A deep breath. “Fine. I freaked out. I admit it. But you should have known not to bring him in my house.”
Clay grumbled something about ungrateful sons of bitches, then launched into a tirade. “Charliehelpedme get in so we could check on you. He bruised his shoulder trying to get the door open himself because he was concerned you might need help. He stayed there until I could get to you. And what the hell did you do? You treated him like dirt! He stood there while you told me to get him out of your house.”
“But—”
“No buts!” he shouted. “I’m sick to death of your buts and excuses. I don’t care how you treat me. I’ve known you long enough to understand what’s going on, but I had to apologize to Charlie, then try to explain to him why you’re… you.”
“So you went ahead and told him what happened to me?” I shouted as I gripped the arm of the chair. Bad enough my family thought I was a freak. I didn’t want Charlie to get that idea in his head. Not that my earlier performance would help dissuade him from that.
“What? God, no. That’s not my story to tell. I told him you were antisocial and had been since we were kids.”
“So, you’re saying he didn’t already know who I was?”
“No, he moved here about two years ago. He’s a writer, works from home. There are times he leaves town to go on a book tour and I’ve watered his plants. Charlie came back from the last tour about eight months ago. Since then, he’s been working in the library, helping out Mrs. Tennyson. She’s told me she hopes he’ll take her job when she retires.”
“That’ll never happen. She’s too ornery to retire.”
“She’s eighty-six. Doesn’t see too good out of her right eye. She suffers from dizzy spells, and more than once she’s been taken from the library or her home to be checked out for vertigo. The doctors don’t know if she has long left.”
The last time I went to the library, Mrs. Tennyson had talked to me about getting comics in. She thought more kids would show up if there was something to read that they might enjoy. She loved helping people find what they were looking for or something new. It was her who had given me the dog-eared copy ofMy Side of the Mountain. I’d read that thing hundreds of times since then. The binding had come loose and the pages weren’t in the best of shape, but I couldn’t get rid of that book. It held a special place in my collection, bound together by frayed rubber bands. At least once a year I would take it down and read it again. I never told anyone, but I came to love Mrs. Tennyson. I saw her as a surrogate grandmother, and though she denied it—probably because she had a reputation for being a grouch—I knew from her fond expressions that she held me in high regard.
She taught me there could be joy found in reading, and I took to it with a passion.My Side of the Mountainremained my favorite, but Mrs. Tennyson nudged me in the direction of other classic literature, such asTwenty Thousand Leagues Under the SeaandThe Time Machine. That started my collection of books, ones that remained with me to this day. I found safety in them, comfort when everything else became too overwhelming. Suffice it to say, after the incident I read a lot. Mom had told me Mrs. Tennyson asked after me, but I couldn’t go back to the library. She became another in the long list of people I’d failed.
“Tell him…. Tell him I’m sorry, okay?”
“Sure. But you need help, you have to know that.”
Yeah, hard to deny it. “When everyone leaves me alone, I’m fine.” Weak excuse, but true. Before Charlie came along, I enjoyed the peace and quiet. The memories never seemed so insistent when I had a routine to follow, a good book to read, and the solitude my place afforded me.
“No, you’re not. Mom wants to see you. When I told her what happened today, she got into the car to come out there. It wasn’t easy, but I convinced her not to come. You’re breaking her heart, you know.”
Fuck. Why did he have to pile the pressure on? Did he think I didn’t know how badly I hurt everyone else? That the memory of my mother’s tears as she watched me descend into my own nightmare had faded? Leaving home had been as much for them as for me. I couldn’t stand their looks of pity every time I needed to retreat to a safe spot.
“So, what? You’re going to go see Hamlin?”
“No, I gave my word. After today, I won’t say anything else. Just think about what I’ve said. Mrs. Tennyson asks about you, Mom wants to see you, and I….” I thought I heard him sniffle, and my stomach clenched. “I want my brother back. I have to go. I won’t call you anymore. If you want to talk, I’ll be happy to listen, but I can’t do this. I’ve watched you spiral down the drain my whole life, and I can’t sit back and pretend it doesn’t hurt. Goodbye, Matt.”
“Wait!” I shouted, but he’d already disconnected. My finger poised over the dial pad, ready to call him back, but to what end? I couldn’t change who I was any more than he could. Clay didn’t see it that way, though. He thought if I tried harder, my world would be sunshine and roses. Even Rob had told me I would always have issues. He could teach me coping methods, but he couldn’t make it go away. Who I was now? That was the person I would be for the rest of my life. I had to accept it, but apparently they didn’t.
Instead of ruminating on it, I forced myself to get up, trudge to my room, and lie down. I pulled the covers over me and went back to sleep. The problems had been there for thirteen years. I had no doubt they’d still be there tomorrow.
THE SUNstreamed through my open bedroom door far too early the next morning. I tried to not open my eyes, but my larks were in good form, warbling away. I glanced over at the clock and wondered once again why I bothered to have one. Almost ten. I hadn’t slept so long or hard in years. I pulled the covers up to my chin, rolled over, and tried to go back to sleep. A moment later I sat bolt upright. Almost ten. Would Charlie run by the house today? It seemed unlikely after yesterday, but I slid out of bed and made my way to the window. The urge to be outside to see him clearly tugged at me, but instead I went to the bookcase and grabbed my copy ofMy Side of the Mountain. I took a seat in the chair where I could read in peace but see outside. Not an ideal solution, but it calmed me knowing that I could still see Charlie—assuming he jogged by.
By quarter after, he hadn’t passed by the house. I couldn’t focus on the words I had intended to read, as one ran into the other. I lost my place so many times, I gave up even trying. Once the rubber band was back in place and the book safely returned to the shelf, I made a circuit through the house, touching everything, before I went outside. A heavy, muggy feeling descended, which left me damp in a matter of moments. Though likely it had been the humidity that kept him from running, my mind still played all manner of games, until I’d convinced myself I had chased him away, which was probably the best for my continued peace. So now that I had what I wanted, why wasn’t I happy?
I walked down the path that led to my tiny toolshed and picked up my small spade to turn over the ground in my flower bed. I rounded the corner to the front of the house, knelt down in the rich soil, and began to prepare the ground for winter, making sure I fertilized the area where my bulbs would be placed for their long winter’s nap. Yard work always calmed me, made me feel one with the world. After five minutes, I dropped the trowel, then slumped to the ground, unable to concentrate on one of the things that had always brought me peace.
Then I heard the familiarslap-slap-slapof rubber soles on the dirt road. My heart raced, though my mind believed it to be an illusion brought about by want. When the staccato beat drew closer and the sounds of panted breaths reached my ears, I stood and headed for the front door. Determined not to allow myself to hope, I decided retreat would be the better option—hide until Charlie left, and then try to find my rhythm again. But I wanted to see him more than I ever thought could be possible. To watch as his chest expanded while it drew in air, to delight in the small brown pebbled nipples, partially hidden beneath a dusting of hair, to remember what desire felt like. It didn’t matter if Charlie was gay or straight. He was the first real man I’d seen in the flesh, and I enjoyed the view. His body was so unlike that of the developing guys in the shower. It held curves and planes that aroused me and made me wonder what else lay hidden beneath his skimpy shorts.
After the incident, my body really didn’t respond like it used to. Before that, a stiff breeze would cause a stiffness of my own. Fortunately we had two bathrooms in the house, because I spent a lot of time in one of them. Then Mr. Jackson happened. After that, I rarely had an erection, and when I did, it seldom lasted. Sixteen years old, and I should have had callouses on my hand. Instead I had memories of a smell that permeated my mind, which killed my mood better than a dozen cold showers. When I’d seen Charlie, though? God, the ache in my balls reminded me of how long it had been since I touched myself for anything other than washing or using the bathroom.
He rounded the bend, and I couldn’t breathe. My legs refused to work, despite the fact that I willed them to run. Instead they held me hostage as he neared my property. His hand went up a little, then dropped to his side. He turned his gaze to the road, watching his feet. Tight bands encircled my chest and squeezed. I’d done that to him, made him uncertain, unsure if being friendly would be the wrong thing to do.
And while it went against everything in me, I said, “Hello.”
He stopped, still maintaining a slow cadence as he cooled down. “Hey, Matt. I… is it okay if I’m here?” Charlie asked, a slight quaver in his voice.
Was it? He’d certainly made himself a part of my world. Seeing him today had calmed an ache in my stomach because I’d expected him to be there. Hell, Ineededhim to be there for my own peace of mind.
