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My childhood was about building walls around myself for self-preservation. The problem with doing that was that others couldn’t see through or over them. What felt safe was actually the opposite. Others couldn’t feel safe if you were closed off to them.
But how could I tear down walls I’d spent years building? Unexpected tears fell from my eyes. It’d been a while since I cried. Even the tears had dried up, much like my outlook on life. I didn’t want this existence. I had something to give and wanted to truly feel what being in love meant.
Swiping at my eyes, I focused on a lone surfer in the distance. He wasn’t surfing as much as he sat across his board, staring into the distance. As quickly as I blinked, he was gone. I quickly stood up, frantically trying to locate the stranger, but he was simply gone.
I rubbed my eyes and kept watching the water, hoping the person was there. Had I imagined the figure? Even though it was nearly eighty degrees, my skin gave way to tremors as chills raced down my spine.
“Jesus, Cole. Get a grip,” I mumbled, still scanning the horizon.
Suddenly a bare-chested man was walking to shore, board in hand. As soon as I spotted him, he faded into the mist.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Chad
Eighteen Months Ago
When the trial for the assailants who’d nearly killed Clint and Lucas had ended, where each was awarded five million dollars, my life with Clint began. We had fallen for one another during his and Lucas’s recoveries. Spending long days together as I assisted Clint with his physical therapy had bonded us. I soon realized I loved him and wanted to be with him.
I knew that Clint’s gay experience was limited to one sexual contact with Lucas, so being understanding regarding him living as a gay man was front and center for me. I was aware there could be issues, but figured our love would overcome any trials we’d surely encounter.
When Lucas re-opened the gas station as its new owner, I joined him briefly to assist with the grand opening. He and I had become like brothers. We shared a bond that neither quite understood, but we became close when he and Clint were hospitalized. I think he began to see me as someone other than competition for Perry.
However, it wasn’t long before Clint and I decided to both attend college at The University of South Carolina, where I’d been enrolled before the excitement of the past two years began. We moved to Columbia and lived in a cute apartment near campus. In the beginning, our love grew as we settled into life as a couple.
We both had full-time classes. Him getting his prerequisites for an architecture degree, and me finishing my bachelor’s in business. At first, things were great. We worked out together at the campus gym, cooked and studied together, and had tons of fulfilling sex, but as time went on, Clint began to crawl into a shell.
There was no other way to explain his behavior. I thought perhaps he was dealing with aftershock from his experience of being shot and nearly dying. I tried to get him to tell me what the change was about and how I could help. The more I asked, the more he resisted. The quiet started to hurt our communication.
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he said.
“But I want to help, baby,” I pleaded.
That was how our usual conversations regarding the subject went. Then, because Clint was a quiet man by nature, he’d get quieter and more distant, shutting me out completely after two months of arguing about our problems.
The trouble for me was that I didn’t know what exactly the problem was. I prided myself on being understanding and finding enough love to love us through anything, but when you don’t have all the information, our arguments were like pushing strings up a hill for me. I was confused by his sudden lack of interest in us.
After a couple more months of no intimacy and me practically frantic, trying to decipher his actions, I began to notice that our closeness, the natural intimacy that we’d shared in the privacy of our apartment, was fading as well.
Clint was not a demonstrative man in public. I understood that about him and gave him a break even though in the beginning we did go to gay bars where he seemed to enjoy himself, but the instant we exited the doors of the bar, he’d move away like we were two college dudes just hanging out.
“Why do you do that?” I’d asked as we walked to his truck.
“There are people around,” he admonished.
“But this is a college town, Clint. We are pretty much safe around here. Besides, who’s going to mess with you?”
“I don’t like how it looks.”
“You don’t like how we look, is what I’m hearing,” I replied.
“I don’t wanna be labeled as gay, Chad. You’ve always been like that, but I haven’t, so back off about it.”
“But we are gay,” I stated. “We are a couple, Clint.”
As usual, he was done discussing the issue. That night was followed by too many other similar situations. As time went by, we stopped going out publicly, let alone to a gay bar where we had been able to hold hands, kiss, and generally act like a couple. He wanted to stay home, began working out alone, and basically sidelined me as his partner.
I spoke with friends and my parents, read information on coming out, and did everything I could to make the adjustment easier for him. He wouldn’t accept that he was in any way responsible for what was happening to our relationship.
I had long-held beliefs that Clint was my destiny. I believe in things like the universe speaking to me and that is important to my psyche. Clint had needed me before. I wanted to be there for him because I sensed a lost soul desperate for love. I would and could be that for him. That was my job.
