Tommy leaned his elbows on the table. “You have to break it off.”
“What?” The back of his hands tingled.
“Isaac.” Tommy shoved the forgotten coffee out of the way. “You will not get him fired. This city, the school… He loves them both way too much to lose them.”
“It’s not my decision.”
A waitress nearby dropped a stack of plates. Tommy closed his eyes tight and took a deep breath through his nose. “It needs to be your decision. You know why? The most amazing thing about John is his incredible lack of self-preservation. He doesn’t even lock his goddamn front door.” It would have been easier if Tommy had been yelling. Instead, he whispered, rage evident in the lines around his mouth. “John would do anything to help someone, to save them. Did I know he was going to step in front of a gun last year? No, but maybe I should have. Maybe I should have tackled him and not Cleo. Instead, I sat there and watched my best friend…” He shook his head and looked outside. “When Chris pressed that gun to his throat, I thought, ‘This is it. No more football. No more laughs. No more John.’ I was prepared to never see him again. But he lived. Somehow. He had a bruise for a week.” Tommy pointed to the base of his own neck. “I couldn’t stop staring at it. All the shit going on around us the week after, and that fucking bruise is what haunts me most because it could have been a hole. He has lost so much. Please don’t take anything else.”
A child cried in a booth nearby.
Isaac felt cold, so he wrapped his palms around his coffee mug. “It’ll hurt him. If I break it off, I think it’ll hurt him a lot.”
Tommy sighed through his nose. “He knows better than this.”
“Maybe not this year. Maybe he’s trying to feel alive.”
“Yeah, join the club.”
“I did.” Isaac glanced at the bear-shaped honey bottle on the table. “That’s why I’m here. Maybe that’s why I’m with John.”
“He’s not a defibrillator.”
“No. But, Tommy, we make each other happy.”
Tommy shook his head. “I don’t trust you with him.”
“Why?”
“You’re quiet. Quiet people have secrets. Have you told him all of yours?”
Isaac leaned back in his chair but didn’t lose eye contact with Tommy, who might as well have been an oversized child with his Hambden hoodie, acne scars, and jeans—but who saw right through Isaac, even more so than John.
Tommy didn’t wait for his answer. “I knew it.”
“John has secrets too. The time needs to be right for us to talk about them.”
“If you hurt him, I’ll kill you.” He pushed back from the table and threw a couple dollar bills between their full coffee cups.
“Where are you going?” Isaac didn’t move, but his words made Tommy spin back around on the squeaky heel of his sneaker.
“We are going back to John’s. I only dragged you to this shitty diner because I was less likely to punch you in the face in public.” He sniffed. “Come on. I’d like to be there when he gets back as John and I will be having an unpleasantly extensive conversation.”
They didn’t beat John home. In fact, John looked sort of panicked when they walked in, probably because Isaac had disappeared and left his cell phone behind. Then, he saw Tommy…and Isaac…Tommy.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered and closed his eyes.
“You are in so much trouble.” Tommy stomped through the kitchen. “Make me a cup of that magic coffee of yours and meet me outside. Bring a blanket so your skinny ass doesn’t catch cold. Isaac, go home.”
“But—”
“No.” Tommy looked at Isaac but pointed at John. “My best friend. Our shit. You’ll see him tomorrow. Chop, chop, French boy. Cinnamon. Goddamn it.” He continued cussing out onto the back porch, the orange leaves in direct contrast to the blue sky overhead.
Isaac didn’t dare show affection with Tommy so close, for fear the guy might actually beat him to a pulp. He just shrugged at John instead. “Tomorrow? I have something I need to talk to you about.”
“Ominous.”
“Maybe a little.”
John ran a hand through his hair. “Excellent.”
He put one hand on John’s elbow. “It’s not about us. I made it clear to Tommy I’m not giving you up.”
He tapped his fingers on the kitchen island. “You hardly know me.”
Isaac snorted. “Yeah. I do.”
“Lunch tomorrow? Talk then?”
“Let’s make it dinner at my place,” Isaac said.
“Super ominous.”
Isaac grabbed his hand before he could reach the sink. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”
John was about to say something, but Tommy’s voice screaming, “Coffee, Conlon!” cut him right off.
“Get out of here before he goes for the kitchen knives.”
Isaac kissed him on the cheek and made the short walk home, slowly, deliberately. As soon as he got there, he put on his running clothes and shoes and ran farther than he ever had before, stumbling upon a decaying cemetery on the edge of town, overwrought with long grass and fallen leaves. A weeping angel towered above it all. Isaac rested his hand on the abrasive old marble, stained with creeping green moss, and marveled over how much he inexplicably had to lose.
Chapter Ten
WONDER OF WONDERS, Isaac felt fully engaged in class Monday morning, possibly because—for once—one of his young composition students showed promise as she read her short essay about creative process. For but a moment, he remembered what it was like to teach and to love it. He’d had a taste of it at the Being Frank meetings, but to find it in class was a much-needed, pleasant surprise, especially with the looming promise of a dinner with John that could go badly. Very badly. John wasn’t going to like learning about Simon, but Tommy was right: secrets weren’t good. Secrets had ruined Isaac’s marriage. They wouldn’t ruin what he had with John.
At the hour’s close, kids scrambled to their next classes, maybe lunch. As usual, no one ever stuck around to chat. Once they’d gone, Isaac collected his own bag and planned a brief respite at Donkey where he wanted to think things through. He had a lot to explain that night, and none of it painted Isaac in a positive light. He might as well be prepared.
Preoccupied, he almost ran straight into someone on his way through the door. He stopped, backed up. “Sorry.”
“Isaac.”
In the half-second it took for Isaac to lift his head, Simon had already shoved him back into the classroom. The big desk up front jerked as their bodies made contact, as would be expected with the sudden, violent arrival of four hundred pounds of combined male. Simon threw the first punch, but Isaac didn’t retaliate. He played defense, even when they knocked over desks in the front row and Isaac tasted blood.
A flurry of familiar movement—Simon included—interrupted the impromptu beat down. John and Tommy were there, yelling and pulling. Isaac tried to sit up and make some announcement, but what the hell was he supposed to say?
With the addition of John and Tommy’s weight on his back, Simon tumbled backward, still kicking. What caught all their attention was the hollow bang of John’s head against the big metal desk up front.
The scuffling stopped, replaced by glances of concern, even from Simon, who held out a hand to help John to his feet.
Ignoring the offer, John said, “Damn it,” with his hand on the back of his head. Most of his hair was in his eyes.
“Are you okay?” Tommy asked.
“No.” The snappy delivery was less of pain, more of irritation. John shoved his hair out of his face, gaze moving to the open door, where students congregated, mouths wide. He dragged himself to his feet and closed the door but not before nodding to Janelle, who glared at Simon as if he’d insulted Nine Inch Nails.
Isaac remained on his ass, tasting blood. The skin beneath his eye ached and felt wet. He endured the pain, wanted it, because physical pain was preferable to the emotional upheaval that h
ad just walked through his classroom door.
John took steps toward him, but Tommy thwarted his approach by placing his own body between them, glaring at both Isaac and Simon in turn. Still, John looked over his friend’s shoulder to ask, “Isaac, are you all right?”
He had no idea how to answer that question.
Simon stood, brushing off khakis and a blue sweater. “Apologies for your head.”
John cussed under his breath. “Jesus, man, who the hell are you?”
“I’m Simon. Isaac’s boyfriend.”
Isaac pushed to stand and stuttered a few nonsensical syllables as John’s shoulders curled forward. He lost three inches of height.
Meanwhile, Tommy growled, “What?”
“Simon—”
Ignoring Isaac’s plea, Simon turned to John and Tommy. “Would you gentlemen excuse us?”
John said, “I’m not going fucking anywhere.”
Isaac didn’t know who was more terrifying in that moment: Simon with his outward, physical rage or John with the simmering storm that reflected like lightning in his eyes.
“Mr. Simon person.” Tommy held his hands out as if they held invisible plates. “Go on.”
Facing Isaac, Simon wielded his slow, Southern drawl like a weapon. “Did you think I would give up? Think I wouldn’t find you? I admit, damn sneaky of you to keep your name off the Hambden University website, but then, there you were, standing behind Mr. John Conlon at some literary festival. The hero professor.” The light from outside made his blue eyes burn. “Easy to find you then.”
Isaac held his hands up. “I’m sorry for—”
“For what? Disappearing off the face of the earth? You could have been dead, Isaac. Nobody knew what happened to you, not even Elizabeth.”
His stomach twisted at the mention of her name. “You talked to Elizabeth?”
“Of course, I talked to Elizabeth, and she was not very happy to see me.” He clasped his hands into fists. “Why the hell would she wanna see the man who helped destroy her marriage?”
Isaac took a single step away. “Why don’t you just calm down?”
“Calm down?” Simon lifted a chair and hurled it against the wall.
The ricochet sounded like a gun. Tommy only tensed, but John covered his ears and closed his eyes. He curled forward farther, so Isaac rushed to him.
“John.” He put his hands on his shoulders. “John, you’re okay. You’re safe.”
Tommy forcefully elbowed Isaac away. “Bullshit, he is.”
Tommy stared him down, but soon, Isaac felt another pair of eyes on him—or, more accurately, on John, who’d calmed enough to realize they weren’t on College Green in June waiting to die. Simon stared at John, and John stared back. His eyes were wide, and most of his weight looked to be on the heels of his Converse shoes, ready to run.
“Oh, my God, he’s fucking you,” Simon said.
“Simon, let’s go outside.” Isaac reached for his ex-lover’s shoulder, only to be batted away.
“Look at him, Isaac.” He studied John inch by inch. “He’s not what you like. You like big guys. You like it rough. Jesus, does he cry when you fuck him?”
Tommy shoved Simon in the shoulder. “Watch your mouth.”
“I guess he does have a nice mouth, doesn’t he, Isaac? Wonder what he can do with it?”
“Probably a lot more than you,” John said, and Simon lurched forward. Both Tommy and Isaac got in his way.
Calmly, John walked right up to the flailing fighter—who had a good five inches on him—and said, “You want to fight me right now? You’re two times my size. What the fuck is that going to prove, asshole?”
And Simon wilted, misplaced anger gone. Tommy and Isaac let him go.
“Fuck you,” John said quietly. “And fuck you, too, Isaac.” He left the classroom, Tommy right behind.
“What he said,” Tommy muttered, and for the first time in over a month, Isaac remembered the cold emptiness of despair.
ISAAC CANCELED HIS afternoon classes and took Simon to a quiet booth in the back of Crocodile Lounge, close enough to his own apartment in case they started screaming at each other, but not literally inside Isaac’s place. He didn’t want Simon to know where he lived. The restaurant, hopping and filled with colored light and music at night, was pretty dead right then since they didn’t serve lunch—but they did serve booze.
They both ordered whiskey; no matter that it was only lunchtime.
“So what happened?” Simon asked. “You moved up here and shacked up?”
“No. I never intended to meet John.”
“Ain’t that sweet?” His breath shuddered, and the angry slam of his glass against the table distracted from the wet red of his eyes. “Wouldn’t one—or both—of you get fired if word got out that you were fucking?”
“Don’t hurt John because of something I’ve done.”
He shrugged and wiped at his eyes. “I don’t know, Isaac, it looks like hurting him is just the way to get to you.”
“You wouldn’t. You aren’t like that.”
Simon leaned forward in his seat. Isaac hadn’t noticed earlier, but he smelled like fast food and smoke. His hand shook, pointed in Isaac’s face. “How do you know how I am right now? Do you know what I’ve been through, how scared I’ve been?”
The waitress made eye contact, and for the second time in two days, Isaac had to shoot a glare that quite clearly said, “Do not come over here.” She already seemed hesitant considering the bloody, bruised state of his face.
Simon continued, “The man I love, the man I waited for, finally left his wife. We had a place all picked out. We were going to start our life together.” He choked out a single sob and hid his face behind his huge hands. “You broke my heart and abandoned me, Isaac. You disappeared!”
Isaac finished his first drink. Maybe he did need the waitress after all. “I had to leave. The apartment reminded me of all the things I’d done wrong.”
“Am I one of those things?” Usually blindingly handsome, the skin beneath Simon’s eyes sagged. His square jaw was painted black—probably hadn’t shaved in days—and his hair, typically close-cropped, tickled the tops of his ears.
“It was wrong,” Isaac said.
“It never felt wrong to me.”
“I was cheating on my wife.”
“Yeah, well, now you’re cheating on me with…” Simon laughed through tears. “Hell of a competition, Isaac. I mean to say, I’ve never stepped in front of a bullet before, and I sure don’t have that hair.”
“John has nothing to do with this.”
“Come back to Charleston, and I won’t make a fuss.”
Isaac tried to get as far away from Simon as the booth would allow. “What’s there to make a fuss about?”
“You and John. I’ll ruin him. Promise.”
He shook his head. “You have no evidence of anything. People don’t even know I’m gay.”
“I’m a lawyer, Isaac. You think I can’t find a way?”
How could one of the most eligible men in Charleston look so ugly?
They’d met at a drag night on one of Isaac’s rare bar visits. They hadn’t even exchanged names before hitting the back alley. Only later would Isaac realize he’d accidentally fucked one of the most infamous Southern boys in town: a divorce lawyer who struck fear into the hearts of cheating, rich men. The irony was thicker than swamp mud, especially when Isaac went through his own divorce a year later and refused Simon’s help.
“What’s it going to be?”
“I need time,” Isaac said.
“For what?”
He hissed, “I have a life here, Simon.”
Simon tilted his head. The side of his right eye crinkled as his closed-lipped mouth turned up in a semblance of smile. Isaac had seen him make that face before in court. “You mean him.”
“I have a job. I was a last minute emergency hire. The school needs me.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the school. What about
me? Us?”
His fist tightened on his empty glass. “You are not endearing yourself to me right now.”
“Oh, this isn’t me, Isaac.” Simon pointed at himself. “This is what you did. Once we go home, everything can go back to the way it was, but right now, you’re dealing with Isaac Twain’s creature. Jesus, I’ve been so busy thinking about you, I’m about to lose my job. I haven’t been able to focus on anything, not knowing what happened to you, the man I…” He pushed his hands through his black hair and used a bar napkin to wipe his face. “I can’t do this right now. I’ve been driving a day and a night to find you, and I just need sleep before I lose my damn mind.”
“You’re not staying at my place.”
“No, I’m not. The last thing I need is to smell him on your sheets.”
John was everywhere in Isaac’s apartment, from a Wisconsin coffee mug to his preferred lube.
Simon slid from the booth, unsteady on his feet, surely from exhaustion, lack of food, and the addition of alcohol. “I’m getting a hotel, but don’t think I’m going away.” He didn’t bother throwing money on the table.
JOHN WASN’T ANSWERING his phone. Of course he wasn’t, but Cleo was. Despite being the administrative head of everything English—and the gossip guru—she hadn’t heard about the altercation in Ellis Hall. Yet. What a miracle. She answered his questions with her usual flighty innocence: Yes, John is in class. Why wouldn’t John be in class? Isaac, is everything okay?
Isaac gave him time, gave him space, to pass through his Monday without further interruption, but once dinnertime hit, he walked straight to John’s house and didn’t bother knocking.
John sat on his living room couch, TV black, no music for once. The house had never felt so menacing. An orange pill bottle held court with a half-empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table.
“How many pills did you take?”
“Just a half.” He didn’t make eye contact. “Helps with the buzz.”
We Still Live Page 11
