Short Stories

by Lanyon, Josh

  All too soon they were finishing their melon and sorbet, draining their glasses, and starting the long walk down the hillside steps.

  The smoke of their breath hung in the night air. Thomas put his arm around Colin’s shoulders and Colin’s heart sped up with happy anticipation. He was pretty sure that he and Thomas were going to spend the night together; the very idea made his head lighter than the wine they’d consumed. He put his own arm around Thomas’s waist — it felt a little daring — moved closer into the warm circle of Thomas’s arm.

  Back at Colin’s the lack of furniture became apparent when they carried their espressos from the shop below and sat in the uncomfortable wooden chairs on either side of the little table. Colin didn’t own a sofa and the kitchen nook wasn’t designed for seduction, although he was game — and grateful that Thomas showed no sign of wanting to bail.

  “Are you…seeing anyone?” Colin asked tentatively. In the old days he hadn’t had a clue about Thomas’s sexuality, but he had known Thomas was single. His eligible bachelor status was one reason Thomas had been so attractive to the media.

  Thomas said in that measured way, “No. Not steadily. I was seeing someone for a while but it didn’t work out. My job is tough on relationships.”

  “You just need to find somebody who understands.”

  Thomas smiled faintly. Sipped his espresso.

  “I don’t mean it that way,” Colin said. “I mean, you need a guy who understands that having you on someone’s side means the difference between…making it through. Alive. Or not.”

  Thomas put his cup down. “Colin. That’s…” He looked startled, even moved.

  “Yeah, I know. I have a unique perspective.” Colin smiled, trying to make light of it, but in fact, he felt strongly about this. He did see Thomas’s job differently than most people would. Anybody who was going to share Thomas’s life needed to understand that Thomas had a vocation, and that vocation meant life or death to others.

  There was a crash against the wall dividing his apartment from the one next door. He jumped. Even Thomas tensed, immediately ready for trouble.

  “What was that?”

  Muffled voices filtered through the wall. The words were French. The tone was the same in any language. There was another door slam. Bonjour not au revoir, unfortunately. The voices grew louder.

  “Oh no,” Colin groaned.

  “What?” Thomas stared at him and then at the wall, where one of Colin’s framed prints swung back and forth in pendulum fashion.

  “The Sackos are home.”

  “The what?”

  “My neighbors.”

  “Are they throwing chairs at each other?”

  “Chairs? That sounded like the kitchen table.”

  “That sounded like the kitchen sink.”

  They started to laugh, breaking off at the sound of smashing glass. Thomas’s eyes went wide. “What the heck?”

  His expression was classic. Colin laughed. “Er, I think maybe it’s a French thing.”

  “Le Homicide?”

  “They’re not going to kill each other. At least, I don’t think so. They never have yet. It’s kind of like…you know those beatnik skits of French guys in striped shirts and berets, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths? Slapping around some sleazy mademoiselle. Like in Funny Face.”

  Thomas blinked. “I’m not following.”

  “Funny Face. It’s a film with Audrey Hepburn. She comes to Paris — well, anyway. There’s a scene where she does one of those French beatnik dances…”

  Thomas looked bemused, but he was grinning. “I see. Your neighbors are on the colorful side.”

  “Er, yes.”

  More splintering wood. More shattering glass.

  “They must be heck on dining ware.”

  Colin groaned and then started to laugh again.

  Thomas asked mildly, “How long is this likely to last?”

  “Hours,” Colin admitted.

  Now it was Thomas starting to laugh. “Yeah? Well, why don’t we go to my hotel?”

  Colin looked hopeful. “Yes?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Thomas did the drive in record time. He was staying at the Hotel Lutetia in the heart of one of Paris’ most fashionable and arty districts, Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The hotel had Art Deco architecture, period furniture, crystal chandeliers, a Michelin-star chef, and the flirtatious notes of jazz music curling from drifting through from the highly popular bar — none of which was remotely of interest to Colin.

  They were still undressing as they fell on the bed.

  Colin used to have dreams like this, dreams of himself and Thomas. Sometimes the dreams had been prosaic, the simple sharing of an experience; after he’d left for college there had been a lot of first experiences he would have liked to have shared with Thomas. Sometimes the dreams had been less easily defined, like his passionate but confused response to the way art coalesced into beauty, urgency, significance — and his need to articulate that to someone, if only so he could understand it himself. And sometimes, a lot of times, the dreams had been about sex. Having sex with Thomas. He’d dreamed about sex with Thomas a lot.

  They landed on the creamy bed linens, Colin laughing as he dragged Thomas down on top of him. The solid reality of Thomas, the landing of his muscular length, knocked the breath from Colin. Or maybe that was Thomas’s kiss, which was also harder and more substantial than the dreams had been. Colin opened his mouth to Thomas, kissing him back with every bit of experience he’d accumulated through the years. Oh, that taste, that pressure, that sweet moist heat washing through...

  He felt Thomas shudder. They broke for much needed oxygen.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Colin teased at Thomas’s expression.

  Thomas’s mouth was pink from Colin’s kisses. “That was one heck of a kiss,” he admitted.

  Colin tangled his fingers in Thomas’s soft, dark hair. He offered his most seductive look. “I’ve had a lot of experience.”

  Thomas raised his brows, clearly amused. “You’re a flirt, Colin.”

  Colin shook his head. “Flirtatious. Not the same thing.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Colin raised his head, found Thomas’s mouth once more, and tried to tell him without words why it wasn’t at all the same thing…

  “Colin. Col. Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

  He jolted back to awareness. He was in a dark room — a strange room — and a strange bed, and he was not alone, but the voice was reassuring and familiar. And for once it had survived the end of the dream. The joy of that brought unexpected tears to his eyes, chasing away the last shadows of the nightmare.

  “God,” he jerked out. “Thomas?”

  “Right here.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No need. You okay now?” Thomas’s voice was soft and intimate.

  “Yes. I don’t know why that — it’s been years since I’ve —”

  “It’s probably me,” Thomas said grimly, sliding his arm beneath Colin’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Stirring up a lot of subconscious memories, waking up things better left sleeping.”

  That was probably true, but not what Colin wanted to think. “Nah. It was probably the lobster ravioli.” He settled his head on Thomas’s shoulder, getting comfortable again. He smiled faintly. “I can’t believe you’re really here. You can’t know…”

  How often I dreamed this. He wasn’t dumb enough to say that, though. Talk about scaring a guy off.

  Thomas’s breath was warm against Colin’s face. He smelled warm and sleepy and of a vaguely familiar woodsy scent from Colin’s boyhood. Thomas must still wear the same aftershave. His fingers absently threaded Colin’s sweat-damp hair.

  “Do you remember much about it?”

  Colin had no doubt what Thomas was referring to.

  He said unemotionally, “I remember everything about it. When I let myself. It’s better not to think about it.”

  Or he’d be too terrif
ied to leave the house — as he had been for three years.

  He could feel Thomas thinking, considering and discarding comments. In the end he just kissed Colin’s forehead, warm lips nuzzling. Colin wriggled around and found Thomas’s mouth with his own.

  When their lips parted, he whispered, “I wish you were staying longer.”

  Thomas said softly, “I wish I was too.”

  “Do you get to Paris very often?”

  Thomas said slowly, “If you’d asked me that question twelve hours ago, I’d have said no.

  Colin smiled into the darkness. That was so much more than he had hoped for. He didn’t want to risk ruining it with questions. Instead he rested his head on Thomas’s shoulder, and closed his eyes. Thomas gave him another of those nuzzling kisses.

  For a few minutes they breathed in peaceful unison. “Thomas?”

  Thomas said sleepily, “Mm?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. When you said there was no way we were ever going to have that discussion? What did that mean?”

  He could feel Thomas trying to focus. “What discussion?”

  “About you being gay?”

  “Oh.” A thoughtful silence. Finally Thomas said, “Because at seventeen you were an engaging, attractive, and very young man and it might have been difficult to preserve a safe distance if you’d known…”

  Colin snickered. “I’d’ve sure done my best to bridge that distance.”

  Thomas laughed sleepily. “And I’m not sure I wouldn’t have let you.”

  Colin woke to the sound of rain against the window and a raging thirst. Quietly, carefully, he slipped out of Thomas’s warm embrace, edged out of the bed and padded into the bathroom.

  A glance back at the bed showed Thomas still sleeping peacefully. They still had an hour before he had to get up and start getting ready for his flight. Colin wanted to make every minute of that hour count; Thomas could always sleep on the plane, and if all Colin was going to have were memories, he wanted as many as possible. But maybe now there would be more than memories.

  In the bathroom, he relieved himself, flooded a glass with lukewarm tap water, gulped it down. Refilled the glass and guzzled that down too.

  On his way back to bed he glanced at the phone on the night table. The red light was blinking to indicate Thomas had a message. His gaze focused on the pad of hotel stationary placed there for the convenience of the guests. There was a phone number written in Thomas’s firm hand.

  It was a number Colin knew very well. It had once been his own — or rather, his grandfather’s. Mason Lambert’s private phone number.

  The strength seemed to leave his body. He put his hand on the nightstand to keep from sitting on the edge of the bed. He felt…like he’d been hit by a car. Weak, shaky, stunned.

  Was there a reasonable explanation for Thomas to have that number?

  All kinds of reasons. And none of them applied. Colin knew with absolute certainty that Thomas Sullivan had come hunting him.

  And found him.

  And fucked him.

  The betrayal was so massive he couldn’t seem to think beyond it for a few seconds. He remembered their conversation of the day before — the careful, assessing way Thomas had studied him.

  So what’s the job? Can you talk about it?

  Not really. Routine stuff. No drama.

  “You bastard,” he breathed, raising his head to stare at the bed. Thomas continued to sleep, untroubled, unaware, a small, content smile on his firm mouth.

  Colin straightened up. For one brief moment he considered waking Thomas to tell him what he thought of him. To tell him how he’d looked up to him all these years, admired him, worshipped him, maybe — loved him, certainly. A kid’s love, true enough, a first infatuation. Not what it…might have been if they’d had time. If Thomas hadn’t been lying to him the whole time.

  But what was the point?

  What could Thomas say that would change anything?

  Nothing.

  And the conversation was going to be even more humiliating than this — and this was humiliating enough. The fact that it had not occurred to Colin once, not even once, that the odds of meeting Thomas Sullivan in Paris after all these years were astronomical? Way beyond the possibility of romantic coincidence. It just went to show what a sap…what a…quel imbécile stupide et crédule. As they said over here. Or screamed as they threw chairs and dishes.

  As silent as a cat burglar, Colin found his clothes and dressed, grabbed his trench coat. On the way out, though, a thought occurred to him.

  He tiptoed back, picked up the pad and set it on the pillow beside Thomas.

  Thomas might as well know his little ruse was over. He’d been found out — and Mason Lambert with him.

  But oddly Colin felt very little anger at his grandfather. At least that betrayal had been motivated by love and concern. Aggravating, but genuine nonetheless. His grandfather couldn’t believe that Colin was safe and healthy and happy without proof — and control. But that was more about not trusting the world than not trusting Colin.

  So Colin placed the pad of hotel stationary with the telltale phone number in the still-warm pillow indentation, and then he let himself out of the hotel room, closing it carefully, soundlessly.

  The rain was coming down in a silvery mist when he reached the pavement.

  He began walking.

  * * * * *

  At eleven o’clock Colin was sketching in the Square Jehan-Rictus. His fierce concentration was disturbed momentarily by the vision of a distant silver jet tracing its way through the slate sky above the famous I Love You wall.

  It was probably not Thomas’s plane, although — he glanced at his watch — the time was about right.

  The righteous anger that had fueled him all the way back to Montmartre and his apartment — and then out again to work in the tiny park behind the Place des Abbesses, drained away. He was suddenly conscious that he was cold, that it was starting to rain, and that he would never see Thomas Sullivan again.

  He lowered his sketch pad and stared at the long rain-streaked rectangle of 612 navy blue tiles of enameled lava bearing the inscription I Love You in over three hundred languages.

  Je t’aime. That’s how the French said it. Plenty of ways to say it. Plenty of ways not to say it.

  Belatedly, it occurred to Colin this had been a really bad choice of a place to work that day. It was not a good day for working outside, in any case. Maybe he would just go buy a bottle of mulled wine, head home, and get drunk.

  Instead he continued to sit and stare blankly at the glistening wall. His face was wet, but that was surely the rain because he was far too young to sit crying on a park bench like one of the elderly refugees who came here to gaze at the message of hope, to reassure themselves the world really wasn’t that bad a place.

  At least he had the square to himself. Not many people visited the park in this kind of weather. It was not much of a park in November. Most of the trees had lost their leaves with the night’s rainfall.

  Winter was right around the corner.

  He really needed to pull himself together enough to get home.

  The scrape of shoe sole on pavement. Footsteps on sodden leaves behind him. Colin glanced around, instinctively — he never quite lost that uneasy awareness of who was around him — and stiffened.

  Thomas, face flushed with cold and possibly something else, was coming down the walkway. His eyes were dark and unreadable. He hadn’t been kidding about being good at finding things.

  Colin jumped up. He told himself the excitement surging through him was anger and shock, but there was a portion of disbelieving joy in that riotous clamor of emotions.

  Still a few feet away, Thomas bit out, “For someone who paints a lot of shadows, you sure see things in black and white.”

  “Are you going to tell me I’m wrong?”

  Thomas seemed to hesitate. “It’s not the way you think.”

  “I’m the job.”

  “Yes. But �
��”

  Colin turned and started walking.

  Thomas caught him up in two steps. “Will you just stop and listen a minute, Colin? Yes, you were the job, but the job was just to check up on you, make sure you were okay. I accomplished that before we finished our drinks yesterday afternoon.”

  “Bullshit. Your mission was to get close to me and make sure I stayed safe.”

  “My mission?” Thomas’s eyebrows shot up. “That is some imagination you’ve got. My mission wasn’t to sleep with you. What do you think I am? What do you think your grandfather is, for crying out loud?”

  For crying out loud. If he hadn’t been so angry, he’d have spared a grin for that. But he was angry. Angry and hurt because Thomas had violated the trust Colin had placed in him from the time he was a kid.

  He struggled to get the words out without revealing that embarrassing naïveté. “I think my grandfather has a God complex. I have no idea what your deal is. And I don’t care. I don’t even know who you are. I don’t want to know.”

  He didn’t walk away. He should have been walking away by then. But hurt and angry though he was, he did notice that Thomas had missed his flight in order to find him and talk to him.

  Instead it was Thomas who half turned, looking skyward in exasperation.

  “You cut off all communication, Col. Mason was worried. You’re all he has.”

  “I didn’t cut off all communication. I — I tried to set some parameters. You know how he is.”

  “I know he’s a frail and elderly man who loves you more than anything on the planet. And I know he’s worried sick.”

  That took some of the wind out of his already luffing sails. Colin did worry about his grandfather, was unhappily conscious that he wasn’t getting any younger.

  He said, and he could hear the resistance warring with guilt in his tone. “Look, I love my grandfather, I even miss him sometimes, but I don’t have any illusions about him — maybe you do, but then you don’t know him that well. He doesn’t ask and he doesn’t listen. He uses money to control and manipulate. He always has, he always will.