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He wondered these things aloud, not for the first time, as he stared out the window at a leaden sky, pregnant with rain. Every so often, a strong gust of wind blew, rattling the window glass in its frames.
Sam was out grocery shopping and—more and more—Marc found he adored this time alone. It was a balm for his soul. He felt liberated, like he could breathe. It was a small taste of what it would be like to experience the greener grass—being alone.
For so long, he’d been a horse standing at a gate, gazing out over a vast empty field of green. The horse knew that if he got through the gate, there may be none of the things he possessed now—and took for granted. There would be no guarantee of a roof over his head, no regular feeding, no kind words, no loving touches. And yet…and yet… He wanted that field beyond the gate. With all its mysterious promise, freedom beckoned.
He glanced down at the phone in his hand. He’d almost forgotten he’d carried it with him when he moved to the window to check and see if the street was yet slick with rain.
A message waited for him on the hookup site, Adam4Adam. This one wasn’t crude, as most were, turning him off immediately with filthy come-ons and pics of dicks and asses.
Those things had their place, but it wasn’t what Marc sought.
No, this one, from a guy who called himselfIntoFreedom, was friendly, guileless, almost naïve:
Hey. New to the site and trying to find someone real to connect with. It’s a hard task! So many flakes, so many hiding behind fake or old pics. You seemed genuine, someone who was as new to this scene as I am. I keep coming back to your picture. Handsome, sure, but there’s an innocence in your eyes that holds me. So, no pressure, but just wondering if you wanted to talk more, maybe get acquainted on a personal rather than physical level (at least to start).
Hope you’ll get back to me.
Marc looked away from the screen and out the window once more. The message was a turning point, one he was sure there might be no turning back.
“Should I answer? Should I cross the line in the sand?”
Almost as a reply, the sky lit up with a streak of lightning, followed by a deafening peal of thunder that caused the lights in the condo to flicker.
Chapter 6
Now—Sam
I
Two anxious weeks went by. Two weeks of nerve-tingling alarm every time the door buzzer sounded. Two weeks of restless sleep and bizarre dreams—featuring both the boy Jeb and the man who claimed to be him. Fourteen days of feeling I was being watched—on the L train heading to and from work, or at the supermarket, or when we headed out on Thursday night for comedy videos at Sidetrack on Halsted. Every time the phone rang, landline or smart, I was on edge. I didn’t answer any call that wasn’t clearly identified by Caller ID.
Now, though, in the humid, languorous, and waning days of August, I’d managed—somewhat—to put my strange encounter with the boy I once loved (or the one pretending to be him) out of my head. I began to breathe normally again. My heart rate and pulse slowed. I finally got around to finishing Stephen King’sFairy Tale, and had to credit the old boy—he still possessed the power to write engrossing, fascinating, engaging, and universal fiction—creating places I never imagined wanting to go, but then being enthralled when I got there. I started cooking again, which I’d always loved. Being so on edge the past couple of weeks had sapped my desire to create in the kitchen. We’d ended up ordering in or going out. Lucky for us, we could walk a couple of blocks over to Clark Street and have our choice of cuisines.
Today, Saturday, I’d put a chuck roast in the slow cooker, along with carrots, potatoes, pearl onions, garlic cloves and a half bottle of Cabernet. It was in the nineties outside and the idea of a roast was a couple months too soon to be proper, but what did I care? A craving was a craving. Marc was making his beer bread to go with it.
I came up behind him as he was throwing ingredients into a mixing bowl. The smell of hops was strong. I hugged him and kissed his earlobe, which made him giggle and flinch a little, raising his shoulders.
He turned to me. “What was that for?”
“Just wanted to say I love you without saying it.” I eyed him. “Thanks for being so patient with me lately. I know I’ve been spooked, on edge, irritable, moody, and anything else you want to throw into the mix.”
“No worries.” Marc gave me a peck on the lips, doughy hands upraised. “Isn’t that what I’m here for? To support you through the goodandthe bad?” He looked back down at his work, moving away from me slightly.
I nodded. “And I’m so grateful.”
“You’ll return the favor someday, hopefully in the very distant future. I doubt that creep’s not coming back. It was just some kind of weird prank.”
“I hope you’re right. I’m beginning to feel a little better about it. Like it was a dream.”
“Maybe it was.” Marc used a spatula to transfer the beer bread batter into a loaf pan. He lifted it and deposited it into the preheated oven, then wiped his hands on his shorts. “Dreams can be powerful.”
I wasn’t so sure about dreams, so I stole a moment by heading into the bathroom and splashing water on my face. I stared at myself in the mirror for a bit, wondering what was to become of me. Could I trust my gradually deepening gratitude that this weirdo would not return?
I decided I needed to get out, to enjoy the day, to do a little meditating, of sorts, with the sound of waves as my backdrop. I longed to be distracted.
Back in the living room, I found Marc on the couch. He was glued to an old episode of theBarefoot Contessa, or as I called her, the Bareback Contessa. Who knew what she and Jeffrey got up to after a nice brisket?
“Hey, I was going to take a little walk down to the lakefront. Wanna come?”
