He talked to Miguel for another twenty minutes until another student showed up at his door, a regular who he had a standing weekly appointment with. Sending Miguel back to class wasn’t what he wanted to do, but Miguel wasn’t the only student he was responsible for. So he repeated that Miguel could come talk to him anytime and scribbled his cell number on a piece of scrap paper to hand over. It wasn’t good enough, but he hoped it was better than nothing.
Isaiah was close. Really fucking close. It was a feeling he got in his bones, that seemed to suffuse his whole body, this sense that started in his marrow and somehow made its way through his veins. It had always felt this way. Maybe some freakish thing in his own chemical makeup or maybe it was just a thing he’d made up, but it felt goddamn real so he’d go with it. And it was that feeling that was telling him he was achingly, unbearably close. He was going to nail this formula and then they’d start the slow and torturous road to actually getting this drug to market.
If they could shepherd it through all the trials, it could revolutionize treatment of Type I diabetes, maybe even offer a cure. It would be expensive as all get out to produce, but the upfront cost would be less than the decades upon decades of insulin it took to manage the condition otherwise. Of course, maybe by the time they’d gotten through the trials and the reports and the filings and the rest of the bureaucracy they might’ve figured out how to make it cheaper too. Possibly. And if not, well, thank goodness for insurance.
Thank goodness too that the paperwork would be someone else’s problem. He’d have done his job, held up his part of the bargain and could move on—back?—to the part he liked best. The tinkering, the challenge, the rush of this might work, so often followed by the crushing slow your roll, you fucking idiot, you’re gonna kill people with that shit.
He paced in front of the whiteboard in his office, keeping his gaze focused on the numbers and letters and symbols, willing the answer to float up out of the muck because he could feel it gelling. Could sense it coming, and now he had to wait. He hated waiting. Delighted in making Sean wait, but for himself? There was nothing worse. Well, almost nothing. Which was why he was so desperately grateful for the people who dealt with all the bureaucracy for him.
One of whom had just swung into his doorway. Pam was always cheery and delightful which Isaiah appreciated even though he didn’t know how she pulled it off. She reminded him of Sean that way which was probably one of the reasons he liked her so much. She wasn’t looking bubbly and voluble now though.
“Hey Pam-a-rama, what’s good?”
Pam’s mouth tugged to the side and she huffed a breath out her nose.
“Nothing is good. Word came down that you should table this.” She raised her round chin at the notes and formulas and scribbles on his board.
“What? What the hell for?”
Table it? When he was so frigging close? When he’d spent so much time, so much energy? When it would be such a good thing? Do so much good for so many people? Table It? No fucking way.
“Because if healthcare gets fucked, then no one is going to be able to afford this and it won’t make enough money upon release to justify everything we’ve invested in it, and the rest we’d have to in order to get it to market. That’s why.”
A shock wave hit him in the chest because Pam swore never. He’d rarely seen her frustrated or anything but upbeat and busy-bodied. Snippy and foul-mouthed just wasn’t her style. Thank goodness, because that was his wheelhouse. He almost laughed, but then there was a dull thud and Pam doubled over, clutching her hand to her middle.
Isaiah was over in a second, arm around her shoulders and trying to figure out what the hell had happened. “Pam, talk to me. What’s wrong? What happened?”
The woman’s curly brown hair tickled his nose as she leaned into his shoulder and sniffled. “Punching walls really hurts? I shouldn’t have done that. But I’m just so…mad.”
Then she was shaking, her body heaving with tears that she let loose. It was an ugly cry, one of frustration and anger and helplessness, feelings that Isaiah knew all too well because he felt the same way. But like when he was with Sean, he couldn’t give in to his own despair, so he channeled his own anger into puffing himself up into a big man, pretending he could protect the people he cared about with his bulk. It had to be good for something right?
“Oh, sweetie, no.”
Isaiah gave her a big hug, holding her close while she sobbed. It wasn’t the pain in her hand, he knew, although punching walls did hurt, but it was all of it. He could at least give her a warm safe place to melt down in, if nothing else.
After a minute during which several people passed the in the hallway, he herded Pam into his office and shut the door before sitting with her on the couch. There wouldn’t be any reason to be ashamed for finally losing it after having been dashed up against the rocks of unfairness, greed, prejudice, and all the other shit that had been pummeling them for months, but Pam was shy and she’d be embarrassed about having caused a scene. He didn’t want her to be humiliated on top of everything else.
He rubbed her back while she soaked his shirt and made little fists against his chest, held her while she cried. And while he did, he thought about Sean. Who must be feeling as battered and worn as poor Pam, but had been putting on a brave face. How long would it take until Sean was coming home, hollow-eyed and dejected because he couldn’t save the world one person at a time?
It broke his heart to think about it, these fluffy cinnamon roll do-gooder types he had a soft spot for who would have their optimism tarnished and their generous souls crushed. He needed to figure out a way to help his husband. It was simpler with Pam, though. This was a one-off, a discrete occurrence, not the quieter distress Sean presented every day. It would be easier if Sean would rage and weep and spill his anguish all over the place for Isaiah to mop up in one fell swoop. But he wouldn’t. His dogged and stalwart husband would just keep pushing through and dragging an ox-cart’s worth of struggles behind him, and the kind of burden he carried, Isaiah couldn’t bear for him, even with all the strength he had.
Twenty minutes later, he sent Pam on her way with one of the good chocolate bars he kept in his desk drawer—way better than the stuff in the candy jar he kept on his desk—and assurances that it would be okay. He’d hit the pause button on this formulation and take a look at some of the other things they had coming down the pipeline that were less likely to get canceled because they’d be of more use to a greater number of people or the upfront costs wouldn’t be so great, and he’d have something else for her to work her pen-and-paper magic with. He would.
Pam wasn’t back to her old self by the time she was headed out the door but her cheeks were dry and he’d coaxed a few smiles out of her, and had promised to check with Sean about when they could have Pam and her family over for dinner again.
He liked Pam’s husband and their kids, and Sean did too. It would be good for all of them, and it would make Sean happy to have people ooo and ahh over his culinary achievements. That’d be a good thing to do.
When she’d turned the corner to the elevator bank, it hit him. The solution he’d been looking for, the particular formulation that would solve some of the problems he’d been butting his head up against like a particularly stubborn ram. His feelings had been right, and now it would do him and those tens of thousands of people he could’ve helped no fucking good. People would just have to keep using their insulin shots and their pumps and getting into trouble if they weren’t on the ball every single goddamn day of their lives. He couldn’t lift that burden either, thanks to selfish fuckers thinking that healthcare wasn’t a right, but something only the wildly successful should be able to avail themselves of.
Isaiah usually kept his door open unless he was deep in thought, but he closed it now. Rage and impotence overcoming him, he set his hands on the mounds of paper that had accumulated during these past months of work, and shoved all the piles off the side of the desk, sending papers and folders and eve
n some pens that had gotten stuck in the stacks flying through the air and fluttering uselessly to the well-tread carpet.
4
“I’ve been thinking.”
Isaiah had come home late from work, and when Sean had heard him pull into the driveway, he’d poured a second glass of wine and stood by the door to welcome him with it. Dinner was already on the table, and he’d wanted to greet Isaiah with alcohol and a kiss, with the promise of sexy times after dinner. And he was trying, but Isaiah seemed twitchy. Pacing the entryway like a lion. So this “I’ve been thinking?”
Normally Sean would make a Beauty and the Beast reference and they’d both smile, but there was something dark crackling in the air that made attempting levity seem like lighting a match in a room full of propane.
“Okay?”
Isaiah looked away from him and Sean felt the loss keenly. Funny how that could happen—that he could feel the weight of Isaiah’s gaze as a physical presence and miss it when it wasn’t there. And for Isaiah to not look at him now, what was he going to say? No, things hadn’t been a walk in the park lately, they’d both been busy and distracted but surely he wasn’t so unhappy that he’d consider leaving?
Sean had an overactive imagination. He knew that. It was something he’d had to work hard on silencing because Isaiah was as steadfast as the day was long and his paranoia wasn’t fair. Years of evidence to the contrary had eased his mistrust, but it cropped up sometimes when he was overly stressed or anxious otherwise. A deep breath would help clear the creeping suspicions as would whatever was about to come out of Isaiah’s mouth because it was no doubt something harmless or inane. But when Isaiah spoke again, it didn’t bring relief like it usually did.
“I want to move to France.”
Dark eyes were focused on him once again and now Sean wished they weren’t. His stomach felt as though someone had landed a solid punch in his soft belly. It hurt. He could barely breathe. Not doubling over took effort.
“France?” His echo sounded hollow. Isaiah wanted to go to France? No, not just go; they’d been to Paris and Burgundy and Nice and enjoyed it. Loved it, actually. Whenever they were tired of their jobs or grumpy about some shit going on in the city or groaning about their families being unreasonable, that’s where they’d fantasize about running off to, leaving their troubles behind.
They’d never been serious about it, though. Never researched how to actually make it happen, and when they did talk about it, it was always in the context of “running away.” As though it was as foolish as when small children packed a suitcase and got as far as the corner before they got hungry and went home for a baloney sandwich.
Isaiah hadn’t said “run away,” as though this were all in their usual good fun. He’d said move. Move. Abandon their lives here. And come to think of it, he’d said he wanted to move, not that he wanted them to move. Maybe that was semantics, but at times like these semantics mattered. Semantics were one of the things he could rely on to tamp down his freak-outs, but they were only serving to make things worse at the moment.
Isaiah shifted his large body, his weight moving from one foot to the other, his hands releasing from loose fists at his sides to plant on his jean-clad hips because he hadn’t bothered even to take the glass of wine that Sean had had at the ready. Now Sean was standing there, foolishly, and feeling the urge to bolt both the glasses.
“Yes, France.”
His husband’s face was hard, which didn’t usually concern Sean. Yes, Isaiah could be intimidating because of his size and intensity, but he’d never hurt a fly. Unless the fly begged to be hurt. Isaiah was mostly a teddy bear but at the moment he looked fierce. And for what? Under the ferocity, there seemed to be some desperation but Sean couldn’t tell what it was for.
It seemed like the logical thing to ask so though it made his throat close up with fear, he did. “Why?”
The tendons in Isaiah’s neck stood out as he took a deep breath, his broad chest expanding even further. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
There it was. His worst fear come true. Sean knew he could be emotional, needy. Some might say too soft. Isaiah had never said that, but maybe he was tired after all. And would that be so strange? Sean was pretty fucking exhausted himself and that often translated to him relying more on Isaiah, needing his warmth and his comfort. Counting on Isaiah to hold up the ceiling to keep it from crashing down on him. He tried not to overwhelm his husband with need, but he didn’t always do a great job. If Isaiah left…
“We’re living in a country that hates us, Sean. They want to take our rights away because we’re queer. I could get shot and killed for no reason other than being black, and the likelihood of someone getting punished for it is pretty low. I’m not really worried about losing my job because god knows people need their pharmaceuticals, but I don’t know that I want to live someplace where people don’t believe in science. Where they deliberately pollute the air and the water even though we’ve told them it hurts people. And for what? Money. And because their kids and people who look like them aren’t going to be the ones getting sick and dying.”
“Not everyone feels that way.” Most of the people they knew didn’t. Philadelphia was pretty liberal and god knew their social circle was even more so. And if Isaiah thought Sean didn’t worry every time he walked out the door, he’d be wrong. Then Sean felt like shit for #NotAllMen- and #AllLivesMatter-ing his husband. Because that’s what he was doing. He certainly hadn’t meant to, but that was the end result nonetheless. He needed to try harder. Do better.
“I’m sorry,” Sean said. “I’m listening and I understand why you’re upset. I’m not sure moving to France is the solution.”
Isaiah was on the move, heading into the sitting room. He did that sometimes when he was frustrated. He was like a pinball being knocked around, pacing while passing his hands over his close-cropped hair. “I need to do something. What I’m doing here doesn’t matter. I can call and march and write and protest all I want, but no matter what I do—”
His railing was cut off by a choked sob and Sean wanted to go to him so badly. Absorb all the helplessness and offer his ear and his body and anything else Isaiah needed. It was something Sean was used to, sometimes even relished—that feeling of helplessness. Of course he could only enjoy it when it was a choice and he could stop it anytime, but for Isaiah…
He’d made himself physically powerful, had pushed himself through school and succeeded even when things were hard. He’d taken so much upon himself to prove that he could control the world around him, and this… He’d done his best and still he must feel as though he was failing, because it wasn’t good enough. But Sean wasn’t confident that what he had to offer was good enough. Not to keep his husband here, and not to keep his husband, period.
Had something happened to make him feel this way? Something he wasn’t telling Sean? Yes, Isaiah could swallow down things that were concerning him because he didn’t want to burden Sean, but Sean wanted to be burdened. Wanted to hold this emotional weight because it was one of the only things he could hold better than Isaiah.
Drowning. That’s how Isaiah felt. Like he couldn’t keep his head above water and not only was he going to drown, but he was going to take Sean down with him and that wasn’t acceptable. It made Isaiah so fucking angry. He wanted to break something, hurt someone. He wanted to rant and rave and destroy shit but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t, because from a very early age his mama had taught him not to give anyone a reason to say he’d been out of control or acting up, because that was dangerous. Then she’d admitted even if he wasn’t doing a damn thing wrong there were no guarantees.
After he’d wrecked his desk, he’d tried to calm down but sitting in his office and taking deep breaths had given his mind time to wander. Had given him space to inventory all the injustices, all of the wrongs that had been done already, and all the ways in which things were likely to get worse before they got better. They damn well had to get better. Because he couldn’t sta
nd to watch the people he loved get worn down and trod over until they were flat, lifeless, and hopeless, all the mischievous sparkle gone. And what would people like him be without people like them? Soldiers with nothing left to fight for.
It made him rail. “I want what I do to matter. I want to live in a country that doesn’t want me dead. I want to live in a country where people don’t think healthcare should be a fucking luxury good. And I… Goddammit, Sean, how can you want to stay?”
Sean stared at him with those big, wide eyes of his, looking so delicate and breakable and fragile and soft, and asked a question Isaiah didn’t want to ask himself.
“How can we not?”
His goddamn husband. His generous-to-a-fault, open-hearted husband. He wanted to tie Sean up and sling him over his shoulder, and not to do filthy things to him either. Isaiah wanted to haul him away in order to keep him safe because god knew Sean wouldn’t do it himself. He’d be the asshole volunteering because it was the right thing to do. He’d be the one on the front lines because he felt like he’d lived his life with so much privilege that it was time to take one for the team. Isaiah loved him and hated him so fucking much for that all at the same time.
He wanted to argue with Sean that they’d done enough, that they’d paid their dues, both literally and figuratively, and it wasn’t their fucking job anymore. They’d earned a little peace. That’s all Isaiah wanted. A little quiet and easy happiness in a life that had been filled with struggle and far too much awareness. It made a person’s heart heavy, put holes in a person’s soul. It made a person tired and weary and cynical and… Was it really so bad that he wanted to keep his little family safe? Protect Sean and just lead their lives?
Before he could ask, Sean was talking again because the man just couldn’t help himself. And he was flailing his arms around, wine sloshing out of the glasses because he was still holding the fucking things. He looked a little off his rocker with the two full glasses, the apron tied on over his Mr. Rogers guidance counselor togs.
Rogue Affair Page 3
