LUKE
I haven’t seen Sam for two days. Three times a day I go for a run and stretch afterwards, which makes up most of my day. Run. Stretch. Talk to myself. Run. Talk to myself. Stretch.
I need the physical exertion to get rid of the tight, painful ball in the pit of my gut.
But it’s not working.
So I run harder, stretch longer.
The ball just compresses and lets out waves of ache that make my insides heave.
It’s like the hope I lived on has been surgically removed, and a tumor of something bloody painful has taken its place.
It doesn’t help that wherever I look I’m reminded of the reasons I love him.
At the dining table, Sam is sitting across from me, a confused frown etching his brow as he attempts to understand Jeremy’s assignment.
On the couch, I see the first time he came over: Sam looks a little too lean and tired as hell, and there is something about him that just makes me want to help. “You’re real friendly, Luke.” He rests his head back against linked fingers, and closes his eyes. “I think I’ll like having you as a neighbor.”
Outside, I see the way he bounces in his step as he traverses his garden and rests his elbows on the fence separating our places.
Everywhere I look makes me love him more. I wish I could reach into my memories and kiss him or hold him or make love to him—
But this isn’t good for me. I need a way to hold back the “in” part of my love for him.
On Friday, three days of no contact with Sam, I take out Sam’s 20s Must-Do List from my pocket. I can’t throw it away just yet. I’m not ready. But I will spend the day without it. . .
It’s not on me when I eat my breakfast.
It’s not on me when I take my truck and drive into town.
It’s not on me when I buy Jeremy’s birthday gift.
It’s not on me when I meet up with Jack for lunch.
It’s not on me as I tell him what happened.
It’s not on me as I ask how he got over me.
It’s not on me when he doesn’t answer.
I rest my ginger beer on the coaster in front of me and carefully look at him. His shit-eating grin is in place, just like it always is, but this time I can see behind it to the pain it’s hiding.
“Fuck. I’m so sorry, Jack.”
Jack’s grin just widens. “Hey no, no need to be sorry. The years have made it easier. Sometimes, like admittedly, right now, I’m reminded of . . . the hurt, but most of the time it’s good. I’m fine. Besides, I have a lot to keep me occupied, what with refurbishing my Rory Street cottage and all.”
“How’s that going?”
“Slow. Torturous. Expensive.” He laughs and takes a sip of Coke. “But I’ve employed some help that should be starting at the end of the week, so I’m hoping to get it done by the end of summer.”
I sigh. “Maybe I should help. I’ve got a lot of energy I need to vent.”
“Don’t want any fists through the new walls, thanks.”
I take another swig of my ginger beer. “Right.” I let out a slow breath that hovers toward a laugh. “Want to know something so utterly ridiculous?”
“Always.”
I shake my head. That tightness inside is pulsing painfully. “The last few days when I was fooling around with him, I kept telling myself that’s all it was, fooling around, right?”
“Sure.”
“Yeah, but at the same time, I was planning the rest of our lives together.”
“Of course.” When I glare at him, he shrugs. “Been there, done that.”
I’m about to apologize again, but he stops me. “Get back to the utterly ridiculous. It was keeping me amused.”
I grunt out a laugh. “Yeah, well, as I said. I was dreaming of our future. I thought I’d buy that house you’re working on and move us into it. I already planned how I could drive out and drop Jeremy off close enough to school he can walk, but not so close that I’d be an embarrassment. I had images of Sam coming home from Polytech and studying at the end of the table, snipping at us to be quiet as we make dinner around him.”
And other images of me claiming Sam in every room of the house, letting his moans and shouts soak into the wooden floors and walls.
“I even imagined him sick and pale in bed, just so I could bring him soup, and rub his feet, and make him feel better.”
I take another sip of ginger beer, but it’s empty. It’s a good sign of how long I’ve poured myself out to Jack. In a few years, I know I’m going to cringe remembering this.
Shit.
But Jack is cool. He orders me another drink, and tells me to just get the shit out. “What the hell else are friends for?”
So I do. I get it all out.
It doesn’t make the aching go away, but it makes me tired enough to think I might sleep tonight.
* * *
Back at home I find Jeremy sitting at my dining room table in a baggy T-shirt and shorts, with rings around his eyes. He looks like he’s having a rough day himself.
Jeremy smoothes his hands over a piece of worn paper—familiar paper—and looks at me, shrugging. “I’m so frigging bored being grounded. I figured misery likes company, so I came here. ’Course, I could have hung out with Dad, but the constant frown he’s wearing is giving me a headache. That, and his taste in music is terrible.”
I want to ask more about how Sam’s doing, but I bite down on the impulse. Instead, I pull out a chair and slump down on it. “Other than the grounding, are you doing all right?”
He nods. Shrugs. Shakes his head. “I talked to mum, but I—I still don’t want to see Greg. I know I’ll have to suck it up and whatever, but I hate him already.”
I brace both elbows on the table and fold my arms. “Tell you what, Jeremy. Every week you’re at your Dad’s, you can come over here and we can man-bitch about all the things you don’t like. This can be your free space to vent and let it all out. No judgments, just a venting-hour.”
“Man-bitch, eh? I think that’s the gayest thing you’ve ever said, Luke.”
I reach out and slap the back of head. He laughs, and slides over the paper he had in front of him. “That’s Dad’s writing.”
I level my gaze at him. “Yes, it is. It’s the list of things he wants to do before he turns thirty.”
“The list has been folded many times,” he says, holding my gaze, and I know what he’s trying to ask. But I think he might already know the answer.
“Why do you think that is, Jeremy?”
“You’ve been taking care of it. Making sure Dad gets everything on it.” He blushes suddenly. “I don’t wanna know if he got everything on that list, but I’m right about you wanting to give Dad whatever he needs, aren’t I?”
“You know the answer to that already.”
He nods. “How long have you been in love with him, Luke?”
I let the words settle and the ache pass before I can answer. “A long time, I think. But it was only once I got to Auckland, when I didn’t have both of you there, that I realized it.”
“Does that mean I knew you loved him before you did?” He shakes his head. “Because I knew before then. It was the day you made pancakes, and Dad was frustrated because someone got sick at his work and he was called in for the shift. You took a pancake from the stack, cut a smiley face into it, and put it on his plate.” Jeremy shifts and drums his fingers on the table. “It was some sappy shit. But it made you guys laugh . . . anyway, there was something in the way you looked at Dad, and I sort of just knew.”
“I guess you saw it first, then.”
Jeremy leans back in his chair, and starts tapping the table’s edge. His foot must be jiggling, because I can feel the tremors through the table. “So . . .” There’s a slight twitch to one corner of his mouth. “Gay, eh?”
And it’s the first genuine laugh I’ve had since the moment I said those exact same words to Jeremy. “Yeah.”
He looks at me and nods, that slow, cool-guy nod. “Right. It’s good to have that out in the open. Now I can actually get proper advice.”
I raise both eyebrows, and Jeremy quickly corrects himself. “It’s not actually for me. Just someone I might know.”
“Gonna go out on a limb here and guess you mean Steven. I got a feeling. You can tell him from me that if he wants anyone to talk to about stuff, I’ll try to be the coolest Mr. Luke ever about it.”
Jeremy pushes away from the table and stands up. He has the same habit of shifting from foot to foot that his dad does when he’s got something more to say, but isn’t quite sure how.
“What is it, Jeremy?”
It comes blurting out, and Jeremy’s cheeks flare with color. “I did get what you meant . . . about what you said the other day . . . I don’t want to go calling you”—he swallows—“Dad or anything. But I want you to know, like, I got it.”
My throat is so tight. Tighter than it’s ever been before. Nothing more than a gurgle comes out. I blink, and then I’m out of my chair and yanking the boy into a fierce hug. He hugs me back, a little awkwardly, but I don’t care. I scrub my knuckles over his hair and step back.
“Thanks,” I manage.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I know better than that. “Maybe we can kick the ball around some time? I’ll kick your ass this time.”
“Don’t count on it. These old bones have life in them yet.”
I walk him to the door. Just after he steps over the threshold and onto the porch, he turns around again. He’s biting his bottom lip and his hands are shoved in the pockets of his shorts. “Just one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He may not know it yet, but Dad’s totally in love with you too.”
I clench my jaw and cast my gaze toward the fence that separates our houses. “Don’t say things like that. It doesn’t help me to get over it.”
“Get over it? What the fuck?”
“Language, boy.”
“Language . . .? You’ve got some messed up priorities. Get over it? What type of attitude is that? You have to fight for it. Make him see it.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Why the hell—heck not? Better than waiting years for him to see it on his own.”
“There’s nothing there for him to see, or he’d have seen it already.”
“That’s why it only took you seven years to figure it out yourself? And is that why he’s not sleeping? Why he doesn’t eat? Yeah, that makes all the sense in the world.”
And with a snort, Jeremy turns on his heel and leaves.