Freestyle Love

by Marcus Lopes

  Malachi sat up and wiped at the tears streaming down his face. He shrugged, and shifted his body sideways to face Chad, who removed his arm and again searched for Malachi’s hand. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, sniffling.

  “Don’t know what to do about what?”

  “Cole.” There was a silence.

  “You didn’t seem to really know what to do about him the last time we were together either.”

  “It’s like I’m living one vicious circle. I think I took the easy road then. I’m not sure, but if I had it to do over again maybe I’d make a different decision.”

  Chad shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t. You loved him. I was just a diversion for you, as you were for me. You and I both know that.” He squeezed Malachi’s hand. “I’m sorry —”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I took advantage of you tonight.”

  Malachi smiled. “Do you think this would’ve happened if I hadn’t wanted it, too?”

  They laughed.

  Chad said, “I love your smile,” and leaned in and pressed his lips briefly to Malachi’s.

  “I do have to go,” Malachi said, and placed his hand on Chad’s thigh.

  “It’s after midnight. Where would you go?”

  “A hotel —”

  “Don’t be silly.” Chad stood, still holding Malachi’s hand in his and pulled Malachi up off the bed. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go, the airport, train station, but tomorrow. I’ll drive you to Toronto if necessary, but tonight…” He led Malachi by the hand out of the guest bedroom and down the corridor towards the master bedroom. As Chad entered the room he flicked off the light. Standing next to the king-size bed, he helped Malachi undress and, naked, they climbed under the counterpane, wrapped themselves up in each other, and stayed like that, falling asleep in each other’s arms.

  ****

  It was the next day, early afternoon. Malachi was standing on the sidewalk as Chad retrieved Malachi’s suitcase from the backseat of the car. The sky was overcast but the rain had stopped. The day imitated Malachi’s mood — cool, indifferent. Malachi could not stay with Chad, not now, not after they had been together. It was too confusing, especially when Malachi wasn’t sure what he wanted, what he needed. Everything had changed between them, for better or for worse he couldn’t say for certain.

  Being with Chad again reminded Malachi of that very first time when they were holed up in Chad’s hotel room. They held each other in crushing embraces, their kisses wet, long, deep. They glided their hands over each other’s bodies, and Chad, suckling Malachi’s nipple, liked to hear Malachi moan. The lovemaking was passionate but quiet, as if they had been together a lifetime and knew how to please the other, surrender to their will.

  Chad set Malachi’s suitcase down on the sidewalk. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said firmly. “If there’s anything I can ever do —”

  “I appreciate that,” Malachi said, “but right now I need to just clear my head. It’s about time that I figured out a way to help myself.”

  Chad took two steps forward and hugged Malachi. “I don’t want to lose you this time,” he said into Malachi’s ear.

  Malachi pushed out of the embrace and picked up his suitcase. “I’ll call or text you once I’ve arrived.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They held their gazes to each other until Malachi touched his free hand to the side of Chad’s stubbly face, smiled, and then headed towards the airport terminal. When Malachi had passed through the sliding glass doors, he turned around and waved to Chad, who waved back. Were they waving goodbye? Malachi wasn’t certain, but he was confident that something had shifted, something in this terrible mess had just clicked together and all that was left for him to do was to see where it would lead. Malachi took a step backwards and the sliding glass doors closed. He drew in a deep breath and ambled towards the Air Canada ticket counter.

  Eleven

  Cole traced his tongue around Malachi’s left nipple, flicking it, suckling it. He slid his hand down Malachi’s stomach and into his underwear, searching for Malachi’s limp manhood. Cole stroked Malachi’s cock gently and made a sort of grunting sound as it firmed up. Malachi lay on his back, motionless, his hands cupped to the back of his head, and stared into the dark room. Malachi thought if he didn’t do anything, didn’t react, that Cole would leave him alone. But Cole worked steadily on Malachi’s nipple, sometimes biting and causing him pain. Cole released Malachi’s hard cock and tugged on his underwear, trying to pull them off, but Malachi shoved Cole’s hand away.

  “Fuck.” Cole rolled on to his back and turned his head towards Malachi and said, with an edge, “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m tired.”

  Cole turned on the lamp on the nightstand and sat up in the bed. Scratching the back of his head, he held his gaze to Malachi, who seemed unrecognizable, and absent. “You’ve been tired a lot lately.” There was silence. “Malachi, please talk to me.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Malachi’s voice brimmed with anger. “I’m not allowed to be tired?” He sucked his teeth. “It’s late. Turn off the light and let’s get some sleep.” He shifted on to his left side so that his back was to Cole.

  “You need to seriously consider…”

  Malachi violently pushed back the counterpane, got up out of the bed and walked heavy-footed towards the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the guest bedroom. I’m not in the mood for this tonight.”

  Cole bounced out of the bed and went after Malachi. Cole caught up to Malachi in the hall and grabbed him by the arm. “I’m sorry,” Cole said, and touched his free hand to Malachi’s face.

  Malachi, looking coolly at Cole, jerked his arm free and took a step backwards, and disappeared into the guest bedroom, slamming the door shut. Cole stood in the hallway for a time, feeling defeated, his eyes moist. Cole was at a loss. He did not know what to do about Malachi, who had become so distant, uninterested in him, or so it seemed. Why won’t he talk to me? Cole approached the door to the guest bedroom and knocked twice. No response. He went to knock again but stopped before his fist hit the door. What’s the use? Cole made his way back to the bedroom, climbed into bed, and drew the bedcovers up to his waist and lay there, still, as tears crept from his eyes.

  It was a scene that replayed itself over and over again in Cole’s mind, and he was thinking about it now, seated on his living room sofa with his legs tucked underneath his body. He was startled by a strange sound inside the house. Or was he simply hearing things? He listened again. Silence. He ran his hands through his mostly dark brown full mane and then covered his face with his hands as he drew in a deep breath, and held on to it as long as he could before blowing it out forcefully through his mouth, and sighed. He uncovered his face and touched his feet to the hardwood floor, staring abstractly into the room. It was evening, the house dark, quiet, menacing. He could not shake the heaviness in his head — the same heaviness that weighed down his heart — as if suddenly understanding that there was something terribly wrong about the world.

  There was something terribly wrong that was set to destroy him and everything he had worked so hard for. He had tried to lead a simple life, searching out something compulsory but nothing that could claim him, like the kind of “fame” being offered up by reality TV. He had found that something compulsory, love, in which he had succeeded at anchoring himself. “What if I’ve lost it all?” he asked himself, desperate to fix it, find a way to salvage something.

  He could not recall when things had started to change between him and Malachi, but something had shifted. Lately, whenever he looked into Malachi’s brown eyes, Cole felt as though Malachi stared right through him, like he didn’t exist. When they were at home together, the house seemed quieter, too. Silence had replaced laughter, and it was easier for them to acquiesce to this new reality than to challenge it. Malachi took refuge in his office where he wrote o
r read, Cole stole away in the den watching his collection of Charlie Chaplin films. And at night, when they crawled into bed together, they no longer searched for each other as they often did. That was the most painful of all to Cole, to think that Malachi no longer desired him. Cole missed the force of Malachi’s prodding tongue, the thrust of his hips and his hot breath.

  “When did we lose the ability to talk to each other?” Cole wondered. Part of the problem was that they hardly saw each other. Cole did his best not to work long hours, and to be home on weekends. Malachi spent at least ninety minutes commuting between their Kendale Avenue home and Claredon College on the days he taught. Was it any wonder that Malachi was tired? Cole wanted Malachi to find work closer to home. Cole didn’t see it as implausible since Malachi had three bestselling novels to his name. But Malachi resisted without ever saying why, and that caused alarm. Was it possible that Malachi had stopped loving Cole? Had their fairytale love expired? Was it a fairytale or was it real? Was there someone else who had managed to capture Malachi’s heart when Cole wasn’t looking? Shane perhaps? That was Cole’s insecurity speaking. Deep down, Cole knew Malachi wasn’t the type to just go off with someone else, his past wouldn’t let him act so. There was one course of action left, one viable option, and that was for them to find a way to talk to each other, but was that possible given their current situation?

  Cole’s eyes were moist, as they often were of late when he thought about his current predicament. He believed in virtue, and valued his own, which had now been lost. He mourned the loss, and the devastating mark it had already left on his life. He longed for redemption, as if that would remove the “sin.” Did any of it really matter? Of course it mattered because he liked to think of himself as living a good life, a virtuous life. Growing up, his friends considered him smart and forthright, and most of them still did. He did not know how he had ended up here, his life shattered, unravelling.

  Cole reached for the lamp and turned it on, and his gaze fell on the beige envelope on the coffee table. His eyes blinked rapidly, blurring his name that was scrawled on the envelope. It had been some time, during his courtship with Malachi, since Cole had felt this weak, and was distressed at how easily the tears came to him now. Cole rubbed at his eyes, and as he picked up the envelope the phone rang. He ran into the hallway and, with a tight grip on the receiver, said into the phone, “Malachi?” with desperation.

  “It’s Shane.” There was a silence. “Is Malachi there?”

  Cole sighed. “No, he’s not.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  Cole cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. I’ll tell Malachi that you called.”

  “Please do.” Shane spoke slowly, with emphasis. “Tell him to call me as soon as he gets in.”

  “I will,” Cole said, massaging his forehead, and hung up the phone. He returned to the living room, throwing himself into the sofa, and let out a sigh of frustration. His attention was again fixed on the envelope, crumpled in his hand, and, after a time, he pulled out the folded piece of paper. He ran his index finger along the folded crease a couple of times before unfolding the paper and studying the short typed text:

  Cole,

  I suspect you will be surprised to hear from me like this, but I don’t think I could have faced you. I don’t know if this is the end of us. I do know that everything is coming undone, and that I need some time to think. I’m thinking a lot these days about forgiveness and charity, and I’m not sure either of them are within me.

  Malachi

  Cole folded the letter closed and returned it to the envelope, which he placed back on the coffee table, his eyes swelling with tears. “Maybe this is the end of us,” he thought, tackled by a great pain of remorse as if he had just confessed his sin before God.

  ***

  Meanwhile, Shane Martin was miles away in his Claredon condo on Charlotte Street, pacing the area in front of his sofa. The phone call with Cole had left him agitated. Shane wondered why Cole had said Malachi’s name into the phone, and was not convinced that everything was all right. Shane sat down on the sofa and slid his black briefcase towards him. He retrieved his silver cell phone from the inside pocket, searched the address book for Malachi’s cell phone number, and selected the option to dial. Something’s wrong. I can feel it. Malachi’s phone rang once and then cut straight away to his voice mail. Shane turned his cell phone off without leaving a message.

  Shane had not seen or heard from Malachi in almost three weeks, and this was unusual — for Malachi to go incognito on him. He had left several messages for Malachi — at home and on his cell phone — all of which went unanswered. They had last seen each other the evening before Malachi began his one-year sabbatical from the college when they had gone to dinner at Trends with Cory and Eric. Sometimes, with their hectic teaching schedules, they did not see each other for a couple of days, but kept each other up-to-date on their lives through e-mail. Shane considered Malachi his best friend, like a brother, and was certain that Malachi would have confided in him had there been some kind of breakdown with Cole. Shane had noticed a shift of sorts, and the brief phone call with Cole only served to confirm his own suspicions. Thinking about their dinner together three weeks earlier with Cory and Eric, Shane recalled how Malachi had seemed distracted. But Shane could not determine if Malachi was anxious to see Cole, who had been away on business, or if there was something else bothering him. Shane had wanted to probe the issue, but Eric and Cory made that impossible. After dinner Malachi had bolted from the restaurant before Shane had a chance to say anything. Malachi, who talked excitedly and often about the countries he and Cole would tour during their trip to Europe in the fall, limited his comments about his upcoming sabbatical to his intention to start on a new novel, and review the galleys for his novel that was set for publication early in the new year.

  Gripping his cell phone tightly in his right hand, Shane moved off the sofa and made his way to the second bedroom he used as his office, and sat down at his desk, the surface of which was covered with books and papers. He turned on his cell phone again and dialed Malachi’s number. Again, there was no answer. He set the phone down on the desk, leaned back in his chair and sighed. While he worried about his friend, he was certain that Malachi would come to him at just the right moment. Malachi always did. That was the nature of their friendship, of their brotherly love. Shane smiled, feeling relief, and in his heart a renewed sense of hope.

  Twelve

  It was three weeks earlier, and Cole turned the key in the lock and then pushed the door open wide. He stepped into the quiet house, setting his suitcase and briefcase down in the hallway at the foot of the staircase and closed the door. He turned on the lamps in the living room as he made his way to the kitchen, passing through the dining room. In the kitchen he picked up the small piece of paper on the island counter and read it: Hope you had a good trip. Love, M. He smiled. The “Love, M.” he saw as a possible sign that something was again shifting between him and Malachi. Were they close to reconnecting with each other, unwilling to give up on their love? Had Cole’s time away at Banff, attending a customer relationship management conference, changed them?

  He placed the note face down on the counter and went into the dining room to retrieve a bottle of the Wolf Blass merlot that he kept in ample supply on the wine rack next to the buffet. He returned to the kitchen, opened the wine and poured himself a generous glassful. He stood with both hands spread flat against the countertop, leaning forward, and stared into the burgundy liquid. He couldn’t describe the feeling sweeping over him, a feeling of emptiness but yet something different, as if he could sense his own presence and feel absent all the same. He picked up his glass and sipped his wine, and moved into the living room, where he sat down on the sofa. He reached for the remote control for the CD player and pushed the power button, and soon enough Angela Hewitt’s interpretation of Chopin’s nocturnes swept across the room. The music calmed him, made his body relax. He was tired. Severe thunderstorms
had closed the Toronto airport for several hours and had delayed his arrival. He had called Malachi from the plane to say, regrettably, that he would miss the dinner Shane had organized to wish Malachi well as he embarked on a year’s sabbatical. Cole had also confessed during the call that he was eager to take Malachi into his arms, hold him tight, to which Malachi had said, dryly, “I’ll see you when I get home.” Maybe things hadn’t changed.

  It was nice to have time to himself, to decompress as it were. Jeremy Turner had attended the conference with Cole, and stuck close to him. In spite of their past, Cole liked Jeremy and they worked well together — feeding off each other’s dry wit — but Cole sometimes felt that there was a residual sexual tension that surfaced. And in light of the lack of intimacy between Cole and Malachi, Cole had become excited the few times during the conference when Jeremy looked at him, gawking, as if Jeremy wanted to say something but couldn’t, or maybe that he dared not.

  The doorbell sounded. Cole glanced at his watch. It was quarter past eight. He took a sip of his wine before lifting himself off the sofa, and made for the door. He opened the door and staggered backwards when he saw Jeremy standing there before him.

  “I think this is yours.” Jeremy handed Cole the black cell phone.

  “It must have slipped out of my pocket as I was getting out of the car.” Cole took his cell phone from Jeremy and stared blankly at him. “Would you like to come in for a moment?”

  “Sure,” Jeremy said, relieved, and stepped into the house.

  Cole gestured Jeremy towards the living room, and then went into the kitchen. He joined Jeremy in the living room a few moments later and handed him a glass of wine. They looked at each other, as if sensing that their being together was somehow dangerous.