by Chase Potter
I stand up from my desk and put my coat on. I cast one last glance over my office, and then I leave, letting Edith know that I might be out for the rest of the day.
I take hurried steps down the glass hallway to the elevator, and its cold steel walls carry me down through the tower to the parking garage underneath. I step out into the deepening cold and make my way to my car. Carson’s school is practically on the other side of the city from here, but I didn’t linger in my office, so he shouldn’t end up waiting too long.
I shut myself into my car, jam the key into the ignition, and then… nothing.
Not the sound of a weak battery trying to run the starter. Not the sound of the starter itself having a problem. Under the dim lights of the parking garage, I push my frustration into the key as I turn it again. Still nothing.
Today, of all goddamn days.
I turn the key for a third time. Like each previous attempt, the dash lights come on, but nothing else happens. “Fuck.”
I glance out the windshield and across the parking garage. Why do bad things always seem to happen at once? Pulling out my phone, I find Alex’s number and call it.
He picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“I have a favor to ask.”
“The fun kind?”
I sigh. “No, the not fun kind. I need you to pick me up. Carson got in a fight and I’m sort of… stranded at work. Engine trouble.”
There’s a pause, and my hope begins to crumble. I know it’s not fair for me to lean on Alex like this, but —
“I’m on my way.”
Huh? “You’re… you’re coming?”
“Yeah,” he says, and I hear the rustle of movement. “I’ll pick you up on the street in front of your building.”
I don’t care that relief is flooding into my voice. “Okay, see you soon.”
He hangs up, and I’m abruptly alone again.
Five minutes later and I’m waiting on the street, hands stuffed into the pockets of my pea coat. Wind gushes between the clustered high-rises, whipping over the cars filling the street, pulling at my face with chilly fingers.
I watch the light at the intersection. Hundreds of cars roll past under the shifting colors of red and green and some yellow too. November cold seeps into me and I find myself thinking about Carson. Not the Carson waiting for me at his school, but the one that I rescued from living with our dad. The younger version of him, the one filled with a tarnished innocence.
I glance away from the stoplight to the other end of the street, then down to my shoes. Black Italian leather, a fitting completion to the sharp suit I’m wearing. I sigh, and a nagging concern pulls down on my shoulders and squeezes my chest. I shouldn’t have assumed that Carson was always okay. I should have paid more attention to the tarnished part of his innocence.
He was such a good kid, though. He is such a good kid.
The time he spent with my dad was measured in weeks and not months. I spent years with the asshole and I was okay. I figured Carson would walk away the same as I did.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was just too easy to assume emotional hurt would fade as easily as the bruises did.
Alex’s black Audi pulls up, and he waves for me to get in. I do, and as soon as I’ve shut the door behind me, he pulls back into the road and up to a red light.
He glances at me. “Where to?”
“Left at the next intersection.”
Alex stares out ahead, and I slide my hands under my legs to warm them. When I look back up, Alex is watching me. “You doing okay?” The question is a cautious one.
I wish I could pour out my fears to him. My fears that I might have screwed up years ago, and that it’s only coming out now. But I can’t.
My voice is taut with the lie. “Yeah.” I hesitate, wanting the moment to pass. “It’s green,” I say.
Under my direction, Alex crosses downtown toward Carson’s school. He drives with a single hand on the lowest part of the wheel, not like the douche bags hiking up their shoulder to hold it from the top. It’s a small thing, but as he navigates the city traffic, coolly shifting lanes and somehow always avoiding the backups, I can’t help but notice his casual assurance. Just like with most things he does.
My gaze catches on his jawline, his Adam’s apple, his lips. I force a breath and direct my eyes away. Instead I end up staring at his hand on the wheel, noticing the subtle creases around his knuckles.
He pulls up to another stoplight. “Hey,” he says softly. “Carson is going to be okay.” Reaching across the center console, he rests a hand on my knee and gives me a small squeeze. It’s meant to be platonic, supportive. But when I dare to look back at him, I feel something all too familiar inside.
“The school is just up ahead,” I tell him.
He pulls into visitor parking and shuts off the engine. There’s a finality to the sound that I can’t quite place. As if I’m on my own now, about to head into a situation I’ve never dealt with before. I love Carson more than anything, but even though he’s waiting for me somewhere inside that brick building, I can’t make myself move.
“Do you… want me to come with?” Alex asks.
The correct answer is no, but I can’t stop myself from clinging to his offer. I don’t know what I’m walking into, and I need him right now. “Yes.”
The walk up to the front doors seems like the longest stretch ever, but somehow we make it to the checkpoint at the entrance. Classes must be in session, because the locker-lined hallways are empty as we walk to the office. We’re both wearing expensive suits, and even though Alex is half a head shorter than me, our steps fall into unison. He has to move a little faster to make it work, and the realization almost puts a smile on my face.
I step into the office with Alex in tow, and then I ask for Carson. The secretary glances up from her computer. “Are you Carson’s… dads?”
I ignore Alex’s wry smile, and manage to get out a firm rebuttal, “No. I’m his guardian.”
The woman points me down a short carpeted hallway. “He’s in there.”
“I’ll just wait here,” Alex says, taking one of the vacant seats by the door.
I’m on my own again as I pass more offices on the way to the waiting area for students. Carson is sitting alone in a row of chairs, staring off into space. He’s the same as I’ve always known him. Except there’s a puffy red bruise around his eye, the kind of bruise headed straight to black by tomorrow.
“Jesus, Carson.” The words slip out, and only then does he notice me standing there.
He stares up at me, his normally resilient and confident expression mingled with hurt. Not the physical hurt obvious around his eye, but a deeper, emotional hurt. The kind that warns of tears. He sniffs, swallows once. Then he’s on his feet, crossing the small room and burying his face in my suit jacket. I hold him, one hand between his shoulders and the other on the back of his neck.
I don’t know whether it was him that started the fight or some punk kid, and I don’t really care. Not anymore. I just want him to not hurt.
* * * * *
I’ve just spoken with the principal, and he seemed as surprised as I was that Carson was involved in a fight. The official story is that both he and the other kid were at fault, and they’re chalking it up to a one-off lapse in judgment. Each of them are getting sent home for the day, and it’s being left at that.
When Carson and I emerge into the main part of the office, Alex is still waiting. It was nearly half an hour that I left him, but he’s still here.
“Holy shit,” he says when he sees Carson’s face.
The secretary makes an irritated sound at the expletive, and we all ignore her.
“I’m fine,” Carson says, but I don’t really believe him. I don’t think Alex does either.
Silence spreads between us, maybe because like me, they have no idea what to say. I hold the door to the hallway and the three of us start the trek out of the school.
“Not trying to be rude,” Carson
glances at Alex, “But how did you end up getting dragged along?”
Alex pulls out a sly grin. “You’re not the only one who needs rescuing sometimes.”
* * * * *
Hours later, and I’m making a rare appearance in the kitchen as I cook for Carson. It’s been quite a while since I’ve offered to cook and he hasn’t immediately chased me out of the kitchen, but here I am. He’s perched on one of the stools at the island, elbows touching the stone countertop as he rests his chin in his hands. It’s a decidedly childlike pose, starkly contrasted against the deepening shade of his black eye.
For all my love of contradictions, this one is painful to see.
“You’re starting to burn dinner.”
Carson’s words break my stare, and I rush to stir the chicken and peppers. I’m making fajitas. Well, I’m trying to. It used to be Carson’s favorite before I was deposed as head chef. I used to burn it sometimes back then too.
I ease the heat down on the stove and start the burner under a second pan to fry the shells in. It takes all my effort to focus on what I’m doing, to resist the urge to stare at where some snot-nosed kid hit my brother.
Somehow I manage to finish dinner. Nothing is too burnt, and I watch with a certain satisfaction as Carson starts to eat without complaint. He’s three bites in when he asks through a full mouth, “You actually going to eat or just keep staring at my eye?”
“Shit, sorry.” I force my attention down to my plate, to the sloppy and poorly wrapped fajita. I’m not hungry, but I make myself eat. A murky silence sticks between us, untouched except for the sounds of chewing.
For as much as I can sense that Carson doesn’t want to talk about it, I can’t pretend that nothing is wrong and that Carson hasn’t been upset for more than a week and that he didn’t just get into a fist fight at school.
I set down my fajita, and liquid from the chicken drips from my fingers as I hold them over the plate. “What happened to you before I took you away from our dad?”
Carson stops chewing, then forces a swallow that goes down rough. He grimaces, but from either pain or my question I’m not sure. He sighs, and the sound rattles through his chest. His stare is defiant, but he doesn’t respond.
“Did he…” I nearly choke on the words. “…touch you?”
Carson raises an eyebrow. “Like sexually? No.”
I let out a long breath. “What then?”
He nibbles his lip. “He just… did stuff. Like fucked up stuff.”
My relief from a moment ago disappears, and my words come out weak. “Like what?”
“Like leaving me home alone and locked in my room for hours at a time. And like spraying me down with Lysol when he thought I smelled.” Carson glances away, and for the second time today he looks like he’s treading toward tears.
I’m appalled, paralyzed by guilt. My experiences growing up with our dad were awful, but the man must have gotten worse over the years. My voice comes out quiet, “I should have known. I should have asked.”
Carson shakes his head. “You did ask when I was younger, but I think I sort of just repressed it all, you know?” He pauses, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Parts of it started to come back over the last couple years.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Carson holds my eyes. “Don’t be. I shouldn’t have been so hard on you when you asked at the gym. But when you said I would feel better if I forgave him…” He shakes his head, and his hair lands right back where it was a moment ago. “I’m never going to forgive him.”
“Do you want to talk to… a therapist? I’m sure I can find someone.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Not really, I guess.”
I almost smile at the thoroughly teenage response.
“It was a long time ago,” he finally says. “I’d rather just leave it in the past.”
“You sure?”
He glances from the table to my eyes. “Yeah, it’s okay. I’m okay.” He gives me a steady look to make sure I believe him. “I could use a hug though.”
I rarely say no to Carson, and this is no exception. Standing up and rounding the table, I practically lift him out of his seat and pull him into my arms. Two hugs in one day is some kind of record I think. At least since he turned twelve.
I hold him, and he squeezes me back. It feels good just to hold him, and I think I might never let go. For once, Carson doesn’t seem to mind.
Chapter Thirteen
I don’t see Alex again until the next flag football game. James is pretending that nothing is wrong, but I can tell he’s tense.
Between plays, I jog up beside him. “You all right?” I ask.
Just like his expression, his words are hard. “Your buddy is interrogating council members one by one. I’m up next week.”
I drag a harsh breath into my chest. “He’s not my buddy. Where the hell would you get that idea?”
“I told you to back off. You’re still hanging out with him.” The words are cold like the late autumn evening, and they cut quietly as he growls, “Can you really not find any other person to spend time with? Literally anyone else.”
I bristle with rage, but I’m not going to be goaded into a fight on the field in front of a dozen other guys. “Go to hell.”
James glares at me once more before taking up his position for the next play.
I have no idea how he found out that something has been going on between us, but it doesn’t take a terribly large leap to guess that he’s been keeping a close eye on Alex. And maybe even me too.
With friends like these…
I absently wonder why Alex hasn’t brought me in for an interview too, or at least trying to pump me for information. After all, it’s no secret that I own one of the companies that benefited from the variances that he’s presumably investigating. But maybe he thinks that the misconduct is solely on the part of the city council, or maybe he’s just too worried about screwing things up between us to include me in his inquisition.
With my thoughts looming overhead, I continue to run play after play in the November cold. But even with James’s aggressive warning still fresh in my mind, I can’t seem to keep my eyes off Alex.
A nagging voice tells me I shouldn’t be paying so much attention to him, but I can’t really help it. The memory of sitting around the lifeless fire pit keeps filling my head. I wanted to reach out and touch him so badly, and it would have been easy. Carson is a heavy sleeper, and he would have never noticed if I wasn’t beside him all night.
Down the field, Alex sprints to catch an impossible pass, and I watch as time whispers to a halt. He stretches his arms toward the ball, and my breath is a white cloud frozen still in the air. Beneath Alex’s long-sleeved shirt, every muscle is poised, and I can’t look away. He’s reaching for the ball, so close now, and even though we’re on opposite teams today, I hold my breath and plead with every ounce of my will that he catch it. His fingers stretch to their max, close around it, and pull it into his chest.
He’s booking it toward me now, and somewhere deep inside I’m aware that I’m running toward him. My muscles tense and push as every footfall consumes a whole minute, each breath an hour, and the distance to him wicks away into the air. How have I never noticed his speed, his strength, his grace?
I’m going to intercept him, there’s no chance for him to get away. The only thing he can decide is which direction he turns before I take him down. Ten feet, six feet, and I’m a predator.
Ignoring the flags at his waist, I lunge toward him.
Our eyes meet, and a shadow of a smile pulls at my mouth in the fraction of a second that we have left.
I think I find amusement in his expression, but time is up and I slam into him. I tackle him across the chest, our shoulders smash against each other, and we go down hard together. He groans from the impact as every bit of air is forced from his chest, and I catch the familiar scent of vanilla mint.
I stare down at him, just as he did with me over a month
ago. I gaze into his eyes, the pale green with scattered gold.
“This is flag football, asshole,” Alex wheezes with a pained smirk, and I recognize my own words from when he did the same thing to me.
I put on a playful grin. “Sorry, forgot.”
Perspiration glistens on his forehead, turning his hair dark where it meets the moisture. My eyes venture downward, to the outline of his cheekbones just beneath his eyes. Further down to his lips, his jaw, to his Adam’s apple and the muscles in his neck and shoulders.
My eyes are back on his now, and the same rogue tug I’ve felt more and more lately plays once more against the back of my throat. This is when I’m supposed to let him up, but I don’t move. I don’t want to.
I have to admit there’s something perfect about the way his dark facial hair grows in. It’s barely longer than stubble, the length where it just stops being abrasive. More than anything, I wish I could brush my lips over it. Over him.
I’m poised on the knife edge of temptation, he’s so close and I could lean in with ease.
“Archer!” Bradford shouts. “What the hell are you doing?”
The moment shatters apart beneath the voice, and I force down a swallow, pleading it to bury the feeling that I want Alex more than I’ve wanted anyone or anything before.
I roll off of him and into the grass. I’m not ready to stand up yet, and I don’t give a shit what the other guys think. Beside me, Alex sits up, but I don’t look at him either. Instead my gaze pours into the sky of early evening, finding the first starry pinpricks of night looking down at me.
“Come on,” Alex says, and his hand moves into the center of my vision. I glance at his held out offer, then just at… him. “Game is almost over,” he whispers. It’s a promise, I think, and I cling to it as tightly as I do to the hand that helps me up.
The next half hour passes in a blur, and if I wasn’t paying attention before, then I might as well not even be here now. I jog up and down the field as my team moves, but my heart isn’t in it anymore. Because for everything going on around me, I can only think about one thing.
