“Uh.”
“They’re fucking,” Tommy said.
Isaac rolled his eyes. “We’re not just fucking, Tommy. I love him.”
“Oh, God,” Cleo whispered. “The Brown-Lancaster Debacle.” She looked around the room as though searching for sense. None was apparently forthcoming, because she remained standing there, confused, in a long sweater dress and winter coat.
John walked in and threw his phone on the counter. The sound made them all jump.
“Do you still have a job?” Tommy asked.
“Barely. Meeks said this isn’t the time for further upheaval. Fuck, let’s get drunk.”
“Hang on.” Isaac stepped forward. “John, can I talk to you for a second?”
He nodded shakily before pulling a glass down from above the sink, filling it with water, and handing it to Isaac. Isaac took a sip and set the glass on the counter, tugging John gently by his shirt into the hallway. He whispered, “I think you should go see your therapist.”
John laughed under his breath. “Right now?”
There it was: the façade of levity that made Isaac’s blood run cold.
“I think this would be a really good time, yes,” Isaac said.
John looked away and ran his hand over the back of his head. “I think I really need a drink.”
“John, please—”
He turned and walked away. “Shower and meet us at Joe’s, okay? Allons-y!” he announced to his cohorts in the kitchen.
Cleo scurried after him, but Tommy paused in the hallway long enough to say, “I’ll keep an eye on him. Just hurry up.”
The shower was wasted because even though Isaac washed away the sweat from his run, he sprinted down John’s hill and onto Union Street. By the time he walked into Joe’s, the snow fell with ambition, and Tommy and John discussed something at the bar. Two o’clock drinking during a snowstorm was apparently reserved for the desperate and disturbed, as the bar was empty except for their group.
Before Isaac could join the boys’ conversation, John handed him a bourbon-filled rocks glass and waved him to a back table where Cleo sat poking at a piece of pink chalk. He slid in across from her but kept his eyes on John.
“Look at me,” she said over the sound of the jukebox, Rolling Stones.
He did as bid.
She moved her gin and tonic back and forth. “Are you actually gay, or is this one of those clichéd I’m-gay-for-one-person things?”
He tried not to chug his Knob Creek. “I’m definitely gay.”
She tapped the table. “I did not see this coming.”
He watched John have an animated conversation he couldn’t hear.
“Do you really love him?” she asked. “Like you said?”
“I love him so much that I feel like I’m going crazy.”
This admittance only seemed to upset her. “Well, is one of you going to quit your job? Because you can’t. You’re both really good teachers, and the school needs you, and I will not let you both get fired and destroyed, and—”
“Honestly, Cleo, my job is the least of my worries today.”
She side-eyed John. “He’ll be okay. He’s always okay.”
“I really don’t think that’s true.” He noticed the unfamiliar slump of her shoulders and the lack of makeup. “Are you okay?”
“No,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She stirred her drink and poked at the lime but didn’t consume. “I know there’s supposedly a reason for everything and all the bad stuff just makes us stronger, but… What the hell, Dr. Twain? How come such shitty things are happening to good people?”
“I can’t answer that.” He paused. “But I did pray for the first time in five years today.”
“Why?”
He looked toward John just in time to watch him down a shot of something dark. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m tired of pretending I have control over anything. People make decisions, and everyone else has to live with the consequences. Maybe I was praying for people to start making the right decisions.”
John and Tommy slid in on either side of their booth and handed out shots. Nobody asked about the contents, but everyone drank.
WITH A TONGUE like sandpaper and mouth syrup sweet, Isaac woke in the middle of the night to an empty bed. His head already pounded with the impending hangover, thanks to overindulgence at Joe’s and then back at John’s. He wasn’t sure what time it had been when Tommy and Cleo had gone home, but Isaac had passed out soon after. He hadn’t “passed out” in years. He remembered John climbing into bed at some point. They hadn’t touched, but he’d felt John’s slight weight dip the bed and the added warmth of his body. Now, John was gone.
Isaac burped vomit when he sat up and had to swallow several times to be certain he wasn’t about to hurl all over John’s floor. He stumbled from the bedroom and down the hall in the direction of the only light in the house.
John sat at the kitchen table, facing away. The computer glow lit the edges of his hair, but other than that, he was merely a black silhouette.
Isaac almost said his name but stopped when he recognized the video on John’s computer screen. He’d seen it months ago when he’d first done research into the Hambden shooting and the “Hambden hero.” It was the video of Chris Frank holding a gun on John but then shooting himself.
It played to the end, and John repeated it.
It played to the end. John repeated it.
Despite his still-drunk stupor, Isaac had the urge to run to John and slam the computer shut. Instead, he clung silently to the wall as Chris Frank died over and over again.
Chapter Sixteen
ANTHONY, WHO HAD apparently snuck into Janelle’s hospital room in the middle of the night, texted first thing to tell John she wanted to see him. Although John had suggested he go alone, Isaac had refused. True, he’d let John watch that video on repeat for an hour. Eventually, John had closed the damn laptop, turned around, and said, “I didn’t know you were there,” before nonchalantly kissing Isaac’s cheek, walking by, and climbing back into bed. But Isaac didn’t want John anywhere near Mr. and Mrs. Houcks without his protection.
Sitting in the hallway, Janelle’s parents didn’t say anything when they walked by. They just stared, and John resolutely looked straight ahead. Anthony had gone, he said, “to get her some real food,” so Janelle sat alone when they arrived. If not for the big, white bandages, she would have looked no different than usual—same smudged, black eye makeup, chipped nails, and straight, black hair.
John pulled one hand from his pocket and poked the back of her hand, a childish gesture that made him look like a kid asking for his first kiss. “Hey.”
“I didn’t want you to save me,” she said.
“I don’t care.”
They spoke just below library volume.
“I’ll do it again,” she said.
John’s sudden weave was slight, but he would have hit the floor if Isaac hadn’t been there to catch him with a strong hand on his elbow. John glanced up at him once before swallowing and clearing his throat. “Why?”
Her top lip curled. “Because I hate this world. And I miss her.”
“Demi wouldn’t want you to—”
Her head tilted up like a marionette on a string. “Isaac, if John were gone, what would you do?”
John took a step forward, close to her bed. “Janelle—”
She snarled, “I want him to tell me what he would do if you were dead. You love him, Isaac. What would you do? Tell me.”
He took a step around to John’s side so he could look down at the face of the man he knew so well: the bedroom eyes, rose-petal pout, and chin that never needed shaving, but also the dark circles of exhaustion and hollow cheeks. When was the last time John had eaten? Careless of consequence, Isaac touched John’s jaw. “I was dead before I met you, but even if you leave me, that’s not happening again,” he said.
Janelle snickered. “Easy for you to say now when you can still hold him. W
hen you don’t know what he sounds like calling for help. When you don’t know what his blood feels like.” Her hands shook as she curled them against her chest.
“We should get her nurse,” Isaac said.
“Why did you come back, John?” She sang her words like a playground taunt. “How could you come back here after what happened? You of all people?”
“It’s my home.”
She stared at the opposite wall, unseeing. “Well, your home is shit. It’s nothing but a dark corridor with no way out. You feel it. I know you do. The hell of this place.”
John had never looked more like a man made of concrete. “Janelle, I know what you’re going through, but—”
“No.” Her eyes were vacant as a baby doll’s. “I’m going home with my parents back to Oregon. I’m quitting school,” she said. “I can’t be here anymore. I can’t read their stupid stories. I don’t want to see Demi everywhere I look, so I will never think about this place or you again. I’m sorry I ever read your books. I’m sorry they brought me here. I’m sorry I ever met you, John. So go.” Her head tilted like she might fall asleep, and in some parody of a ghost story, the room felt colder.
John opened his mouth to speak, but Isaac tugged on his coat. He tugged some more until John began to follow, and Isaac led him to the door. Janelle’s singsong voice found them again as they crossed the threshold.
“What did you say to Chris on the Green, John? What did you say?”
John’s small hand curled in the front of Isaac’s shirt as he stared back at the sick girl. He gagged once before Isaac wrapped his arm around the front of John’s chest and dragged him away from the scent of illness and death.
JOHN DIDN’T SPEAK until they got back to his house. He barely moved on the car ride home, just studied his upturned palms as though reading a fortune. Once inside, he shuffled down the foyer and into the kitchen, planting his fists against the island, muttering, “It’s her parents. Pouring poison in her ear. That’s wasn’t— Janelle isn’t— No, I know her. She’s not—”
“What did you say to him on College Green?”
John’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “What the hell did you just say to me?”
Isaac was done with secrets. All his life, secrets had protected him, kept him safe, until they destroyed his marriage, his career, and his life. “Tell me.”
He shook his head. “I’ve never told anyone. Why the fuck would I tell you?”
“Because it’s me.” He put his hand on his own chest but remained across the kitchen, for fear of spooking John with proximity when his words threatened enough. “It’s me, John.”
“And who are you, huh?” John crossed his arms in a semblance of armor. “You show up here in my house.” He pointed to the library. “You become my friend, then my lover, and now, what? Are you my therapist?”
“I’m the man who loves you.”
John tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “Then, why would you ask me that question?”
“Because I want to know everything about you, even the worst.”
“No, you don’t.” John sucked in a sob and covered his mouth with his hand. When Isaac took a step forward, John took a step back. “Don’t come near me. I don’t deserve all that you’ve given me, please, Isaac. You should leave.”
“No. Talk to me.” Even if Isaac wasn’t ready, even if he already suspected he knew what had happened between John and Chris on College Green, Isaac needed John to say it—for both of them.
John shoved his hands in his pockets. “Do you know you shower after every time we fuck? Almost like you can feel something awful in my skin?”
Isaac opened his mouth to debate but stopped. He’d showered after he and Patrick had made love in college. He’d showered after every one-night stand, the hotter the water the better. He’d showered after Simon, and now, he showered after John. “That was never about you,” he said.
“No.” John scratched his eyebrow. “Your stupid Catholic shit, I know that. I don’t mind it really. I almost like it—the thought that my ugliness isn’t washing off on you.”
“John—”
“I’ve spent my life writing books to help troubled kids, and”—his lips trembled—“I couldn’t help the one standing right in front of me. Now, I hate the books. I can barely stand to look at them. They shout at me from the bookcase, from the page. They remind me how I failed.”
Despite the tense bubble surrounding John, Isaac forced his feet to break through, close enough to put his hands on John’s unsteady shoulders. “You saved lives. God knows how many. You did what you had to.”
“I told Chris to kill himself, Isaac.”
He pressed his lips against John’s and sucked the words into his own mouth as though consuming them would swallow the guilt.
“I told him to kill himself because it was only going to get worse. I didn’t care if I died that day; that’s not why I did it. I just wanted him to know the truth.” His chest shook as the tears came, tears that started so small and tremulous, then matured into loud howls that stole John’s physical strength. He fell to the floor on his knees, and Isaac joined him, arms around shoulders that shook and hands that grasped. “I wish sometimes he’d just shot me.”
“God.” Isaac dug his fingers into John’s hair and held him so close it probably hurt. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m not a hero. I’m a fucking monster.”
Isaac closed his eyes and shook his head. He wanted to run from the house, drag John with him, and rewind back to before June. Start over, him and John, without the added weight of that day—that stupid day in the sun. John had said what he’d thought needed saying to Chris Frank, and now that he’d admitted it to Isaac, Isaac knew he’d been just waiting to end up here with truths like blood puddles on the floor.
I told Chris to kill himself.
Had Isaac seen those words in John’s eyes before? Had he felt those words pressed into his naked skin? Yes. Yes, again and again, but now, the words were free. Maybe John could be free too.
He wiped his soaking face on Isaac’s shirt. “I think I should be punished, but I don’t know how.”
“You’ve punished yourself enough.”
“You shouldn’t love me. God, why do you love me?”
Isaac could have given a million reasons. He could have talked about John’s looks, the way his body felt in bed. Or the way John laughed with his mouth open wide. The way he wrote, the way he cooked, or the way he wore Converse shoes even in the snow. The way he gave all of himself to try to save other people, even if he didn’t succeed.
Instead, Isaac whispered, “Because you’re my hero.”
John laughed and then wept against the side of his face. They stayed wrapped together on the kitchen floor until John sniffled to sleep. Isaac carried him to the bedroom and tucked him in tight before sitting in John’s living room. In the midafternoon, with the snow outside, the light glowed white, painting every surface in the crisp clean of winter. The house was Isaac’s home—John was his home—and he would fight for both.
Chapter Seventeen
ON THE PHONE, John’s mother sounded steady and calm. She called Isaac “mon cheri,” which made John complain, “But that’s my nickname.” She promised to make the necessary arrangements and didn’t ask too many questions. More than anything, she wanted to make sure her son was safe, and that, Isaac could guarantee. John hadn’t left Isaac’s sight once over the past twelve hours.
John sat on the edge of his bed next to his suitcase as Isaac pulled things from drawers. Isaac knew which shirts were John’s favorites. He knew where to find underwear and socks. In the bathroom, he knew to grab John’s toothbrush and mouth guard—his “dentures,” as they jokingly called it. He even packed John’s shampoo and lotion, although Isaac put a bit of the witch hazel balm in a smaller container that he could keep for when the coming nights without John might howl like ghosts.
Satisfied with his work, Isaac zipped the suitcase closed. John grabbed his
hand and pulled until Isaac got the message and sat next to him. John leaned his full body weight against Isaac and hid his face against Isaac’s chest.
“Hey, it’s not forever.” Isaac kept telling himself that, so he thought John should hear it, too, no matter that it did little to dwindle the ache in his chest, the echo like hunger in his tummy.
John mumbled something.
Isaac felt warm breath against his skin so leaned closer. “What?”
“I don’t want to leave you,” he said.
“Don’t think of it that way.” Isaac pulled back so he could tilt John’s chin up and stare. “You’re not leaving me. You’re leaving Lothos to get help, but I will be here when you get back.”
“What if you forget about me?”
He kissed John’s forehead. “How could I forget about you when I’m keeping an eye on your house and walking your streets? Everything here reminds me of you. Not to mention the fact that you’re taking half my heart with you to South Dakota; you know that, right?”
“God, you’re so maudlin.”
Isaac gave him a playful shake.
“I’m sorry for…” John’s eyebrows squeezed together.
Isaac knew he was going to say Chris’s name, but it was over. It was past, so he cut him off. “We’re good. Everything is good.”
John’s jaw clenched. “Watch out for Tommy and Cleo?”
“Yeah.” He touched John’s hair—couldn’t stop really.
“Are you seriously petting me?” John asked.
“I know I’m supposed to be the strong, supportive boyfriend right now, but I am going to miss the hell out of you.”
John pitched forward, and Isaac caught the familiar weight. His John: skin and bones that never felt sharp but always soft and welcoming. Slim hips Isaac could hold in the palms of his hands. Wild hair and even wilder eyes and a mouth that could cause both pleasure and pain.
“I fucking love you,” John whispered.
Isaac held John even tighter.
“I’ve loved you for so long. I don’t know why I didn’t say it.”
We Still Live Page 19
