He pretended not to watch, keeping only one eye open as John arched his lower back off the bed and groaned. Isaac could probably wrap his large hands all the way around that waist and wouldn’t mind testing the theory. John rubbed his eyes and reached blindly above his head, grabbing a small red container. The mouth guard made a wet smacking sound as he dislodged it from his top teeth and put it away. When he finally opened his eyes, Isaac closed his and feigned sleep. He didn’t want to do this talking thing yet—possibly, not ever.
He heard the shift of blankets, followed by the click of the hotel phone. John whispered, “Room service? Could we get coffee please? Oh, and do you have bagels? Two bagels with cream cheese, thanks.” The sound of John’s feet on the floor and water running in the bathroom preceded a body landing on Isaac’s bed, and Isaac sat up, surprised.
John sat next to him, wearing plaid pajama pants and a Wisconsin hoodie. After having learned they were to share a hotel room, Isaac had considered such an adorable outcome. The reality was much cuter than his imagination had invented.
John showed his teeth in a silly grin. “Morning.”
“Shit.” Isaac ran his hand over his chin and realized he needed a shave. “Morning.”
“Coffee’s on the way.”
“Mm.” He moved up next to John, and they sat there, silent, backs against the headboard. “How’d you sleep?”
“Fine. I was drunk.”
“Your hair is preposterous.”
John reached up and tugged it. “Goblins come in the night and tie it in knots.” He touched his mouth. “And I have whisker burn.”
A knock on the door saved Isaac further embarrassment.
Like a servant in a big house, John poured their coffees—both black—and took a huge bite of bagel. “You want some?” he asked between chews. Even with half-masticated food on full display, Isaac wanted to kiss him.
He feigned disinterest. “You make it look so appetizing.”
“I’m hungover. I require sustenance.” He climbed back onto Isaac’s bed on his knees and kept eating, drinking. “So why did you marry a woman?”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“He’s not here right now.”
Isaac took a big sip of coffee. “He’s everywhere.”
“Oh, I see. Religion made you do it?”
“No, Catholicism made me do it. Maybe. I don’t know.” He rubbed sleep boogers from the corners of his eyes. “I was young, and I loved her.”
John settled in against the headboard, nesting himself low like a bear prepping for hibernation. “Tell me about her.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep, we’re doing this.”
“Elizabeth.” He hadn’t said her name in months, and the name tasted strange in his mouth. “She was an anthropologist. We met in grad school at Auburn. She didn’t look like anyone else. Unique—kind of like you, I guess. She had this short, spikey hair and fragile features, like Tinker Bell. I did love her, and my parents were conservative Southern Catholics.”
John swallowed a huge hunk of bagel. “But you already knew you were gay?”
“I’d only been with one guy before, in undergrad at Vanderbilt.”
“I remember kissing a girl when I was thirteen and thinking: ‘Wow, that was gross.’”
Isaac shook his head. “Nothing was that clear for me—not until later. Elizabeth was doing all these archaeological digs around the world, and I had to stay home and work. It started innocently enough, just browsing websites. Then, I went to a gay club and…”
“Found your people.”
Isaac opened his mouth and closed it, opened it again. “I don’t want to tell you any more right now, because I don’t want you to hate me.”
John nudged him with his elbow. “I won’t hate you.”
“Everyone else does.”
“That’s some heavy shit.”
He leaned forward and grabbed his own bagel off the tray. Confession time. “I saw you at the Cave.”
John’s head whirled right. “What? When?”
“The same night I had a meltdown at your place.”
John leaned his head back and considered. “That was the first night I went there since the shooting.”
“You seemed very popular.”
He snorted. “I’m not a slut, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“No.” He ruffled John’s already ruffled hair. “I mean you were like a puppy everyone wanted to pet and pass around.”
“Why didn’t you come up and say hello?”
He procrastinated with his bagel. “I’m not out. Not really. I’ve never even kissed a guy in public, not outside of dark alleys, at least. And certainly not since what happened in Charleston.”
“Ominous.” He leaned his head against Isaac’s shoulder and chewed. Isaac was surprised how nonsexual it felt.
“I didn’t leave my job at Broad College. I was sort of forced out.”
“Not for being gay.”
“Not in so many words,” Isaac whispered.
John lifted his head, and his face assumed the same murderous expression it had during his speech the day before. “What? They can’t fucking do that.”
“It was suggested I should go due to the scandal of my divorce and the very loud outcries of my wife, also a professor at Broad.”
“You should sue them!”
He sounded just like Simon.
“It didn’t matter,” Isaac said. “I needed to leave. I wanted to leave. I destroyed Elizabeth and broke my parents’ hearts.”
“By being yourself?”
He wanted John to understand. “By lying. For over a decade.”
John flopped back against the headboard, rattling the whole thing. “And you thought Hambden would be the same? That they’d ostracize you for being gay?”
“Not really.” He clicked his tongue. “Don’t get angry, but I didn’t want to be the token gay professor.”
John hummed. “Good. I’ve owned that racket for years.”
“You’ve always been open about it?”
He shrugged. “It was always such a big part of who I was. I sold a story to The New Yorker when I was seventeen, and it was about the first time I got beat up for being gay. Luckily, I’ve really filled out since then.”
Isaac laughed into his coffee, which was lukewarm and weak. “How old are you now?”
“Old enough.”
“Yeah, me too.” Despite having his own bagel, he stole a piece of John’s, which earned him a glare. “Hambden isn’t utopia, though. You said people have been fired for interoffice romances in the past?”
“The Brown-Lancaster Debacle.”
Isaac felt his face melt into a “What?” shape.
“Sounds cooler if you give it a name,” John explained. “They were English professors who started banging. They were stupid about it and got caught messing around in Dr. Lancaster’s office. Abby walked right in and…” He turned his palms up. “Both of them lost their jobs. And I guess they ended up breaking up, so it was all a stupid waste. I hear he’s a crackhead now.”
Isaac pondered this and elbowed John. “He is not.”
John snorted.
“It’s strange. Everyone seems so accepting at Hambden. I would have expected the no-shenanigans rule to be more suggestion than career suicide.”
John shrugged. “Nope. It’s a thing.” He sighed. “You know, this has been a very enlightening weekend, Dr. Twain.”
“Indeed it has, Mr. Conlon.”
“Just don’t ever kiss me again.”
“Fine. I won’t. It was gross.”
John smacked him in the chest. “Fucker.”
The truth was it hadn’t been gross at all.
Chapter Six
AFTER SPENDING ALL of Sunday night thinking about how John’s mouth tasted, Isaac looked forward to the distraction of the school week. He needed to immediately stop obsessing over his coworker, and he promised himself he would—as soon as he got to work. So what if he
still reeled at the memory of touching John’s hair, of the feel of that impeccable jaw in the palm of his hand?
Arriving early to his office, Isaac placed his laptop on his desk and planned to check email. First, he grabbed a cup of coffee from the machine in Cleo’s office. She smiled and waved when he entered, chatting on the phone to what sounded like a worried student. She used soothing, quiet tones and dancing hand gestures as if the student in distress could see her.
Once Isaac had his coffee, he turned to step back into his office, nodding to a few other faculty members in the hall. Then, he saw John walking swiftly toward him, a white flyer in hand and his cell phone pressed to his ear. He was always a pale guy, but that morning, he looked almost blue.
“I’m not mad at you,” he said into the phone, shoving the flyer at Isaac. “Janelle, I really need you to call me back. Please.”
Isaac looked at the flyer. Across the top, in boxy, black letters were the words, “Being Frank.” Below the words was a picture of Chris Frank with x’s over his eyes. Isaac skimmed over the submission information, but he didn’t really see the words. He gaped at John as he hung up his cell phone. Cold dread pooled in Isaac’s gut.
“Where did this come from?” Isaac asked.
“They’re hanging all over campus.”
“I never saw this.”
John grabbed the flyer back. “Shit, neither did I, Isaac.” He pressed his lips together. “Sorry. This is not your fault.”
“Janelle did this?”
“Apparently. She’s not answering her phone.” As if to clarify, John pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at the black screen hopelessly.
Tommy arrived at a jog holding a copy of the dreaded flyer. He flung it between Isaac and John. “Did you see this? Are you insane?”
“Are you going to lower your fucking voice?” John hissed. They were quickly drawing the attention of all faculty in the vicinity—which was most of the English Department since the majority of professors stopped by their offices first thing in the morning. “I didn’t know about the flyers. Janelle must have printed them.”
Tommy appeared to shrink behind his glasses. “Meeks is gonna have your head, man.”
As if conjured by a dark spell, her voice echoed down the hall, shouting John’s name.
John closed his eyes.
Meeks rounded the corner in a blue business suit, her long, dark hair in a high ponytail. Isaac thought her makeup was too thick, like she hid a whole other person under all that paint. Of course she had a flyer in her hand, and as she stomped toward John, Isaac had the irrational reflex to jump in front of him.
“What the hell is this?” She waved the half-crumpled flyer in his face.
“Sonya, I didn’t know about the flyer, okay? One of the students went rogue. I’ll fix it.”
“You’ll fix it?”
Now, everyone in the hall stared, heads craned out of offices, whispering behind hands.
“I forbid you from doing this.” She threw the flyer at his feet.
“From doing what?”
“You will not produce this literary magazine.”
He shook his head. “The literary magazine is a brilliant idea. I’m not dropping it.”
“Being Frank? Do you know what effect that title will have on the student body?”
“It’s supposed to have an effect.” John’s hair flew around his face. “It’s supposed to start a conversation. I understand the flyers are completely out of line, but we’re doing this literary magazine.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
Meeks pointed a finger in his face. “You will not publish a magazine about the shooting. There is no reason to scare the students and remind them what happened here.”
“But it did fucking happen, Sonya!”
Meeks went silent. In fact, the whole hallway seemed empty of oxygen. They could have been in space.
After a moment that felt like centuries, Meeks glanced around at all the staring faces. She leaned close to John, but Isaac heard her whisper, “Let’s talk about this in my office.”
“Let’s talk about this here.” His eyes scanned the area. “Does anyone remember Demi Snyder? Cute little redhead with freckles? Does anyone remember the sound she made when she got shot? I remember. I remember her calling for help. I remember her blood on my hands, the way it felt too damn cold.” John picked up the flyer Meeks had crumpled and thrown at his feet. He uncurled the edges so everyone could see Chris Frank and held the flyer in the air. “Something really bad happened last year, and I don’t know why we’re pretending it didn’t.”
No one spoke, not even Meeks, who now had John’s full attention. He spoke right in her face.
“Six people are dead, and whether we talk about them or not, they’re still dead. Even Abby. Do you remember our friend, Sonya?”
Jaw clenched, she turned away from him, so he addressed the now crowded hall.
“This literary magazine is an open forum for students who want to talk about what happened. You all want to whitewash a shooting? Fine. Or we can give the kids voices, let them write about how they’re feeling. Let them write about the people they miss. I miss Demi. I even miss Chris.” He turned to Meeks. “Either give this magazine the go-ahead or fire me.”
“Jesus, John.” Her shrewd, dark eyes turned to the floor.
“The kids need this. The school needs this.”
She sighed and tapped her fingers against her lips, probably now in desperate need of a cigarette.
“I agree with John,” Isaac said, not only to keep John from getting fired but also to prove he agreed with everything John had just said.
Other professors nodded, and Meeks looked like she had one hell of a headache. “Make new flyers. And you will keep me updated on everything.”
“Fine.”
“Don’t let this get out of control.” She turned away and said, “Show’s over,” before disappearing down the hall.
Foreseeing mass chaos, Isaac took John’s arm and dragged him into his office, closing the door once Tommy was inside. John fell into Isaac’s guest chair and buried his hands in his hair before bending forward at the waist as though he might puke.
Tommy leaned against the door. “Dude, I can’t believe you actually used to be friends with that wench. I think my balls are in my abdomen right now.”
John chuckled from beneath his slouch.
“No, man, that was like a scene out of a movie.”
“I feel sick,” John confirmed.
Isaac knelt in front of him and tried the trick Tommy had used before. “Hey. Breathe.”
John looked like he was having trouble.
Tommy put his hand on John’s shoulder. “You did good.”
His gaze shifted to Isaac, still kneeling in front of him. “You got my back on this?”
If it gave him a purpose, a cause? A plausible excuse to spend more time with John? “For sure. I am your assistant faculty advisor.”
“We’ve got to think of a cooler title.”
Tommy looked at his watch and tried to tuck his wrinkled shirt into equally wrinkled khakis. “Shit, I have to teach or something. Martinis tonight? Crocodile Lounge. Jazz and gin. I’m buying.”
“Yes, please.” John leaned heavily against the back of the chair.
“Isaac, you in?”
“I’ll be there.”
“This is a day,” Tommy said with cheerleader enthusiasm before stepping back into the hall and closing the door behind him.
“What did I just do?” John muttered. “Did I just give an Al Pacino monologue out there?”
Isaac stood and leaned against his desk.
“This is going to be an uphill battle, isn’t it?”
“Yep.” Isaac crossed his boat shoes. “But we can do it.”
John’s face wasn’t good at hiding emotion. Every thought he had played out in the differing shades of his eyes, an up or downturn of his mouth. Sometimes, even his forehead expressed ful
l sentences. For instance, in that moment, Isaac could see he was worried, scared even. He looked up at Isaac, and Isaac hoped he wasn’t as transparent.
AT CROCODILE LOUNGE, Cleo and John were excellent salsa partners. Isaac knew they’d taken lessons together, but they were also of similar heights. Then, there was the rhythm: impeccable, thanks to Cleo’s knowledge of music and John’s…well, Isaac wasn’t sure where he’d learned rhythm. It certainly wasn’t part of English curriculum. Maybe it was his love of classic rock, or maybe he’d watched his parents waltz happily around the kitchen of his childhood home.
Tommy stood at Isaac’s side, both men drinking Manhattans as Janelle and Anthony hopped around the dance floor. Apparently, she and John had talked earlier about her snafu. All Tommy would say was that it had been “intense” but that they’d eventually gone around campus together removing flyers.
John spun Cleo, and she let out a bright “Woohoo!”
“Hey, how was Ohioana anyway?”
“Fine,” Isaac said quickly. Maybe too quickly. Every time he stopped to think, he tasted John’s tongue in his mouth.
“Didn’t have to bodyguard anyone?”
“I broke a couple kneecaps.”
Tommy smacked his shoulder. “My man.”
When an older gent in a suit asked John if he could cut in, John bowed to Cleo and headed their way. “Where’s my drink?”
“I don’t know,” Tommy said. “Where is your drink?”
John batted his eyelashes, and Tommy groaned before turning around and ordering John a Manhattan too. John leaned on the bar next to Isaac and watched the band—a four-piece number that played salsa, swing, and just about everything else.
“Things good with you and Janelle?”
John lifted one shoulder. “We’ve fought before, and we’ll fight again. She likes anarchy. When Demi was alive, they were the queens of protest. They even went to a couple gay marches with me.”
We Still Live Page 6
