For a moment—God forgive me—I considered it. Ponderously weighed the pros and the cons of telling him exactly how I felt. Letting him know, right there, right then, that I would stand by him no matter what. That I would accept being—remaining—secret. That I would fold myself, shrink my bruised ego enough so it could eventually fit into the fine margins of his suddenly sanctioned life.
But beneath my nobility, my temptation to play the heroiclover, was something darker: fear. The crippling fear of seeing him torn to bits, piece by piece, by the avalanche of rejection, and knowing, deep down, that I—Victor Mutuku—caused it. Let it happen.
The morbid fear of losing him.
Being lonely. Being alone.
* * * *
Love, I finally realized sometime that very night, can stay alive—survive very harsh climatic conditions, much like the cactus; but then it would be compelled to morph into something else entirely. Some new tree, prickly and unsightly.
I leaned closer and spoke quietly.
“Marv, I know you’re awake,” I said. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
He didn’t turn. But his breathing stuttered somewhat.
“I love you,” I continued. “I’m here—I’m not leaving you tonight. But I can’t decide your life for you. And I can’t pretend—smile, or wish this particularly stinky situation away.”
The words stung, no doubt; but they hung between us a while, fragile but necessary.
Marcus Gitau disappeared, went very still.
I didn’t rush to soothe him. I didn’t backtrack.
I did the next best thing—I let the truth take charge; boldly permitted it to stand on its own two firm feet, right there in the dark, as though it were some ambitious toddler that was finally done crawling.
The Heart Does Not Forget by Mere Rain
David hated hospitals more each time he was called to one, which was all too often. Knowing his way around was absolutely not a worthwhile silver lining, but at least he made it to Arlo’s room in minimum time.
“David!” Arlo called, holding out a hand.
David froze for a second in surprise, then hurried to Arlo’s bedside to clasp his husband’s hand in his own.
“Where’s Axel? Is he okay?” Panicking, Arlo tried to sit up, but the nurse held him in place.
“I’m told your brother is out of the country,” she said, glancing at David.
He nodded. It was ironic, after so many dangerous escapades with his brother, helping Axel film his travel-adventure vlogExtreme Everything, that Arlo had been injured in a simple car accident on an icy road two miles from home.
“Out of the country? Wait, you sound American. Aren’t we in Mexico?”
David swallowed. “No,” he said slowly. “We finished filming in Mexico. We’re home.”
“Minneapolis?” Arlo frowned, then winced. “My head hurts. When did we get back?”
Mexico was months ago. “We’ve been here for a bit, preparing for the wedding. Axel and Ashley?”
“Right. I remember now. You have to give a speech. Glad it’s not me. I feel like crap.”
The speech had been delivered, the vows said, the cake cut. Ten days ago.
“The doctor is on his way,” the nurse said. “As soon as he’s talked to you, I can give you something for the pain, okay, honey?”
Once the doctor had come and shone his flashlight inArlo’s eyes and approved pain killers, he ordered a brain scan and drew David aside.
“Mr. Brooks seems confused. That’s not unusual—”
