by Jean Haus
Coming toward him, I almost trip. “This coming Friday?”
He nods.
“How?” I expected a few more weeks with how slow the legal system usually works, but this is too fast. We’ve just finally found each other.
He shrugs but his jaw is rigid. “I already pleaded guilty. Guess it should be quick.”
My fingers curl into his belt loops. “Three days…”
He leans down, resting his forehead on mine. “I wanted—I wanted to…do so much with you.”
The sadness and fear in his gaze is breaking my heart. I don’t want his possible last days of freedom to be dark and full of trepidation. Knowing my gaze probably reflects his, I force a smile to my lips. “Let’s make it the best three days ever.”
****
We sit on my couch after dinner. Gabe in the corner. Me lying with my back against him. I went shopping—bought everything the male population is known to love, from steaks to potatoes to mushrooms—in the afternoon while he met with his probation officer and then lawyer. After we ate, I offered to play the guitar. Gabe said to wait or we’d be in bed before eight. We’ve been talking about anything and everything. How Riley helped him become a better drummer. The huge crush I had on my piano teacher when I was twelve. How Gabe is always nervous prior to a show whether on the major tour they opened for this past summer or at a local venue here. My one show in a teenage club basement with my retro band. He talks about some of the good times with his father. I even share some humorous moments from when Rachel and I were children. Then we talk music. He likes the harder stuff, but doesn’t mind my favorite era of grunge.
Gabe breaks the lighthearted conversation by announcing, “The lawyer wants my psychologist to offer a recommendation to the judge.”
His frustrated tone has me twisting around. “You don’t want him to?”
“Her. And fuck no.” His fingers tighten their hold on my waist. “Isn’t that shit confidential?”
I turn all the way around until we’re face to face. “You can tell her any specifics that you don’t want her to share, but no one’s going to think any less of you.”
“I know. I know. It’s just…it was hard enough telling her, but to hear it back out of her…”
“Like reliving it?”
“Something like that.”
I brush a finger over his top lip, the one that I find so sexy. “Part of me doesn’t want you to have to deal with that, actually all of me doesn’t want you to deal with that. Yet you could be trading one hell for another.” Though I’m imagining, or maybe hoping, if it happens, he would go to a minimum security prison with less restrictions. However, being locked up would be awful no matter where. I’m very, very scared for him, but I’m trying not to darken our short time together and be brave for him.
He draws in a harsh breath and lets it go, touching my face. “Because of my promise to you, I’ll probably agree to it tomorrow when we meet.”
“Do it for you, not for me.”
“I’ll do it for both of us.”
I shake my head, before falling on him for a hug.
All this talk of lawyers and psychologists has me wanting to bury my face in his shirt and hysterically cry. Instead, after several minutes of collecting my emotions, I push up and ask, “Ready for me to play?”
“More classics?”
“Current classics.”
He tilts his head at that.
I push off him to stand. “I know a few thrash songs…like say…” I reach for my case on the table. “Metallica.”
His brows go up, but he smiles. “I’m always ready for you to play.” He stands and tugs me by the hand. “But you should play in the bedroom. We’re going to need the bed.”
****
When I get home from work the next day, Gabe is already at my apartment. Of course, I gave him the extra key. He is sitting on the couch, appearing relaxed with an ankle resting on a knee and an arm wrapped behind the couch. But the glint in his eye, the hot smoldering look, exposes what is truly on his mind.
I kick the door shut, whip off my coat, and practically dive at him. He catches me and within a few hot kisses, our clothing is loosened and a condom unwrapped. He enters me and hisses out a, “Hello.”
“Hi,” I pant, straddling him.
“Work good?” he asks, head tipped back, fingers digging into my ribs.
“All right. This is better.”
“Yeah?” He forcefully surges upwards.
My head falls back. “Oh, yeah, much, much better.”
He keeps it slow with deep, hard thrusts that have my body striving to go into overdrive. Unintentionally, I try to speed the rhythm up.
His hands grip my hips, slowing me down as he lifts his head and presses his mouth to the center of my chest. “I’m trying to hold on to these moments. The feel, the scent, the sound, the beautiful sight of you. I may need them to last a couple of years.”
Forcing my body to slow, I wrap my arms around his shoulders. “I’m holding on to the fact that a couple of years are nothing compared to forever.”
He nods, his mouth brushing the clasp of my bra. “A couple of years is nothing compared to being with you.”
****
My bedroom is dark except for the faint shine of the lights in the parking lot out the window. I’m lying sideways on the bed. Gabe’s naked stomach is my pillow. His fingers play in my hair. The motion is sweet and comforting, yet melancholy hangs over us. Tomorrow morning is his sentencing.
I want to cry and just let him hold me. But I won’t. I will be strong for him. I’ll cry later, buckets into my pillow.
“I’m not going into the graduate program,” I blurt out filling the silence, wanting to share and wanting to dissipate the fear hanging in the air.
His hand pauses near my temple. “Because?”
I turn, my cheek sliding across his skin, to look at him in the shadows. “Because you were right. Guilt has been driving me, but I don’t think I’m cut out to be a counselor, no matter how bad my remorse drives me to be one.”
“Guilt can make people blind to the truth. Look at how I tried to push you away.”
“Yeah, but that only lasted weeks.” I let out a sigh. “For almost four years, I believed sacrificing my life as payment would somehow pay my debt, somehow let me look in the mirror again without hate. I finally get that I’m going to have to accept myself, even with the horrible wrong in my past. There’s no erasing it by helping people.”
“There’s nothing wrong with helping people.”
“When you’re doing it for yourself there is.”
“You’re too hard on yourself, April.” He scoots down and turns both of our bodies until we’re face to face. “But then you’re always trying to be a better person. And you know what I’ve learned from you?”
“What?” I ask, surprised anyone could learn anything from me.
“That the trying is what makes us better, even if it’s twisted fuckery. It might not get you to the finish line, but it gets you closer.”
“Huh. Well, you’ve taught me a lot too.”
“Like what?”
“Like how being brutally honest, especially with yourself, strips all the…fuckery away.”
“Ha! How immature. I love it when you swear. It’s so dirty coming from your pretty mouth. Don’t ever swear and play guitar in public because I’ll be tearing your clothes off you in seconds.”
A snort of laughter escapes me. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Me tearing off your clothes in public?”
“No, but maybe now. However, I’ve been thinking about playing in public.”
There’s a slight pause of silence before he softly says, “You should. You’re so talented. To play like you do after years of not playing…”
“I’m not sure. I’m considering it.”
“You know punishing yourself by not playing isn’t solving anything.”
“I know.”
“Okay, just wanted to make sure you wer
en’t reverting to your fucked up ways.” The hand on my hip slides to my waist as he sighs. “I may end up losing the chance of a lifetime here, my ticket out of the shithole I was born in.”
He’s referring to Luminescent Juliet. And though all of the band members would want to take him back, after two years another drummer would become part of the band.
“And at this point,” he adds. “I can’t berate Riley for taking my spot.”
“Riley might fill in, but I’m pretty sure she’d never rejoin. She doesn’t want that type of fame. They would have to find someone else.”
Silence fills the room for too long a moment.
“Gabe,” I say, stalling before referring to the worst possible outcome for tomorrow. “Two years would still leave you a lifetime of chances. You’re more than talented. You have an edge to you when you play, an intensity that is visible to the crowd. Maybe—maybe LJ won’t be an option but trust me, I know a lot about the music business from my dad, other doors and possibilities will be there. Things that you never imagined…”
He buries his head in my shoulder. “I want to stay with the band. Oddly, after all the bickering and bullshit we’ve become close. Yet, I can’t erase the things I’ve done or pretend I’m not guilty. I feel like I’m slowly drowning sometimes, but then somehow you always seem to show me the pinpoints of light in my tunnel of darkness.”
His words—along with the gratefulness on his face—tug at me so hard, I can’t help it. I start crying. He holds me tight. I hold him back just as tightly. And it’s okay, because I need this in order to be strong for him.
Tomorrow might be far worse.
Chapter 33
~Gabe~
“I’ve been working with Gabe for almost a year,” Joan, my psychologist, begins from her spot behind me in the front row of the courtroom.
The prosecution has already spelled out their recommendation, which is the two-year maximum prison sentence. And my lawyer has pleaded on my behalf using the facts that I have a job and am in a successful band to prove that I’m a productive member of society. Yet it seems like Joan is my one hope out of a possible two-year sentence. I like and hate Joan. During our sessions, she drags me through hell, but I always leave feeling lighter. Dreading the shit that’s coming, I stay seated forward. My face is made of emotionless stone. I don’t fucking want to go through this.
I think of April. And the band.
I have to go through this.
“And a picture of his life has clearly emerged from our time together. It consists of a mother who abandoned the family when he was six, a father in depression that turned to alcohol, and boy who not only was neglected but also abused.”
Okay, not so bad. Just general information. I don’t like the pity it induces, though it seems to be aimed at me as boy. It’s always hard for me to separate my younger self from my adult self. And behind Joan, sit April, the band, and even Riley. I don’t want their pity. I loathe people pitying me. A huge part of me wishes none of them were here, but strangely, another part is honored at their support.
The sound of a paper turning sounds and Joan continues, “The abuse included such things as punches in the back if he forgot to take out the trash. Slaps to the face because he wouldn’t finish a burnt dinner. A kick in the stomach to send him to bed. And a vicious beating when a teacher called home about his behavior at school.”
Though my expression remains like marble, my stomach reels, threating vomit. Her words call the memories back. Flashes in my mind that bring emotions that I hate: fear, helplessness, anger, and anguish. My hands curl into fists under the table while I try to keep the emotional barrage at bay.
“These few instances are a small percent of what I’ve learned from Gabe during our time together. I could go on for quite some time, but I don’t believe that is necessary. What is necessary is for the court to understand that Gabe suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder after so many years of abuse. His symptoms include but are not limited to: intense distress when reminded of the trauma, intense physical reactions when remembering the events, a feeling of disconnection from others, being emotionally numb, a sense of a limited future, and irritability or outbursts of anger.”
Yeah, that sounds about how I feel at this moment. Though I’m somehow keeping control of my emotions, I’m starting to sweat and actually shake. Fuck this. Instead of screaming that, I stare at the gavel on the judge’s podium.
“PTSD is different with every patient due to the different factors of each case. An important factor in Gabe’s history is the arrival of his father’s girlfriend around the age thirteen. She gave Gabe attention and took care of him, which created an emotional bond. And although the physical abuse hadn’t broken Gabe, he had become a hard and sullen teenager. But Sharon became the one bright spot in his life. When his father began physically abusing Sharon, it didn’t take long for Gabe to retaliate.”
The memories of Sharon being hurt have me burying my head in my hands because the stone is melting with remembrances that bring on an acute anxiety. I had to keep Sharon safe. Still feel like I have to.
“After that, the abuse did lessen, but didn’t entirely stop. Gabe had learned to live with the abuse, as long as his father left Sharon alone. He was always ready to attack if his father hurt Sharon.”
My father’s fists stopped hurting anything but my pride a long time ago.
“Similarly, all of Gabe’s physical assaults as an adult have been preempted by a male hurting a female, a very similar situation to his protecting of Sharon.”
The sound of papers shuffling sounds, but I stay unmoving.
“Though I do believe in those instances Gabe is a threat, I don’t believe that incarceration is the correct solution. He has been responsive and improving in our sessions. However, faced with his father not only assaulting Sharon again, but also Gabe’s girlfriend, was too much for his current coping skills. His coping skills not only need to improve, he also needs more time to come to terms with the abuse in his past. Incarceration is not the solution to either of these. Furthermore, these assaults are the one criminal issue. As an adult, Gabe does not have any other criminal history. Nor does he have any substance abuse problems. Thus, my recommendation is a complete program in a rehab facility where he can continue to heal and learn how to cope.”
Still shaking a bit, I drop my hands and stare at the floor. At this point, I don’t care what they decide. The memories need to stop.
“Judge Baylor,” the prosecutor says in an exasperated tone. “How are we to know that the defendant’s second hand account of his life to a psychologist he was court ordered to see is actual fact? This young man has viciously beat three men and broken his father’s jaw. Not only is he a threat to society, he needs to be held accountable for his actions.”
“It took months for Gabe to open up to me,” Joan says in an unyieldingly tone. “And after, I continually had to prod him to share. I never suspected that his accounts, or anguish, were fabricated.”
I hear Joan sit, and some whispering that I don’t try to decipher.
The sweating and shaking and stomach reeling decrease as the prosecutor, then my lawyer make their final arguments. Their statements don’t bring on flashbacks, but I continue to feel out of it, as if I’ve gone through some sort of emotional wringer.
The judge calls for a break to deliberate. Like a zombie not seeing anyone or anything, I go out into the hall and find a bench. April finds me. She holds my hand and I gradually begin to feel like a human again.
“This is it,” I sadly say.
Shaking her head, she smiles. “This is just a short hiccup in the beginning.”
Though my head is still screwed on sideways, next to April I find strength and stability, feel like I’ve landed on my feet. There are many fears rushing across my head right now, but the biggest one is the fear of being without her. At first, I was willing to accept whatever happened. Now I’m hoping for some sort of leniency, something that won’t take me from h
er.
The band and Riley gather around. Conversation floats around me. I have a hard time following it. I’m trying not to consider all the possibilities that the judge will decide, but I do. Everything from two years of prison to six months of jail to months of rehab. All of it will take me from April.
After an hour, it’s time to go back in and face my sentencing. Romeo and Sam offer fist bumps. They are obviously more than aware I’m uncomfortable with the pity hanging in the air. Riley and Justin give me hugs. It’s been a long road for rich boy Justin and me—there was a time, more like many times, I seriously considered beating his conceited ass—but out of all the band members, I sense he feels the most for my predicament, as if he’s guilty he grew up with so much while I had so little.
April tightly hugs me outside the courtroom entrance, whispering in my ear, “Just remember, there’s no limit to the time I’ll wait for you.”
Then I’m walking back down the aisle and facing the judge and my future.
The old man clears his throat before his attention pins to me. His face is lined with tension. “This hasn’t been an easy decision. Assault is a crime that has more than physical repercussions. Many of its victims deal with emotional trauma just like you. And I tend to agree with the prosecutor. You need to be held accountable for your actions.”
My spine becomes steel. True. I went into this pleading guilty because I don’t back down from responsibility. I do not want to go to prison. I do not want to be separated from April for two years. I do not want to lose my spot in the band. But if that’s what I owe…
“Yet, I keep coming back to one thing. I’m having a hard time giving the maximum sentence to a young man that our system was completely blind to as a boy. If I could go back in time and find every person that turned their head and ignored your plight—and I’m quite sure they existed—I would sentence every one of them to a lengthy stay. But I’m left here today to sentence you. Your past has obviously impacted your present, which leads me agree with the recommendation for rehab.”
An almost tangible relief fills the courtroom while I try to understand his words.
