by Rick R. Reed
“Sorry there’s no AC. Dee doesn’t believe in it. And most of the time, we don’t really need it. But it can get a little hot up here in the attic.”
“I’ll bet,” Flynn said, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh, I was speaking literally, Flynn. I’ve hardly ever brought a guy back here and never for the night. It just felt weird, with Dee. I’m sure she wouldn’t have a problem, but I guess it’s me who has the problem. The only time I’ve ever done it is when Dee’s been out.”
It was hot in the little attic room—literally. The air felt close, almost tropical, very unlike the Pacific Northwest. But he would gladly sweat the night away if it meant he was lying next to Mac.
They both turned together as they heard Barley making his way up the stairs. Within a few seconds, he stood in the doorway, tail wagging, mouth open in what looked like a smile.
“I think he’s saying ‘Didn’t you guys forget something?’” Mac said.
Flynn smacked his forehead. “Oh, geez. How could I be so stupid? He needs to go out one more time, doesn’t he? I know he was just out, but….” Flynn crossed the room to squat down next to Barley, pet the top of his head, and then move down to massage his shoulders. “You need to go out, buddy?” Barley shook all over, so Flynn’s hand fell away.
Mac was already pulling on shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops. “I don’t know that he really needs to go out again so soon, but a walk sounds really nice. We can both take him. It would be nice to get outside in the quiet and the cool before bed.”
“Time to recharge? Get ready for round two?” Flynn asked.
“Do you think of nothing else?” Mac countered good-naturedly.
“Not when you’re around, especially not after what just happened. I’m itching to return the favor.” Flynn pulled his clothes back on, all the while longingly eyeing the bed. But he knew Barley depended on him to get his own needs met.
“You’re such a flatterer. And I love it. Let’s go.”
They trooped down the stairs together, Barley leading the way. Even before they reached the top of the first landing, Barley stood at the bottom looking up at them, panting and tail wagging.
“Isn’t he the cutest thing you ever saw?” Mac asked.
“No. You’re—”
Mac stopped him before he could say any more. “Don’t you dare go and flatter me again, not when it’s at the expense of my dog.” Mac sucked in a breath. “Sorry. Your dog.”
“Yes, he’s the cutest thing I ever saw.” Flynn got to the bottom of the stairs just before Mac. He turned to him and said, “But you’re next in line.”
“Thank you.” Mac got Barley leashed up and then unlatched the lock on the screen door. Flynn followed them outside.
THEY WALKED for a lot longer than Flynn expected. But it was okay. The night was quiet and cool. And once they were on the trail that went around the lake, it was very dark and almost deserted. Most of their light came from the moon. Flynn would have found the prospect of walking around the lake this late at night daunting, a little unnerving, but the company he was with made him feel safe—and peaceful.
They came upon a curve in the trail where there were no trees opposite and the lake opened up fully before them, a rippling black surface that reflected the moon and a few streetlights in a parking lot on the other side. There was a bench there. “Why don’t we sit down for a minute? Barley here is tired.” Mac chuckled. “Do you believe that?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t think Barley gets tired, especially when he’s outside. Too many smells to sniff and explore.”
Regardless of Barley’s preferences, they sat. Barley looked up at them for a moment, as though to ask “Why are we stopping?” but when he got no answer, he curled up at Mac’s feet.
They said nothing for a long while. It was nice, just sitting here by the water with no one else around. Flynn could imagine they were the only people—and dog—in the world. And at this point in time, he could imagine no better company. He stretched his legs out before him and slid his arm around Mac’s shoulders. “I like this,” he said, breathing in deep and letting the cool air he’d drawn into his lungs out slowly. “We haven’t known each other for all that long or all that well, but it feels like we do. In a weird way, it’s as though we’ve met before. Like I’ve known you all my life.” He looked over at Mac’s moonlit face, pale. “Do you get that?”
Mac nodded. “I do.”
They were quiet again. The sounds of the night rose up around them: insects, frogs, even the cry of an owl. The wind whispered through the trees above them. Flynn looked down to see Barley had fallen asleep, stretched out on his side. Snores filtered up.
“You know, I envy you,” Flynn said.
“Why?”
“Because you have a real family.”
Mac cocked his head. “Were you listening to me? I’m an orphan.”
“I know, I know. But it sounds like you had a good childhood, and your grandma sounds lovely, like she really loves you, unconditionally.”
Mac nodded. “She does, and I love her too. But I miss my mom and dad—still. And every day.”
“I miss having a mom and dad.”
“What do you mean?” Mac asked. “You have a mom and dad.”
Flynn stared out at the black water. Did he really want to share this? Wasn’t it too soon to draw Mac into his personal story—and one of his greatest despairs? But then he thought that sharing—and not just the physical—was what building something between the two of them was all about. Intimacy wasn’t reserved exclusively for the bedroom.
“I guess I said that about a mom and dad because sometimes I don’t really feel like I have parents. Sure, they’re alive, living in relative splendor just across Lake Washington in Bellevue. They gave me so much growing up—tennis lessons, riding lessons, swimming at the club in the summer, trips to Spain, to England, to France. Cruises. The best clothes. On my sixteenth birthday, a bright red brand-new Beetle waited for me in the driveway of our house.”
Mac whistled. “That doesn’t sound too shabby, Flynn. I lived in a trailer, and getting takeout pizza on my birthday was the height of luxury for me.”
“I know. I know. And I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. Probably to your ears, I’m sounding like a spoiled brat who has a lot of nerve complaining.”
“So what’s the problem with your mom and dad, then?”
Flynn shrugged, even though he knew the answer to Mac’s question. He sighed. He didn’t want to sound like a whiner. He hoped Mac wouldn’t see him that way. But his heart ached when he thought of his parents. He realized it wasn’t right to prejudge what Mac would think of him for what he was about to say. He simply needed to say it and let Mac draw his own conclusions. “They gave me everything you could imagine but one thing. And it was the thing I needed the most.”
Mac snuggled even closer to Flynn and laid his head on his shoulder. He probably knew what Flynn was going to say, and this simple act touched Flynn’s heart.
“Love. I just don’t feel like I was ever loved. I was cared for, given everything I needed and wanted. But they never really knew me, you know? Not because I didn’t want them to know me. I did. But because they never really bothered to take the time to find out who I was.
“Mom’s a psychologist, so you think she’d know better. But she was always so busy, even when I was a little boy. She wrote books. She gave lectures nationwide. She was a big deal—talking all about transforming yourself into the greatest person you could be.” Flynn chuckled bitterly. “She’s kind of like some pop culture guru. You’ve probably heard of her. The irony is she never saw what was going on right under her nose.
“When I was fourteen, I told her I had feelings for other boys. Sex feelings. Love feelings. I could tell her this stuff because she was, you know, in the business. She was never shy about bringing up sex with me.
“She told me it was okay, that she didn’t judge me. That I should accept who I was. All the stuff she’d tell a patient. But
at the end of our little talk, she told me to never tell my father. She said it would kill him.”
“What a thing to say,” Mac said.
“You know, under some circumstances, it might be okay that she said that. Just because she worried about how her husband might react. I get that. But I think she really believed it. See, Dad’s a big right-winger, Republican for many generations. A so-called Christian. He railed against gay marriage, gays in the military, and shit like that. I don’t know if she was as worried about the fact of me being queer killing him as she was about him killing me.”
“Maybe she just wanted to protect you,” Mac offered.
“Yeah, maybe. But by doing that, she denied me the right to ever know my dad. It should have been up to me to tell him and deal with the fallout, if there was any.” Flynn drew in a big breath and let it out slowly. “She was right. He probably would have kicked me out of the house or blamed her or insisted she get me counseling right away so I could be ‘cured.’ Hell, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he wanted to send me to one of those ‘pray away the gay’ camps. Conversion therapy, I think they call it. He always said, ‘They made a choice. It’s bullshit that they’d have us believe they were born that way. It’s a sickness and it’s curable.’”
“I’m sorry, Flynn.”
“It’s okay. No, no, actually it’s not. I don’t even know how to put this now that I’ve got myself into it. It isn’t even so much the gay thing with them. It’s my whole life!” Flynn had to stop for a few minutes before he could go on. He was glad Mac did nothing, said nothing, and only waited. Flynn just needed someone to listen.
“They never showed me any affection, not really. No touching, God forbid—ever. No hugs or good-night kisses. Dad was always just as busy as my mother. He’s a cardiologist and was hardly ever home. They missed everything while I was growing up! Even though they paid for lessons for all sorts of stuff, they never had time to come to a recital or to watch me play tennis….” Flynn’s voice trailed off. “Poor little rich boy, you’re probably thinking.”
“Not at all.”
“Thank you.” Flynn leaned forward to kiss Mac. “I just felt, the older I got, we were three people occupying the same space. A beautiful space, with floor-to-ceiling windows, five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a four-car garage, a pool, but it was just a shell for us to move around in, like strangers.
“I’d hoped when I got older, maybe things would improve. But they haven’t, and I kind of believe they never will. My parents are who they are, and I respect that in a way. They weren’t put down on this earth to be mom and dad to me, after all. But, but….”
“It’s all right, Flynn. You turned out so well in spite of them.”
“I don’t know about that, but I do feel pretty hopeless that I’ll ever really be any more to them than just an obligation. I heard them arguing one night—about me—I couldn’t have been more than ten. And you know what my dad said?”
Mac shook his head.
“He told my mom they should have aborted when they had the chance.”
The words hung in the air. Mac sucked in a breath and moved slightly back. Simply saying the words out loud, words Flynn had never spoken to a single human being because he was so ashamed, allowed Flynn to understand how they shocked Mac. They stung Flynn—even now. It didn’t seem conceivable he could have overheard such a thing.
“That’s horrible.”
“Yeah, yeah. We all have hurts.” Flynn stared down at his hands in the darkness for a long time, unsure what to say next and uncertain that he should have shared this pain with Mac, especially so early on. “Clara tells me to live in the now. That the present is all we have and the past is just steps on our journey—unchangeable. But the pain is still alive—right here.” Flynn laid his hand over his heart.
Mac moved forward and then leaned into Flynn, gathering him up in his arms. He just held him like that—close and tight—for the longest time. And Flynn felt a flicker of something. There was a lightness inside that hadn’t been there before. It made him want to laugh with relief.
Something in the air changed then. The wind blew up a little harder. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Leaves skittered more quickly along the trail before them. Barley got to his feet and lifted his head, sniffing. There was a kind of electricity all around them.
Thunder rumbled. There was a flash of heat lightning across the lake.
“I think there’s rain coming,” Mac said. “We should probably get back.”
“We should.” Flynn stretched. “I’m exhausted.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Mac stood, and Flynn grabbed his hand. “Sit back down for just a minute.”
Mac did.
“There’s one thing I want to say.”
Mac nodded.
“See that dog there? That’s the only thing I’ve ever been able to love. Because it seems like he loved me without qualification, without judgment. He was always there for me, in good times and bad.”
Flynn reached down to pet Barley, and the dog, as though he sensed the added affection in the touch, licked his hand.
“That’s what they give us,” Mac said.
And guilt stabbed at Flynn’s heart, because he knew he’d taken that pure love away from Mac by taking Barley back. But what else could he have done?
Flynn wanted to say he was beginning to feel some of the same love and acceptance he got from Barley from Mac, from this character his parents would have found totally inappropriate and unacceptable. But he bit his tongue.
It was too soon.
Flynn stood this time as he felt the first raindrop on his forehead. “Let’s go back. Sleep.”
Mac stood again. “And when we wake?”
Flynn grinned. “Then it’s my turn.”
They headed home.
THE SUN filtered in to the quiet room, waking Flynn first. The air smelled sweet, cleansed by last night’s storm. A cool breeze washed over them. Mac lay curled up next to him, the top of his head resting against Flynn’s arm. Barley was at the foot of the bed, curled into a tight ball, snoring softly.
Flynn wished for a moment they could stay like this forever. In this one moment, perfection crystallized.
But then it got better. Mac opened his eyes and looked at him. The sun hit his eyes just so, making their green so vibrant and pure, and Flynn’s heart swelled, along with another organ farther south.
He touched Mac’s face. “Hey, sleepyhead.” He kissed Mac lightly on the lips. Then again, deeper….
Mac rolled over briefly to look at the old-school alarm clock next to the bed. It sat atop a pile of hardcover books Mac used as a nightstand. “Jesus. I have to be at work pretty soon.” He started to get up.
Flynn pushed him back down. “Not so fast. I want to return the favor.”
“What?” Mac asked, and then Flynn saw it dawn on him. “Oh.” He grinned. He lay back down and threw off the sheet. He was already erect. “If I must…,” he said softly, his voice deep and throaty.
“You have no choice,” Flynn said, getting into position between Mac’s spread legs, on his knees.
“Damn,” Mac said as Flynn swallowed him whole.
LATER, AFTER showering together, they went downstairs. First they took Barley out into the backyard to do his business and then headed back to the kitchen to see what they could find for breakfast.
“You just sit down there. I want to cook for you. What do you usually like in the morning?” Flynn asked.
“I don’t know. Just coffee, mostly.”
Flynn found the french press on the counter. Because he had one just like it at his place, he had no trouble throwing together a pot of italian roast.
“How ’bout some eggs? I make a wicked omelet.”
Mac sat at the table, hands on his cheeks, staring ahead. “I’m sure you do, but I’m just not hungry. You go ahead and make yourself something. I can eat at the restaurant when I get there. That’s what I usually do.”
Flynn rooted around in the cupboards until he found a mixing bowl and a whisk. Then he raided the refrigerator for eggs and omelet ingredients. He came up with some deli ham, shredded cheddar, and a container of baby spinach. “You’ll get hungry once I throw this together,” he promised Mac. He set everything out on the counter. “Now where’s the butter?”
Before Mac could answer, his phone, lying in front of him on the table, sounded. Flynn smiled at the ringtone, the theme from Halloween.
Mac glanced down at the screen, then looked up at Flynn. “I’m gonna take this outside, okay?”
“Sure. I’ll get busy rattling pots and pans.” He grinned.
Flynn concentrated on preparing the best breakfast he could, making sure there were no shells in the cracked eggs and that the butter—which he found, right in front of him, on the counter—was just to the sizzling point when he poured in the eggs.
Not surprisingly, Barley sat at his feet, in the way and watching every move Flynn made. “I know. I know. You’re hoping I might slip and drop something. Like this.” And Flynn let a cube of ham slip from his fingers to the floor. Barley gobbled it up practically before it had a chance to make contact with the tile.
He’d just started tearing up the spinach when Mac came back in. Flynn’s smile for him withered by degrees as he saw the look of despair on Mac’s face. His eyes were bright with tears, and like a small boy, his lower lip quivered. Mac was barely holding it together.
Flynn grabbed the pan and moved it off the burner. He switched the heat off and wiped his hands on a dish towel hanging from the oven handle. “What’s wrong?”
Mac swallowed hard a couple of times, as though he couldn’t summon the words. Then he blurted, “She’s dead. Heart attack this morning.”
“Oh, Mac, I’m so sorry.” Flynn went to Mac and wrapped his arms around him. Whether it was tension or despair causing it, Flynn didn’t know, but Mac was stiff and didn’t return the hug. Yet he didn’t move away either.
