In the Middle of Somewhere (46 page)

I pull him close to me with the arm hooked through his, bumping our hips together.

“Fuck,” I mutter. Because what else is there to say?

W
HEN
WE
get back to Ginger’s, she’s in the shop and waves us upstairs to her apartment. I feel like I should say something more to Rex, but how do you soothe a pain someone’s lived with for so long as opposed to just irritating it again?

I sit on the couch and I’m vaguely aware when Rex sits next to me and slides his hand into mine.

Is Colin
dating
that guy? Maybe I read things wrong. Maybe they’re just friends. Or…. I shake my head.

“So, do you know the man who was with your brother?” Rex asks, like he plucked the thought right out of my head.

“No.” After a while, I continue. “I just—I can’t understand how he… could be with a man. He thinks I’m disgusting. Or, even if he just hates being gay even though he is, who would want to be with him if he hates them? And that man—I mean, not to stereotype, but he looked pretty, um, powerful? Like, it’s not as if Colin could just close his eyes and pretend he was with a girl, you know?”

“Well, you never know what people are into,” Rex says.

I know he’s right. Christ, I’ve never known it better than today because never in a million years would I have imagined seeing Colin being held by another man.

I feel the kind of confusion that’s seeped into my bones. The kind of confusion that makes me question everything. That makes me wonder if maybe Colin never hated me at all? Or maybe he hated me even more than I ever imagined, just for different reasons. I can’t think about it right now because if I do I’ll go crazy. I can’t think about any of it.

“Rex, I….”

“What, baby?” he asks, immediately turning to me.

“I know this sounds trashy or pathetic or whatever, but I just really want to get wasted. I can’t—” I shake my head. “I can’t deal with any of this right now and maybe if we were home I… but we’re here and I just… I just can’t.”

“I understand,” Rex says, though he looks apprehensive. “Well, I’ll look out for you, of course. What do you want….”

“Just whiskey,” I reassure him.

He nods, clearly relieved.

“Jesus, what did you think I wanted?”

He looks embarrassed and ducks his head.

“I don’t know. Just… you’ve said things before that made me think maybe you used to—” He searches for the words. “Escape in more extreme ways.”

“Yeah, I used to dabble, I guess, but I don’t do that shit anymore.”

“Good,” he says, and his hand tightens on mine.

“I just—I don’t want you to think I’m a loser who drinks all the time. I don’t, really. I just… sometimes it helps.”

“I can help too, you know.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, cupping my face and running rough thumbs over my mouth. “Maybe this isn’t the time or the place, but I’m here.”

I look into his beautiful face. His expressive mouth that always tastes like home. His whiskey-colored eyes, which, if we were alone together, would be the only drink I’d need. I throw a leg over his lap and straddle him the way I did the night we first met. Only this time, he doesn’t pull away. He holds me tight, even though I’m sweaty and dusty and bloody and disgusting. Even though I’m a mess. He holds me tight and looks into my eyes as I kiss him. I twine my fingers into his thick hair and kiss him with everything I have. Not trying to turn him on, just wanting to crawl inside his warmth, his comfort, and hibernate until it’s safe to come out.

Unfortunately, Ginger didn’t get the memo because that’s when the door opens.

“Whoopsie,” she says as we pull apart. Then her face turns stormy. “Daniel Mulligan, are you getting blood on my couch? Take a shower, you dirtball!” Then she turns to Rex and smiles sweetly. “Why don’t you help him out? I’ll take care of dinner.”

“Whiskey, Ginge,” I ask her nicely.

“I know,” she says.

In the bathroom, Rex strips me out of my dirty clothes, murmuring disapprovingly at the bruises he uncovers. He pushes me under the hot water before taking off his suit. There’s a knock at the door as Rex steps into the shower with me.

“PS,” Ginger says, “You’ve got exactly eleven minutes before that water turns ice cold.” Shit, I forgot that.

“Better be quick, then,” I say, and drop to my knees in front of Rex, nuzzling into his crotch, just wanting to feel close to him. He starts to harden immediately and his hand strokes my hair, but he pulls backward.

“Daniel, no, you don’t have to—”

I pull his hips back toward me and lick down his length, from root to tip.

“I want to,” I say. I just want to do something for him. Something right, for a change.

“Baby, please, maybe it’s not such a—mmmf!” He breaks off in a moan as I run my teeth gently over the tip of his erection. He tastes like Rex, salty and a little sweet, like a hot martini. I take him all the way into my mouth, hands running up the backs of his thighs, and as he starts to rock his hips toward me, I don’t have to think about anything except the feel of his fingers in my hair, his muscles under my hands, and his pleasure. I suck him hard, palming his ass.

“Shit, Danny,” Rex says as I swallow around the tip of his cock. I’m trying to make him come hard and fast and still have enough hot water to wash my hair. All it takes is applying everything I’ve learned Rex likes over the last few months at once. A lick here, a nibble there, a finger here, and he’s gone, coming down my throat with a torn-off moan. But when he reaches for me to return the favor, I just reach for Ginger’s shampoo. I can’t feel that vulnerable right now. I won’t be able to hold it together.

Rex is looking at me strangely. I lean in to kiss him, but he pulls away, catching my chin in his hand. What more does he want from me?

“Hey,” he says, his voice deceptively gentle. “I know you’re not okay. Next time, let’s both be here, all right?”

I drop my eyes to the tile and get shampoo in them for my trouble.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

“No,” he says, “please, no. You felt amazing, I just… I don’t like when you’re so far away. I feel like I’m taking advantage.”

“Okay,” I nod, knuckling water out of my eyes.

“Daniel, god. I—” He looks at me searchingly, so intent on my face that I nearly look away. But he doesn’t finish his sentence. Just pulls me close to him and puts my forehead against his shoulder as he washes the shampoo out of my hair. The hot water is about to go, so I pull him out the door just as it turns freezing. It’s not a shock anyone should experience if they can help it.

I brush my teeth. The taste of all that gum is starting to make me feel sick again.

I throw on jeans and a T-shirt and walk into the living room to pour myself a drink as someone knocks on the door. Ginger comes bustling out of the kitchen to answer it.

“Hey, folks,” the guy who must be Christopher says. He holds up a bag from his sandwich shop in one hand and a bottle of Bulleit in the other.

“Well, I like you already,” I say lightly, taking the whiskey from him. With his free hand, he high-fives Ginger, then pulls her into a kiss.

“He likes me,” Christopher says, winking at me. “That means I’m approved, right?”

“Maybe,” Ginger says. “What’d you bring me?”

“Half a Reuben made with pastrami and half a grilled cheese BLT, two potato knishes, and a cream soda.”

“You’re approved,” I tell him, as Ginger rips into the bag like a velociraptor.

“Are there pickles?” Ginger asks.

“As I value my life,” Christopher says.

“Hey,” I say, holding out a hand to him. “I’m Daniel.”

“Yes, I know,” he sighs. “The man I have to impress in order for Ginger to even consider taking me seriously. Nice to meet you.” His smile is gone as instantly and naturally as if it were never there. “I was really sorry to hear about your father. Family—no matter what, it’s intense.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Hi,” Rex says, coming out of the bathroom. “I’m Rex.”

“Daniel’s boyfriend—” Christopher nods. “—Christopher. Nice to meet you.”

“I like him,” I say to Ginger. “He says good, nonstupid sentences.”

“Yeah,” Ginger says, “and he never says idiotic sexist shit that’s disguised as a compliment.”

“Rare,” I say.

“Virtually nonexistent when coupled with good looks and good deli.”

“Statistically.”

Christopher and Rex look at us like we’re crazy.

“Aaaanywaaay,” Christopher says, eyebrows raised, “I’m just making the delivery. I know it’s not a great time for socializing. I hope I get to meet you under better circumstances soon, Daniel.”

Ginger raises an eyebrow at me. I raise one back at her.

“No, stay,” I say. “At least for dinner. You brought it, after all.”

“Yeah, stay,” Ginger says, her smile sweet and private. Then her expression changes. “As long as you’re not sharing mine.” She clutches her mismatched sandwich close and takes a step backward. Rex laughs.

“Okay, sure, thanks,” Christopher says.

W
E
EAT
,
drink the bourbon Christopher brought, and talk. It’s nice and strangely normal despite it being the first time that Ginger and I have each had a date with us. And, of course, despite it being the first time that Ginger and I have each had a date and my father has just died and my homophobic prick of a brother has turned out to be gay. But who’s counting.

Christopher lives up to his good entrance. He’s nice and interesting and not at all a douchebag. And he’s clearly out of his head crazy about Ginger, which is a big plus. Rex has turned a little shy and isn’t saying much. Ginger and Christopher are doing most of the talking, and Patty Griffin is playing in the background.

I had a drink before I ate half of my sandwich and another afterward. I’m finishing my third now and I can feel the tingling in my fingers and the looseness in my joints that says the Bulleit has hit its mark. I hand Rex the other half of my sandwich and head off what I’m sure would have been his protests that I need to eat with a head shake.

“I can’t,” I say, and settle in with my drink. Ginger and Christopher are on the couch and Rex is sitting in the armchair. I’m sitting on the floor, elbows on the coffee table (read: hand near the bottle), but if I lean back a little, I can rest against Rex’s shins.

Patty sings “When It Don’t Come Easy,” and I pour another drink and lean back against Rex’s legs, closing my eyes. This song kills me. Rex spreads his knees, so I’m leaning against the chair, and I rest my head against his knee. I have one arm around his calf before I even realize it, like his leg is a stuffed animal or something that I’m trying to cuddle with. Patty sings “Florida,” and all I can hear is her voice, like sand tied up in honey and light.

Against my closed eyes, the funeral plays over and over, the coffin lowering into the grave somehow morphing into Colin hitting the dirt when I bore him to the ground.

Suddenly, my stomach lurches as a memory hits me, shaken loose by who knows what combination of grief and booze. I’m ten and Colin is sixteen, a junior in high school. It’s the winter after Sam moved out and Colin is in a perpetually bad mood. He lifts weights in the back of the shop every spare minute and if you interrupt him, god help you.

One afternoon, there’s a snowstorm and the elementary schools close early, though the rest stay open. My dad’s garage isn’t open full-time yet, so he’s at a shift at one a few miles from our house, so I can’t call and have him get me. I trudge home around noon, the snow turning to ice, and go in through the garage so I can leave my iced-over snow things there to dry. When I go into the kitchen, I hear the radio on in what was Sam and Colin’s room, which Colin now has to himself, so I go push open the door, thinking Colin left the radio on, since he should be in school.

Colin’s lying on the bed, his pillow over his face. He’s still wearing his shoes and one is untied. Thinking he’d fallen asleep, I walk over and pull the pillow off so he doesn’t get too hot. When I do, his eyes open to slits and I can smell the stink of my father’s rum. I force myself to look at the memory closer, because the part I remember clearly—Colin slapping me, telling me never to come into his room, and then going back to sleep—isn’t, I don’t think, the point. The point is the bottle of pain pills my dad was prescribed after he slipped a disc in his back. The point is that it’s half empty and Colin is drooling drunk and buried in his bed.

My eyes fly open. The record is over and Ginger is putting on another.

Did Colin try and kill himself? I want to talk to him. I want to ask him a hundred questions, but I can’t imagine reaching across the chasm and trying to actually communicate with him. How can I hate someone this much and suddenly feel so sorry for them? How can the person who made me so miserable suddenly be the only person who might understand what it was like to grow up in my family?

I gulp down the rest of the bourbon.

It feels like everything is moving very slowly. The room seems fragmented: squares with pictures in them and corners and the soft square that’s the bed. Then it all blurs.

“Daniel,” Rex says softly. I realize I’ve got a death grip on his leg.

“Daniel,” Rex says again, his voice near my ear.

“Huh?” I tilt my head up to look toward him. It’s like I don’t even recognize him, it’s so shocking to see him in the context of Ginger’s chair.

“Come here, love,” he says, and he lifts me into his lap effortlessly.

But why? Then I realize Ginger didn’t put the record on and Christopher is looking at me with a sad expression. Why are they all staring at me? Aside from the fact that I’m a grown-ass man who just got hauled into someone’s lap. Rex looks strange. Smeary.

He brushes his hand over my cheeks and I realize that I must be crying. They’re looking at me because tears are streaming down my cheeks even though I hadn’t noticed. But when Rex touches me, it’s like the clock starts again and I’m suddenly aware that my back hurts where Colin punched me, and my face hurts where Colin punched me, and my chest feels tight, and these are definitely tears.