was never whole. Well, in the pictures they appeared to be, but that was before me. I didn’t know the difference back then.
Movement catches my eye before I allow myself to dig deeper into our family dynamics.
Legs. It’s the first thing I see. Legs covered in skin tight pants that lead up to an oversized slouchy sweater. Doesn’t this woman know Highland Park isn’t safe?
Trailing my eyes north, I realize it’s Tatum. I don’t hesitate. I don’t procrastinate. I march right up to her.
“Do you have an affliction for trouble?” I ask a little too harshly.
When she looks up, I physically step back as her tears pain me.
She shakes her head, and I raise an eyebrow, not understanding why she is here and crying.
“H-He told me we’d come here... to-to Detroit. He b-begged me to let him show me the city. I-I always had school work, things to research, find, and do, s-so we never made it to his beginnings,” she stammers out as I struggle to follow her.
Reaching out, I wrap my arms around her and pull her to me. Inhaling her sweet scent, it automatically calms all the nervous energy I felt all day. Her arms come around my waist to settle on my back before she rests her head against my chest.
“He was born here. Never lived here, but he was certain he would find all the answers to his past right here. He never got to.”
“Not your fault, Tatum,” I tell her the truth.
“Still hurts.”
“I know,” I say with my lips on top of her head. “You’ve done it now. Can you take comfort in that?”
She looks up at me in confusion before closing her eyes. Then she wipes away a tear and smiles sadly while nodding. “Yeah.” She then takes a deep breath and steps back. “Why are you here?”
I shrug. “Never visited their sites before.”
“Your family’s?”
I nod.
“Show me?” she asks genuinely.
“Sure.”
Chapter Seventeen
Tatum
His face is softer and more telling as he looks down at the place where his family’s bodies all lay to rest. It’s unimaginable. I have my parents still, but I hardly see them. This makes me want to reach out to them on a day that’s not Sunday.
I look up at him as he looks down at me.
“You wanna get out of here?”
“It’s peaceful,” I tell him.
He shakes his head and chuckles softly.
“What?” I ask as he takes my hand and starts walking.
“You once mentioned you’re not crazy,” he jokes.
His playfulness makes me smile.
“I’m really not,” I defend myself.
“I know, I know; you’re an author.”
At that, I can’t help chuckling myself.
“You have no idea how true those words are.”
He looks over at me and shrugs. “Nothing wrong with you, not one damn thing.”
“Are you flirting with me in a cemetery, Angelo?”
“It’s either that or take you in one,” he replies honestly.
I feel the ache between my legs grow stronger as I stumble at his words. He grabs my elbow, pulling me close and making sure I don’t fall.
The way he keeps me held against him, the way he looks at me, the way his look makes me feel, and knowing what the look on his face means instantly heightens my senses.
“I-I...” I shake my head, hoping he doesn’t kiss me, because his kiss would ignite the embers burning inside of me. And as much as I’m not crazy, I’m crazy enough to let him take me in a cemetery.
He lets out a slow, deep breath and steps back, releasing my hand. Quickly, I grab his, causing him to look back at me.
“I know that look, Tatum. You wanna come. You want me to make you come. So, what’s the problem? It’s not written down in that book?”
He’s frustrated with me.
Realizing he thinks I’m serious about it only being about the book, I gasp and start walking away, his hand still firmly in mine.
It’s not about the book, my job, Jonathon, Annie—none of it. No, somehow, it’s about me living again. Angelo has given me back a piece I lost too many years ago.
When he tries to pull his hand away, I hold on tighter. Then he stops, and of course, I stop, too.
I am three steps from those iron gates, three steps from getting out of the cemetery, which at one point was calming, but in seconds became a mix of sexual tension, misunderstanding, and anger.
“Please, I don’t want to fight in here.”
“We’re not fighting.” He scowls. “Jonathon and Annie wouldn’t fight, would they? They eat and fuck.” He looks like he wants to say more.
“You’re almost impossible,” I say before grabbing his face and kissing him.
I try to push my tongue into his mouth, but he’s unresponsive, so I step back.
“It’s a cemetery,” I say to remind myself more than anything.
“They’re dead. Nobody’s gonna see us.”
“You want us to have sex in a cemetery?” I ask quietly, looking around.
“Nope.” He looks annoyed as he walks around me.
I don’t understand him. And clearly, he doesn’t understand me.
I follow him out, nearly jogging to keep up with his long strides.
“Hey,” I yell, but he doesn’t stop. “Hey!”
He stops then and turns around, his eyes narrowed, jaw tight, brows knit. The sight of him makes me stop in my tracks, and me stopping in my tracks makes his jaw drop.
“Angelo...”
He throws his hands in the air. “What?”
The vulnerability in the voice, in his stature, is shocking. His true age shows. There is an insecurity there that I have not seen. It makes him even more desirable.
“You are incredible. I forced myself to come here today while fighting the need to go to you,” I tell him, taking a deep breath and hoping to be able to continue. “I prefer to make myself miserable than to lie in bed and think of last night alone.”
He tilts his head to the side in question.
“But,” I continue, needing to make my point, “as far as sex in a cemetery, I just can’t.” I want to. I want to have that connection with him again. I just can’t. And I need him to know it’s not about the damn book anymore. It hasn’t been for a while now.
“Fine. Get in your car, Tatum. It’s not safe here.”
“I don’t have a car. I’ll get a cab.”
He sighs loudly and rolls his eyes. “Get in the truck.” He walks around the old truck and opens the passenger side door.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” he says, tight-lipped.
As I buckle my seatbelt, he gets in and starts the truck. He says nothing for fifteen minutes, and it’s driving me insane.
“We okay?”
“We’re fine,” he answers.
I reach over and put my hand on his thigh.
He glances out of the corner of his eye at me. “What are you doing?”
I use my free hand to unbuckle my seatbelt and scoot closer to him.
“What are you doing?” he asks again.
“Getting closer,” I answer, moving my hand up his thigh until it reaches the visible bulge in his running pants.
“Your seatbelt,” he says, then hisses when I push my hand down his waistband and grip him.
“Tatum,” he grits out as I lower my head, determined to take him in my mouth.
“No.” He grips
my hand and attempts to pull it away.
“I want you, Angelo. I wanted you back there, but—”
“I don’t want you like that,” he says gruffly, which makes me release my grip.
I sit back and cross my arms, feeling... something. Needy? Pouty? Annoyed?
“I’ve had a dozen girls on their knees, Tatum. That’s not a place you need to be,” he finally says, breaking the silence while completely shocking me.
“I wasn’t on my knees.”
“Never once have you written or implied you want a cock shoved down your throat.”
Again, I’m shocked.
“But I—”
“Not an option.”
“But I—”
“Done subject,” he says, taking a corner faster than I expect.
I grip the dashboard, and he chuckles.
“Maybe I want to,” I tell him.
“Enough.”
“I’m really good at it.” I have no idea why I say that because it’s probably not even true.
I don’t dare look at him, but I do see his hands grip the wheel tightly.
“Don’t give a damn and don’t wanna hear it.”
He’s jealous, and for some reason, that gives me some joy.
“But you wanna talk about the dozen women who have been on their knees for you?”
He sighs. “No.”
“Well, I have had four sexual partners,” I tell him. “How about you?”
“One.”
“Before you attended MS, during, or after?” I ask curiously.
“MS? What’s MS?”
“Michigan State,” I answer.
He glances over and smirks before looking away. “During.”
“Oh.” I know my tone is shocked. “I mean, I guess I assumed you—”
“My cellmate wore a lovely shade of pink lipstick, and you know, I do have needs.”
Apparently, it takes me too long to reply.
“I’m kidding, Tatum. It was after.” He immediately reaches up and turns on the AM/FM radio. It’s all static.
I reach out and turn it down. “Did you like her?” I ask, realizing he just told me he’s only had one sexual partner. I want to ask if that means only me, but I’m too afraid to. Instead, I go with my gut that he’s talking about a woman before me.
