by Marcus Lopes
Cole said, “The potatoes won’t peel themselves,” holding out the potato peeler to Malachi.
Malachi smiled thinly, and went over to Cole and took the peeler from him. The hair on Malachi’s arms stood up as Cole’s fingers briefly touched his hand. Malachi moved around to the other side of the island counter and watched as Cole lifted himself up on his tiptoes to retrieve the large roasting pan they kept on top of the cupboards. Malachi loved the way the blue jeans hugged Cole’s firm backside, and how the white T-shirt clung to Cole’s broad shoulders. Malachi’s body tingled as he thought about him and Cole once again wrapped up in each other, smooth breast to smooth breast. Malachi smiled but dropped his gaze when Cole spun around, and began to peel the potatoes.
“You don’t have to rush,” Cole said, unwrapping the cellophane from around the package of chicken breasts. “Take the time to find the right place. Don’t move simply to escape here.” The longer he stays, perhaps we’ll be able to find each other again, salvage us.
Malachi held his focus to the potato he was peeling. “I won’t rush.” His tone was sharp. “I don’t need to escape.”
“I didn’t mean…” Cole looked at Malachi. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to upset you.”
Malachi lifted his gaze. “You’re not upsetting me. We’ve been through a lot today, and we just need time to digest it all, figure out how best to move on.”
Cole felt relief. This was what Cole loved about the times when he and Malachi cooked together. Cooking together seemed to free them, let their guard down, let them speak openly. Cole said, “Right,” although he wasn’t sure what Malachi meant. Was that a sign that they were salvageable, that their love could endure? “I’ve been thinking about starting my own consulting business.”
“I don’t know why you’ve waited so long to do that,” Malachi said, matter-of-fact. “Sometimes I don’t think you know how talented you are.”
“Like I said, I’ve never had your courage.”
“It’s not about courage. Sometimes you have to step out on faith. We all fall, scratch ourselves, but wounds heal.” Malachi set the peeler down on the counter. “And the next time you have the chance to run for public office, take it.”
Cole’s eyes widened. “But I, you —”
“You never asked me what I thought. I think you’re someone who can make a difference.” Malachi shook his head. “It’s one of the reasons I love you. You encourage people to give the best of themselves.”
He’s talking in the present tense. Cole’s entire body tingled. His eyes were moist, and his mouth drooped open. He didn’t know what to say. Cole reached across the counter and placed his hand on top of Malachi’s. They stared intently at each other until Malachi withdrew his hand and began peeling another potato. The handholding was significant, Cole knew that. They were somehow still connected, still held to each other. A smile spread across Cole’s face as he placed the chicken breasts in the roasting pan and drizzled them with olive oil. It was the vision of the rising sun, reaching back into the past and rushing forward to the future, unearthing a new creation, a sort of rebirth. The feeling, surprisingly shocking, made Cole tremble. Cole belonged to a world where love was conditional and wildly savage, yet strangely enduring. It required hope, and faith. Cole studied Malachi, whom he loved. Malachi was both Cole’s present and his future. Cole wasn’t sure what he would do if Malachi really left. That was the most terrifying of all, to end up alone. When the time came, and Malachi was gone, Cole would get up the next morning and feel the pain, the devastation of a love lost. In time, the sense of loss would pass, but Cole would still search the faces on the crowded sidewalks for Malachi. But that time had not come yet, and when Cole looked at Malachi who, cutting the potatoes into quarters, flashed him a coy smile, Cole knew that hope was not dead, just temporarily displaced. To hang on to hope and faith — that was so much more important — and to know that faith and hope were alive in them.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Where there is joy, there is also thanksgiving, and I am thankful to many:
Heather-Anne Gillis, friend and confidant, for reading several earlier versions of the manuscript
Myrtle Gillis, for always believing in me
Adrienne Ascah, for her unwavering friendship, sharp eye and feedback on the manuscript
Suzanne Robinson, for her friendship, wit and encouragement
Tina Patel, for her friendship and support
Staci Taylor and the team at LazyDay Publishing for their insight and for guiding me through the publishing process
About the Author
Marcus Lopés is originally from Lower Sackville, Nova Scotia. His writing has appeared in Canadian and international literary magazines. Freestyle Love is his first novel. A novelist, essayist, poet, painter and singer-songwriter, Lopés lives in Sherbrooke, Québec.
Visit the artist’s website at: www.marcuslopes.ca
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the Author
