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That had been the last night he’d seen Phillip until now. Sure, they’d texted or they’d talked on the phone, but it’d always been brief. It wasn’t like it was after March 2012, when there had been police and press and flyers and walking in a line with a hundred other people through the sparse woods at the park, shouting ALICE. ALICE. ALICE.
And it certainly wasn’t like before, with their staycations, when they’d find time to leave their lives behind just for a few days, where there wouldn’t be phone calls or meetings with editors or anything that could distract them. It was dangerous, sure, and maybe it made them a little complacent, but they had this. It was theirs.
Before last summer, it’d been stilted and awkward, both of them trying not to press against old wounds. David tried not to think back to the boozy third year, when it was beginning to end. The words that were said. The accusations made, hurled like grenades, not caring where they landed or who would be caught in the blast. Things that could never be taken back, no matter how much David had wanted to. He’d lashed out because he hadn’t known what else to do. The boozy third year came to an end and started the year of the false smiles that were so brittle, the smallest of things could crack them right down the middle. Phillip had seen through all of it.
And now, here he was, standing behind David, and all he needed to do was turn around and see him. That’s all he needed to do.
Matteo was still there, looking back and forth between them, brow slightly furrowed as if his powers as a clairvoyant bartender were consuming him, telling him all the secrets of the men before him.
David forced a smile on his face, pushing everything else aside. It wasn’t as fragile as it used to be. It felt foreign, sure, but it came easier than it had in a long time. Then he swiveled on the stool to look at—
And there he was. Phillip Greengrass, in the flesh.
He looked… good. He looked really good, better than David, that was for sure, but that’d always been the case. He was tall and slight, a wisp of a man who looked like he’d be blown away by the faintest of breezes. His mop of short black hair stuck up every which way as if he’d been running his fingers through it nervously as he’d sat on the train. He was still in the Chevy Chase house, so it’d be a good long trip to the hotel to get himself all worked up like he usually did.
He was wearing a scarf around his neck, a dreadfully bright green thing that looked like it was new. His coat was a little wet, and maybe his hair was too, but it wasn’t too bad. He probably hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, and it looked as if the rain had lessened. He wore a black sweater and jeans. A pair of beat-up Chucks, the same ones he’d had for years, purple with blue shoelaces.
It clashed horribly.
He looked wonderful.
“Hi,” David said. “Hi. Hello.” He started to rise from the stool, thought better of it, and sat back down.
“Hi, buddy,” Phillip said, glancing over David’s shoulder at Matteo. A strange look crossed over his face, but it was gone before David could make heads or tails of it. “Hey. You—you are….”
“Yeah,” David said, not sure what he was agreeing to but suddenly not able to find a reason to care. “Yeah, I guess.” Phillip looked tired. He had bags under his blue eyes, and he was biting his bottom lip in that way he did when he was unsure of what to do in the very next second. David changed his mind and stood up again. Maybe they could shake hands? That’d be good, right? They could shake hands, a firm grip, a tight grip, and it’d say everything that he couldn’t.
So he raised his hand out as he stood, and Phillip had looked at it, then back at him, then back at his hand. He frowned, shaking his head. Then he batted David’s hand aside and stepped in close, closer than he’d been since David had screamed at him that he didn’t fucking care about Alice the way David did, that he didn’t give two fucking shits about her, otherwise he’d be doing everything he could to bring her back. They’d been right up in each other’s faces then, eyes blazing, spittle hanging from their bottom lips, teeth bared and gnashing. The rage David had felt then had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, and it had consumed him, and there Phillip had been, the only other person who could possibly understand what David was going through, and David was so angry with him.
But here he was now, stepping in close, close, close, and it was tentative at first, their knees knocking together, chests bumping. They were of the same height, a little under six feet, so their gazes met and crashed and skittered away, but then Phillip’s arms were around him, hands clasping behind his back, and David froze. For a moment, or two or three, he just froze, unsure of what was happening, unsure of what he should do. He hadn’t been… touched, like this since—a long time. That was it.
He’d forgotten what a hug felt like.
It was a funny thing, right?
To forget that.
He breathed.
He ached.
He lived.
And this hug felt like death, another little death, only this time, the death was a good thing. It was a good death, and yes, everything still hurt and he could barely breathe, but he died a little death just the same.
He hugged Phillip back. Arms around shoulders, cheeks brushing together accidentally, causing him to stiffen momentarily before he leaned into it.
How strange that he’d forgotten what it felt like. To be held like this.
It was short, because he didn’t know if he could stand for it not to be.
He pulled away first.
Phillip let him go and took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck, like he was embarrassed. “Hey,” he said again. “It’s nice—” He shook his head.
r /> “Hi,” David said. “It is nice.”
Phillip looked back up at him, then over his shoulder again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” he said, sounding a little amused.
