Chapter Fourteen

JOHN CALLED IT “Loser Thanksgiving.” In other words, it was John’s Thanksgiving celebration for those unfortunates either without family nearby or, conversely, with family they didn’t like. From Isaac’s point of view, though, no one was losing anything at John’s Thanksgiving party because not only was John cooking but he was also being cute. For instance, he currently stood in the kitchen by the open fridge, holding the last pumpkin beer of the season.

“Give that to me, Conlon.” Adam, in a very Ramones-type getup of leather pants and black tee, extended his hand.

“I don’t know, man.” John wrinkled his nose. “I was thinking I might just pour it down the sink. One for my homies.”

Football fans cheered from the living room where the Green Bay Packers played…someone. Isaac didn’t care.

“John.” Adam took a cautious step forward. “Put the beer down.”

Tommy nudged Isaac as they watched the showdown, standing safely in the space between football and food with a nice view of the backyard, which was sadly getting deader by the moment. Without the leaves, Lothos had become a graveyard of grim trees—sharp fingers reaching out to grab hair, jackets, and sky.

“Maybe I’ll just drink it myself.” John flipped the lid with a bottle opener and took a sip. “Fuck, I am going to miss this.”

“That’s it.” Adam lunged, and although John tried to juke out of his way, Adam’s wingspan covered his entire escape route. John attempted a run in the other direction, but Adam latched onto the back of his sweater—an atrocious thing decorated with a rainbow turkey—and dragged a laughing John back into his arms. Maybe Adam was a little handsy while they tussled, but it was just Adam. Isaac had met the guy several times by then. Flirting with John was his part-time job, but he never tried to go further. They’d slept together once, and although sleeping with John only once would have killed Isaac, it seemed the two friends had just needed to get it out of their systems.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting jealous,” Tommy said.

“No. It’s just how they are.”

Tommy drank IPA from a mug. Isaac could smell the piney hops from where he stood, over the scent of turkey in the oven. “I hear things are getting pretty serious in your forbidden tryst.”

Isaac shook his head. “We’re not from dueling families in Verona, Tommy.”

“You’re skyping with his parents tomorrow.”

He watched John pour the pumpkin beer into two equal portions. Under the recessed kitchen lights, the little, round cups glowed like jack-o’-lanterns. “Well, I am going home with John for Christmas. I suppose they want to make sure I’m not a psychopath.”

Tommy sighed. “But psychopaths look like everyone else.”

He tilted his chin down and glared at Tommy from under his brows.

“I’ll put in a good word for you. John’s hot mom trusts my opinion.” He tugged at the front of his Ohio State sweater as though adjusting a tie. “What about your family? Aren’t they going to want to see you for the holidays?”

Isaac swished a bit of scotch around his mouth before swallowing. “They haven’t spoken to me since I came out.”

“What? Assholes.”

“Not exactly.”

Ten feet away, John and Adam chopped vegetables at the island. Meanwhile, Sasha the drag queen—dressed in full regalia for the occasion—stood behind and braided pieces of John’s hair.

“My parents are conservative Southern Catholics,” Isaac said. “Not only did their son come out as gay, but he also divorced his wife amidst massive scandal. It was too much to ask for them to stand by me.”

“Bullshit. They’re cowards.”

“It wasn’t—”

“Nope. I will not stand here and listen to you defend your asshole family.” He clinked his beer against Isaac’s glass. “You’ve got a new family now. A bunch of gays, drag queens, and bitter singles.”

Isaac would not get choked up. He would not. “Thanks, Tommy.”

“No problem.”

“Speaking of family, shouldn’t you be with yours in Columbus?”

Tommy shuddered and pulled his chin back until it almost disappeared into his neck. “Yeah, because I want to spend the day listening to my brother-in-law talk about computer engineering and how pot should be legal. I mean, it should be; I just don’t want to debate over dinner. Then, my aunt will get too drunk and call my mom a whore. Yep, sounds fabulous. Plus, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but John makes the best food.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Of course, you have.” He poked Isaac in the side. “Dating John, how are you not fat? Oh, right, because you run two million miles every day.” He wandered off toward the football game, so Isaac joined the kitchen crowd.

“John, do you need help?”

He looked up, half his head in braids. “You don’t know how to cook.”

“I could peel a potato?”

John snorted, and Adam pointed a paring knife. “Do not snot in the food!”

“You could snot all over me, baby.” Sasha smirked and kept playing with John’s hair. Her red sequined dress shimmered as a club mix played quietly from John’s cell phone, his iTunes set to shuffle. She rolled her hips left to right—right against John’s ass. “Come on, baby.”

“No, I’m the chef, I—”

“Dance break!” Adam announced. He put down his knife and, instead of grabbing John, went right for Isaac. “Come on, big boy!”

Isaac just had time to put his drink down before being dragged into the living room. The reorganization was practically choreographed. Someone muted the football game. Someone else turned on the stereo. The coffee table was moved while Tommy, for his part, hid against a wall. As soon as a salsa beat started up, people hooted and hollered. John, despite being a foot shorter than Sasha, spun the drag queen and led her across the floor.

Adam put Isaac’s hands in the right places. “I heard Cleo taught you how to do this, so just pretend I have tits.”

True, Cleo had been the first to teach him, but John had perfected. They’d spent quite a few nights lately dancing around John’s living room—but not surrounded by people. Isaac looked down at his feet for just a second to make sure he had the count and then did his best to lead a smiling Adam around the room. Even though Adam was a beanpole like John, Isaac wasn’t used to leading someone his own height. At least he didn’t step on any toes.

When the first song ended, everyone clapped, but another song started right away—a slow jitterbug. Adam reached for Isaac again, but John got in the way.

“Mind if I cut in?”

Adam rolled his eyes. “You would.”

There was no way Isaac could hide their familiarity, not while dancing. He’d never cared for the activity before, hadn’t seen much point. There were steps and songs and movements—but why? It just seemed like a lot to learn with no benefit.

Well, he understood dancing now. It was closeness and connection, foreplay with hips and hands. With John, dancing was a shared sway that almost always ended in bed.

“Damn, Isaac!” Adam hooted. “You’ve got moves.”

Sasha snapped her fingers in the air, and John pressed the top of his head against Isaac’s chest and laughed.

 

“OH, MY GOD. I’m never eating again.” With the TV on mute, they all heard the sound of Tommy’s stomach gurgling.

By then, it was just the three of them: Tommy, John, and Isaac. Which was why it was okay for John to be sitting between Isaac’s legs on the floor while Isaac slowly untangled all the braids from his hair.

“I think he’s hypnotized,” Isaac said.

Tommy leaned forward and squinted. “John, quack like a duck.”

“Quack.”

“Give me a hundred bucks.”

“Fuck off.”

“Not hypnotized.” Tommy leaned back and sipped from a tiny glass—one of a special set John reserved for “digestif.” According to John, it was a French after-dinner tradition to drink a magic liqueur that aided digestion. That night’s selection tasted of sweet pear. “Dinner was amazing, as usual. I can’t believe you made turkey and duck.”

“It was easy.” He leaned his forehead against the side of Isaac’s knee.

“Says Sleeping Beauty.” The braids loosened, he put his fingers in John’s hair and ruffled the locks free. “You look like you’re going to an eighties prom.”

John groaned and stood, stretching his arms over his head. No matter that he’d put away enough food to kill a cow, the trim bit of stomach revealed was flat as usual. “I’m going to bed. Tommy, you can stay as long as you want.”

“I’ll probably join everyone at the bars once I finish my tiny drink.” He held up the tiny glass.

John leaned down and gave Tommy a hug. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You too.”

John shuffled toward the hall.

“Be there in a bit,” Isaac said. When he realized he was checking out John’s ass, he looked back toward the TV but felt Tommy watching him.

“You do make him really happy.”

Isaac sighed, full on food and love. “Well, he makes me very happy too.”

“You might want to decide what you’re going to tell the school before your wedding.”

Isaac smirked and closed his eyes. “Jesus. Yeah.”

The light from the TV reflected off Tommy’s glasses, hiding his eyes. “And I think people are starting to notice.”

He sat up straight. “What? What people?”

“Well, Adam, for one,” he said on a laugh. “And I quote, ‘Wonder if Isaac eye fucks him that hard in bed.’”

He grumbled. “Anyone else?”

“No, Cleo’s clueless. She should have that word on a T-shirt.” Tommy studied the glass in his hand. “Just be a little more careful.”

Isaac yawned, having caught the tired bug from John. “Pretty sure Janelle is onto us.”

“Yeah, thanks to her wildly inappropriate relationship with John, she sees right through the guy. They’re like two hipster-goth peas in a pod.”

“She knew John and I had crushes on each other before we did.”

“Crushes?” Tommy winced. “I know we work with kids, but you are way too old to have a crush on someone.”

“But she was right: that’s what it was. I did have a crush on John.”

“You and everybody else.” He finished his drink like it was some huge pour of scotch and not a sweet treat.

“Tommy. Thanks for looking out. Seriously.”

“No worries.” He stood. “I’m off. Good luck meeting the parents tomorrow. Word of warning, John and his mom go off on tangents in French, and it’s…” He considered the ceiling. “Sexy as hell, honestly. Woman is a minx. I’m just waiting for his dad to die in some freak accident so I can move in.”

“That’s terrible.”

“You haven’t seen Mrs. Conlon.”

Isaac walked him to the door. They shared a hug before Tommy walked off into the night, whistling. With the earlier help of guests, the kitchen shined. Isaac turned off the lights before washing up and slipping into bed. John immediately cooed and rolled over, nuzzling his face under Isaac’s chin like a cat.

 

ISAAC AGREED TO meet with John, Anthony, and Janelle prior to their Tuesday night meeting to discuss cover art for Being Frank. They’d received quite a few submissions—good submissions—but it felt so heavy, choosing the look of their controversial magazine. The entire staff would be involved later that night, but for the time being, it was just the four of them.

Well, Anthony was late.

They stood around a big desk, staring at ink drawings and paintings and prints from graphic design students. It felt like every medium was represented, even photography, although those felt almost too real, especially one in particular—a mash-up of photos from that day, including a smiling photograph of Chris Frank.

John ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Fuck.”

“Language,” Isaac prompted.

“Shit. Sorry, Janelle.”

She ran her fingertips over a splotch of dried red paint. Free-flowing black hair hid most of her face. “Just cuss in French. Then, nobody will know what you’re saying.”

John said something in French under his breath. He didn’t sound like his mom. He spoke French with an American accent, according to her.

Sunday’s Skype call had gone way easier than imagined. Sure, John had prefaced the whole thing by saying, “Don’t be awkward,” but Isaac concluded John had actually been talking to himself because his parents hadn’t said much to Isaac. They hadn’t pushed or prodded or mentioned any sort of age difference or questioned their jobs.

In fact, when the call had first come through, John’s mother had said, “Oh, he’s so handsome!” She was indeed beautiful, as Tommy had said, and spoke with an adorable accent Isaac had only heard in movies. There had been a mixture of French and English throughout. John’s dad mostly smiled or rolled his eyes—must be hereditary—but their adoration for their only child had been palpable. They had waved and blown kisses. They’d asked Isaac for his Christmas list. When Mrs. Conlon—“Call me Maddy, please”—had started crying before hanging up, Isaac saw the resemblance. John did look just like her.

“This is going to be harder than I thought,” John said.

Isaac nodded. “Who knew we’d get so many submissions?”

“And they just keep coming.” John looked over his shoulder at the clock above the door. “Where’s Anthony?”

Janelle picked up a photo of College Green and stared. She took a couple pieces of art with her and sat in a chair at the front of the room.

They heard the skid of Anthony’s shoes before he came running in at a trot. “Dude, you aren’t going to believe the shit I just heard.”

John glanced back at Isaac, smiling, waiting for some comment about language, but Isaac would not give him the satisfaction.

“Well, it better be good considering you’re twenty minutes late.”

“I had to meet with my faculty advisor before this, and I was walking through the offices when I heard Meeks.” Anthony tugged off his hat, and his huge hair expanded like a marshmallow in the microwave. “She was talking to someone about censoring books with violence. Like banning them from the program.”

John’s right eye twitched.

Isaac tapped his fist on the desk as if that would be enough distraction. “John.”

John took a deep breath and audibly exhaled through his nose as his hands curled into fists. He closed his eyes and dug his teeth into his bottom lip.

“John,” Isaac said. “Not your fight.”

He whined and opened one eye to look at Isaac.

“But it is our fight, Dr. Twain,” Anthony said. “Fight against oppression.”

There was no way Isaac was stopping this. Book banning was up there as one of John’s most hated things, along with the Carpenters, instant coffee, and light beer. It probably topped the list, tied with homophobia. Isaac knew John had gone to Washington, DC, years ago to protest censorship; he’d gone there again most recently with Janelle and Demi to speak out against hate crimes. Now, this. Censorship in his own school? Isaac almost felt sorry for Meeks.

“Just don’t make it a screaming match,” Isaac said.

“Duly noted. You and Janelle stay here and be brilliant. Anthony, into battle.”

Anthony fist pumped and followed John out into the hall.

Skinny as he was, Isaac had no idea where John stored all his passion. Maybe he had an empty leg. It would certainly explain his alcohol tolerance.

Isaac grabbed a stack of art and sat at the desk next to Janelle. She wasn’t flipping through the cover designs; she just stared at one—the photographic mash-up of the school, the shooting, and Chris Frank’s face.

“You’re fucking, you and John.”

It felt like a slap to the face. “Jesus, Janelle.”

“It’s okay. You’re both adults.”

“When you talk to me like this, it makes me really uncomfortable. I am your teacher, an authority figure. I’m not your friend.”

“I don’t think John knows the difference, do you?”

Isaac had the urge to get the hell out of there, maybe join John in his battle against book banning, but Janelle kept talking.

“He was nice. Chris. Kind of weird, but quiet. He latched onto John because John didn’t think of him differently, didn’t think he was weird. I remember some kids were giving Chris shit one day in workshop. They were saying how boring his work was, and John said, ‘If you’re bored, you’re boring.’” She poked at the photo. “He said it’s up to our imaginations, when we write or read, to paint the image. Imagination is a powerful thing, for better or worse.” She tugged on her earring until the skin of her ear drooped. “John is the only one who could have stood up that day—the only one Chris would have listened to. I imagine that’s what bothers John the most.”

“What?”

“He’s a writer. And he didn’t use the right words.” She scraped a jagged nail against the photo and left a mark. “Demi and I were together for two years. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“I first kissed her in the stairwell between the second and third floors of Ellis. She had a tongue ring, and I just wanted to see what it was like. I didn’t mean to get attached.”

A familiar sentiment.

“When was the first time you kissed John?”

Isaac shook his head. “I can’t tell you that, Janelle.” So they sat in silence, mulling over stacks of images that represented lost love, broken dreams, and death.

 

SOMETIMES, ISAAC THOUGHT it strange that his hips should fit so perfectly between John’s thighs, considering their difference in size. During lovemaking, he occasionally stopped everything just to wrap his palms around John’s slim waist and press his thumbs to the tender spot where hip met thigh. John always laughed when he did that and said, “I won’t break, you big oaf.” John would then paw at him until the kissing recommenced.

There was nothing playful about that night, no laughing interspersed between John’s cracking voice. Outside the bedroom, his voice was rarely anything but strong and steady—even when overtaken by emotion. In the bedroom, that same voice went every which way, from high to low, breaking, shaking.

He wound his arms around Isaac’s shoulders and his legs around his hips. He pulled him in for kiss after kiss until Isaac’s mouth tasted more like John’s than his own.

Their bodies flowed against each other, and Isaac gasped when John moved his hips in that certain way. John was not a good lover; he was an excellent lover. He observed, learned, and improved every time they touched. Isaac hadn’t known about the sensitivity of his right earlobe until John. He’d never had someone climb on top of him and kiss his back, lick up his spine. He’d never had someone give and give. If he could, he imagined John would give away his skin and bones to make Isaac happy.

Hot breath against Isaac’s face. “Where’d you go?”

“I’m here.” He pressed his thumb to John’s bottom lip until he opened and sucked.

Wet with saliva, Isaac ran his thumb down the center of John’s neck. His Adam’s apple bounced as he passed. Isaac stared at the pale skin there, with just a smattering of tiny freckles. He rested his palm across that tantalizing flesh.

“You can squeeze, you know, if you want.” Based on the way John chewed his lips, he liked the idea—the idea of being choked. Just something new they might try.

But Isaac pulled away and shook his head. “No.” He leaned back, dizzy all of a sudden.

The bed shifted as John sat up. “I know why you touch me there.”

Isaac lilted to the side and moved his legs, no longer straddling John’s hips. Sitting naked on the edge of the bed, he dragged his hands through his sweaty hair.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asked.

“How could you ask me to choke you after…”

When Isaac didn’t continue, John grabbed his hand roughly and twisted his wrist. Isaac gasped in protest—but John did not relent. He pressed Isaac’s palm against his neck until Isaac’s fingers grasped the vulnerable skin.

“Feel my pulse?”

It throbbed beneath Isaac’s grip.

“He didn’t pull the trigger.”

“He could have,” Isaac whispered.

“This part of my body is not sacred. It doesn’t deserve worship.”

“All of you deserves worship.” Isaac tried to take his hand back, but John held tight.

“Sometimes you stare at this place like you’re expecting to see blood. You have to stop.” He dipped his chin and looked up from under his eyelashes. Isaac had seen that look before; John used it whenever he was trying to win an argument, probably because he knew it made him look like a wolf with a very good point.

“It’s ridiculous,” Isaac said, more to himself than to John. “I wasn’t even here when it happened, but I think about it almost every day—think about what life would be like if I’d never met you.”

John sighed and finally released Isaac’s hand from around his throat. “Probably a lot fucking easier.”

“But not half as interesting.” He crawled back onto the bed and hovered.

John rested his hands on Isaac’s chest. “Are we good?”

“Just because I have a morbid obsession with your neck doesn’t mean I don’t also find it incredibly attractive.” He stuck the tip of his tongue right into the notch between John’s collarbones.

John arched into the touch. “Maybe we should get the honey.”

Isaac leaped from the bed in a rush for the kitchen. The only sounds were that of his bare feet on tile and John’s quiet laughter.