We Still Live

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  Tommy answered the door in a white T-shirt and boxers. “Isaac,” he grumbled and wandered back into the house.

  Isaac assumed he was to follow. He set his duffel bag in the foyer and walked inside. In the living room, Tommy fell back onto the couch and pulled a blanket over his head. From down the hall came the sound of John’s voice. As Isaac neared a closed door he assumed led to the bedroom, he overheard the end of a conversation. In a completely different language.

  Isaac leaned his ear against the door. He thought it was French: really fast, slightly agitated French. He recognized the word “Mama” but little else. There was also a lot of “no” going on.

  Suddenly, the door swung open, and John ran into Isaac. “Shit!”

  Isaac backed up. He felt his cheeks burn, guilty at being caught. “Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdropping. Were you just speaking French?”

  “Yeah, my mom is French.”

  “And incredibly hot,” Tommy yelled from down the hall.

  John rolled his eyes. “I look just like her. It’s probably why he hangs out with me.” He walked into the kitchen.

  “You feeling okay?” Isaac asked because John looked tired and thinner than usual.

  “Yeah.” A black newsboy cap covered his dark hair, although errant curls escaped the back.

  Okay, moving on. “I thought your family was in Wisconsin?”

  “They are,” John said.

  “But your mom’s French?”

  “She’s from France. She doesn’t live in France. She met my dad when he was backpacking through Europe.”

  “Sounds like a movie,” Isaac said.

  Tommy remained hidden under blankets. “And how is the delightful Mrs. Conlon?”

  “She misses me.”

  “Didn’t you just spend the whole summer with your parents?” Isaac asked.

  John looked up at him and hesitated for a second. “Yeah. Well.” He pulled the cuffs up on his long-sleeved gray T-shirt and gave his tight jeans a tug as if they might fall off. “Do you want coffee for the road?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tommy!” John yelled.

  There was a muffled groan.

  “Stop being hungover, and make Isaac coffee.”

  “But you make the best coffee,” Tommy mumbled.

  “But I’m still packing,” John replied. “And make me your specialty.”

  More groaning but also the sound of shifting fabric.

  “Give me five minutes,” John said, walking toward the bathroom. “Do you mind driving for a little while? I’m not quite awake yet.”

  “Late night?” Isaac asked.

  John seemed to consider but, instead of responding, just hummed and disappeared down the hall. A little while later, the two travelers headed to the garage while Tommy made unnecessary amounts of noise in John’s kitchen. They were loading their bags into the trunk of a simple, red Toyota when Tommy came out bearing beverages.

  “Don’t look so grumpy. It’s not like you’re walking into the lion’s den.” John took the silver travel mugs and handed one to Isaac.

  “I know.” Tommy rubbed his eyes. “Be careful.”

  “Of what?” John asked.

  Isaac thought the same.

  “You sure you don’t want me to come with you guys? I can be ready in twenty.”

  John opened the passenger door. “Meeks would just be pissed. Don’t worry about it, man.” John gave him a quick hug with a slap on the back. “See you tomorrow. We need to catch up on our ESPN.”

  “I know. Beginning of the semester sucks.” Tommy turned and wandered back toward the garage door, shamelessly scratching his ass before throwing up a peace sign.

  They climbed in and set their mugs in the cupholders. John pointed. “Mine is in the front. Yours is in the back. Don’t confuse the two.”

  “Dare I ask why?” Isaac had to push the seat back to make room for his legs.

  “Yours is coffee. Mine’s a Bloody Mary.”

  Isaac put the car in reverse. “And Meeks thinks you act like a frat boy.”

  “I don’t deny these claims.” When he leaned his head against the headrest, his hat fell forward over his eyes.

  Isaac followed the GPS on his phone away from Lothos and out to the highway, headed for Columbus, while John fiddled with the radio. They settled on scan, sticking with random songs and often debating their quality.

  When James Taylor popped up, “Carolina in My Mind,” John sang along. His singing voice was similar to his speaking voice: low, resonant, and lovely. The song tugged on Isaac’s memory like grappling hooks until he had to change the channel.

  “Hey, I liked that one.”

  Isaac kept his eyes on the road. “Not in the mood.”

  John yawned and stretched, his hair in his face now that the newsboy hat had tumbled into his lap. He scooped up Isaac’s phone, ostensibly to check the GPS. “Simon texted.”

  Isaac snatched the phone away but set it gingerly in the cupholder as if a gentle follow-up could make John forget the momentary violence of his desperate grab.

  John didn’t apologize for touching his phone or acknowledge Isaac’s psychotic response. He didn’t even ask about Simon. He just said, “How soon until we get there?”

  AT A BIG hotel and conference center on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio, literary illuminati convened to learn, share, and bump egos. Isaac parked and opened his door, but John stayed planted in his seat, staring at the floor. “You okay?”

  “Should be. Saw my shrink yesterday. Took my drugs. Living the pimp life.”

  Isaac smiled.

  John pulled his newsboy cap snuggly onto his head, as if that would disguise his chiseled features—easily recognizable since most human beings didn’t resemble fairy-tale nymphs. “Let’s check in. We can drop our stuff in the room and start mingling.”

  “Wow, I’ve never thought of ‘mingling’ as a filthy word before,” Isaac said. “Seriously, are you okay?”

  John sighed. “Just keep up.”

  As they walked across the lobby, decorated in bright, modern colors and filled with geometric shapes—even the lime-green couches—John kept his head low, eyes focused on the ground. Isaac was the one who couldn’t help but look around, because as soon as people saw John, recognized him, conversations stopped. People turned to look, cautiously, as if their stares did not scream volumes.

  Whispers…

  “That’s the Hambden hero.”

  “John Conlon. Didn’t expect to see him.”

  “Remember that shooting?”

  Isaac wanted to scream at them; tell them to stop staring. Maybe he would make a good bodyguard, after all. He had to hurry to keep up with John, who although a bit shorter, seemed to be taking much longer strides. Keep up, indeed.

  They rode the elevator to the ninth floor in silence. Isaac scrolled through words in his mind but thought of nothing useful to say. When they found their room, John swiped the keycard across the door. Inside was a lot like the lobby: too bright and filled with hip, ugly shades of orange, yellow, and baby blue. John tossed his suitcase on one of the double beds and stood by the window, staring out through gauzy curtains.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fuck, Isaac, can you stop asking me that?”

  Despite the venomous words, John’s tone was that of piteous desperation—so Isaac took pity. He said, “It’s just that, you know, your sex appeal knows no bounds.” He unzipped his suitcase and took out a toiletry bag.

  John looked back at him. “What?”

  Isaac shrugged. “Everyone was staring at you because you’re hotter than a skillet at breakfast.” He didn’t bust out the Southern expressions much, but this one was worth it, because a John smile, brighter than thirty suns, illuminated their ghastly hotel room.

  “You’re ridiculous,” he said.

  Isaac pulled out his toothbrush but before going to freshen up asked, “You know you can do this, right?”

  John’s shoulders slumped when he put his hands
in his pockets. “Not without you, apparently.”

  “Well, I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  John sat on the edge of his bed. Isaac joined him without hesitation. They leaned against each other and stared at Isaac’s toothbrush.

  OF ALL THE meeting rooms in the conference hall that night, Isaac suspected the only one full to bursting was John’s. Isaac stood to the side, and no matter how much they’d joked, he was ready to jump in front of his friend, protect him, especially when John’s pale hands tapped the podium as he spoke, and people lifted cell phones to take pictures.

  John started by discussing shy creative writing students and how to bring them out of their shells. He looked different in front of a crowd. It had to be the tie. Isaac had never seen him wear a tie. Granted, it was a silly tie with broad, diagonal rainbow stripes, but it was a tie, although John hadn’t dressed up his jeans or Converse shoes. He stood taller too. John had a tendency to curl in on himself, but this must be “teacher John,” who stood with his shoulders back, eyes shining with enthusiasm.

  Unaware of who Isaac was, people whispered around him. There were the repeated mutterings from earlier, hushed pronouncements of shooting, Hambden, hero. One woman said, “I thought he’d be taller.” Isaac ignored them as best he could, focusing as John moved on to talk about literary magazines and how useful they could be to bolster a young writer’s confidence. Surprisingly, he didn’t mention anything about Being Frank. Maybe he wasn’t ready for the outcry.

  He opened the floor for questions, which Isaac immediately knew was a bad idea, even before the first man raised his hand and asked, in a loud, clear voice, “How do you prevent school shootings?”

  The room hushed.

  John ran a hand through his dark hair. The change in his expression wouldn’t be noticeable unless you knew him. Isaac knew him well enough, and his own shoulders tensed when he realized John was angry. He pretty much mimicked his long-ago comments to the media. “If I knew the answer to that, five of my students wouldn’t be fucking dead.”

  Several people gasped.

  “Okay.” Isaac pushed away from the wall and hurried to John, his hand on his lower back. “That’s enough questions. Thank you for your attentiveness. I think we could all use a drink.”

  Faint agreements preceded the mass exodus.

  Meanwhile, John walked over to the window and leaned his forehead against the glass. “Jesus, what am I, twelve?” Air puffed out in a white cloud across the window. “I’m an idiot.”

  “That guy was an idiot,” Isaac said. “Let me buy you a beer. Or maybe something stronger.”

  Isaac led the way, doing his best to shield John from unwanted attention—difficult, if not impossible. If only John wasn’t so recognizable. If only he hadn’t just dropped the f-bomb in a room full of teachers.

  Different from the brightly lit foyer, the bar was made of dark wood and the walls a deep shade of green. Already, other teachers hovered over cloudy martinis. Isaac leaned his elbows on the bar and ordered two whiskeys, neat.

  “It was a good presentation,” Isaac said. What else could he say?

  “It’s recycled. I’ve used it before.”

  “You didn’t mention Being Frank.”

  John talked to the bar. “It doesn’t belong to the world. It belongs to us. Felt too personal.”

  The female bartender, dressed in a tuxedo vest and white shirt, returned with two rocks glasses filled with liquid amber. Isaac moved to hand over some cash, but she shook her head. “Your drinks are free. The gentleman at the end of the bar bought your first round.”

  John loosened his tie as they both turned to look. A handsome silver fox lifted his glass in toast before coming closer. He reached his hand right past Isaac to John. “Paul Harvey with Ohio State. Welcome to Buckeye country.”

  “You know I went to Wisconsin, right?”

  “In that case…” Paul moved to grab John’s drink, and John snatched it away.

  “Too late. You already bought. This is Isaac.”

  Paul barely wasted a glance. “You’re even better-looking than your pictures.”

  Isaac wanted to kidnap John and rush him back to their room, but John just smirked. “You’re laying it on pretty thick for seven o’clock, Paul.”

  “You’re a popular commodity around here. I didn’t want to send mixed messages and miss my chance.” He put his hand over John’s. “Let me take you to dinner in the city.”

  “That sounds just about perfect, Paul Harvey from Ohio State.” John finished his drink. “Isaac, you mind if I ditch you for a bit?”

  Isaac fought the urge to grab onto him and hold—to say, Stay with me. Stay with me. “No problem,” he said.

  Maybe it didn’t sound as convincing as he’d hoped, because John put his hand on Paul’s forearm. “Could you give us a second?”

  Paul nodded and stepped back to his earlier perch down the bar.

  “I don’t have to go,” John said.

  “I’m supposed to be protecting you. What if he’s a serial killer?”

  John looked around Isaac at Paul. “Serial killers don’t wear tweed.”

  “John.”

  “You could come with. Play cock block.”

  “And watch the old man make heart eyes at you all night?” Isaac wanted to punch something—Paul maybe. “Doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time.”

  John stood and straightened his tie. “I won’t be out late.”

  “Be as late as you want.” He saluted with fake nonchalance.

  “And miss our slumber party? Never.” John grinned. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

  “I’d say ditto, but…” He tipped his head toward Paul.

  Isaac only stayed to finish his drink before going upstairs, where he ordered room service: a surprisingly delicious chicken quesadilla of which his nerves allowed him to eat barely half. What was the matter with him? John was a grown man, and Isaac wasn’t actually his bodyguard—or his father, for that matter. He had no claim. None.

  Around ten, he told himself he was tired and prepared for bed. He tried not to snoop as he brushed his teeth, but it was hard not to, with all the orange prescription bottles poking from the top of John’s toiletry bag: Zoloft, Klonopin, and Prazosin. Isaac knew Zoloft was for depression. Klonopin was an anxiety drug. He’d never heard of the last one, though.

  He spit into the sink and rinsed his mouth and toothbrush and turned off the light. He lay in his double bed, nearest the door, and continued reading John’s book—the second of John’s books. Isaac had finished the first one in two days, giving up sleep in exchange for literary brilliance. It was no wonder John won awards, and with every word, Isaac understood the man more and more. He’d known plenty of authors and read their works, but not one flayed themselves open on the page quite as fully as John Conlon. His emotional honesty was as impressive as it was terrifying.

  Isaac dozed lightly, the book open on his chest, when he heard the lock click open. John tumbled in, hair and tie askew. He bounced onto his back next to Isaac.

  “Somebody looks drunk.”

  John folded his hands across his stomach, with his eyes shut. “Ding-ding.”

  “You do realize this isn’t your bed.”

  “Meh.”

  Isaac put the book down and rested on his elbow. “How was Paul?”

  “Handsy.”

  “I’ll bet.” Isaac brushed the front of John’s hair with his fingertips, pushing dark pieces back over his forehead. It was a friendly gesture, nothing more, just getting the poor guy’s hair out of his face.

  John’s eyes opened midcaress. He made a pleased little squeak and smiled when his gaze focused on Isaac. Isaac ran his thumb over John’s bottom lip, just to feel it—soft, as expected. It was merely a tactile experiment, because John wasn’t his type; he really wasn’t, and they were coworkers, so—

  Isaac leaned forward and kissed him.

  John froze for a second before reciprocating the kiss
, one of his hands pressing to the back of Isaac’s head. John opened his mouth, practically begging for Isaac’s tongue, and Isaac gave and gave until they were panting into each other’s mouths, and Isaac knew John tasted like whiskey and felt like biting into a damn sun-warmed peach.

  Then, with a jerk, John pulled back and cussed before jumping from the bed and pointing. “You’re straight.”

  Isaac stood, too, on the opposite side of the room. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Bisexual?”

  He shook his head. “Gay.”

  “But you were married to a woman for, like, ever.”

  “I told you the divorce was bad.”

  “No shit.” John buried both his hands in his hair, lips parted and, frankly, shimmering with Isaac’s spit. “Oh, my God, you can’t be attracted to me.”

  “Okay.”

  “People have gotten fired for this, and I need my job.”

  “John, calm down. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I don’t know what I was thinking.” And it was so true. Isaac never went for guys who looked like John, but maybe he’d transcended that? Maybe he was so insane over the entirety of John Conlon—mind, soul, spirit—that the feminine physicality was just another thing to now fawn over? No, this was not okay. He had to stop, just stop. He was too old for infatuation. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  John pressed his lips together and looked like he might cry. He pointed to the bathroom. “I’m going to wash up, and you’re going to bed.”

  Isaac intercepted with a hand in the way but still kept a careful distance. “I’m really sorry, John.”

  He whistled, low and quick. “Look. I kissed back, but I don’t want things to be weird. Can we make sure things aren’t weird? I like you a lot, and I’ve lost too many people lately.”

  “You won’t lose me.”

  “And if you think we’re done talking about your marriage, we’re not. I’m just too fucking tired to get into it right now.”

  “Maybe you’ll forget about it by morning?”

  John chuckled, once, loudly. “You’re not that lucky.”

  ISAAC WOKE TO the sight of John’s bare back. He was across the room, thankfully, in his own bed, but the early morning sunlight made him glow. John was curled away on his side; the knobs of his spine stuck out like thimbles. Lacking a single freckle, his skin had possibly never seen the sun. John rolled onto his back, stretched. For a full-grown man, he was thin and small and practically hairless. How old was he anyway? Isaac had never thought to ask.