Noah’s a great hockey player. He’s a great guy, a great teammate and friend, and a great dad.
But he’s asexual. As in not sexual. And Taylor likes sex a lot. Would have it all the time if he could.
On the drive here, anxiety had kept his brain from thinking too hard about much of anything except replacing his phone and calling Noah. He can make that call now and suddenly he’s thinking better of it. For the moment at least. Now that Taylor’s still for longer than ten seconds and he’s not freaking out about his phone any longer, other thoughts are creeping in.
The first couple of weeks with Noah had been idyllic. Everything Taylor could have wished for. A cozy little love nest, a precious baby to sorta call his own, a smoking hot hockey player in his life and bed and a lot of sex. Noah had been game to try everything. Hand jobs, blow jobs, frotting, anal, even.
But then Taylor had started feeling weird and uncomfortable about having sex with a guy who physically felt no desire whatsoever. He still can’t really wrap his head around that, because come on… So he’d gotten on the Internet and read about asexuality. One website claimed that most asexuals seemed to be averse to sex. It freaked him out. If Noah was having sex just to appease Taylor, well, he just… That didn’t sit well with him at all. And the fact that he hadn’t considered it any point made him feel like shit. Of course, another site said many asexuals enjoyed sex with their partners even though they didn’t feel physical desire.
That seems to be where things started to go off the rails.
Perhaps his phone dying, his phone falling in the toilet, Matty’s breakdown—maybe all these events were the universe’s way of trying to get Taylor’s attention. Well, it had it now. Until Matty finished his bottle and allowed himself to be placed in his car seat, Taylor has nothing else to do but pay attention.
Maybe the universe didn’t want him to call Noah. Maybe he’s supposed to take this time to think long and hard about a relationship with Noah.
To be fair, Noah had tried on several occasions to instigate a conversation. For one reason or another, it had never happened. Now that Taylor thinks about it, it was mostly him. Not with any malicious intent, but it was as if he didn’t want to hear what Noah had to say. Either about himself, about his asexuality, or about what a relationship with him would be like. Taylor had evaded those attempts as if he was afraid of what Noah would say. And maybe he had been.
Matty turns his head away from the bottle and struggles to sit up. Taylor helps him. Pats his back for a few minutes until a juicy burp issues forth.
“Hey, buddy, you ready to go home?”
“Ma ma ma.”
“Yeah, let’s go see your mama.”
Chapter Thirteen
The next day and a half passes in a whirlwind of funeral preparations. Taylor’s sole job has been to wrangle the kids between the ages of five and thirteen. The older ones stick around though, because Uncle/Cousin Taylor is an honest-to-God professional hockey player and, well, bragging rights, eh?
He plays board games with them and sends them on scavenger hunts. He cycles them through lunch and arranges buddies for swimming in the swimming hole. He pays Mr. Hinkley a thousand bucks to stock up his old ice cream truck and bring it out to the farm. They play street hockey and tag and Red Rover, Red Rover. They make s’mores and catch fireflies. He wears them out so well, all their mothers offer to pay him to be their babysitter for the summer.
But he’s distracted most of the time, trying to remember the argument with Noah. What he’d said, what Noah had said.
The comments come back to him in fits and starts. His drinking binge hadn’t helped, nor does the chaos of having two dozen kids tearing around and talking to him all day.
He opted not to call Noah after all the trouble he’d gone to, to replace his phone. When Suze asked if he’d contacted Noah, Taylor had lied and said yes. He’d also chosen to not listen to Noah’s voicemail or read his texts. If Taylor did that, he might not give the whole issue as thorough a thinking-through as it apparently needed if the universe had put in so much effort to make it happen.
He’d gone so far as to power the phone off. Much easier to avoid temptation of listening to voicemails or answering a call from Noah. If Noah called again. Which Taylor had no doubt he’d done. Guilt about that settled on his shoulders, but he wanted to make absolutely sure he had his head on straight and his thoughts in order when they finally have that conversation.
The one thing Taylor remembers saying for sure is that he was okay with not having sex if Noah didn’t want to. He meant it then and after a short deliberation with himself, he can say with 100% certainty he means it now. There’s no question. He loves Noah and Noah’s more important than getting off. It’s not like Taylor and Rosie haven’t been on intimate terms in the past. They can be again. Compared to everything else he’ll get, sex is the least of it.
Of course, any of this only matters if he and Noah are still in a relationship. Taylor’s got no idea. Noah was upset to begin with. After three days of silence, Taylor may already be history. And he wouldn’t blame Noah.
Time to find out. With trembling fingers, he powers up his phone again.
There’s only a couple of texts but several missed calls from Noah, as expected. Taylor’s afraid to listen to the voicemails, but he cues them up. Avoiding them won’t change the contents.
“Taylor, it’s me. I…I got a notice about a hearing in regards to Emma. It’s Friday. I thought you’d want to know. Anyway…I’m leaving for Ten Rigs in the morning. I know we need to talk about us, too. Call me. Please…”
Taylor pinches the bridge of his nose. Fuck. He’s relieved and worried at the same time. Noah sounds more than nervous. He sounds really worried. He loves Emma so much, and he’ll be devastated if they—whoever ‘they’ are—decide he doesn’t get to keep her.
And, God, Taylor fucked up. Not just with Noah in the first place, but in leaving town. He should have listened to his gut. He should be there with Noah. For Noah. Or caring for Emma. Or whatever’s going to help Noah the most. God, but he’s here now and the funeral’s Friday and the hearing’s Friday and fuck.
Closing his eyes, he presses play on Noah’s second voicemail.
“Listen, Taylor…I don’t know what I did to make you mad. Whatever it was, I’m sorry, okay? This is new to me. Please call me so we can talk.”
Taylor’s a stupid son of a bitch. What had he been thinking? Tears sting his eyes. It’s fucking one a.m. Should he call and wake Noah up or does he wait until morning?
There’s one last message. Left only a few hours ago. Taylor goes cold all over. He knows what it’s going to say.
“Um, I don’t know where you are. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t understand why you haven’t called. I’ve been waiting three days, Taylor, and I can’t wait anymore. I just… I know this is a shitty way to do this. I told you that we could talk about anything, but you didn’t give me a chance to address your concerns. And now you’ve disappeared off the face of the earth.” There’s only breathing for moment and then Noah continues. “And I can’t work that way, Taylor. Not being the way I am. I’m sorry…”
Taylor throws his phone across the room. It bangs loudly against Peter’s desk and thumps to the floor, but he could give a rat’s ass about the noise right now. His throat closes up tight and he can’t breathe. His eyes sting and his nose burns. He fucked up the best thing he ever had.
It hurts worse than he expected, even suspecting, knowing it was coming. There’s a vice around his chest.
Taylor rolls off the bed, landing on his hands and knees before wobbling to his feet. He scoops up his phone and shoves it into his pocket and then creeps down to the kitchen to search for something alcoholic. It’s a bad idea. A really bad one. It’s what led him to this situation in the first place, but he can’t bring himself to care. His sister and brother-in-law aren’t big drinkers, but there’s gotta be something he can drown his sorrows in.
The ligh
t over the stove is enough to see by as he opens and closes cupboards in search of something, anything, but they are frustratingly free of an alcohol-based numbing agent. Surely, they’ve got something stashed somewhere. His snort is automatic when he finds a large box of Frosted Flakes in the back of an upper cabinet. It’s not forty proof, but if this is what he’s reduced to, he’ll take it. A quick check of the fridge shows a half gallon of chocolate milk. It’ll do.
He and Suzan used to share this secret snack over late nights watching horror flicks. The overly sweet flavors and the fond memories are only somewhat comforting.
A quiet shuffle sounds from the doorway just after he shovels a large bite into his mouth. Suzan’s standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “I thought I heard someone rummaging around down here. Found my stash, I see.”
Taylor pushes out the chair next to him with a foot. The last couple of days have been crazy busy getting ready for the funeral and juggling all the family that’s come to town. They never did have that talk, not that there’s much to talk about now. She gets a bowl and dishes up. Her quiet presence is soothing though. He misses the camaraderie of his siblings, Suze especially. They were always partners in crime. Silence reigns while they eat, only the sounds of the stove clock and night insects interrupting the quiet. And it’s too much.
Taylor pushes his bowl away and covers his face with his hands. His cheeks are hot and his throat is tight again. It’s all he can do to choke down the food in his mouth. He scrunches his eyes against the tears. What has he done?
Suzan’s spoon clanks against the ceramic of her bowl. “Christ, Taylor, what’s wrong?” She’s on her knees next to him, one hand on his leg, the other hand rubbing at his shoulder.
He breathes hard for a few moments, trying to get himself under control. “I fucked up. Noah called it off.”
“He broke up with you over the phone?”
Taylor shakes his head. “Voicemail.”
“What the hell?”
“My phone’s been dead or off. He called eight times, left three messages. The last one said we were over.”
“That’s still shitty.”
“He didn’t have a choice. I lied. I never called him. He doesn’t know what’s going on with me.”
“What? Why? After all that fuss you made?”
“I know but...” He sniffs back his clogged sinuses. “These things kept happening to keep me from calling and then I thought maybe I’m really supposed to think about about being with him.”
“Okay, but you should have least let him know where you were and why.”
“I know,” he croaks.
“Rewind a bit, though. Tell me what happened.” Suze returns to her chair.
Taylor swipes at his face and takes a breath, then runs his damp hands down his pajama pant legs. “Noah…he’s asexual, and I did some research on the Internet.”
“Okaaay… Why didn’t you talk to Noah?”
“I don’t know.” Taylor drops his head to the back of the chair and stares at the textured ceiling. “He’d explained. I just wanted to know more about it.”
“That’s fair.”
“I’m almost always the instigator, Suze. You know, for sex?” Her cough brings his gaze back to hers and he’s tempted to smirk, but he’s not feeling it, not even a little bit. “I started feeling weirded out by that and guilty, so I thought maybe we shouldn’t have sex anymore.”
She leans back and crosses her arms in that mom way that all women have. “Uh huh.”
Taylor sighs. He replays his and Noah’s conversation in his head yet again. Another snippet occurs to him. He drops his head to the table with a thunk. “And—fuck—I think I insulted him, and I definitely accused him of using me and maybe of not wanting me the right way? No, not maybe. Definitely. Shit.”
Suzan’s fingers slide through his too-long hair. “What was your intent, Tay?” she asks softly.
“I just want him to be comfortable with our sexual relationship; I want to be comfortable with it too, and I wasn’t, so I…”
“So you went to the Internet instead of to Noah and you caught foot-in-mouth disease?”
“I’m an idiot,” he says to the table.
“Your intentions were good, Tay. Execution, not so much.”
“And now there’s a hearing, he said, about Emma, and he’s worried, and I’m not there, and I should be.” He presses his cheek to the cool surface of the table.
“Who’s Emma?”
“The little girl he’s adopting.” Taylor fishes his phone out of his pocket and finds a picture. He can’t hardly breath for how hard his heart clenches with love and want. Noah’s lying on his bed and Emma’s lying sideways next to him; their heads are touching and he’s got hold of her little feet. Taylor had to stand on the mattress to get the shot, but it’s priceless.
Suzan looks from the phone to Taylor, eyes big. “Oh my God, Taylor. She’s gorgeous. And Noah, wow, those muscles.”
Taylor stares at the image. He fucked that up. They’re not his anymore.
“Have you spoken to Noah at all?”
He shakes his head. “He kicked me out, I got drunk, you called, my phone died, you know the rest and here we are.”
“I’m sorry, Tay.”
“I should have listened to those niggling doubts about our incompatibility. But, fuck, I’d wanted him for so long, and when he agreed to us being a thing, I just brushed ‘em aside. And now look what it got me.”
Suzan rises and brushes a kiss across his temple. “I’m sorry, brother. Try to get some rest. We’ve got another busy day tomorrow.” She disappears into the dark hallway and leaves him to his misery.
* * *
Taylor tosses and turns for what’s left of the night. He dozes off here and there, but it’s fitful. The sheets are too scratchy. The bed is too small. The room is too empty. He’s gotten used to Noah’s solid comforting presence in his bed. In his life. And he fucked it up.
God, he wants to go home. To hold Emma, see Noah, talk to him. Explain and beg forgiveness.
He can’t leave before the funeral though. Two days. But by then, it’ll be too late.
Don’t stay on my account, says a voice sounding suspiciously like Uncle Bud.
Even though he knows no one’s there, Taylor lifts his head and glances around the dimly lit room. The baseball posters on the wall. The bookshelf full of books, dinosaurs, and other pre-teen-boy oddments.
Funerals are for the living.
Taylor digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Great. His sugar high is causing hallucinations. “The family will have a conniption,” he murmurs into the quiet.
Go get your man, Taylor. If you love him, fight for him. I wish I’d fought for Walter.
Several of the conversations he’d had with Uncle Bud come back to Taylor.
Shortly after Taylor had come out to his family at the age of fifteen, Uncle Bud had pulled him aside at a family barbecue or something.
“Listen to me, kid,” Bud said in his cigarette-roughened voice. “Never let people tell you who it’s acceptable to love, all right? Man or woman, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you love them with your whole heart, that the person you love knows your heart,” Uncle Bud poked at Taylor’s chest, “and that you’re willing to fight for them against all odds, no matter what.”
“Okay,” fifteen-year-old Taylor had said, not understanding the full implication of Bud’s words until a couple of years later.
Taylor had gone over to Bud and Bev’s house to keep Bud company while Bev was at an Avon conference in Nashville. They were watching some old crime drama that took place in Florida. In Miami. Miami Vice, yeah, that was it.
A character was revealed to be gay. The guy eventually committed suicide by cop. Bud had been upset. More than Taylor thought necessary for a stupid TV show. Until…
“That there,” Bud said, pointing at the TV, “that’s wrong, Taylor. It’s gonna be a tough world for you to like boys in, especially p
laying sports like you do, being as talented as you are. Don’t ever give up the fight though. Old guys like me need to know you kids are going to make the world a better place.”
At what must have been Taylor’s partially confused, partially dumbstruck expression, Bud continued. “I’m a homosexual, Taylor. You’re the only one in the family who knows.”
“But Aunt Bev…?”
“Being a pansy, a fairy, wasn’t acceptable, wasn’t safe. So I did what all men were expected to do back in the day. Get married and have a family. I love Bev and I love my kids, Taylor, don’t think that I don’t. But I miss Walter to this day.”
Taylor’s attention was rapt. “Who’s Walter?”
“Walter and I met in Vietnam. We were there at the beginning of that clusterfuck, not at the end, thank God. Anyway, he was an MP, I was a cook. We hit it off, had Italian mothers, a love of comic books and the St. Louis Cardinals in common. We spent a lot of off-duty time together and we became lovers. It was a golden time in my life, Taylor, despite being in the middle of a war.
“Eventually we were sent home. Walter first, then me. He wrote to me a couple of times before I came home, and when I got back, I tried to arrange a meeting somewhere for a weekend, but he confessed that he was married, had been since before his time in Vietnam, and that he and his wife were expecting their second child. I never talked to Walter again.”
“You must have been some kind of pissed,” Taylor said.
Bud gazed into the distance, his expression soft, his smile sad. “I was hurt for a time, but I finally realized something. I’m not condoning what Walter did—breaking his marriage vows—that wasn’t right. What we had in that faraway place, in that fucked up time in history, was real and good and right at a time when we needed it. There was no way either of us could have handled being a gay couple in the 50s or in the 60s. Homosexuality was considered unnatural, perverse. Still is mostly, you know that, right?”
Taylor nods, his stomach twisting, considers Bud’s words. What if there’s a boy he starts liking? “Don’t be gay” and “You’re such a faggot” fly around the locker room like sweat and dirty socks. If the fact that he liked boys as well as girls got out, he’d probably be in for a world of hurt.
Rock the Cradle of Love Page 13
