Sky Full of Mysteries

by Rick R. Reed

  Seeing Tommy hurt as he was put Cole’s head on straight, so to speak, set his mind clear. There was no choice. In the end he knew he’d devoted his life to this man, and he couldn’t turn away. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

  “Come in, sit down.” Tommy followed him into the living room and plopped down on the couch, wincing when his injured arm hit the back of it. He splayed his legs out in front of him. He glanced at Cole, who hovered above him, not sitting, and burst out laughing.

  “What?” A frightened grin flickered across his features.

  “You should see yourself. You look like you’re the one who got hit by a car. You’re as white as a ghost!”

  Cole sat next to Tommy and put an arm around him. “You got hit by a car! In LA! You’re lucky to be alive.” Cole knew that was the truth—what if he had died? This was what clarified everything for Cole. He didn’t know how he could stand a world without Tommy in it. He was obviously sorry Tommy was hurt, but glad in a way that his injuries made things crystal clear about what was important.

  “I know, I know.” He touched Cole’s face with his good hand. “I hate to say it, but it makes me feel better just to see you so concerned. I didn’t tell you when it happened because I knew how much it would worry you.” Tommy shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “It’s nice to know someone cares about me so much.”

  Tears welled up and spilled out of Cole’s eyes. Guilt rose too, but Cole decided he wouldn’t mention that. “Of course I care, honey. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.” And he set free a single choked sob.

  “Now, now. You didn’t lose me. Yeah, it looks bad. I won’t be winning any beauty contests anytime soon! But luckily, this is all stuff that’ll heal.” He lifted the sling. “My arm isn’t even broken, just badly sprained. And the bumps and bruises? They’ll fade.” He paused, and Cole knew he was staring at him.

  But Cole couldn’t help it—he sat, head in hands, and sobbed. Sobbed with relief that he hadn’t done something stupid, sobbed with empathetic pain, sobbed with the joy and sorrow of narrowly averting a course he now knew was wrong.

  “Sweetheart.” Tommy leaned forward. “I’m touched that you’re so choked up, but really, this is superficial stuff. I’ll be okay.”

  “Oh, I know. I know.” Cole choked out the words. He grabbed Tommy and held him close.

  And Tommy, God bless him, allowed the bear hug, fierce and frightened, for what must have been a couple of very painful minutes. Then he pushed Cole away, hard. “You’re hurting me, buddy.”

  “Sorry,” Cole said, moving back a little, sniffling and dabbing at his eyes, trying to rein in his tears.

  “Hate to break the spell, but I’d love to get into some sweats and have my crybaby man here fix me something to eat.” Tommy cocked his head, smiling. “Would you mind? The food on the plane was crap, and I’m starving.”

  Cole swallowed hard and nodded. “Grilled cheese? Tomato soup?”

  “That sounds wonderful. Five stars! Yes, please.”

  Awkwardly Tommy tried to rise up, and Cole scrambled to help. Once he got Tommy on his feet, he shuffled toward the bedroom. “I’ll slip into something more comfortable while listening to you rattle pots and pans in the kitchen.” He took a few more steps toward the hallway. Without turning around, he shouted back, “Bliss! Domestic bliss. I love it. And I love you.”

  Cole, halfway to the kitchen, called, “I’m so glad you’re home.” Maybe more than you’ll ever know.

  Cole headed into the kitchen, glad they had the makings for the comfort food lunch always on hand. Glad Tommy was home, right there, with him.

  Chapter 24

  THREE DAYS passed that set Rory’s anxiety level ratcheting higher and higher. Three days when he heard nothing at all from Cole. He really didn’t know that he had a right to expect anything, but still, that indomitable force known as hope made his heart swell and his scalp tingle every time there was a footfall on the front porch or the phone rang.

  Could it be so blasé as this? he wondered, sitting at the bar in the kitchen, eating a bowl of Froot Loops. Would Cole be just like some of the men back in Rory’s limited dating days who made their lack of interest clear simply by disappearing? Would Cole never see him again? Never show up? Was a nonanswer the truest answer of all?

  He had to allow for the possibility, painful as it was. Cole had a life now, a real history. Rory couldn’t hate him for that, couldn’t really, save in the privacy of his most selfish thoughts, even wish things were otherwise.

  Perhaps Cole was scared, and the best way to deal with what Rory knew was a supernatural situation, in the most literal sense of the word, was simply to ignore it.

  And then there was a knock at the door, and Rory dropped his spoon to the floor. No one knocked. Not even the mailman.

  Before he could rise from the stool, he heard Greta rushing down the stairs, heard the door swing open and her querulous, “Well, hello.”

  The blood rushed so hard in Rory’s ears he couldn’t make out what was said next. He simply sat, numb, until Greta appeared in the kitchen with Cole trailing behind her.

  Rory found himself unable to align thought, tongue, and lips enough to form speech. Seconds ticked by as he simply stared at his mom and Cole, the two people he loved most in this world, this confusing world that had been snatched away and was now returned in completely different form.

  Greta looked from Rory to Cole and then back again. She appeared to be afflicted with the same loss of speech as her son. Finally she found a way to say, “I’ll leave you two alone.” And with those words she hurried from the kitchen, trailed by Minnie. Rory heard her going up the front stairs, the soft closure of her bedroom door.

  After a moment Rory held up his bowl. “Can I fix you some Froot Loops? They’re delicious.”

  Cole smiled—but Rory couldn’t help but detect the sadness around the edges of that smile—and shook his head. Cole looked good. He wore a baseball cap, a worn gray T-shirt, and a pair of black jeans. Combat boots. Rory could imagine him as twentysomething again, and a warmth like love and a heat like lust welled up, along with his heartbeat.

  What has he come to tell me?

  Why did he wait?

  What will happen now?

  Why do we have to bother with talking?

  Cole looked down at the floor for a moment, then up at Rory. There was that sad smile again. Rory hated it in that moment, even though his love for Cole burned fiercely. He also knew, somehow, neither of them needed to say a word. With a seeming sixth sense, Rory was sure he knew the outcome of this visit. It was, to use the old maxim, written all over Cole’s face.

  “So you’ve thought about things, and you’ve come here to say—”

  Cole cut him off with a raised hand. “Can we go for a walk? Maybe down to the lakefront?”

  “Like we used to?” Rory asked. He had a sudden flash of blowing Cole on the boulders bordering the lake one night, a dark sky with a harvest moon glowing behind them. He pushed the memory away.

  “Yeah,” Cole said and smiled. “You want to?”

  Rory said okay and got up. He rinsed out his bowl in the sink. He went into the living room, where he’d left his sneakers by the couch. He sat down to put them on, saying nothing. “Just let me go the bathroom before we go.”

  “No problem.”

  Rory went into the little powder room just off the front door. He sat down on the toilet without lowering his pants and covered his face with his hands. This is what it’s like—a lamb led to slaughter, walking up the steps to the gallows. He thought briefly he should just stay in there until Cole gave up and went away. At least that way he wouldn’t have to hear the words he knew would cleave his heart in two.

  No. You owe him. Go.

  Rory stood, flushed, and made some perfunctory splashes under the faucet. He opened the door. Cole hovered outside. “Okay, I’m ready,” he said, even though it was a lie.

  ONCE THEY got to Lake Michigan and were seated on a b
luff overlooking the water—pewter gray and choppy today, with a single brave sailboat far out on its surface—they at last spoke. All during their walk through the residential streets and to this lookout point, they’d been silent.

  Rory stared out at the lake, so much like the sea. He drew in a deep breath and at last blurted the words out. He couldn’t stand the suspense any more. “You’re staying with him.” He shrugged, knowing from a place deep within he was right.

  He didn’t look at Cole but could almost feel him nodding. “Yes. I have to, Rory.” Then, after drawing in a deep breath and then letting it out with a sigh, he said, “I want to.”

  Rory glanced over at him, and his heart ached. He could see that he wasn’t the only one hurting from this encounter. Just to alleviate Cole’s obvious pain, Rory forced himself to speak, to say the words he was certain Cole would, if given the time. “You’ve been together too long.” He couldn’t look at Cole, so he stared out at the water and continued, “You’re like a family. You’ve shared too much. Lived too much—together. Ups and downs.” Rory stopped suddenly. The lump in his throat prevented him from saying anything more than “Right?”

  Cole didn’t answer for a while, and it gave Rory the chance to look at him—for what he knew would be the last time. He was still Cole, of course, but he was not the man/boy he’d fallen in love with. A middle-aged man sat beside him now, still handsome, still sexy, but not the same person he’d once loved. That middle-aged man had a whole lifetime Rory knew nothing about—happiness, sadness, joy, despair, highs and lows. He drank in the lines on Cole’s face, especially around his eyes. And then he noticed a pale white line cutting through one of his eyebrows—a scar. Rory caught his breath. The scar hadn’t been there when they were together, all those years ago. How had Cole gotten it? Rory shrugged. The reason for the injury was only one of thousands of stories Rory would never know.

  Cole startled Rory by taking Rory’s hand in his own, intertwining their fingers, just as he used to do back when they were young lovers. The touch was sweet and, at the same time, distressing. Rory wanted to both lean in to the feel of Cole’s warmth and yank his hand away.

  After a bit Cole said, “Right.” And then he stopped again. A breeze lifted Rory’s hair off his forehead. The wind picked up, and Rory could attribute the moisture in his eyes to it. “I’ll always love you, Rory. I did back then, and I still do now.” Cole cleared his throat, and Rory wanted to scream So why are you saying goodbye? But he didn’t.

  Cole went on, each word like a knife, cutting deeper, deeper. “You’re still young. I don’t know how, but you are. You don’t know about spending a whole life with someone, making that person not just a spouse, but a part of you. I can’t leave Tommy. If I did, it would hurt just as much as ripping my own arm off. I know, because I went through that pain when I lost you.”

  Rory allowed himself a quick glance at Cole, saw for a moment the young Cole sitting there before he morphed back into the strange middle-aged man who was really with him, clinging too tightly to his hand. He thought about protesting and telling Cole he’d never lost him, not really, and then let the thought drift away. “It must have been hard,” Rory finally said, referring to his own disappearance.

  “Brutal,” Cole responded. “I can’t go through it again. Rory, I’m not the same man I was when you left, when you were taken, whatever. We change, constantly, even you, despite your being so the same as you were. You have in you the seeds of some experience I know nothing about and that I suspect I could never understand.”

  Rory’s mind flashed on a clean white-tiled room, on large eyes, on a kind oval face, gray. Then he forced his view back to the familiar—the sandy brush of the bluff below him. He knew it was his turn to not only speak, but also to absolve, to set this man free.

  It was what love dictated.

  So he said, “You’re doing the right thing, Cole. You love your husband. Go back to him, with my blessing. Treasure our time together in the way back”—he grinned—“and continue to make good memories with Tommy. Let go of me. I’m a kid. I have a different life ahead of me. We’re no longer a couple. We’re no longer even compatible.” Oh, how it hurt to say the words, but Rory felt he had to speak them. “I was going to call you today and tell you—we can never be, not again. But that doesn’t mean what we once had wasn’t beautiful. You still have it. Just not with me.”

  Rory pulled his hand out of Cole’s and let it lay in his own lap. “Go.”

  “What?” Cole leaned toward him. “We still have so much more to talk about.”

  Rory gathered up the courage, the will, the love to turn and look Cole right in the eye. “No. We don’t. Not really.”

  After a while Cole stood and took a couple of steps away from the bench. He looked back. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “You go on. I want to sit here for a while. Okay?”

  Cole started away. And then he returned. Quickly, he squatted in front of Rory and planted a kiss, brief, sweet, on his lips. And then, without any more words, he walked away.

  Rory couldn’t bear to watch.

  He sat, unmoving, for a long time. The day grew warmer. People walked by on the trail behind him, laughing and talking. The lake, somehow, magically changed color as the sky cleared, becoming bluer, almost aquamarine in the distance. A bicyclist, in his best spandex, sat down beside him at the opposite end of the bench. They nodded, but said nothing to each other.

  When the sun got too hot on his neck and he feared getting burned, Rory at last made himself get up. He realized he’d thought almost nothing for the hour or two he’d sat there, a feat he would have thought impossible. But he also knew why. He craved numbness; he was blocking out the pain, the feeling of exclusion.

  He began trudging home, if he could call it that, no longer feeling that he was part of this world.

  THAT NIGHT, Rory awakened from a restless sleep with a bright light shining in his bedroom window. He smiled. Even before he got up and walked to the window to peer out at the night sky, he knew what was out there. It wasn’t the moon or the stars.

  It was the ship, the thing Rory referred to as the cloud, the membrane, but it was a ship, a device for hurtling through time and space, its appearance and workings far beyond his simple human comprehension. His fingers splayed on the window’s glass, as if he wanted to touch the thing hanging in the clear night sky, surrounded by constellations of stars.

  He forced himself to turn away. He dressed quickly in the dark—jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, boat shoes.

  Outside, his once-upon-a-time suburb was still. Rory hadn’t thought to check the time, but from the silence, with not even the sound of traffic on Green Bay Road a few blocks over, he could assume it was in the wee hours of the morning.

  Time doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? What is time, anyway? A hypothesis. A man-made measurement to try to capture something elusive and unreal. It’s making demarcations with chalk—in the air.

  With feet that were sure of purpose and a mind filled with determination and wanting, Rory walked toward the beach east of his mother’s house.

  I don’t fit anymore was a bit of a mantra in his head as he continued on to the sand. The waves of Lake Michigan crashed against the shore. The membrane hung above him like contained smoke after a fireworks display on a humid night.

  He thought of Cole, of his mother, his late father. There was really no one else. To each of them, he said goodbye. “I love you,” he said, his voice barely audible above the roar of the surf.

  He kicked off his shoes and simply stood, raising his palms upward. He closed his eyes.

  After a moment there was heat above him, the distant sound of machinery working. First his hair rose, like static electricity had gotten hold of it. Then warmth—an enveloping heat—and he realized his feet were no longer touching the sand.

  Eyes shut, he rose into the night sky, and he smiled, tears streaming down his face.

  The warmth was like strong arms around him, all-en
compassing.

  He was going home.

  More from Rick R. Reed

  A monster moves through the night, hidden by the darkness, taking men, one by one, from Seattle’s gay gathering areas.

  Amid an atmosphere of crippling fear, Thad Matthews finds his first true love working in an Italian restaurant called the Blue Moon Café. Sam Lupino is everything Thad has ever hoped for in a man: virile, sexy as hell, kind, and… he can cook!

  As their romance heats up, the questions pile up. Who is the killer preying on Seattle’s gay men? What secrets is Sam’s Sicilian family hiding? And more importantly, why do Sam’s unexplained disappearances always coincide with the full moon?

  The strength of Thad and Sam’s love will face the ultimate test when horrific revelations come to light beneath the full moon.

  Tate D’Angelo always thought he knew who his father was: beloved doctor, devoted husband and father…. Everyone at the funeral shared the same glowing stories of a kind soul. So when his father’s old college buddy, Randy, approaches him after the service, Tate expects to hear echoes of the same.

  Instead, he gets a lifetime’s worth of letters that tell a different tale and cause him to view his father—and his family—in a whole new light.

  The truth, about a secret romance kept buried for decades, astonishes him. Overwhelmed by grief and confusion, Tate is unsure if he can bear learning how the lives of two men entwined over the years, but he reads on anyway, discovering more to value, more to respect, and most importantly, more to love about the man who raised him.