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“Okay, well,” I said, not allowing there to be any silence between us. I didn’t want there to be any quiet time to think about my tattoo or my mother or any of that shit. “I just gave you a boatload of information,” I said, unfurling my body. “Your turn, tell me something I don’t know about you.”
“I don’t have any tattoos,” Vic said.
“I know that, smart ass,” I replied. I’d seen him naked plenty of times, thank you very much.
“Remember when you came over for dinner the first time?” Vic asked.
“Vividly,” I said. He’d thrown dishes, I’d cut up my body, and the next day Vic had given me the best orgasm of my life. Well, that is until he’d given me more orgasms. Vic had the habit of giving me the best orgasm of my life every time.
“My mother called to tell me that my father died,” Vic said. His face was a mixture of emotions: sad, angry, joyous, and at last, nothing.
I crawled to him to offer comfort, but he wanted none of it. He shooed me away as he continued the story. “She wanted me to come to the funeral. She said he would have wanted it.”
I nodded, not really understanding.
“When I told her no, she called me ungrateful. She said their lives would have been better if they had never adopted me.”
I gasped. What a horrible thing to say to a person. I hugged him, and this time he didn’t push me off. He was like a statue underneath my touch, unmoving.
I told him, “She didn’t mean it, Vic, she was wracked with grief.”
“No,” Vic said. “I think she did mean it.” He didn’t elaborate why he felt that way, but underneath his words some horrible explanation lurked. An explanation that I knew would be untrue but, born from his shitty childhood, would always be the truth to him. I wanted to comfort him; I wanted to assure him that he was loved unconditionally.
Vic wouldn’t hear it. Vic was convinced he was unlovable.
It was sweltering.
I walked in to our apartment and felt the heat immediately, like a hot slap to the face. After meeting for lunch with Lissie and Zoe, I expected to come home and find the apartment empty. Vic was usually gone duri
ng the days, doing what army commando guys do I guess.
He never gave me any information about the “threat.” I pressed him and pressed him, usually after sex. It was manipulative, I know, but I don’t mind getting a little dirty to get what I want. It doesn’t matter, though, because Vic lives in dirt. He’s used to it. I never got what I wanted.
I started snooping when he left the house. I have so much free time now and somedays my nightmare memories plague me more than I would like, keeping me locked in Vic’s apartment, afraid to leave. So I snoop. I look for clues as to what Vic is really doing and to what the threat really is. Because, honestly, I don’t believe the little bits and pieces he tells me.
“People are out to get you, Lenny,” he says.
“What people?” I ask.
“Bad people. People in my line of work.” And that’s all he gives me. He closes up, walks away, and leaves me guessing. I examine every corner of the house when he leaves for the day, and it always turns up clean. Not just Vic clean, but “threat” clean.
It was about one in the afternoon, a time when Vic is usually gone, so imagine my surprise when I walked in to the apartment to find the thermostat was set to ninety degrees. I didn’t even know it could go that high. Live and learn, I guess. I turned it down to a reasonable level, seventy, and stomped off to find Vic.
When I found Vic, I snapped “You know how I get about heat.” I hated it when it was too hot—inside or out. That’s why I loved Santa Barbara, perfect weather year round.
“Actually, no, I don’t, but I’m quickly discovering,” Vic mumbled.
I eyed him down. Now that the heat was starting to dissipate into cold air blowing from the vents, my brain was returning to normal functioning levels. Vic was lying on the bed, blankets galore covering him. For the first time ever, he looked vulnerable. Something was wrong.
I walked to him, carefully. “Vic, what’s wrong?” I asked, rubbing his head. Sweat drenched his forehead. He had a fever.
“Nothing,” Vic responded, doing his best to sound firm.
I almost laughed. Even sick he tried to take control.
“You’re sick,” I replied matter-of-factly.
“Am not,” Vic snapped.
