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BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 11-IMPRESSIONS

BRIAN’S POV

well, I was born in a small town
and I can breathe in a small town


The Rockford was located in a small, unincorporated place in Coos County, New Hampshire, known as Dixville Notch. The first time Nate told you that the two of you were having lunch at Zeal. You choked on your food, “Please. You’re joking.”

“I’m not. That’s where I grew up. Dixville Notch, New Hampshire. Eighteen hundred and twenty feet above sea level, on the forty-fifth parallel, halfway between the North Pole and the equator.”

“I guess that’s the real definition of ‘Middle America’ then, huh?” Nate laughed at that, pointing his fork at you. Nate was one of those fork-pokers when he talked. Sometimes when you got tired of listening to him, you’d just watch him conduct a fork symphony in the air. That day the fork-estra was playing Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy, but that was probably because there was a new, really effeminate waiter at Zeal that day. “So, are condoms the main export of Dixville?”

Nate got a serious look on his face, one that you would only appreciate years later, “No. Figurines.”

“Figurines?” you asked, horrified. His fork had stopped playing.

Nate responded after thanking twinkle-toes for the bottle of wine, “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re the boss,” you said, your eyes following the wait-fairy as he waltzed to the next table.

*********************
there’s got to be a morning after…

That Friday morning, the sun filtered into your room at The Rockford reflecting off of the endless mounds of snow that the night before, in the dark, you actually thought were beautiful. But that morning, as the rays of sunlight penetrated your skull with the precision of a Craftsman Variable Speed Electric Drill, you decided that all sunshine, even the one lying on top of you sound asleep and drooling, was, at that moment, insufferable.

Of course, you could’ve remedied the situation by getting up and closing the curtains, but the blond brick sharing your bed made that rather impossible. Justin felt like a growth on top of you that smelled really good and just seemed to kiss you at random times.

Get off me,” you whispered, with as much affection in your voice as you possibly could. After all, sooner or later, he’d need to suck you off.

“Get yourself off,” he mumbled back, turning his head away from the window.

You tried again in your regular voice, “Justin, move. I have to piss.”

He turned his head back around, his sleepy face forming into some sort of dopey smile, “You give me a kiss.”

You stared at him in his nocturnal state and decided that, because of the way his hair stuck up, he looked like a baby duck when he woke up in the morning. Well, the back of one. You pushed him off of you and stumbled to the bathroom, kicking the seat up. It bounced right back down because it had one of those squishy things on it that went woosh when you sat on them, and in the case of this one, also distributed an air freshener called Woodland Watering Hole. The entire rest room smelled like pine trees fucking. You tried to ignore it, closing your eyes as you stood over the toilet, enjoying the warmth of hours of urine flowing out of you.
……

……

“Good morning,” a voice announced from behind you.

“Fuck, you scared me, Justin.”

“I gotta pee, too.” Justin had to piss with his left hand since he insisted on wrapping his right arm around your waist, leaning his head on your chest. You had no choice in the close quarters but to put your arm around him.

Every married couple pisses like this, right?

As your dual streams of relief echoed in the small bathroom, Justin began to wake up and noticed the ring on his finger, “Oh my god, Brian, we did it raw.”

“Yes, Sunshine. There is a Santa Claus.”

……

……

Urinating was apparently as much activity as Justin could stand at that moment, and after you flushed, he laid against you as you leaned against the mint-green wall of the bathroom. It was the first time you could remember the two of you making out while your neck was being stabbed by a window sill. When the kissing stopped, Justin laid his head against your chest, facing the mirror.

“Oh my god, what is that?” he asked, meaning the freakish woodland creature candle holder staring back at him from the bathroom counter.

“I believe that’s what they call a gnome,” you told him, as you suddenly noticed the plethora of them adorning the bathroom. The light switches were little gnome-reliefs drawn to look like they were hanging from the switch, and there was an eight and a half by eleven painting of one over the toilet, his blue pants draped over his little gnome footwear as he sat in an outhouse with the door wide open reading the Monitor, the local daily newspaper.

“Well, it’s creepy. I don’t want to look at it,” he said. You rolled your eyes, reaching over to turn it around, but then it faced the mirror and there were, as Justin immediately brought to your attention, “Two of them. Now it’s like there’s two of them.” You turned it again, making it face the wall. And unbeknownst to him as the two of you exited the bathroom, the gnome holding the soap in the shower gave Justin the evil eye.

*********************
the way you love me is frightening

The two of you flopped back into your bed, simultaneously averting your eyes from the state of your sheets. “So, um, what do you want to do today?” you asked, subtly pointing to your cock.

“Oh, I don’t know. Fuck, eat, sleep?”

This is why I married you,” you told him, climbing on top of him.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said kissing him. “It was a major factor in my selection process.”

“Hmm, I was a little more selective. I married you for your money…and a lifetime supply of free drugs.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

He reached between your legs, wrapping his warm hand around your cock, “This is a hard bargain.” You kissed him. “So, why don’t you drive it?”

Within maybe a minute, the gnome on the mantle was getting an eyeful…and an earful.

Make me come,” Justin whispered, his pressing hands wandering against your ass, “Make me.”

You changed your angle just slightly, but didn’t speed up, “You wanna come?” you asked him, propped higher above his body.

You were hitting the right spot, but, “Harder, please.” He spread his hands on your chest, “Brian, do it.” You pulled almost all the way out as he held his breath. You savored the moment, felt like you were hanging off of the side of a jagged rock with choppy water below you. He watched you, licking his lips.

You slammed into him so hard the picture above the bed fell off the wall, slid behind the bed frame and broke.

“Fuck! What was that?” he screamed, clutching you in fear. Clutching all of you. All of you.

“Oh shit, fuck, goddamnit,” you moaned as you came inside him, “You squeezed the fuck out of my dick.”

“I’m sorry. It scared me,” he apologized, still shaking. He rubbed your back, trying to soothe you.

You fell on top of him, panting, “S’okay. It felt kinda good actually, in a ‘holy fuck, what the hell’ kinda way.” It was the second time since he’d come home that you’d fucked him and ejaculated in fear. You pushed that thought back to wherever the hell it came from.

“I can’t believe we broke that picture,” he said, as the two of you tried to peer over the end of the bed to survey the damage.

“Yeah, well, that’s why they call this unsafe sex.”

********************
the way you sip your tea

You joined Justin under the spray after you called downstairs to make a reservation for lunch. You’d convinced him that it was time to get in the shower when you told him, “Your ass no longer tastes like candied walnuts.”

……

“I’m so ready for lunch,” he said, moving the soap over your chest.

“You’re always ready for lunch,” you replied, grabbing the shampoo before he saw the naked, soapy gnome on the label reading Moments with Melody and washing his hair while he prattled on about what he was going to have. In your haste to leave Pittsburgh, you’d forgotten your designer shampoo. This stuff smelled like sandalwood, which was a nice break from pine.

“—probably a salad and a sandwich. And a Bloody Mary. I could really go for a Bloody Mary.”

“Okay.”

“Or maybe soup and a sandwich.”

“Okay.”

“Or maybe soup, salad, and half a sandwich.”

“Sounds good.”

“What’re you gonna have?”

“I tend to make that decision in the moment.”

“You’ll have a salad. You always have a salad.”

“Okay, I’ll have a salad,” you surrendered.

“But you should try their soup. You really should. The lobster bisque. Let’s try the lobster bisque.”

“You’re gonna get a mouthful of ‘Brian bisque’ in a minute if you don’t stop this inane conversation.”

“Really?”

********************
that don’t impress me much

Walking down to brunch should’ve been a rather benign affair, but Justin kept tapping your arm and telling you that he could’ve sworn he’d just seen Jude Law get in the secret elevator. “Brian, I swear. I did. It was him.”

“Right.”

“Do you think Nate would tell us if there were famous celebrities here?”

You thought about it and shook your head and as you propelled him down the staircase, “Nope, Nate’s an upstanding guy. He wouldn’t have made it in this business if he couldn’t be discreet.”

“There is nothing discreet about this place, Brian. It reminds me of Debbie’s house, only on crack.”

“Well, that may be, but we are in Dixville, New Hampshire, so show a little respect.”

Justin stopped on the never-ending stairs, “Is that why you wanted to come here?”

You pulled his arm to get him walking again and lied, “No, don’t be silly.”

“Well, dicks or not, I keep expecting Uncle Fester to come around the corner any minute to change one of these eight hundred thousand light bulbs.”

“That would never happen. That’s Lurch’s job. Everybody knows that.”

Justin laughed and ended up a few steps ahead of you on the staircase, which was fine with you because it gave you an opportunity to marvel at the tight, smooth, black pants he had on and his long sleeve, white shirt that almost showed off his nipples. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him in that incredibly fuckable ensemble before, and you had to will away your public display of erection.

"I’m gonna tell them to turn over our room while we’re having lunch, Justin, and get a newspaper,” you told him as the two of you walked into the lobby. “Fuck, I left my reading glasses in the room.”

“No, you didn’t. I’ve got your glasses.”

“Oh.” It surprised you.

“I’ll go tell them. I’ll get your paper.”

You’d read the New York Times every day since a week after he left six years ago. “I don’t want to read it online. I want the actual paper.”

“I know. You want to touch it.” You watched him walk to the front desk. Something about the precocious swing of his hips and the tone of his voice told you to stay close by.

*********************
and leave a spray of diamonds in its wake

Justin approached the front desk as you hung back, “Excuse me.”

“Yes, sir?” The manager, Dave? Dave. Right.

Leader of The Chipmunks.


“My name is Justin Taylor. I’m in room two nineteen. We’d like our room turned over while we’re at lunch.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Plus, we broke a painting that was over our bed.”

“Oh, dear.”

“It was an accident. We’ll pay for it.”

Who broke one of my paintings, Dave?” A woman’s voice from the back.

“Don’t worry about it, sir. We’ll take care of it.” And then, the woman emerged, shoulder length dark hair, dark eyes, plump, pleasantly—sort of. She was a strikingly beautiful woman whose mass you hardly noticed because you couldn’t stop looking at her face.

“Mr. Taylor, this is Sarah Melody, the artist,” Dave paused and glanced at Sarah, “Of that painting. That you broke.”

“Oh, Justin Taylor.” They shook hands. You moved to the far end of the counter, picked up a travel brochure, and pretended to read it. “I apologize that we broke one of your paintings. It fell off the wall. I’m pretty sure the picture is fine. I think the frame is just broken.”

“Young man, I frame my own pictures. The frame is part of the picture.”

“Oh. Well, I’m so sorry. We’ll gladly pay for it,” Justin offered.

“That painting costs fifteen hundred dollars.”

Oh shit.

Justin’s eyes fell out of his head, “Fifteen hundred dollars? Are you crazy?”

Oh fuck.

Sarah seemed to bristle at the implication, as if, perhaps, she really was crazy, “No, I’m not crazy. It’s an original. Not a reproduction.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Justin balked. You put your brochure down and moved a little closer to him. The guy skiing on the front wasn't that hot. “I’ll have you know that I’m an artist. I work in New York City, and I know what kind of art sells for that kind of money and that picture is not worth fifteen hundred dollars.”

“Young man, who are you to tell me what my art is worth? You don’t even know who I am.

And then it dawned on you who she was--Nate’s wife--your client’s wife whom you’d heard about, but never met. You always thought of her as Sarah Cooper, not Sarah Melody. An impending sense of doom began to permeate your body.

You put on your best ‘to please the client’ smile as you interrupted their cat fight, putting your arm around Justin’s shoulder, “Sarah, we’re very sorry about this. If it’s fifteen hundred, that’s—"

“No, Brian.” He pushed your arm off of him. “I don’t care if you’re the Thomas Kincade of the ski-lodge art world, you’re gouging us. We didn’t mean to break your painting. If it was worth that much, you should’ve secured it to the wall. I’m sure you’ve insured it. Here’s a hundred bucks for the deductible.” He threw two fifties on the counter in front of her and turned to the manager, “May I have today’s New York Times, please?”

“Certainly. Here you go, sir.”

Justin took the paper being offered to him, “Thank you. Our room will be ready after lunch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” He turned to you, handing you your paper with a thwap against your stomach, “Here’s your paper, Brian.” Sarah stared at the two fifties on the counter and then at him as he turned on his heels and walked toward the dining room.

You looked at her, cleared your throat a little, pointed in Justin’s direction and smiled, “Um, he’s got my glasses. Have a nice day.”

Sarah glanced down at the guest register which was an actual register, on paper, in a book, mind you, and then looked back up at you and smiled as if the whole exchange with Justin hadn’t just happened, “Oh, I will, Mr. Kinney. You do the same.” And then she turned to Dave as if you weren’t even there, “David, when you go to lunch, be sure to put the register in the fire-proof file cabinet in case the place burns down while you’re gone.”

Dave responded as if she told him that every single day, “I will, ma’am. Don’t worry.” You and Dave watched Sarah as she disappeared into the back again.

You waited until she was well out of earshot before you asked, “Expecting the place to burn down?”

“No, sir, but, frankly, nothing that happens here is a surprise to me.” The look in his eye gave you the creeps. He turned and looked in the direction that Sarah had gone, “She doesn’t exactly walk, she seems to float, wouldn’t you agree?”

It was true. She did.

********************
hey, now, you’re an all star

It took about ten minutes for the dining room to prepare the table you wanted by the window, so the two of you sat in the bar. Justin downed a Bloody Mary, with a straw, no less, and you sucked gratefully on a cigarette and flipped through your paper while both of you ignored the awkward silence hanging between you. Justin's reaction to the fact that Sarah Melody was really Sarah Cooper was really Sarah Rockford seemed to be sinking in. And then he handed you your glasses out of nowhere. There were no pockets in the pants or shirt he was wearing; you had no idea where he stashed them or the cash he’d thrown on the front desk, but were a bit afraid of the answer. He took the crossword puzzle from you and asked, “Hey, what’s a six-letter word for ‘idiot?’”

“Justin?”

……

“I didn’t know she was Nate’s wife, Brian. I’m sorry, okay?”

The host came and escorted the two of you to your table. Lunch was kind of quiet at first. The waiter came. You ordered. You read your paper. He kicked his shoe off and put his socked foot on your thigh.

“What’re you doing?” He had on some really nice socks, you thought, as you rubbed the top of his foot. They were black and snug and made his feet look really small and sexy. It dawned on you as you fondled it that people probably thought you were jerking off under the table. “These are really soft socks.”

“My mom gave them to me. They’re some sort of micro-fiber or something. Give me a section of the paper.” He rubbed his toe against your cock.

“No. You won’t read it; you’ll just chat at me while you look at it.”

“Yes, I will read it. I can be quiet.”

You handed him the Art section and started counting how many seconds until he started talking to you again. He didn’t. He mostly just mumbled to himself: “Interesting…I think I’ve been there before… Hmm, I think I know him…Oh my god that is so not true. Unbelievable.”

The waiter brought champagne to your table, compliments of the hotel, “I’m told it’s your honeymoon.”

“It is,” Justin smiled as he wiggled his toes in your lap again. He looked so happy to talk to someone who wouldn’t tell him to shut up.

“And that I should apologize for Sarah,” the waiter continued. “She’s menopausal.” He popped the cork and poured. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you very much,” Justin told him, a very happy smile spreading over his face.

“Justin, please wait until you have food in your stomach before you drink that,” you told him, pushing the basket of bread toward him.

“Hell, no.” He raised his glass. “A toast: to free honeymoons and menopausal artists.”

“And bread,” you added.

“And bread.”

“Here, here,” your glasses clinked together. He drank his whole glass and refilled.

He pressed his foot into your crotch and wiggled his eyebrows, “Unzip your pants, Mr. Kinney.”

“Hell, no, Mr. Tay—"

“Oh come on, you know these tight socks are making you crazy,” he crooned, batting his eyelashes at you. You ignored him; there was no way you were prepared to admit that to him in this dining room. He moved on to another subject before you’d even finished your thought, “Hey, if I was a famous person, and I was gonna stay here, I’d stay here under an assumed name.”

“Congratulations.”

“So, maybe, Jude Law is staying here under an assumed name.”

“I doubt it.”

“I am sort of famous, actually. I should think of an assumed name in case I need one,” he pondered, picking his bread apart instead of eating it.

“How about ‘Violent Femme?’” you proposed.

“Nope, won’t work. They’re already famous, duh,” he chastised you, clearly not seeing the resemblance.

“’Bionic Twat?’”

“’Wait, how about Bionic Bottom.’”

“No, twat.”

“Bottom.”

“Twat.”

Bottom.

“Bottom?”

“Twat…Shit! You tricked me.”

“’Bionic Twat’ it is, then. Excellent choice.”

He was about to throw a piece of bread at you when your salads arrived, “Can I get you gentlemen anything else right now?”

“A lot more bread,” you told him, pushing the empty basket to the edge of your table. Justin reactivated his roaming foot and asked for more champagne. You rolled your eyes at him and went back to reading your paper.

……

……

A few minutes later you were interrupted again by Justin’s whispered voice, “Brian Kinney, unzip your pants.”

You folded the corner of your paper down and stared at him over your glasses, “Bionic Twat, eat some bread.” He did, while he was laughing, and almost choked on it. “Jesus, Justin. Take it easy.”

You were ready to give him the Heimlich, but he sucked down his champagne to wash it down and kept right on laughing. “Ohmygod, are you pisssssed at me?”

“No.” You rolled your lips in to keep from laughing.

“Because I was a cunt to that bitch?” The fact that he thought he was whispering certain parts of his sentences was really cracking you up.

You leaned across the table, “No, sweetheart, I’m not pissed at you. You’re always a cunt when it comes to art.”

He leaned forward and got right in your face, too, smiling, like it was the first time he’d seen you all day, “Am I really?”

“Yes.”

“But that wasn’t art, Brian. That was shit. Fifteen-hundred-dollar-shit.

“Exactly. That’s my point.”

……

His eyes got really big, “Oh my god, you’re right. I’m a total cunt.” You kissed him, mostly to try to shut him up. “Mmm, you just kissed a cunt.”

“Eat your sandwich.”

“I wanna get you off with my toes.”

“No. Eat your sandwich,” you repeated.

“Old man.”

“Slut nut.”

“Ooh, that’s gonna be my assumed-"

“Gentlemen, how’s lunch?”

“It’s delicious,” Justin told him and then asked for another bowl of soup, the other ‘ham of his half sandwich,’ and more champagne. You shook your head when he was asking for more champagne. The waiter looked at you, trying not laugh.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?”

You put your hand firmly on Justin’s foot and squeezed, “An annulment.”

********************
when I'm out walking I strut my stuff,
yeah, I'm so strung out


Getting Justin back up the never-ending staircase at The Rockford and back to your room proved more challenging than you’d anticipated. It was hard enough to keep him from tipping over the railing when he saw something below that caught his fancy. “Ohmygod, he’s hot,” he told you, pointing to someone walking by with a mop bucket, “You know, in a custodial sort of way.”

“I’m sure he appreciated that,” you told him, gluing your hand to the small of his back so you could keep him upright.

As you walked down the hallway to your room, Justin stopped every few feet to sit on one of the antique chairs and benches lining the hallway. “Ohmygod, this one is too squishy….this one is too small….I mean, it’s very, very pretty and stylish, and I'm sure it's worth a small fortune, but it's just not functional. And this one—"

“Come on, Goldilocks. That’s enough.”

An older couple passed you in the hallway, you smiled at them and Justin attempted to say hello, but it came out, “H-ahhh Ohmygod, excuse me. I burped.”

“Gee, they needed that clarification,” you told him, unlocking the door to your room and holding it open for him. Your bed had been made, an extra set of sheets were left on the embroidered bench at the end of the bed, and there were two little chocolate candies on your pillow shaped liked forest critters.

“Oh, yum, Chocolate Chipmunks,” Justin said, popping both of them into his mouth at the same time. “Mmm, they’re minty.”

“It's conceivable that you just ate Theodore.”

*********************
she said don't give me no lines
and keep your hands to yourself


You adjourned to the pine-scented wonderland that was your bathroom to take a much needed piss, and when you returned, Justin was standing up on the bed trying to pull the new painting they’d hung in your room off the wall. He managed to get if off rather easily, falling back on the bed with it in his lap.

“Look at this piece of crap, Brian,” he laughed as you broke his fall, “And it’s still not bolted to the wall!”

“Jesus, Justin, you’re lucky you didn’t break that over your head.”

He held it up for you, “Look at the back. Is there a big price tag from Wal-Mart or something? Forty-nine ninety-five?” He fell back on the bed dissolving into a fit of laughter. You tried to take it from him and he grabbed it back, “No wait, wait. I have to see the title.” He handed it to you, covering his eyes with both hands, “No, just let me guess. The Chalet, right?

Am I right?”

You looked at the title on the gold nameplate on the front of the painting, “Winter Chalet. So close, but yet so far.”

He laid back, throwing his arms back on the bed, “I’m a fucking genius. A total, fucking genius. You didn’t know you married a genius, did you?”

“I had a hunch.” You opened the door to your room and sat the painting outside in the hall.

“What’re you doing?”

“Removing the incentive for your bad behavior.”

“Somebody might steal it. It’s sooooooo valuable. I’ll bet she made all of these dumb-ass gnome figures on the mantel, too.” You turned around and he was off the bed, picking them up one by one and looking at the bottom of them. “Ha! ‘Sarah Melody, 1972.’ I knew it. These are so fucking tacky.” He acted like he was going to drop one. You grabbed it out of his hand.

“All right. That’s enough.” You picked up all four of them and sat them outside the door, too.

“Whoops. You’re no fun.”

“You’re an accident trying to find a place to happen.” You picked up the phone and called the front desk. “Hi. This is Brian Kinney in two nineteen. You might want to come and pick up the artwork outside our door. We won’t be needing it……….Yes, the artwork……….Yes, thank you.” When you put the phone down and turned around, Justin was standing up on the bed again. If he jumped, his head was going to go through the ceiling.

“Now the room looks weird. It’s too empty.”

“Only because you’re standing on the bed. I assure you, if you come down here, everything looks quite normal.”

“Come and get me.” You grabbed the waistband of his black pants and yanked him over to the edge of the bed. “Whoa!” he yelled, his knees bouncing when they hit the mattress.

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Fuck me with my socks on?”

Making love to him while he was on his back was nothing new, but doing it while his very soft, very expensive socks rubbed your ass, well, that was delicious.

********************
you and me ain’t no movie stars,
what we are, is what we are


You found your glasses all by yourself after you fucked him, grabbed your laptop, and climbed back into bed next to him.

“Brian, god, I’m so drunk.” The soft cotton of his white shirt felt nice against your thigh. You ran your fingers through his hair as you brought up your email. He snuggled down, his face against your leg.

“Yes, you are.”

“I love when you fuck me like that.”

“Happy to help.”

“I love doing it raw.”

“Certainly kicks it up a notch.” His hand looped over your thigh.

“I love when you pull my hair.”

“You told me to.”

“I love when you do what I tell you to do.”

“Justin?”

“Huh?”

“Is there anything you don’t love?”

……

“Nope. I love everything. I love you. I love champagne. I love this bed. I love—"

“I love you, too, Justin. Go to sleep.”

“I’m not sleepy. I’m just drunk.”

“Okay.”

“I wanna fuck you.”

He kissed the side of your leg for a few seconds in an attempt at clumsy seduction and started snoring, his drunk snore. It’s like no other. You booted your laptop but answering email and chatting with Cynthia didn’t take very long, so you checked in with Gabe at Zeal and Ruben at Babylon to make sure that things had gone well for them this week, that they were ready for a profitable weekend. Everyone in your kingdom was doing their job, so you shut down your laptop and turned your attention back to Justin.

He felt you lie down next to him and laid his head against your shoulder as you pulled the comforter up over both of you, stealing a glance under the covers at the rise and fall of the gentle curves of his body, his tight, white long-sleeve shirt clinging to him, stopping above his beautiful ass. You stared at him, so pure on these white sheets, and thought about when you first met him, how even after all this time, he still seemed that pure to you. How you’ve never thought of yourself that way, not even for a minute.

You wondered why that was because there plenty of things about him that you knew weren’t pure at all—things he’d done with you and to you, plenty of things he’d been involved in over the years that’d tainted him just like anyone else, the marks of violence and the evidence of pain, the ones you could see and the ones you couldn’t—but you rarely saw any of these things when you looked at him. It was like they just didn’t exist, and it bothered you that you were either too blind or too unwilling to see what should’ve been, what was, right in front of you.

You supposed it was because you loved him.

But he loved you, too, and he didn’t see you that way. He never had.

Why?

You stared at the blank wall over your bed, the wallpaper faded where the broken painting had been. It had been an ugly painting, and you hadn’t even noticed it until it fell off the wall and broke, but Justin had. He’d noticed it, judged it, and valued it, all without saying a word. And when it broke, he wasn’t the least bit afraid to call it what it was:

”Look at this piece of crap, Brian.”

You held him, watching the afternoon sun come through the window and fall right on the wall where the painting had been, brightening and fading everything all at the same time, the sunshine letting you see everything and yet, at the same time, making everything fade away as you closed your eyes...

********************
the way you haunt my dreams

Ibiza. Fucking Ibiza.

You were so tired of being here. So tired of sitting on this beach, right on the fucking sand, in your suit, with your knees bent—a place to rest your chin. You glanced at your hands wrapped around your shins. You’d lost your ring?

But you were still just watching him. And he was still completely naked. And there was a game going on today. Baseball?

Softball.

And your father was the coach. And the pitcher.

“Go long, Sonny Boy,” he yelled to Justin as his right arm drew back throw the ball. Justin grinned, excited, and took off running down the beach, sand flying everywhere. He’d glance back at your father every few steps, his hands outstretched to catch the ball that had yet to be thrown.

He seemed to run like that for miles, but you knew that wasn’t true because you could still see him. He never got any smaller.

And then, as the ball was thrown, you saw him.

Chris.

At bat.

The bat in motion.

The smile on Justin’s face.

“Justin!”

You felt yourself get up, start to run—

and run—

and run.

Your leg muscles seizing as you got to the water’s edge and fell forward, your hands pressing into your knees. He wasn’t there.

He was gone.

……

And then you saw them, Ethan, Debbie, Daphne, Jennifer, and Craig, back where you’d just been sitting, standing around his sandy, makeshift grave.

Justin’s sandy, makeshift grave; a white, wooden cross sticking out of the mound of sand.

And Cody. Giving the eulogy, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are gathered here today to join this man—"

It wasn’t a funeral.

It was a wedding.

Your wedding.

And then your father was there, standing next to you in the water in his tuxedo. You knew he was dead when he spoke to you, “Son, you’re bleeding.”

He must be wrong, but he was right. It was pouring out of you. You looked down at the foamy, rose-colored water pooling over your favorite black shoes and that’s when you heard it.

The explosion.

Your father gripped you, holding you firm where you stood in the bloody water watching sand and flesh blanket the beach. The burning scent of sorrow stung your eyes as your head rested on your his shoulder. You sobbed and shook and he held you,

“It’s okay, Sonny Boy. It’s okay. I’m here.”


********************
we share a bed, some popcorn and T.V.

You woke up and sprinted to the bathroom, slamming the door and vomiting in the toilet, breathing in the pine-sol. Your head rested on the back of your hands as you laid there on the mint green porcelain, your eyes drying as the cool air swirled around your nude body. And then you heard him on the other side of the bathroom door,

Ohmygod, Brian. Are you okay? What’s wrong?...Brian, what’s wrong?”

“It’s okay, Justin. I’m just sick.”

From lunch? Lunch made you sick?”

You heard the doorknob turn, “No, don’t come in here. Go back to bed. It’s just something I ate.”

But I’m worried.”

“It’s okay. Just go back to bed.”

When you came out a few minutes later, Justin was curled up in bed watching a black and white episode of Bewitched. He offered you the space on the bed in front of him, commenting, “Come on, lay down. This is the one with the sexy Darrin.”

You snorted as you laid down beside him, “There’s no such thing as a ‘sexy Darrin.’”

“There is when I’m drunk,” he said, wrapping his arm around you.

 

Lyrics taken from John Cougar Mellencamp’s Small Town, Maureen McGovern’s The Morning After from the soundtrack of The Poseidon Adventure, Amii Stewart’s Knock on Wood, George and Ira Gershwin’s They Can’t Take Away From Me, Shania Twain’s That Don’t Impress Me Much, Paul Simon’s St. Judy’s Comet, Smashmouth’s All Star, The Violent Femmes’s Blister in the Sun, Georgia Satellites' Keep Your Hands to Yourself, Alice Cooper’s You and Me, George and Ira Gershwin’s They Can’t Take Away From Me again, and Alice Cooper’s You and Me again.

Chapter End Notes:

Original publication 10/30/05

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