Chapter 12

 

 

 

 

As they headed toward their Manhattan neighborhood, Raymond said, “Sam seems like a nice enough young man. A shave and haircut would do wonders for him, but I guess those bohemian artist types are like that.”

Donovan didn’t reply. Angling his body toward the passenger door, he opened his fist and looked at the ring he was still clutching in his hand. It was made of two strands of gold woven together into a braid. The ring was so like Sam—quietly elegant, self-contained and precious.

“What’s that you’re holding there?” his father said abruptly.

Startled, Donovan dropped the ring on the floor at his feet. “Oh,” he blurted. “Nothing.” He reached down surreptitiously, his fingers moving over the floor mat in search of the band of gold.

Why had he just lied?

Because he didn’t want to explain what he was doing with another man’s ring.

I want you to have this.

He found the ring and cradled it again in his palm. Leaning his head back against the seat, he closed his eyes. He missed Sam already with a palpable ache. He shouldn’t have left him. But what else could he have done? Whatever they’d shared had felt real at the time, but things were different now. They weren’t on a secluded island anymore. They were back in the real world.

“I’ve been in touch with George Cranston,” his father said, jerking Donovan back to the moment. George Cranston was one of the senior partners at Donovan’s law firm and a good friend of Raymond McNair. “They’re very pleased you’ve come home safe and sound. He said to take the rest of the week off to get yourself situated.”

Donovan had to stop and think about what day it was. Tuesday. Today was Tuesday. Things like that mattered again. Or they were supposed to matter.

But he was finding it hard to focus on his job and the piles of work that undoubtedly awaited him there. When he’d taken the cruise, he’d been excited to return to his first big case. Now he could barely muster any interest. Maybe he’d feel differently by the end of the week, once he’d had a chance to reacclimate to civilization.

“Take tomorrow if you feel you need to,” his father said. “But after that, my advice is to get right back in the saddle. You’ve already been out of the office for over a month. While the circumstances were obviously beyond your control, you need to show them you’re still hungry—still ready to give everything you’ve got to the firm.”

Donovan said nothing. He recognized his father’s words made sense—at least in his father’s world—a world Donovan had shared until the shipwreck. In that world, you worked sixty to seventy hours per week as a matter of course. You associated with other young professionals—go-getters like you who understood that to succeed, you needed to be prepared to sacrifice, no matter the cost. You definitely didn’t hang out with gay artists who lived in lofts in Brooklyn and took life as it came.

He looked down at his hand and uncurled his fingers. The ring gleamed in the setting sunlight slanting in through the car window. He glanced at his father, who was glowering out the windshield at the increasingly snarled traffic.

Donovan slid the braided circle of gold onto his right ring finger. It fit perfectly.

~*~

Light played across the room, buttery yellows melting in through the east windows, tinged with the gold and pink of a new dawn. Sam looked around the old loft, well pleased. In his absence, the landlord had fixed the broken window panes as promised, as well as painting the walls a bright, fresh white.

Sam would give up his cramped, expensive apartment and move completely into the spacious loft. The staggeringly large check Tim had given him from the sale of his work would allow him to set aside six months’ rent, as well as comfortably furnish a portion of the loft as his living quarters and buy new paints, canvas and whatever else he needed to create more art. He already had a lot of ideas for a series based on the island, and he was eager to get started.

Sam had been back in the city for two days now and still had not heard a word from Donovan. He’d kept himself busy—getting his license, passport and credit cards replaced, getting a new cell phone and figuring out what he was going to do with the loft. He was headed back home to see his family Saturday morning. He had harbored a fantasy of taking Donovan with him, but now doubted that would happen.

He did his best not to constantly obsess over Donovan, or rather the lack of Donovan. He told himself he’d wait until Friday evening. If he hadn’t heard from him by then, he’d make contact. He wasn’t going to just let Donovan drift out of his life.

He was still in the process of moving into the loft, and the new futon bed he’d ordered hadn’t yet been delivered. He hadn’t slept well in his small, cramped apartment. He woke often in the night, startled to find himself in the enclosed space of his bedroom, no black velvet sky studded with diamonds overhead, no sound of the waves’ constant whoosh and ebb, no softly snoring Donovan beside him.

He pulled out his new cell phone, his finger hovering over the screen. This was nuts. He should just text Donovan. Just a quick hello, to let him know he was thinking of him…

But Donovan had to know Sam was thinking of him. Donovan had wanted to be the first one to reach out. He wanted to do it on his terms, in his own time, and Sam had to respect that. He would be patient.

He would wait.

~*~

More to get his father off his back than because he wanted to return, Donovan agreed to go back to work on Thursday. They held a welcome back gathering for him in the boardroom first thing in the morning, much to Donovan’s embarrassment. His boss, Marvin Klett, praised his bravery and fortitude in surviving while waiting for rescue. “I bet you’re glad to be back in civilization, am I right, McNair? And luckily for you, we didn’t give away your office. You’ll find plenty of files waiting to be tackled.”

Was he glad to be back? Donovan wasn’t so sure any longer.

Associates and even partners came into his office throughout the morning, eager to hear stories about his experience. Mr. Klett was mildly apologetic as he explained he’d given Donovan’s big case to Grant Patterson. That one stung, as Grant was a cutthroat, backstabbing son of a bitch. He and Donovan were archrivals in the endless competition for recognition at the firm, and Klett knew it.

Donovan had managed to keep his face blank as he assured his boss he understood. After all, the trial date had been set, and for all they knew, he’d been lost at sea. The strange thing was, what had mattered so greatly to him before the aborted cruise now meant little. Though he wished it hadn’t been Grant, Donovan honestly didn’t care that he’d lost the lead on the case, even though it would have been his stellar opportunity to shine for the partners.

Sitting in his small office, he stared at the piles of work that had amassed during his absence and could barely muster the energy to open the first one. Did he really have the energy to dive back into the endless parsing of abstract intellectual property issues for big corporations? Was he up to combatting the continuous flow of documents that would land on his desk, day after day after day?

Wouldn’t it be amazing if instead he could spend his time writing the memoir about their experience on the island? Since that one freshman course back at university, he’d written nothing but case studies and briefs, and read nothing but legal journals and law reviews. He still had Carlos’ card. Maybe he’d reach out and see if it was really viable. But how would he have time to write a book when all he did was work, 24/7?

He envied Sam, whose passion and career meshed. Sam was following his heart. It had never occurred to Donovan to follow his heart—not in any respect. No—he’d followed a script, one that had been written out for him before he was born. He’d dutifully, doggedly followed it to the letter.

Until the shipwreck and Sam’s saving him had changed everything.

He thought about Sam constantly. He dreamed about Sam at night, and when he woke there were sometimes tears on his cheeks. More often, he awoke with a raging erection, and had to masturbate in order to get back to sleep. But in the morning, Donovan told himself it was only because of their bizarre circumstances that they’d connected at all. You didn’t just suddenly become gay. It made no sense.

Yet, he couldn’t deny that Sam was maybe the only real adult friend he’d had in his life. And definitely the only lover who had connected with him not just sexually, but emotionally.

He swiveled toward the small window that looked out at the back of another building. He couldn’t even see the sky. He turned his chair back to his desk. The filing cabinets that ringed his tiny space were suddenly crowding in on him, and he had to resist the sudden, fierce desire to fling the tottering stacks of files from his desk with the swipe of his arm.

What was he doing there?

Why was he working his life away?

Why was he still living at home?

Why were his only friends not really friends at all, but associates at the firm who wouldn’t hesitate to stab him in the back at the slightest opportunity?

Why hadn’t he contacted Sam yet?

He looked around the claustrophobic office. The autumn morning had brought a chill with it, and the building’s heaters had kicked on. The acrid smell of dust burning inside the air vents made him long for the salty, fresh sea air of their private island. His collar was too tight, the tie like a noose around his neck.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Donovan. You have choices. You do.”

As Sam’s words came back to him, their power lifted him suddenly to his feet, causing his wheeled chair to smack against the wall behind him.

What if he quit? Gave his notice and simply walked right out the door?

Raymond would kill him. He could already hear the lecture, delivered with quiet rage that slowly mounted until the spittle was flying, his father’s eyes popping with fury, his fist slamming down on the table for emphasis as he informed Donovan about all the ways he was irrevocably destroying his life, and after all he and Donovan’s dear, departed mother had done for him.

But it wasn’t his father’s life.

It was his life.

And, as his mother’s death and the shipwreck had highlighted all too clearly, it could end at any time.

Sam would understand. He was the only person Donovan knew who would.

Donovan’s heart began to pound. He slipped his cell phone from his pocket and typed Sam’s name into his text message app.

He held his thumbs poised over the screen, suddenly unsure what to type—what to say. His thoughts were tumbling around his brain like rocks in a polishing machine, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Stupidly, he typed, “Hi,” and hit send.

Almost instantly, he saw Sam was typing a reply, as if he’d been holding the phone in his hand when the message came through. The butterflies that had been whirling in his stomach took flight all at once, making his entire body whir with anticipation.

“Hi. I’ve missed you, Donovan.”

“I’ve missed you too. Can we meet?”