Chapter Eleven

WIND WHIPPED THE candles dead on College Green’s altar as Isaac swept past, late for the Tuesday night Being Frank meeting. Between classes, he and Simon had spent much of the afternoon talking in coffee shops and bars. Well, arguing. Mostly arguing. All he wanted was to wrap himself in John’s sheets and sleep cuddled together, but that was impossible for now. For the time being, they could barely look at each other.

He was out of breath by the time he reached Ellis Hall’s third floor. Thanks to the aging heaters, the whole place smelled like farts. He tore off his coat, too hot, as he walked down the hall to the sound of shouting. By the time he reached the classroom, he recognized the voices: Anthony and Janelle.

“This isn’t a political journal,” Anthony said. He’d shoved his Afro under a hat but looked ready to set his hair free and start tugging.

Janelle gestured to her computer. “It’s a well-written piece.”

“Yeah, about gun control!”

John didn’t even look up when Isaac walked in. He stood, leaned against the chalkboard with his arms crossed. Mouth turned down, his green eyes stared straight ahead—glazed, unseeing.

“Janelle. Girlfriend. Listen to me. We are not here to make political statements. We can’t publish a treatise on gun reform. We need art, not politics.”

Janelle, a little thing, seemed huge when she stood and got right in his face. “No, we need truth, and the truth is none of this shit would have happened if Chris hadn’t been able to buy a gun.”

Isaac waited for John to step in, but he didn’t. He just stood there, as did the literary magazine staff, frozen like nervous-looking ice sculptures.

“I’m not arguing that with you, but this piece has no place in a literary journal!”

Janelle flailed her hand, black bracelets clicking. “And the one you like does? Who cares what that psycho was thinking? John?”

He didn’t move.

“See, nobody cares!” she shouted.

“Are you even listening to yourself right now?” Anthony asked. “You named this literary magazine Being Frank because you wanted even Chris to have a voice because he’s dead, too, and he was our friend.”

“Hey,” Isaac said, but no one listened. John didn’t even look like he paid attention—John, who was usually so good at fixing things.

“Fuck Chris Frank,” Janelle said. “Forget about him. Forget the whole stupid thing.”

Anthony hit the desk with his fist, which at least made John flinch. “You wouldn’t be saying any of this shit if you weren’t so drunk all the time!”

“Enough,” Isaac yelled. “Anthony, Janelle, hallway. Now.” He threw his bag on the floor and didn’t wait.

Out in the hall, two of the most talented kids in the entire English Department looked like bombs ready to blow. Janelle violently chewed her thumbnail. A bit of her purple lipstick had smeared onto the side of her cheek, and old mascara melted under her eyes. Anthony tapped his foot until Janelle snapped at him to stop.

“What’s the matter with you two?” Isaac asked.

“What’s the matter with you?” Janelle spat. “Why are you getting into fistfights in classrooms? Your eye looks like shit, by the way.”

Isaac lifted a finger. “Watch it. I’m still your teacher.”

“Oh, fuck you.” She stomped down the hall.

“Janelle, get back here.” He’d never felt so much like a disrespected parent. “Anthony, talk to me.”

Anthony sighed, anger wilted like a wet flower. “It’s not you, Dr. Twain. It’s not me either. I don’t know why I let her get to me today.” He toed at linoleum. “It’s Demi’s birthday Thursday. Well, it would have been. Janelle isn’t doing all right.”

“Is she on antidepressants or anything?”

“Yeah. And she sees some head doctor.” He shrugged. “But she’s drinking so much, man. I get worried, then I get scared, then I get angry. You just saw angry.”

“Does John know about Demi’s birthday?”

Anthony scoffed. “Yeah, man, but…” He waved into the classroom where John looked like he barely breathed. “I had him this morning in class. He’s been like this all day. He won’t even, like, acknowledge my presence. Is he okay?” Exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know. It’s like everyone’s gone crazy.”

“All right, I’m going to cancel the meeting tonight. I think we’ve seen enough.”

“Sure, but, I mean, Janelle makes a good point that we’re going to have to discuss. Do we have an agenda? Is Being Frank a platform of some kind, or are we just looking for beautiful, emotional work?”

Isaac pressed his lips together, considering. “Say what you just said to me to them, and we’ll vote on it next week.”

“All right. Can you see if John’s all right? He’s freaking me out, man.”

Isaac nodded, although he had no right to question John’s mental health. God, he was probably the cause of the blank, hopeless look on his face.

Isaac dismissed the students after Anthony made his announcement, most of them rushing to get out the door. The whole room stank of tension with just a touch of John’s witch hazel lotion. When Isaac tried to approach the stock-still creative writing professor, John shook his head. “Just go home, Isaac.”

Broken-hearted, he texted John as he walked.

Do you know it’s Demi’s birthday Thursday? I don’t think Janelle should be alone.

John responded, She won’t be. Classes all day, and Anthony will stay at her place overnight. A bunch of us are going out to dinner for Demi.

Isaac crossed Union in the direction of his apartment and was about to reply when—

You can come, if you want.

I would love to, Isaac texted.

To be close to John, to see John, to maybe make John laugh just once. When was the last time he’d seen him laugh—really laugh—not the armored chuckle he used to deflect?

I miss you, John texted.

Isaac stopped on the sidewalk and tried to keep the punch of emotion from knocking him over. I miss you so much.

As if they hadn’t just seen each other. He would definitely need a long run that night.

He opened the door to his stairwell and took the steps two at a time only to find his front door open, the lock busted. Slivers of wood decorated the tiny, carpeted foyer, and Simon sat stretched out on his couch.

“What the hell?” Isaac said.

Simon drank whiskey—a bottle of expensive Japanese stuff John had brought over. “There is an awful lot of John Conlon hair in your shower.” He leaned his head back, eyes closed as though so very relaxed when his entire body screamed pent-up unease. “Not like I’m building a court case or anything. Hell, if you wanted to right now, you could probably get me disbarred—not that I give a shit anymore. Just saying, you used to be so much more careful. I couldn’t even be seen at your house, and now, you’re letting him stay here, shower here. He must feel real special.”

“I should call the police. And get you disbarred.”

Simon guffawed. “Yeah. Sure. Go ahead. I’ll make all sorts of noise if you do.”

“How do you know where I live?”

“Nice redheaded girl at your office.” He took a long gulp of whiskey from the bottle. “Told her I was an old friend, here to surprise you. Wasn’t she the sweetest? Didn’t know there were so many pretty, little things in Ohio.”

Isaac grabbed the bottle away from him. “Get out.”

“He went to Wisconsin, huh?”

Must have noticed the coffee mug.

Isaac said, “Stop making this about John.”

Simon crossed his shiny dress shoes on the coffee table. He always wore dress shoes, even now, when his clothes were a wreck and his black hair a mess in the back. “We’ve been talking in circles all day, Isaac. The thing that puts me at a loss is that I didn’t do anything to deserve your hate.”

Isaac shook his head. “I don’t hate you.”

“Really? You abandoned me, and now, you’re treating me like a stranger. You haven’t held me, kissed me. It doesn’t make me sad; it makes me livid.” His lip twitched, revealing his teeth. “Variables may have changed—geography and time—but those shouldn’t be enough to make you stop loving me. No, the biggest change is him, so I need to get rid of him.”

Isaac gawked. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

“Yes, and now, you need to listen.” He stood and poked a finger in Isaac’s chest. “I’m gonna tell the school about you and him.”

“Please, Simon—”

“Twenty-four hours.” His brows wrinkled over bloodshot eyes. “I’m giving you twenty-four hours, and you choose me and we get our life back. Or you choose him and ruin his.”

Isaac shook his head. “Either choice I make will ruin him.”

Simon took a huge breath and blinked his eyes wide. “Well, it sure is a shame after all he went through last year. I remember all the news coverage. Remember thinking he was cute.” With laughter like a cold breeze, he leaned close to Isaac and whispered, “You shouldn’t have left me.” Then, he was gone. Nothing but the scent of cigarettes betrayed his existence—that and the broken door.

Isaac slumped onto the sofa and finished the bottle of whiskey in twenty minutes. John would joke about being pissed it was gone, but Isaac supposed missing liquor was the least of their worries. Head floating, he stumbled into his bedroom and fell face-first into the pillow. Desperately, he sought to find just a bit of John’s sleep scent—that mix of earthiness and night sweat—but nothing. So he cried. He fell asleep gasping on his own snot, head pounding, and eyes burning with salt.

 

JOHN’S CLASSES STARTED late on Wednesday, so he wasn’t in Ellis Hall when Isaac arrived, but Meeks was, waiting by his office door. In an ugly business suit—a puke shade of green this time—she stood, arms crossed, cup of coffee in her hand. He wondered if she ever got headaches from wearing her hair tied back so tight.

“We need to talk.” She didn’t smile.

He unlocked the door and let her inside.

Meeks sat behind his desk like she owned the place, while Isaac sat in the cheap leather chair usually reserved for students. “I heard there was quite a tiff last night.”

Okay, so she was there to talk about the literary magazine, not Monday’s brawl. Breathe. “How did you know?”

“I don’t have spies at your meetings, if that’s what you’re asking. I have concerned students who have a right to be after last year.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

The chair squeaked when she leaned back into a tiny sliver of sun. “Janelle has always been unstable. Demi kept her in check. Now, it seems Anthony is doing his best to fill the void, but I still worry.”

Isaac folded his hands in his lap. “How nice of you.”

She grinned, shifting the too-much makeup on her face in a parody of emotion. “I know you don’t think very highly of me, Dr. Twain. I don’t think very highly of myself most days. I didn’t even want this job, but with Abby dead, I was most qualified. So now, I am trying to keep this fractured department together at any cost. I’m not here to make friends.” The chair creaked forward. “So, tell me. Do I have anything to worry about with Janelle?”

“I’ll have John check in with her.”

She clicked her tongue. “Because he’s the picture of stability.”

“They’re close,” he snapped. “I think she would tell him if something was wrong.”

“No, you’re right. I suppose the gays do stick together.”

He tried not to look horribly offended.

She poked at some student papers on his desk. “One other thing. I realize Tommy and John are reckless idiots, but aren’t you a little old for fistfights?”

Shit.

“Let me guess. Affair with a married woman and her husband found out?”

If only it were so simple. “It’s none of your business.”

Meeks smiled the way dogs do before they bite. “I’m your boss. Your whole life on campus is my business. Is the problem sorted?”

He thought about resigning right there, saving John the hell that might soon be coming, but he couldn’t get the words out. God, he was a coward. “It will be.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re friends with those madmen, but it would be nice if you could be a positive influence. Someone they can look up to.”

“If anyone should be looked up to, it’s John.”

She studied his face before humming. “We used to be friends, John and I. Good ones. Some would say we shared a similar entertaining ‘attitude problem.’ Then, Abby died, I became his boss, and we haven’t agreed on anything since.” She flipped one of Isaac’s pens around with her fingertips. “You would tell me if something was wrong with him. Wouldn’t you?”

If he was being honest, Meeks was the last person he would tell if he thought something was genuinely wrong with John. She seemed the sort to judge first, listen later, but he agreed just to get her the hell out of his office.

She did stand then, silhouetted against a dark window. The sun had gone, and storms threatened. “Just remember, Dr. Twain, I didn’t bring you here to cause trouble. No more on-campus drama. No more canceling classes. Try not to rock the boat.”

He nodded again. He was beginning to feel like a very tall bobblehead.

Once she was finally, blessedly gone, he almost broke the damn chair with the force of his slump. It was Elizabeth all over again—divorce, dishonesty, and the loss of everything good.

Like being caught in a waterfall, screaming all the way down.

His phone pinged, and he hoped it would be John, just a single word from John. Of course it was Simon because Isaac was in the waterfall, hurtling toward jagged rock. He landed with a bloody splat when he read John starting late today? and opened the attachment: a photo of John’s house.

 

SIMON’S CAR WAS parked outside, South Carolina plates, and Isaac heard the scuffle as soon as he walked in, although it was quiet—just fabric against fabric—until John said, “Stop,” and Isaac barreled into the kitchen. Simon had John trapped against the counter, hand buried in his hair and tugging. John’s chin pointed to the ceiling, fists pushing into Simon’s chest. John had never looked so damn small, and Isaac had never felt so angry.

He took a step closer but stopped when Simon pulled roughly on John’s hair. “Not another step, Isaac.”

“Simon, just let him go.”

John stayed perfectly still except for the rapid rising and falling of his chest, fingers clenched in the front of Simon’s shirt.

“I suppose I can see the appeal.” He studied John’s face. “Someone so delicate, easy to push around. Easy to get a real good grip on his hair.”

“Fuck off,” John whispered and shoved but might as well have been fighting a wall.

Simon only leaned closer until John was basically crushed against the sink, head tilted at an unnatural angle. “Nice lips. Wonder if they taste sweet.” He ducked down as if to give John a kiss, which was when Isaac moved—but apparently John had had quite enough, as well.

Despite being glued together from chest to knee, he managed to scrape a Converse-clad foot down the front of Simon’s shin. Simon yelled and fell back, which gave John enough space to punch him in the throat. It wasn’t a perfect punch, but it had enough force to make Simon choke and bend forward at the waist. John hid behind Isaac, and Isaac was only so happy to play shield as Simon wheezed.

“Well.” Simon laughed with no humor, a cold impression of joy. “Not so easy to push around then. Nice punch, John. Maybe I’ll press charges, just for fun.”

“You’re in my fucking house.” His voice shook, so Isaac reached back and grabbed his hand.

“I’m just kidding. I’d be in more trouble than you.” Simon rubbed the front of his neck. “We did have a nice chat, though. I told him about the baby, Isaac. Thought he might want to know.”

“Get out of my house,” John said. “If you ever come back, I’ll fucking murder you.”

“I might let you.” Simon itched his upper lip. His eyes went fuzzy as though his body remained but his mind left the room, revisiting happier times filled with Isaac’s now busted promises. He blinked back to reality. “Isaac, I took the liberty of making us dinner reservations for tonight. I’ll text you the details.” When he circled the island to leave, John noticeably stepped to the opposite side of Isaac. Before leaving, Simon said, “John Conlon. Jesus, I wish it was easier to hate you.”

As soon as the front door shut, Isaac reached for John’s face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, maybe?”

John had already been dressed for work when Simon arrived, so his light-blue chambray shirt was crooked and untucked under his corduroy blazer. Isaac tugged at both, lining things up, as though in fixing the fabric he could fix the situation.

“I didn’t know you knew self-defense,” Isaac said.

“I’m a loud-mouthed gay guy who looks like a girl. I’ve been getting in fights my whole life.”

He ran his thumbs across John’s cheeks and kissed his forehead again and again. “Why did you let him into your house? What were you thinking?” He tugged John closer and hugged him and kissed him.

“I thought we could talk. Isaac—hey, stop. You’re hurting me.”

“I…”

“Shh, calm down. Calm down.”

He buried his head against John’s shoulder and clung.

“Come here.” John guided Isaac to his bedroom and lay him down the center of the bed. He curled up at Isaac’s side and rested his head on his chest. Together, they breathed, slow and deep. After a long bit of silence that involved nothing but gentle caresses, John said, “The abortion wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was,” Isaac said.

“It was Elizabeth’s decision, not yours.”

“She made the decision after I told her I was gay and leaving her for a man. If that’s not a catalyst, I don’t know what is.”

John leaned up on his elbow. “You didn’t know she was pregnant.”

“It doesn’t matter. That child isn’t here because of me.”

“Isaac, what kind of world would you have brought it into?” John asked. “One of lies and infidelity where kids shoot each other?”

He pulled John’s face down and kissed both his cheeks. Isaac wanted to bathe in the familiar scent. “Are you saying the world should stop having children?”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“You’d be an amazing father.”

“No. Don’t say that.” He sat up, cross-legged, and stared down at his feet. “I can’t imagine you loving him.”

Isaac scooted up so his back rested against the headboard. “He wasn’t like this. I made him like this.”

“So what was he like?”

Did Isaac even remember? His time in Charleston, his time before John, seemed like an alternate reality lived by someone else. The memories were movie clips that scrolled through his brain, pictures of a time that belonged to a stranger. He had been the stranger, his whole life, until he had met this deceptively strong creative writing teacher who taught him how easy it could be to love and laugh. But he had loved Simon, too, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he? “Simon was handsome and confident and smart. So very Charleston—the accent and the style. He charmed me right away. For a long time, we would only see each other in the afternoon. Meet in hotels, that sort of thing. Then, when Elizabeth would go on archaeological digs, I would stay at Simon’s place. He would bring me breakfast in bed, these grits covered in butter.”

John patted Isaac’s tummy. “So you like men who cook.”

“Obviously. But more than that, Simon showed me something. He was openly gay. Everyone knew, and no one cared. I’d never been in a relationship with someone like that before. Hell, I’d never even known someone like that, not with my upbringing.”

“He showed you what was possible,” John said.

“Yes, but I also always knew he had a temper. Our fights used to be brutal, especially about Elizabeth. He hated that I didn’t love her anymore, but I stayed with her anyway. And the sex was…” He pressed fingers to his temple. “Looking back, I don’t know if we were ever making love, John. I think we were just fucking.”

John averted his gaze and plucked at the comforter. “Sometimes, you just need to fuck.”

“Do I ever make love to you?”

John blushed. “Yeah.”

“You can tell the difference?”

“Yes.” He climbed onto Isaac’s lap. “What’s going to happen at dinner tonight?”

“I think I’m going to quit my job.” He buried his face against John’s chest.

“No.” He tried pushing Isaac away but failed. “God, don’t. I’m not worth it.”

“Yes, you are,” Isaac said against the soft fabric of his shirt.

“No, I—”

Isaac put his hand over John’s mouth. “Stop it. I love you. Stop it.”

John hid his face against the side of Isaac’s neck. His stillness did not belie the fact that he cried.

 

STEPHEN’S WAS A block off Union. Isaac had never heard of the place because he and John never went on dates. They always ate at home, away from prying eyes. A bright, modern interior battled with the old-world scents of tomato and basil. Simon waited in a booth wearing a familiar navy-blue suit coat and shirt that had never looked so shabby.

A bottle of wine arrived as soon as Isaac sat. The waitress poured and smiled and talked about dinner specials when all Isaac could think about was running back to John, who he’d walked to campus in the rain earlier that day.

“Two plates of the pesto with chicken, please,” Simon said.

Sure, fine. Isaac didn’t want to eat but might as well get right to it.

Simon took a long sip of Cabernet.

“I’m quitting my job,” Isaac said.

Simon nodded as if he’d expected as much. He might have been mad, but he wasn’t stupid. “I understand what you see in him. He’s strong. Much stronger than me.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Is he okay?” Simon poked at the breadbasket.

“You scared him.”

His jaw clenched and relaxed. “I really did just go over there to talk, maybe make him see what a horrible person you are. Instead, I was horrible. I really wanted to hurt him.”

Thank God Isaac had arrived when he did. “If I quit my job, will you leave us alone?”

“You love him,” Simon said. “I saw it that first day in the classroom—the way you ran to him when he was scared. I’ve never seen you like that, not even with me. We were never like that.”

Isaac looked down and straightened his silverware. “Maybe I never thought you needed protecting.”

“We all need protecting.” Simon finished his wine and poured some more. “I think I was crazy to believe we’d work out. We’d been each other’s dirty secret for so long, and the thing about secrets is they lose their power once they’re told.”

Isaac blinked away the burning in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Simon.”

Simon wouldn’t look at him so instead observed the restaurant bar. “You seem happier here. More alive—which is messed up, considering this whole town is wearing a shadow. It’s like you can feel it, feel something bad happened.”

“Southern superstition rears its head.”

“No. It’s haunted here, and your sweetheart, I think he bears the brunt of it. You’re going to lose him to that eventually, you know.”

“To what?”

“The dark place.” Simon put his napkin on his lap. “I always just wanted you to be happy, Isaac. I don’t think that Yankee boy will make you happy forever, but I’m done with you. I’ve hurt enough, don’t you think?”

Isaac folded his hands, a prayerful petition. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve said that. Maybe someday I’ll believe you.” He grabbed a piece of bread and nibbled the edge. “Will you tell John I didn’t mean any harm?”

“I doubt he’ll want to hear it.”

Simon buttered the bread, methodically covering every edge, but didn’t eat. “One thing I’ve learned through all this, Isaac? About love.” He leaned his elbows on the table and looked like he might fall asleep or break down in tears. “The reality of love, it’s not wonderful. It’s living in fear every day of someone finding out what you really are.”

Isaac left before the food arrived.

It took much longer than usual for Isaac to reach the crest of the hill where John’s house waited, porch light lit. An unexpected weight clung to his back. Isaac opened the door without knocking and saw an obscure shape huddled against the foyer wall. The shape altered and moved until John emerged. Sitting a moment ago, he now stood, abandoning his whiskey glass on the tile floor.

Isaac turned on the light. Something about John in shadow—in that moment—actually frightened him.

“It’s over,” Isaac said.

The stricken look on John’s face made Isaac rapidly reconsider his words.

“I mean, Simon’s leaving. He’s going. He knows I love you, and he’s going. Our jobs are safe. You’re safe.”

“Are you sure?”

“He lost,” Isaac said. “He doesn’t like losing, but he knows how to gracefully accept defeat.”

John hugged himself. “It wasn’t a contest.”

“No. I didn’t mean that. He won’t bother us again, though, I promise.” He extended his hand. “Come here?”

John took quiet, shuffling steps forward until he could rest his cheek against Isaac’s chest. He swallowed John’s small frame in an aggressive embrace.

“Everything’s all right now,” he whispered into John’s hair.

A puff of laughter displaced the quiet. “All right?” John’s hands clung to the back of Isaac’s coat like claws. He wondered if the fabric might tear.