SAM
Wednesday. 1 week now.
One week since Luke told me he loves me. Is in love with me.
Every time I replay the moment, it’s like I’m being picked up and thrown in the air: the rush of falling rippling through me, ending with the fear of slamming into the ground.
I love the feeling, and it scares me.
I can’t seem to stop replaying the moment though. There’s something nagging at me about it. Something that pulls and stretches at my muscles, and robs me of sleep.
I’m trying to put my finger on it.
I know I’m not gay. I double-checked that. None of the guys I looked at online did anything much for me. I mean, some of them were attractive, but they didn’t turn me on.
The girls didn’t turn you on either.
I groan and rest my forehead against the dining table. I breathe in the smell of wood and all I can think of is Luke hefting the table onto his back, taking it to the carpentry workshop, and fixing it for me.
Thoughts like these make those giddy, uneven, ground-falling-beneath-you sensations come. I’m having so many of them that I’m actually afraid one of these times, the ground will fall away for good, and I’ll just be falling. And there’ll be nothing to stop me, to hold me together.
I rub my forehead over the wood, the pressure helping to pull me out of the feeling.
I turn my head, facing the window as I hug the table and stare at the fence separating our places.
It’s hard knowing he’s right there, and I can’t go over and see him. It’s like Auckland all over again, but worse. Because this time it isn’t sickness holding us apart, it’s us. Me.
And I know Luke says he’ll be fine, that we’ll still be friends, but . . .
But . . .
It’ll never be the same.
God, everything is messed up, and all because of my stupid list. All because I can’t face the fact I’m turning 30.
Why did I have to be so foolish? Why did I need the thrill of being wild?
Why did I have to do the taboo with Luke?
It’s the list that’s at fault. The list that made me crazy.
And is it the list that made you like it?
The dropping sensation comes again. I grip the smoothly sanded edges of the table until it’s hurting my palms.
Yes, I liked being with Luke—really liked it. But it was the taboo of it.
It was.
Guys just don’t do it for me. My Internet experimentation proves as much.
The phone rings a sharp tone that momentarily pushes that nagging feeling away. I retrieve the phone. It’s my boss. “Do you know what I’m holding in my hand?”
I’m pretty certain I do. “You received my resignation letter.”
“You couldn’t have handed this in yourself? Couldn’t have come talk to me about it?”
With the mess that I am this week, I couldn’t have gone in to work. I’m sure I’d have frightened off half the patrons. “Sorry, no.”
A sigh comes down the line. “It was too good to be true to believe you’d stay forever. What do you have lined up?”
“School. Got to think about the future.” About what I really want for myself. How I want to be living at 40. What type of role model I want to be for Jeremy. I need to make this change. It’s been simmering for a while now, made clear that day on the beach with Luke.
“This is why you should have spoken to me, mate. We can scratch each other’s backs here. I can give you work to fit around your schedule. Just something to keep you on your feet while you’re studying. Think about it, and come in when you’re ready to arrange something.”
After the call, I lean back against the kitchen counter, staring at the sunlight slanting across the dining table. I stare at it until I start blinking in blobs of light.
I need to get out of the house. Away from seeing Luke everywhere I turn.
I scrub my face. My earring grates along the tip of my thumb, and without thinking, I yank it out and throw it on the bench. I fumble under my T-shirt for my nipple piercing and take that off too.
Grabbing my keys and wallet, I take my Honda and head for the hairdresser’s. I get my hair re-dyed and cut the way I used to wear it, short and messy. I hope it will be relaxing, but it just reminds me of my home dye job. With Luke.
This time it doesn’t feel anywhere near as good.
Back in the car, I angle the rearview mirror and take a look at myself. Staring back at me is no longer the wild, wannabe punk, but a dad who turns 30 in three days.
“Good thing you didn’t get a tattoo,” I murmur. “Maybe now things can go back to the way they were. The way they should be.”
When I get home, I’m going to find that list of mine, tear it up and burn it.
Except, I don’t drive home. Something’s pulling me to Carole’s.
I park outside her place. What am I doing here?
Why do I so badly want to go in and talk?
I squeeze the steering wheel hard, and stare out onto the street. The sun’s setting and the streetlights have just flickered on.
Jeremy.
That’s why I’m here. I want to show him I’m no longer bonkers. That I’m going to be the dad he needs.
Yeah, that’s it.
I knock on Carole’s door. She answers it while talking on the phone. Her eyes light up with surprise, but she quickly steps back and motions me in.
“Hey, Greg, I’ve just gotten a visitor. Can I call you back later? . . . Love you, too. Bye.” She hangs up and looks over at me, running a calculating gaze over me. “Never thought I’d say I missed the mohawk. But there you have it.”
Carole motions me into the kitchen but instead of taking a seat I stand at the kitchen island, digging my thumbs into my pockets.
“So what brings you here?” Carole says, automatically putting on the jug and grabbing out the instant coffee. She pauses before setting the jar down and looks at me. “Or do we need something stronger?”
I shake my head. “Coffee will be fine. I’m just here because I was in the area. Where’s Jeremy?”
“He’s out with Steven.” She glances at the cow clock on the wall behind me. “He should be back in half an hour or so for dinner.”
“And how are things with you and him?”
“Strained, but . . . maybe getting better.”
“Has he met Greg yet?”
Carole unscrews the coffee jar with what looks like more force than necessary.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Her hand stills on the lid and she stares at it. “Greg’s been so understanding. He’s such a good man, Sam. If Jeremy just gives him the chance . . .”
I move around the kitchen island and bump my side against hers. “He will. He’s processing a lot at the moment, but he’s a good kid. He’ll suck it up and get over it.”
She nods, and tucks a short lock of hair behind her ear. “You’re right. Grab me the milk, would you?”
I pull out a bottle from the fridge and hand it over.
“So why are you really here?” she says, scooping two large teaspoons of coffee into each mug.
“Jeremy, of course.”
She sizes me up once again, and shakes her head. “There’s something else. Your hair looks neat, but the rest of you looks like it hasn’t seen sleep in days. So, are you going to tell me? Or do I have to make your coffee Irish, and milk you for your answer?”
I shrug and sit down at the table. I pick up a discarded pen and click the top.
She’s right, of course. It’s the real reason I’m here. Because I need a friend, need someone to listen—maybe throw some perspective on things. Maybe she’ll get what’s been nagging at me.
“Luke’s gay. I may have fooled around with him a bit.”
Carole snaps her gaze at me. The reaction I expect. What I don’t expect is the sudden grin she’s giving me. She throws her head back and laughs. “Finally. Thank the lord for that. You guys have danced around this forever.”
Huh? “Huh?”
“You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that. I was beginning to think your head was so far up your ass, you’d never see the light.”
“I shouldn’t have fooled around with him, Carole.”
Her humming laughter stops abruptly. “Okay, now my turn…huh?”
“I had this list of stuff to do before my birthday. Doing something sexually taboo was on that list. It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than experimenting. Last week, though, I find out that Luke . . . that he . . .”
“Loves you?”
I blush and click the pen faster. “Yeah.”
“Oh Sam, love, you look so confused.”
I use the pen to rub away my frown. “I am.”
She brings over our coffees and sits across from me. “Tell me about it.”
I drop the pen and pick up the coffee. The liquid smells so rich and the mug is warm in my hands. “I’m not gay. I’m pretty sure. I tried looking at other men . . . I got nothing. But I—I can’t stop thinking about what it was like with him. I—I liked it.”
Carole leans back in her chair, taking her coffee with her. After a sip, she says, “So maybe it’s not men you’re attracted to. Maybe it’s just Luke.”
I slosh coffee over my front as I take another sip. “N-no,” I say, getting up to grab a handy towel, and soak up the mess. “I liked it because it was taboo. It’s wild. Forbidden, somehow. The thrill of it seduced me. That and wanting to do everything on my list.”
Or had the list become an excuse in the end?
“Because it’s forbidden, eh?” Carole’s eyes narrow in thought. She rests her mug on the table and stands up. There’s a sparkle in her eye as she moves toward me. “Is that what makes you all hot and bothered?” Her voice is all breathy, and she bites her bottom lip.
I drop my hand with the soppy handy towel and take a step back. “What are you doing?”
She keeps coming closer, and I back up until I’ve banged into the cutlery drawers. “Greg would never have to know,” she says, sliding closer and closer—
I try to sidle off to the side, but Carole’s hand reaches out and snags my arm. Her fingers dance their way down to my hand.
I jerk her off. “Carole, get a grip on yourself.” I’ll never, not ever, seduce a woman involved with someone.
She backs up, batting her eyelashes, and her lips are quirking into a grin. “But it’s so wild. Forbidden. Don’t you feel the thrill of it?”
No. No, I don’t. Not in the least.
And that’s the point, isn’t it?
Carole slinks back to the table, and once she’s cradling her coffee again, she says, “The idea of experimenting is to find out a truth of some sort. The experiment I just did with you points to a conclusion of sorts, does it not? But the real question here is: what do you draw from your experimenting with Luke?”
The floor gives way under my feet.
And this time, I just keep falling.
* * *
At home, in bed, phone in hand.
I dial his number. The number I know by heart, inside out, and backwards.
It rings 2 times. It’s late. He’ll be in bed. I know he’ll know it’s me.
It rings 1 time more.
He picks up. “Sam?”
“I just . . . I needed”—to hear you—“to make sure you’re still there.”
“I am.”
It hurts as I swallow. “I miss you. I—I’ve been thinking a lot over the week. I”—The rest of what I need to say seizes up inside me—“I did it, Luke. I quit my job and applied for special consideration for admission to Polytech.”
“That’s great, Sam. We’ll have to celebrate that. Soon.”
I grip the receiver and press it more firmly against my ear. “And . . .”
“And?”
I close my eyes as I breathe out slowly. The words don’t come with it. “And, um, I hope you have a good night, Luke.”