A Fortunate Blizzard

by L. C. Chase

  After swapping his work clothes for casual slacks and a cable-knit sweater—gunmetal gray to match his mood—he made his way into the kitchen. He hadn’t realized a small part of him had still been hoping he’d turn the corner and see Trevor there—bright-blue eyes twinkling with delight and a beguiling smile promising everything Marc had ignored on his quest for undeniable success—until the letdown of more empty space weighted his body.

  He noticed a plate on the island with strawberries and cubed cheese on it, a glass of orange juice beside it. The gesture brought a touch of smile to his lips, even as it amplified the loss that coursed through his veins. Like a dream he didn’t want to wake from. The faster consciousness crept in, the faster the dream slipped through his fingers.

  It wasn’t until he fully stepped into the kitchen that he noticed a piece of paper beside the plate. With one finger, he dragged the sheet closer to the edge of the counter. Then he carefully picked it up.

  Marc,

  I’m sorry to leave like this, but it’s best this way. You deserve someone whole and healthy who can offer you a full life together. That man isn’t me, but I need you to know how much I cherish having met you. I’ve had one of the best Christmases of my life with you. You’ve given me a gift to carry me through however many days remain.

  I realized there is something you can do for me, though, something that would make me happier than you could possibly imagine. Be true to yourself. Follow your heart and your dreams. Start by going into your art studio and putting something on that blank canvas. Paint something for me. Please.

  Always,

  Trevor

  P.S. Plant our tree.

  Marc traced Trevor’s name with a shaky fingertip, his vision blurring. Our tree. A sob escaped him, and he had to hold on to the counter as he stumbled around the island, trying to sit in a chair before he fell to the floor.

  That couldn’t be it, could it? No. It couldn’t be. He’d told Trevor he wasn’t going to let him go, and come hell or high water, he was going to keep his word.

  He got up and strode across the room to the hutch where he’d put his laptop when he’d cleared the table for dinner last night. He paused. How could one person have cut through his tunnel-vision-like focus and made such a big impact on his life in so short a time?

  Retrieving both his laptop and cell phone, he first searched the internet for local medical labs, only to receive the same message after calling each one: closed for the holidays.

  Fuck. His shoulders slumped. Now what?

  He stared at his phone, as if that would somehow give him the answers he was looking for, and began unconsciously scrolling through his contact list. He paused with his thumb hovering over his mother’s name, like he had done countless times before. Only this time was different. She’d given him life, ensured he had a roof over his head, clothes on this back, food in his belly, and an education. She’d fulfilled her parental duty, and the moment he’d reached adulthood she’d washed her hands of him. He’d spent his whole life trying to be someone she could be proud of, but somewhere along the way he’d lost sight of the fact that he never would be.

  It took a snowstorm and meeting a random stranger for him to realize he’d been striving for the wrong goal his whole life. And that misguided drive had cost him so much. His mother was gone from his life forever—had been since the day she’d found out he was gay. He just hadn’t caught up to the reality. All those years he’d wasted trying to be good enough for her, he’d never been good enough for the one person who mattered all along—himself.

  It was high time he did what he should have done two decades ago—wash his hands of her, too. He swiped his thumb over her number, revealing a big red box, and with far more force than was needed, pressed Delete. A surprise wave of triumph washed over him, taking with it all the weight he hadn’t realized he’d been shouldering for far too many years.

  He tossed the phone on the counter—even that felt good—and his gaze fell on the letter from Trevor again. Relief at finally dropping the albatross around his neck that had been his mother dissipated as a deep sense of loss stole over him. Trevor had just been told he wouldn’t survive another year, yet he’d managed to show Marc how much more there was to life in mere days.

  Rolling his shoulders back, Marc straightened his spine and walked to the stairs leading to his art studio. He hesitated at the bottom step, taking the room in. It looked different now, felt different, and he could only think that was because Trevor Morrison had left a small essence of himself behind. Marc’s gaze settled on the corner where they’d sat just the day before, painting and laughing. It had been perfect.

  With newfound resolve, he strode across the room and opened a cupboard to pull out a fold-up table. He opened the legs and set it beside the easel, then went back for paints, brushes, and water. He could do this. If anything, maybe it would help bring him closer to Trevor in some odd way.

  Brush in hand, fire in mind, and desire in heart, Marc laid down the first brush stroke. And so began his first painting since he was fourteen years old.

  The day had taken a toll on Trevor. Two days after Christmas, and his morning had started with four hours in airport security lines that led to almost missing his rebooked flight, only to sit on the single open runway for another two hours before they were airborne. Add to that the stress of managing to squeeze in a dialysis session the day before, and then spending another night in a hotel close to the airport, ruminating on his decision to walk away from Marc. It had taken everything in him not to go back yesterday, to hope that maybe this time the odds were better than being struck by lightning and their blood and tissue would match. He couldn’t deny how strongly he felt like he’d found a heart match with Marc, but he knew all too well how slim that hope was and how much more it would hurt to lose again this time. No, leaving was the right thing to do.

  Was it really?

  Yes. Yes it was.

  Then why do you keep questioning yourself?

  Stop it!

  Somebody stick a fork in him. He was done.

  A warm hand on his knee drew his attention back to the present—dinner with his family. They’d already celebrated Christmas with the kids but had planned a second celebration for him. His nieces and nephews even rewrapped some of their gifts so they could open them again with Uncle Trevor. God, he loved his family so much.

  “Are you okay, mijo?”

  His throat tightened and his eyes stung at his mom’s question and concerned expression. He placed his hand over hers and squeezed.

  “I’m good. Just tired. It’s been a long few days getting home.” He smiled, hoping it reassured her that there was nothing more. She watched him a moment longer, though, her shrewd gaze probably seeing everything he didn’t want to say. Not yet. Then she nodded and turned back to her meal. He couldn’t broach that subject yet. Not tonight. Not while everyone was in high spirits and enjoying one another’s company.

  As soon as dinner was over, Trevor excused himself for the night. Though that took nearly another half hour in order to hug all of his siblings, nieces, and nephews. By the time he’d finally made it to his old bedroom, he hardly had the energy to change into his pajamas.

  He’d just crawled under the covers when there was a light knock on his door. He knew who owned that quiet request for permission to enter. His mom had never just barged into his bedroom—or any of his brothers’ and sisters’ rooms—without asking first. It was one of the many small ways she’d taught them respect and manners through example.

  “C’mon in, Mom,” he said, propping the pillows behind his back and sitting up.

  The door opened, and she peeked her head inside the room and smiled. Her dark eyes shimmered with worry as she came in and sat beside him on the bed.

  “What is it you’re not telling me?” Her voice was soft, but a hint of Hispanic accent remained clear.

  Trevor looked into her eyes, which were always so knowing, so empathetic. She was the glue that bound this glo
riously mismatched family of his. A family he wouldn’t have traded for the world.

  Instead of answering her aloud, he pointed to his travel bag on the floor. “There’s a zippered pocket on the inside.”

  She raised an eyebrow but said nothing as she got up, opened the pocket, and pulled out the pamphlet Dr. Wheyvan had given him before Christmas. When she read the title on the front, her shoulders fell and she placed a hand on her chest, as if in an effort to keep herself from tipping over. Or her heart from spilling out. Without looking at him, she sat back down on the bed and a gust of air that might have been a word rushed from her lungs.

  When she finally looked at him again, her eyes were swimming with tears. “No, mi cariño,” she whispered.

  “I haven’t made any decisions yet. Dr. Wheyvan said I still have time to think about it, to discuss it with you, the family, but I don’t really have all that much time. My kidney function is dropping, and before too long even dialysis won’t help.”

  “Oh, Trevor.” She sniffed and threw herself into his arms. “Te quiero, mi cariño.”

  He held her tightly to him, her small body frail but so very strong. “I love you too, Mom.”

  “I’m so sorry I can’t save you from this. Forgive me.”

  “Mami, no . . .” He eased her back enough to look her in her eyes, to make sure she understood. “None of that. You’ve given me everything. The best life a boy could have ever asked for.”

  She ran her hand over his cheek and gave him a watery smile. “Such a good, strong boy.” Then she looked down at the pamphlet now crumpled in her fist. Frowning, she eased her grip and sat up straight.

  “Tell me about this?”

  For the next half hour he told her everything Dr. Wheyvan had said, that it was his choice and whatever that choice was would be respected. That he’d likely only survive another year without a transplant. That soon the burden of dialysis would become too much to bear, complications would become a factor, and that if he did stop treatment, he’d likely pass within a week, which drew a small sob from his mom.

  “She said it’s actually a very gentle death,” he said, hoping that might give her some reassurance should he decide to stop. “I’ll just get really sleepy, and . . . Don’t we all want to go peacefully in our sleep, knowing we’ve lived a good, full life? I don’t want to be hooked up to machines trying to squeeze out another day that only hurts to live through.”

  She nodded. “But you’re so young. You can’t be done on this earth yet.”

  “I’m pushing forty,” he said softly, attempting a grin that felt lopsided. “You’ve given me a good life, an amazing family, and I’ve been loved unconditionally. I’ve had more accomplishments and successes than I could have imagined, and even inspired a few souls along the way. What more can anyone ask for?”

  “Love,” she said, and the patched-up pieces of his heart threatened to break apart again.

  “I have all the love I need.” Except Marc’s. Trevor managed to keep his voice from cracking, but the words grated over his vocal chords like coarse sandpaper. Even if Marc came to love him, it would be selfish of Trevor to take that love knowing he would only be able to give it back for a short time.

  “The love of a man, mijo. A man of your heart.”

  Trevor shook his head, reaching down for a resolve he didn’t really want to use. “I can’t do that to him.”

  Her eyebrows rose, and a light sparked in her deep-brown eyes. “Him?”

  Trevor sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I met someone.”

  She turned, bringing one leg up onto the bed, to sit facing him. “Tell me about him.”

  He smiled, completely unable to hold it back thinking about the handsome man he’d met by random circumstance but whom he was crazy about. “He’s a lawyer, but I think he’d rather be an artist. About my height, dark hair, incredible green eyes, and the most infectious smile you’ve ever seen. His family was hard on him, I think. He didn’t have the love and support I’ve had. And he’s alone, Mom. So alone.”

  “You must bring him home, then. We’ll give him family.” She nodded, the matter decided and settled in her mind.

  Trevor reached out to hold her hand. “You’d love him.”

  Marc was just the kind of person she’d take under her wing and make a mission out of making shine, showing him how much he mattered. She was one of those people who made every person she came across feel special, and he so wanted to bring Marc home to meet her.

  If you weren’t dying.

  And once again it came back to that.

  A halfhearted laugh surprised him. “Figures, doesn’t it? I’d end up meeting someone I could see a future with on the same day I’m told how little of a future I actually have left.”

  “Maybe you have more time than you think. Maybe the doctor is wrong.”

  “Mom—”

  “It’s not right for a parent to bury her child,” she said, her voice strained, as if the words she spoke took great effort. “But . . . I can’t tell you what to do, mijo. The decision must be yours. Whatever it is, we will support you every step of the way. Above all else, I want you to be happy and healthy. If you stayed only to make your mama happy, it would break your mama’s heart to see you stay in misery.”

  She fell silent, letting her words sink in, but they just kept chasing each other in circles. He leaned over to pick up his sketchbook from a cubbyhole in the night table, and flipped through the pages. He stopped at his latest sketch and turned the book toward her.

  “This is him?”

  He nodded, his throat constricting.

  She reached out, letting her fingertip hover just above the surface of the page. “He’s a handsome man.” She met his gaze, and he smiled, tears of his own threatening to spill over his eyelids. “You’re painting him?”

  Nodding, he turned the book back around to stare at the sketch. Before he’d left Marc the previous morning, he’d stood watching him sleep, memorizing the swell of every muscle, the angle of every bone, the smooth surface of skin that had felt so good sliding over his. He would take all that, everything Marc had made him feel, everything he felt for Marc, and bring it to life on canvas. Wiping an errant tear from his cheek, he closed the book, hiding the sketch, and returned it to the cubby.

  “Mom?” He shored up his courage to ask the one question that had been nagging at him since he first read the pamphlet Dr. Wheyvan gave him. “Do you think stopping dialysis is . . . is suicide?”

  “Oh, honey.” She pulled him into her arms, her embrace stronger than her stature dictated, and he curled against her. “Not if stopping means allowing a natural passing. Some might think so, but your life isn’t theirs.”

  He nodded, closing his eyes. “I just don’t want you to think I’m giving up. I’m not. It’s just . . .” He swallowed around the golf ball suddenly lodged in his throat. “In a few months I won’t even be eligible for a transplant anymore. I don’t want to live whatever days are left doped up to dull the pain, confined to machines. I can’t put you and Dad and everyone else through that, either.”

  “I know, cariño. I know.” She brushed long bangs out of his eyes and cupped his head to her chest. “We’re going to have the best holidays ever. We’re going to love and laugh and cherish, and for now, live.”

  “You called in sick. Every day last week.” Kate followed him into his office, the accusatory tone in her voice set Marc’s teeth on edge.

  “Very astute of you,” he snapped and immediately regretted it. Just because Trevor had walked away the day after Christmas—ten days ago, not that he was counting—with nothing more than a Dear John letter, leaving Marc suddenly feeling out of control, didn’t mean Kate deserved to get the brunt of it. Annoyed with himself, he sat down at his desk and tugged his tie loose.

  “Don’t be an ass.” Kate glared, hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. “Mentally you may as well not even be here today. And now you’ve lost a case?”

  “It’s nothing.” />
  “Bullshit.”

  Did he want to tell her? Yes, he did. Kate was the only person in his life who he could tell. The only one he could actually call a friend, even though they’d never taken their friendship beyond the hours of nine to five Monday through Friday. But whose fault was that?

  His.

  “Enough is enough,” Kate said, taking his silence as refusal to fill her in. “What’s going on with you? First you take days off, then you come back distracted and distant, and now you’re being a cranky bastard. And in the courtroom this afternoon . . . I don’t know who was wearing your suit, but that sure as shit wasn’t the Marcus Roberts I’ve known all these years.” She tilted her head, a thoughtful expression softening her features. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were heartbroken.”

  Marc opened his mouth, part surprise at her spot-on guess, part wanting to share. Then he quickly closed it. Where did he even start? He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I couldn’t build a snowman.”

  “What?”

  “You were right.” He looked at her, attempting to smile, but the effort was too great. “There’s more to life than work and climbing the ladder of success, things that matter more than your name on a plaque.”

  Kate raised her brows. “You are heartbroken.” She sat in the chair on the other side of his desk and leaned forward. “Tell me what happened.”

  He hesitated at first but quickly found the words falling from his mouth faster than he could keep up with. He told her about getting stuck on the turnpike, meeting Trevor at the hotel, and sharing the night with him. About spending Christmas together—the tree hunting, the decorating, dinner. He even told her about deleting his mother’s phone number once and for all.

  The more he talked, the more he wanted to talk, and he went on and on, right up to how he’d found a medical lab open the Monday after Christmas. He remembered how high his hopes had been as he’d driven to the clinic. He’d thought he was going to make a difference, already thinking about what he’d say when he told Trevor the good news. Only, the news wasn’t as good as he’d anticipated.