by David Horne
Brett suddenly cracked a goofy smile. “Am I paying for this?”
“Pardon?”
“It’s just…you sound like a therapist,” Brett pointed out.
“I am a therapist,” Lewis grinned back.
“Not just a therapist,” Brett said. “Not to me.”
An uncomfortable silence descended.
“Listen, Brett,” Lewis said. “I’m sorry. For what happened. You’re not Harvey, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re not replacing him, and I respect you as your own person. I didn’t mean to say what I said, it was on instinct. Like muscle memory. It’s just…I was happy when I was with Harvey, I won’t lie and say I wasn’t. And I haven’t felt happy like that in a long time. Not until I met you, that is. It’s like, for the first time in years, I’ve let my guard down. I’m so glad I did because…” Lewis trailed off to steal a glance at his young companion.
Brett was watching him intently, not moving, not speaking.
“I feel something for you, Brett, okay?” Lewis said quickly before he could stop it. “Don’t act like it’s a surprise, I know you know. We’ve both known for a while, and I know because you feel something too. You don’t have to admit it, but I just want you to know that I know. And…and I’m scared out of my mind, Brett. I told you about what happened with Harvey and my family. It sounds ridiculous me saying it, but I don’t know if I’m ready to be…open with my family, about me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. What happened last time cut me, deeper than I realized at first. I would feel guilty to even try and make you live that kind of life. But part of me can’t live without you. I suppose I’m feeling a lot of confusion, and I don’t know what to do anymore.”
Lewis realized he was rambling, letting go of a lot of pent-up feelings that he had discovered in a matter of days. Lewis had heard the phrase “love at first sight,” but had never experienced it so literally. He’d barely known Brett a week, and yet there was this unspeakable connection between them.
When they’d first met, Brett had been akin to a nervous, shivering wreck, barely able to utter a word. Now, he seemed more like a confident machine. However, Brett sat there, in his armchair, not saying anything. The silence seemed to last for hours, and Lewis wanted nothing more than to run away and hide, but he held his ground. Kept his posture, sitting in his chair, legs crossed. Then finally, agonizingly, Brett spoke.
“It’s nothing,” he said quietly.
Lewis blinked. “Pardon?”
“Nothing,” Brett repeated. “Nothing is greater than God. Nothing is more evil than the Devil. The poor have nothing, the rich need nothing—”
“if you eat nothing, you’ll die,” Lewis finished. “That’s it. How did you-?”
“I didn’t just figure it out,” Brett said quietly. “I’ve had an answer for hours. A different answer, mind you, but one that’s just as true, from a certain point of view.”
Lewis frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You,” Brett said simply. “Or more accurately, love. Love is the only thing more important to people than God. Their love of money, or love of people, or love of their career. Love is the only thing that can turn people away from what they know to be right, or good, it’s the final currency. That makes it more evil than the Devil. The poor have love. It’s all they have. The rich, who sever their ties with the people they know for the sake of money, end up dying alone and afraid. Without love,” Brett smiled. “And I’m still working on the ‘if you eat love, you’ll die’ bit.”
Lewis didn’t realize that Brett had finished speaking and was smiling at him until nearly twenty seconds after the fact. He felt like he had phased out of reality. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Who’d have thought that Brett Evans, the soccer jock, could bust out a poetic speech like that?
“I guess what I’m saying, Lewis, is,” Brett paused. “I know exactly what you mean. And…me too.”
Yet another stunning silence descended. Lewis opened his mouth and willed words to come out. “I’ve got something to show you.”
Brett frowned quizzically. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Lewis nodded. “Outside. Follow me.”
Brett got up immediately and followed Lewis out into the garden. They strode along the path, through the back gate out into the meadow just beyond the shed. Lewis talked as they walked.
“See, Brett, when I promised to help you with your condition,” Lewis said. “I was wrong. Not about being able to help you, I was wrong about my methods. I was trying to reach you in my way. With puzzles and games and strategic thinking. No matter how much that would work for me, it just won’t work for you. I need to reach out to you in your way.”
“My way?” Brett echoed.
“Yes,” Lewis smiled. “Your way.”
He inclined his head forward. A few paces in front of them, sitting in the middle of the meadow, was a single, checkered soccer ball.
Brett froze in his tracks. “What is this?”
Lewis smiled. “This is me. Reaching out to you. I can bring you home if you let me.”
Brett furrowed his eyebrows. “Lewis, I…I don’t know if I’m ready.”
Lewis shrugged. “Maybe you are, maybe not. But there’s only one way to find out.”
Lewis could see Brett weighing up his options. Then, finally, his decision was made. “Go long, then,” he smiled.
Lewis made a scandalized noise. “What?”
“What?” Brett asked, alarmed.
“I’m going to change into my sports kit, first!” Lewis said, almost disgusted. “What do you think I am, a savage?”
Chapter Seventeen
Brett Evans inhaled. Cold, crisp air. Soft, cool breeze. The sun peaked through the thick clouds and rays of stray sunshine streamed down onto the meadow. Brett’s heart started beating faster in his chest. He remembered the morning of the incident like it was yesterday, and it was almost as though it were the same day.
Brett turned his ankle in the grass like he always did. He heard the dry grass crinkle under his sneaker. Brett much preferred to play in studded soccer boots rather than sneakers, but he hadn’t owned a pair of years. These would have to do. Brett looked up. He knew Lewis was a far cry from a “sporty” guy, and Lewis looked so out-of-place wearing a pristine white t-shirt and shorts. He had a checkered white and black soccer ball tucked under his arm.
“So,” Lewis said seriously. “Are you ready to get out-foxed?”
Brett couldn’t resist smiling. “Only old people say ‘out-foxed’, Lewis.”
Lewis looked indignant. “Did you just call me old, young man?”
Brett raised his eyebrows. “You look so much like your aunt when you do that.”
Lewis smiled wistfully. “I like to think so.”
Brett could feel the sadness emanating from Lewis. He reached out and put his hand on Lewis’ shoulder. “I know why you feel guilty, Lewis. Trust me, it’s okay. You’ve got nothing to be guilty about. You hear me? Nothing.”
Lewis grinned. “We’re not doing this.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m supposed to be out here helping you,” Lewis smiled. “Not the other way around. Now let’s play ball.”
He dropped the ball onto the grass and side-footed it to Brett. It hit Brett on the shin and bounced off. “Have you ever played before?” Brett asked.
“Of course, I’ve played before!” Lewis exclaimed, putting his hands on his hips. “I’m thirty-five years of age, you think I’ve never played soccer before?”
Brett looked down. He looked like he was hesitating. Lewis noticed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Brett said, almost automatically.
Lewis sighed.
“What?” Brett smiled.
“Don’t give me that,” Lewis shook his head. “I’m a trained therapist, Brett, I know when somebody is not okay. So, tell me. What’s wrong?”
Brett chewed this over before answering. “It’s just…it’s been a while. Since I played.
I feel like this should be more of a momentous occasion.”
“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to do this,” Lewis said at once.
“No,” Brett countered. “You were right. I can’t hide anymore. It’s not going to help me. It’s going to make me worse.”
“Are you sure?” Lewis asked.
“Yes,” Brett nodded. “I’m sure.”
He kicked the ball. Brett wasn’t sure what he was expecting - maybe for the soccer ball to explode or something? Playing soccer used to be such a big part of him, and then came the accident and Brett hadn’t touched a ball in years. For those years, it was like he was living in an alternate dimension. Or looking at the world through somebody else’s eyes.
Because Brett Evans didn’t not play soccer. That just wasn’t him. It was almost as though Brett needed soccer for his world to keep existing. Staying away from it could have some kind of detrimental repercussions or reverberations on the space-time continuum.
But nothing.
The soccer ball rolled away as Brett kicked it. Nothing blew up. Nothing exploded from out of the ground. Time itself didn’t stop or reverse. It was just an ordinary day, and Brett Evans had kicked a soccer ball for the first time in over three years.
“That was good,” Lewis said sarcastically. “Maybe try a little harder?”
Brett gave him a condescending look. “I feel so sorry for you.”
Lewis cocked his eyebrow. “Me? Why?”
“Because you never got to see me play back in the day,” Brett grinned devilishly.
Lewis raised his eyebrows. “Oh, is that right? Good, were you?”
“Good?” Brett snorted. “I was incredible, so I’m told.”
Brett placed his foot on top of the ball. He rolled it back, used the tip of his sneaker to flick it into the air, and then began doing kick-ups. He got to a count of five before he mistimed the kick and dropped the ball. Brett inwardly cursed.
“That was pretty good!” Lewis said.
Brett smiled wistfully. “I used to be able to do a lot more than five. It’s just…I used to just get it, you know?”
Lewis cocked his head quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“We used to call it reading the game,” Brett said. “How to tackle, how to pass, how to time everything I was going to do. It just kind of came to me. But after the accident…the whole game just confuses me.”
Lewis nodded. “Like I said, Brett, I wish I could tell you that I relate. But I can’t. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t help you. I guarantee that you’ve heard this before, and I also guarantee that you think it’s stupid but…you need to want the help.”
Brett couldn’t resist smiling. Lewis was right, he had heard that a lot more than he would’ve wished. But this was the only time that it didn’t make him mad.
He nodded. “I do want it.”
Lewis smiled. “Good. Then go long.”
For the next hour, Lewis and Brett hit the soccer ball to each other from an increasingly growing distance. As the hours passed them by, the game that Brett used to know started to come back to him. There were no teams to play with, no defense to beat, no goals to score in. It was just two people passing the ball back and forth.
As the day got darker, and the sun began to set, Lewis checked his watch. “I reckon that’s enough for today, what’d you think?”
Brett wiped the sweat from his forehead. He hadn’t been physically active in years, but now that he was, he wanted to run and jump till he dropped. “Getting tired, old man?” he goaded.
Lewis laughed, as he pulled his sweaty t-shirt over his head and wrung it out. “Me? Old? Not on your life. This bad boy still has a few tricks up his sleeves.”
Brett still had the ball. He knocked it back and forth between his feet experimentally. “So, are you going to come clean?”
Lewis arched his eyebrow. “Come clean? About?”
“About how many times you’ve actually played soccer in your life,” Brett grinned.
Lewis smiled back roguishly. “Well, put it this way. I could count the number of times on one hand.”
Brett shook his head. “I don’t even have an answer for that.”
“I mean, what’s to know?” Lewis shrugged. “It’s just kicking a ball back and forth, right?”
Brett’s jaw dropped. “Are you insane?”
“What?”
“It’s the furthest thing from just kicking a ball,” Brett said in a scandalized tone. “That is sacrilege right there. It’s about marking and moving and passing and of course, the holiest of all laws: The Offside Rule.”
Lewis made a face. “Nobody actually knows The Offside Rule—”
“No player nor any part of their body can be in an advance position of the second-to-last defender when the ball is played,” Brett recited, almost tripping over his words.
Lewis raised his eyebrows. “You memorized that?”
“My old Coach made the whole team memorize it,” Brett admitted.
Lewis rolled his eyes. “Your Coach sounds like one of those ‘to kick the ball you must first become the ball’ types.”
Brett grinned. “Yes. He is exactly that.”
“So, what is marking?” Lewis asked. “You said soccer’s about marking. What do you mean by ‘marking’?”
“Oh right,” Brett said. “Marking is a method of defending against the opposing team’s attacking forwards. So, the defenders block the forwards from receiving passes from the midfield.”
Lewis blinked at him. “What?”
Brett rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly. “Come here, I’ll show you.”
He reached out and took Lewis around the waist, moving him into position. “Stand here, as if you’re waiting for a pass. So, you can score.”
Lewis smiled. “What does that look like? How does one ‘stand’ as if they’re waiting for a pass?”
Brett shrugged. “Stand casually? I don’t know. But me, being the defender, I’d stand in front of you.”
“To try and intercept the pass?” Lewis asked.
“Right,” Brett nodded, placing his back to Lewis as he stood in front of him.
“I could just move,” Lewis pointed out.
“Yeah, you could,” Brett said. “But the defender’s job is to move with the marked man. But because I’m in front of you, the referee doesn’t see what a lot of strikers do. Which is they actually push the defender who’s marking them.”
“Like this?” Lewis reached out and placed his hands-on Brett’s hips.
Brett was suddenly very aware that his bum was pressed against Lewis, who had his arms around Brett’s waist. He could feel Lewis’ warm breath on the back of his neck, feel the rise and fall of Lewis’ beating chest against his back.
“Lewis,” Brett said quietly. “You forgot to push?”
Lewis laughed a raspy laugh. “I didn’t want to push you too hard and hurt you.”
Brett pulled away from Lewis, turned around and gave him a look. “You know I’m stronger than you, Lewis, right?”
Lewis blinked. “Okay…what?”
“You heard me,” Brett smirked.
“Oh, I heard you, I just completely disagree,” Lewis said. He reached out and gave Brett a gentle shove.
“We both know I could pin you in like thirty seconds,” Brett said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, it’s like that is it?” Lewis narrowed his eyes.
Brett reached out and shoved Lewis back on each of his words. “Just. Like. That.”
Lewis moved quicker than Brett thought possible. He reached out, intending to headlock Brett in one swift move. Brett was faster, though. He ducked the lunge and darted forward, grabbing Lewis around the waist. Brett’s momentum caused Lewis to overbalance and topple backward. The two keeled over and landed in the soft grass.
They wrestled there for the briefest of moments, each desperately trying to pin the other. Lewis was surprised - Brett was a lot stronger than he looked, and for a moment it seemed as t
hough the younger man would get the upper hand over the older, but then Lewis got his hands around both of Brett’s thin wrists and planted them into the dirt above his head.
Brett struggled there, but he was pinned. Lewis lay on top of him and for what could’ve been anywhere between a split second and several sunlit days, they locked eyes. Brett suddenly relaxed and went limp. “You win,” he said quietly, gazing at Lewis with those hazel-colored eyes.
They were having their first kiss before either of them knew what was happening. Lewis’ lips felt thicker than they looked, and they were soft and warm. Brett and Lewis lay there, in the fresh Earth, locked in a loving embrace for what seemed like eternity. When they finally broke apart, Lewis rolled over so that Brett was on top of him.
“Say it,” he said.
Brett arched his eyebrow. “What?”
“Say it,” Lewis implored.
Brett smiled. “Seven months,” he mused. “I don’t want you to go.”
Lewis smiled right back. “I don’t want to go.”
Epilogue
One year later…
Lewis Taylor’s Journal.
Entry number eleven.
It’s been three months since my sabbatical leave ended, and things are starting to go back to normal here in New York. It was a strain on my heart, leaving the farm, and everything that happened there. On my last day there, there wasn’t a doubt in my heart - Brett Evans is really special, and I’m lucky to even know him, much less anything else.
But I worked hard to get where I am, and I can’t just throw that away. Not for anyone. Staying away from New York indefinitely was never on the table and was most certainly out of the question.
I had to leave. I had to get back to real life.
“What are you writing?” Brett asked nosily.
Lewis paused in the middle of updating his journal and glanced over his shoulder. His New York apartment had always felt kind of…empty. Like a ghost town. Having Brett there definitely spiced the place up a whole lot.
“I’m writing about how we met,” Lewis explained. “I thought I’d give fiction a go.”
Brett wore plain blue boxers over a supersize New York Knicks shirt. He swung his bare legs over the back of the sofa, sat down and gently rested his chin on Lewis’ shoulder, to better see what he was doing. “Did you make me cuter than I am in real life?”
