At Attention

by Annabeth Albert

  “Liar.” Dustin’s phone chose that minute to buzz, and he groaned. “I’d love to stay and help sort your love life out, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to kick your ass later. I’m late to work out with some buddies on my team.”

  “Go.” Apollo waved him off. His own time to eat was almost over, and he’d have to work the rest of the afternoon with an empty stomach to match the emptiness in his chest that he’d been carrying around all week.

  He was off early enough for once this week, so he texted his mother that he’d get the girls from day camp. Even if, or maybe especially if, it meant seeing Dylan. But when he got there, Allie was the one doing checkouts. The girls were among the last handful of kids left, and the staff seemed ready to go too, waiting around with backpacks in hand for the straggler parents like Apollo to finally arrive.

  “Dylan just left,” Allie said without prompting as she checked his ID and summoned the girls.

  “Thanks,” Apollo said, trying to ignore her glower. She undoubtedly knew more about what was going on than Dustin had. And sure enough, in the parking lot, he spotted Dylan over by a shiny black Matrix, talking to a shorter guy with a bubble butt. Cute as...

  Isaiah. This must be the guy Dustin had mentioned. Apollo loaded the girls into the car before they could spot Dylan and try to get his attention.

  Dylan laughed at something the guy said, then climbed into the passenger side of the car. Apollo’s gut burned like he’d had a half dozen ouzo shots. This then was how it would happen. Not with drama, not with a big scene, not even with wearing thin from the passage of time but with friendship. Because that was Dylan. Friendly. Everyone wanted to be his friend, and he welcomed that from the world in a way that Apollo never had.

  And one of these days, Dylan was going to make a new friend. Maybe this Isaiah, maybe some other guy, but some other guy was going to be the one to make Dylan laugh, the one he watched late night TV with, the one he talked to while he did projects for his students. He’d meet that guy, the one who drove Apollo and all this fanciful talk of waiting out of his brain. And it was going to be a good thing, Dylan falling in love with some nice guy his own age. Apollo should want that for him, right?

  But if it was such a good thing, why were his sinuses burning? Why was the thought of someone else getting to see what Dylan’s face looked like in the morning, getting to hear how he panted and sighed and squished his eyes closed as he came, someone else getting to experience all that enough to have Apollo digging his fingers into his thigh?

  Because you love him.

  No, he refused to believe that. Couldn’t let it be true. Because if it hurt this much, watching him drive away with another man, how would it feel to lose him for good?

  Like this. Because you are losing him. One way or another, he’s gone. Only difference is whether he’s yours in the in-between time.

  God, it was an intensely morbid way to think about Dylan’s future, but it was true. Dylan was going to spend his time with someone—the guy was far too social to not. Someday, someway, his time on earth would end, regardless of how Apollo or anyone else railed at the universe. Apollo knew better than anyone that death couldn’t be outrun. And the only real question was whether Apollo was brave enough to be that someone who Dylan spent the in-between time with.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Is that really the last of your stuff?” Isaiah asked as he set down a box containing Dylan’s sewing machine and supplies on the bed.

  “Yeah. I travel light,” Dylan said. He’d been staying on Allie’s couch for over a week now, and was looking forward to a real bed that night, even if the permanence of this move unsettled him a bit. He was really doing this, really committing to San Diego for the next year. His stomach gave an unhappy twinge, reminding him that all he’d had for breakfast was nerves and a protein bar. “My mom will be shipping more of my clothes and stuff, but it’s not like I’m going to need the heavy winter rain gear here.”

  “Well, you should feel free to make this space your own. Art on the walls or something. I can take you to Windmill Thrift—they always have good art and home stuff.” Isaiah was nothing if not helpful, trying to introduce Dylan to his new neighborhood and being his self-appointed San Diego tour guide.

  “Oh, that reminds me, I have something for the walls.” Dylan dug in a carton on the floor, pulling out the large drawings the girls had done for him. Glitter rained down on the beige carpeting as he hung the pictures above the bed, but the brightly colored scribbles did make the room instantly feel more homey. And made him miss the girls that much more. He missed reading them stories and listening to them play and eating dinner...

  Stop. He couldn’t keep dwelling on what he was leaving behind. The summer had been bound to end one way or another. He was never meant to be more than a good family friend to them, and longing for more was pointless. And God knew he was doing enough pointless longing where their father was concerned. He didn’t need to get all sappy about the girls too. Right now, they were at the festival in Fresno with Apollo and his mother.

  He’d texted Apollo to have a safe trip, and Apollo had replied that he’d send him pictures next week of the girls’ first day of kindergarten. It was all very civil and friendly—exactly what he’d promised Apollo. He wasn’t storming out of their lives, but it all felt like getting a hollow Easter bunny after getting a taste of Godiva truffles, a shadow of what he hoped for.

  “They look great.” Isaiah looked around the spartan room. It was barely wide enough for the full bed and desk that the previous occupant had left behind. “You sure you didn’t want the bigger room?”

  “Nah, man, get the higher rent from Tony for that one.”

  Isaiah had split the apartment with two other graduate students, but when both left to take post-docs out of state, he’d been left in the lurch with a high rent and no roommates. But Isaiah was a superior networker—picking up Dylan through their encounter at Ben’s and this guy Tony from an ad at his school.

  “Yeah, but this one’s closer to mine.” Isaiah gave him a wink. “And maybe I want Tony to have to pass by my door on the way to the shower...”

  “You’re an awful horndog.” Dylan laughed and tossed a pillow at him. “The guy’s not even moved in yet and you’re already making moves. And besides, I thought you were still all hung up on Ben?”

  “Eh.” Isaiah shrugged and threw the pillow back. “He’s nice enough and fucks like a dream, but it’s clearly never going to happen, so I might as well move on, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Dylan said weakly. Move on. Something he knew he’d need to do eventually, and yet, still was resisting the fuck out of. And seeing Isaiah flit from crush to crush should inspire him to let go of his obsession with Apollo, but it actually had the opposite effect.

  What Isaiah had for Ben was what Dylan had for Apollo eight years ago—a healthy dose of hero worship mingled with physical attraction and a lot of wishful thinking and idealization of what could be in some fantasy land. Back then, Dylan hadn’t really seen Apollo for who he really was—all he’d seen was the mythical perfect guy for his fantasies. He hadn’t known that Apollo struggled with imagination but could handle logistics and order like no one else, hadn’t known that he had a temper but also a gentle soul that belied his often-stony exterior, hadn’t known that Apollo preferred red meat to chicken or that he’d probably still be cutting up his girls’ food when they were fifteen. He hadn’t really seen Apollo the summer of his first crush.

  But now he had, and all he wanted was for Apollo to see him with the same clarity. Apollo the man was infinitely more complex and interesting than Apollo the fantasy, and he wanted a chance to get to know even more, see beyond the concrete walls Apollo used to keep the world from getting too close. He’d had flashes of Apollo’s tender heart—the affection in his gaze after sex, the sparkle in his eyes when he let himself really
laugh at one of Dylan’s stories about camp, his vulnerability when in pain and his gradual willingness to let Dylan help. And that was what Dylan wanted too—to help. To be a partner with Apollo, a real equal. To be there for the bad days as much as the good, to see Apollo at his worst so he could appreciate the best that much more. That wasn’t a crush.

  It was something that could be more, could be love if Apollo would let it. And this waiting absolutely sucked, knowing that Apollo might never accept more than friendship from him, might never be willing to move beyond his grief. And sure, Dylan probably could have used the sex to keep Apollo going with a secret fling, but he wanted more. All summer he’d been okay with knowing that he’d always firmly be Apollo’s second choice, if that, but something had changed in him these past few weeks. It wasn’t fair to either of them to settle for secret liaisons and second-place ribbons.

  No, Dylan wanted everything. He deserved that, but more importantly, so did Apollo. And now came the hard part: waiting to see if Apollo could see that too. And to try not to get too angry about how long it was taking Apollo. He’d promised Apollo that he’d give him time, but damn, it was harder and harder with each passing day to keep a level head, to not want to punch his new bed in this new room that wasn’t the room he really wanted. Why couldn’t Apollo see what Dylan knew all the way to his bones? Doubt, the kryptonite to Dylan’s usual optimism, made it hard to keep up the pretense of everything being okay.

  * * *

  “Baba? You awake?” Chloe climbed onto Apollo’s bed.

  “I am now.” Apollo stretched. The sun was up at least, so he was thankful for small mercies on his first real day off in weeks. He’d dreamed about Dylan again. More of the weird dreams where he’d start out with Neal in some bizarre scenario, then Dylan would be there and he’d wake up, not sure he’d ever really slept. And no more sure what to do about the conundrum that was Dylan than he’d been the day before.

  “You’re in this bed.” Chloe’s nose wrinkled. “I like you better in the other one.”

  Apollo didn’t blush, even for over-observant children, but he still felt his skin heat. He had been sleeping in the guest bedroom a bit much, which was why he’d forced himself to sleep in the master bedroom last night. Besides, his mother had changed the bedding in the guest room the other day, one more step away from it being Dylan’s room, from him deluding himself that he could still smell Dylan on the blankets.

  “This room is...” He trailed off as he looked around, really looked. Gray and somber, even in the early morning light, what had once seemed classy now felt like a tomb. A shrine. He remembered Dylan’s words from a few weeks ago, and they slapped against his skull now, reverberating like a grenade. “...it’s okay,” he finished weakly, trying to sort through the wreckage in his brain.

  Now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t unsee it—the room had felt claustrophobic for months now, but now it seemed like a heavy coat in the middle of summer, a weight he simply couldn’t bear any longer.

  “Sweetie, how would you feel about an outing?”

  “Where are we going?”

  Apollo got out of bed, testing his back. Yeah, he could do this. He was ready. “Paint. We’re going paint shopping.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, Apollo put up another strip of the blue tape, masking off the trim in his bedroom. A fast visit to Dunn-Edwards had yielded a stack of paint sample cards for the girls to play with and two gallons of Golden Nectar, a ridiculously fanciful name for an assertive yellow that went with the equally imaginative Gardenia trim paint. And because he didn’t do anything by half-measures, he’d tossed in a gallon of Starstruck for the master bathroom, intent on replacing the weird mocha-y color he’d never been that fond of anyway. He’d stuck the girls and their paper paint samples in front of a video and got to work.

  “What are you doing?” Apollo’s mother appeared in the doorway. “The girls said you’re painting?”

  “Yeah.” Apollo refused to look sheepish. True, he wasn’t usually a DIY kind of guy—Neal had insisted on professional painters for the house before they’d moved in, and he’d been content to let Neal handle all decor decisions, but today he had a strange yearning to get his hands dirty. Literally.

  “Well.” She came and peered at the row of cans on the floor. “I suppose it’s time, yes?”

  She’d always been too perceptive by half. “It’s not a big deal,” Apollo lied.

  “You’ll need a new bedspread to match that yellow. Maybe some throw pillows. And those lamps—”

  “Are going too,” Apollo said decisively. Once he made up his mind to do a thing, he went all in. In high school, he’d done extra homework in the hopes of securing better recommendations to the naval academy. When his track coach said to run a mile, he’d run two. If the military fitness guidelines said one hundred pushups, he did double. And if he was changing this space, he was changing it. “And I’m moving the bed to the far wall later—”

  “Do not stress your back.” His mother rolled up her sleeves, then grabbed a screwdriver to start removing the plates from the light switches. “Call Dustin to help you.”

  “Maybe.” Apollo wasn’t about to tell her that he and Dustin weren’t speaking much, Dustin pressuring him to “fix” things with Dylan, Apollo not having the faintest clue how to do that—or if he should.

  “And I can order the bedding for you. I know you hate looking at fru-fru stuff.”

  “That I do.” Apollo was a bit surprised how readily she was going along with this whim of his. “And I’m doing the bathroom a blue-purple. Maybe some towels to match?”

  “My. You’re going to be busy.”

  “Busy is good.” Busy meant not thinking about Dylan, not thinking about what he wanted from his future, not thinking of all the hard questions plaguing him these days.

  “Pass me that other roll of masking tape?” His mother set down the screwdriver.

  “Sure.” He handed it over, but her hand lingered on his.

  “You took off your ring to paint?” Her eyes were wide but not unkind.

  “Yeah.” Apollo looked away. It had felt weird, taking it off a few minutes ago and putting it in the top drawer of the nightstand, where it looked so small and lost amid the usual clutter of the drawer. He’d snatched it out of the drawer at the last moment, pocketing it. He patted his shorts pocket now. “I’m... I’m not sure...”

  “I can get you a ring box,” his mother said as she expertly taped off the light switch. “You could put it in the safe deposit box if you wanted or in—”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for a box,” he admitted. He knew, deep in some fragile recess of his heart, that this was it, the ring wasn’t going back on. But knowing was different from accepting. And he really had no clue what to do next. Safe deposit box sounded so cold and lonely. And clinical, especially coming from his mother. “But you’re not mad—”

  “Apollo, paidi mou, why on earth would I be mad about you taking off your ring?”

  “You never did.” He moved so his back was to her, so she couldn’t see the sweat beading up on his forehead.

  “Oh.” Such a simple syllable but it echoed through the room. “Oh. Apollo, have you been keeping your ring on just because I wear mine?”

  “Not entirely.” He sighed, not sure how to explain that there was no map to navigating life post-Neal, but her quiet grace had been his only guidepost for how to grieve. Don’t show the kids your tears. Only say kind things about their father. Tell stories and keep memories alive. Take flowers to the grave every season, and never, ever forget. Wear your ring. Never even think about dating. He’d spent three decades internalizing her silent lessons on widowhood. And so yeah, he’d followed her example because it was so much better than the alternative of floundering.

  His mother left the taping to sit on the edge of the bed he’d cov
ered with a drop cloth.

  “It’s different, being a woman, especially one in a family like ours. Everyone back in Fresno was ready to match make for me, months after your father passed. And the ring became a bit of a shield, maybe? I’m not sure. There were certain things...certain truths I wasn’t comfortable sharing with anyone, but I knew I didn’t want to marry again. And the ring made it easier to send that message.”

  Well, that certainly sounded ominous. Apollo tried to make sense of her words. “But you loved Dad, right?”

  “Of course, I loved your father. But...not all of marriage was for me. And I could no more get mad at you taking the ring off than I could be upset at you for wearing it. We all do things for our own reasons, even if those reasons aren’t so apparent to others. And habit can be a powerful thing.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, head swimming.

  “But right now, we paint.” His mother always had a way of sensing when he was overwhelmed, giving him the sort of outlet he needed. “Let’s order pizza tonight. It is a happy day.”

  Apollo nodded, surprised to discover that he actually agreed. It was a good day. A weird day, but also a necessary day. And yes, a happy day.

  * * *

  Apollo’s room smelled too much like paint to sleep there, but he was too keyed up from the day of painting to sleep anyway. Long after the girls were asleep, and his mother was watching a movie in the living room, he paced, as restless as he’d been the night before leaving for his first mission. All full of adrenaline and uncertainty and impatience. Maybe a shower would help.

  He had to use the upstairs bath, dodging the twins’ bath toys, since the master bath was still drying and the downstairs bath had too many Dylan memories still. Getting out of the shower, he caught a glimpse of himself in the big vanity mirror over the double sink. Hair needed a trim, as did the rest of him, and all the meetings lately meant his body wasn’t quite as ripped as when he was out training with the teams. But still, not bad, Floros.