Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  Paulo knew true humility was a virtue, but he also knew he had attractive parents who’d brought attractive children into the world. It didn’t hurt that the hint of an accent he’d picked up when he spent his summers back home in Brazil, seemed to make both men and women purr. So when the girl flushed and moved, he was thanking his swarthy good looks.

  The rest of his world may be all shattered Christmas ornaments, a fruitless, drunken search of the fine hotels on the Midday Square, and a lovely hangover, but by God, at least he had the fucking window seat.

  Paulo winked at his fellow passenger as he situated himself—shoving his carry-on under the seat in front of him. There was nothing he wanted out of it; nothing in that bag would keep his mind off Harrison. He had a four-hour flight ahead of him, and if he could sleep, wonderful—if not, he would go over his strategy for finding Harrison again.

  They may have missed their date to reconnect twice now, but Paulo wasn’t going to make it a third.

  Mamãe would lose her mind when she figured out he’d flown—not back to their house in Miami, as was their Christmas plan—but to his house in Pennsylvania. This assumed, of course, she wasn’t already awake and shaking Papai by the shoulders. Paulo wouldn’t know; he’d kept his phone turned off since leaving the hotel.

  It was probably a mistake to have been honest with her, especially by text. But he’d written it as plainly as he knew. And in Portuguese, none the less.

 

  He was prepared for failure, fully expecting to have shelled out half a grand on a coach seat from Midday to Philadelphia all to be told to fuck off. Except this was Harrison, so he wouldn’t say that. Not fuck off. Maybe I think we should move on. Or Wouldn’t it be healthier if we saw other people? Or We can be whole again. Just not together. That was more “Harrison.” No “you” statements, just the assumptive “we.” Sorry, Ari, but I never signed off on that “we.”

  Paulo wanted to be part of a whole different sort of “we”—a forever, fight, make up, make love, make a family, grow old together, embarrass the grandchildren because you still deep kiss type of forever “we.” But this “I’m no good for you, Paulo…” that supposedly “we” decided upon? No. It wouldn’t stand. The sheer number of mocking quotes he’d had to use even thinking about it made his hangover worse.

  The girl next to him poked him in the shoulder, and he turned to look at her. She motioned to the window shade, and he pushed it up. He’d have preferred it closed, but opened it halfway, and she gave him a thumbs-up, never once taking off her headphones.

  <<< >>>

  Paulo dozed as best he could with ears that wouldn’t pop, the roar of the plane’s engines all around him, and bright light streaming through the window. In those minutes of stolen slumber, he dreamed about Harrison. In one dream, Harrison answered the door to his apartment, except it wasn’t really Harrison—but a woman with his glasses, wearing his clothes.

  “What do you want, Paulo?”

  “You’re not him!”

  “What do you want, Paulo?”

  He tried to grab the glasses off the woman’s face. If he could remove them, then everyone would see she wasn’t really Harrison. She laughed as she easily stepped out of his way. “You always were weak. Try again.”

  He tried again to grab the offending glasses. Again. Again. Swiping at her face and coming away with nothing but air.

  Rage boiled up inside him, and he swung at the female Harrison, but each time he hit her, it was like hitting a pillow, and she just laughed and laughed. Paulo was out of breath, and she was still standing.

  <<< >>>

  The first time Paulo met Harrison, he’d been in Kansas City on business and had run into Pru by complete accident. He couldn’t even make that part up. Pru, with her seemingly unlimited funds and penchant for hopping continents whenever she felt like it, and Paulo, with places to stay in Pittsburgh, Miami, and Rio de Janeiro, as well as business that took him all over the world, had happened upon each other in Kansas City, Missouri without prior plan or reason. Not only that, but in a hotel lobby.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” she’d asked after a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “I occasionally have guests.” He shrugged. “Hardly longer than a night. Why?”

  “Do you want to meet someone? I’ve brought a friend with me, and we’re going to a party.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “It will be.”

  He met them at a strangely pretentious performance art/foam party in the Crossroads. It had been a very long time since anyone other than his mother had tried to set him up, but this was Pru, how could Paulo resist?

  The first thing he noticed about Harrison Miller was that he looked like a young, anthropomorphized version of the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. It might have been his pale skin and pale blond hair, the vest or the glasses, maybe his delicate features, or perhaps the bunny-ear headband he was wearing. Harrison was jumping excitedly through the foam. Was Jefferson Airplane playing, or had Paulo added that detail since?

  “Wanna dance?” Paulo asked over the music.

  Harrison took one of Paulo’s hands and twirled underneath it.

  Pru laughed lazily nearby. “Be nice to him, Paulo. It’s his twenty-first birthday.”

  “Is he high?” Paulo asked, chuckling at the bouncing bunny who was quite lost in his own world.

  “Probably yes,” she said without remorse. “But if he asks, tell him no.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Same thing I’d do for any friend.”

  Which meant she’d put something in his drink, or given him something and sworn to him it was only candy, or one of the million other stunts she was known for pulling on people.

  It was lucky Paulo was so entranced with the hoppity kid, because they were going to be stuck together all night. So they danced, and danced, and danced, and when Harrison finally wanted air, Paulo took him outside on the loading dock of the old building.

  “What did Pru do to me?” Harrison moaned, leaning back against the railing and looking up, like he might see the night sky. Paulo glanced up, too. There was only sheet metal overhead.

  “Slipped you something, I suspect.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Never been high before?”

  “Not unless she’s done it before and I forgot.” He rubbed his face. “Do you want to come over to my house?”

  Paulo slowly raised one eyebrow. Even though most of his evenings out ended with a handsome young man inviting him over, Harrison was unique in so many ways. For one, Paulo couldn’t see himself taking advantage, even though advantage was laying itself out so deliciously for him.

  He reached up and pulled the bunny ears off Harrison’s head. “Sure,” Paulo said. “But only if I get to wear the ears.”

  <<< >>>

  Paulo startled awake as the plane touched down at Pittsburgh International. Jesus. His mouth was dry, his muscles twinged, and he was pretty sure he’d have been better off with no sleep at all instead of the little sleep he’d gotten. As they taxied to the terminal, he stretched and shifted in his seat.

  Should he go home first and get a shower?

  Or head straight to Harrison’s apartment?

  He’d been stupid in Midday. No, he’d been idiotic, and he blamed the booze. He’d wasted hours going from hotel to hotel, ultimately ending up at The Moonlight Inn, where a snotty shit of a concierge gave him the runaround for twenty whole minutes before finally sniffing and saying Ms. Prudence Parker is not here.

  “I realize that!” Paulo cried in frustration, sobering up and getting more pissed off by the second. “If she was, you could have pointed me to that convenience phone there—” he pointed over his shoulder to the phone in the lobby “—and patched me through to her room without actually confirming a thing. I just need to know if she was ever here? Well, this week at least?”

  The lit
tle man sniffed again and repeated what he’d said before.

  He’d stumbled out into the chilly night, convinced he was a single step behind them and that the bastard behind the desk was the key to everything, when he realized no.

  Pru had a house in Midday.

  How had he forgotten that?

  God, but where was it? A quick search on his phone proved as frustratingly fruitless as the conversation with the prissy clerk had been. He searched under every variation of her name that he knew, he looked for her mother or her father, who more than likely were the ones who actually owned the property, he even searched the part of her grandmother’s name he could remember, all to no avail.

  He did not admit defeat with grace, but he did book a flight home. After all, they would end up there eventually…right?

  Back in Pennsylvania, it was now only that simple matter of finding Harrison.

  Paulo grabbed a taxi outside of baggage claim and told the driver that he’d give him an extra hundred dollars if they reached their destination in thirty minutes. The driver took the challenge to heart. Paulo buckled in and leaned back, thinking about exactly what he would say when he saw Harrison.

  Maybe nothing.

  Probably nothing.

  He might just kiss his Ari until neither remembered what words were anyway. He missed him that goddamn much.

  <<< >>>

  Paulo climbed the outside stairwell to the second floor apartments, remembering the last time he’d been here. He should have given in months ago. He never should have let the separation go on this long. Nothing good had come from being separated—only new hurts they both had to push down or face.

  The complex hadn’t been renovated since the seventies, and faded plastic flowers accented each of the apartment numbers. After Harrison had asked Paulo to leave the expensive apartment they’d shared in the city, he’d simply moved to another, equally as expensive apartment. Harrison, however, couldn’t afford the rent by himself and had come here.

  Paulo knew because Pru had given him the address. So why hadn’t she given him Harrison’s new number too? Why had she been on his side eighteen months ago, but now she wasn’t returning his calls?

  Pulling along two full cases of luggage, plus his carry-on, and his laptop bag, Paulo’s footsteps were heavy on the planking, and the wheels thudded and thumped over the uneven wood.

  With a deep, confident breath, he stopped in front of Harrison’s apartment. But it was immediately clear this wasn’t Ari’s home now. There were handprints in the window. Little hands, like a small child that had been playing in fake snow—which, incidentally, was all over the window as well. The doorframe was heavy with lights and goofy kiddy decorations. A wreath with a family name hung from the knocker.

  The Johnstons

  Unless Harrison had found a man named Johnston, married him, and— No.

  Paulo knocked on the door and stepped back. That hadn’t happened, he promised himself. For one thing, it made no sense. Pru said Harrison was going to be at the party—why would she have done that? Then again, who knew with Pru? She still hadn’t returned his messages, and she knew as well as he did that they’d been invited to the Bentley party on separate days.

  A young woman opened the door, and from behind her peeked a dark-haired boy.

  “Yes?”

  “Does Harrison Miller live here?”

  “No, I’m sorry. You’ve got the wrong apartment.”

  Paulo tried for his most charming smile, the one that got him the window seat on the plane, but he was running short on energy and patience. The woman probably sensed it and started to close the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Paulo said quickly. “My friend Harrison used to live here. But it seems he’s moved away.”

  She nodded silently.

  “He didn’t happen to leave a forwarding address? For his mail or anything?”

  “Nope,” she said quietly. “Sorry.”

  Without another word, she shut the door.

  The bell on their wreath jingled.

  <<< >>>

  Paulo had called for another taxi, gone home, showered, eaten, and for a long time afterward, he’d just sat.

  Sat and thought.

  His phone—which he’d turned on to call the cab—had surged with beeps and rings and buzzes as he received a slew of messages. Most of them he ignored; business that could be handled later in the week. Some took only quick replies. Each text and email he scanned for Pru’s name, but she hadn’t responded to anything he’d sent. Then there were the voice mails from his mother.

  Where his father felt Portuguese was to be used at dinner and during Mass, his mother liked to yell in her native tongue. He’d always wondered if it took her back to her own childhood. He only vaguely remembered his grandmother, but what he could recall was the yelling. Always in Portuguese.

  There were three messages, each of them angrier than the last. He especially enjoyed when she asked if he was trying to ruin Christmas for them all. Yes, Mamãe, you’ve discovered my secret plans.

  He texted her that he’d landed and he had to make another stop but if things didn’t pan that evening, he’d push on to Miami.

 

  It took him a long time to get in his car, but once he did, he drove straight to his destination. He wasn’t lying when he sent the message. He did plan to head to Miami if things didn’t pan… But in this case, panning meant receiving even the tiniest shred of hope.

  It had been a long time since he’d been to this house. Even before Harrison started struggling with his PTSD again, Paulo hadn’t felt welcome here. He’d done something. Pissed her off some way. He never really understood.

  Not only would he have to face her now—probably apologize for the offense he couldn’t remember committing—but then on top of it, he was going to ask for Harrison’s new address or his phone number. Hopefully she would give him both.

  He had brass ones.

  Paulo knocked.

  This wasn’t going to work, she was too overprotective.

  He waited a second, two, five; the door suddenly opened.

  “P-Paulo?” Lily’s lips parted and her eyes widened. She adjusted the baby she was holding on her hip so it didn’t slide to the floor.

  “Kitty!” the child cried gleefully.

  Paulo was pleased it was Lily in some ways, but in others, he just needed to get it over with. “Good evening, Lily. Is Jill home?”

  Chapter Seven:

  Lattes and Love

  Harrison was existing.

  He told himself that it would get easier, promised himself that once he got to Ireland, Paulo would somehow melt away. (Because that was possible, right?)

  With a sigh, he logged onto Facebook from his work computer. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this, but his nine o’clock had canceled, leaving him with a spare fifty minutes and way too much time to think.

  The first thing he noticed when he got online was all the messages that had piled up from his contacts. Clicking on Michael’s thread, he cringed. The earliest one was from October after Harrison had his panic attack.

  He knew better than most that the longer it took to face something, the worse it became. He glanced up again and read the highlighted messages, trying not to be appalled by the dates. He knew he’d left it for a long time, he just hadn’t realized how long it had been.

  Mike McFerran (Oct 07): Saw your new profile pic. Looks great! Bit of a glare on the glasses. You ever consider contacts?

  Mike McFerran (Oct 08): Hey, where’d you go?

  Mike McFerran (Dec 12): Are you all right, Harrison? I kind of need you, mate. Loads to tell you. Don’t know what’s happened, but I’m a bit worried - hope you’re OK.

  It seemed Michael had stopped checking in with Harrison for a long time, but something had made him get in touch two weeks ago. He clicked the box to type his reply—a simple “hey” to get things moving before he apologized and told Michael he was coming to I
reland.

  They’d been friends for over a year, and Michael had always been so kind and patient, if not a bit young and goofy. On Harrison’s bad days, when he couldn’t find the energy to “talk,” Michael had regaled him with funny stories of the antics on the farm or told him bad jokes. He could fill silences with ease—perhaps a little too much ease at times—so this new radio silence was telling. Michael had needed him, and Harrison hadn’t been there.

  He wished he’d just told Michael about the rape and the relapse, about Paulo, about the glasses. All of it. Any of it, even. Then at least he might understand the disappearing act.

  Self-doubt paralyzed Harrison, and his fingers dangled uselessly over the keys. What to say? “Sorry” was nowhere near enough. He’d really failed his friend. Finally he managed to type:

  Hey, Michael. I’m so so sorry. If you’re free to talk, and you still want to, I’m here. Your friend, Harrison

  Further exploring Michael’s Facebook wall, it seemed he’d been absent for a few days. There were no recent posts—no funny videos, or songs, or memes that Harrison had to have explained to him. He hoped Facebook would at least email Michael about his message or something, assuming he had his alerts turned on. Of course Harrison hadn’t had his set up that way.

  Harrison delved back into his messages and found his thread with Pru, which had been pushed down under a couple of other threads he didn’t care about.

  Harrison Miller: Hey, Pru. Whatcha doing over Christmas?

  Pru Parker: Hey yourself, bestie. Spending it with you? I guess?

  Harrison Miller: What if we went to Ireland?

  Pru Parker: Wait. I’m calling you…

  Not more than five seconds later, his phone vibrated. Harrison answered, or, in fact, he didn’t. He put the phone to his ear and got blasted with an impressively tuneful rendition of “Fairy Tale of New York,” though Pru’s Irish brogue was atrocious.