Split (25 page)

“Why are you he-here? Huh?” My voice cracked. “Why are any of you here?”

“Stop it, Derek,” cried Lene. “We all loved her too.”

“Yeah?” I mocked, feeling the rage course through me. “Where the fuck were you all these years, huh? Huh, Lene? You and your perfect fuck-fucking family. You and-and your—”

“Derek, calm down.” Johan’s voice boomed through the empty lobby. “Let’s get you home.”

“Home? Ho-home?” I grabbed my head. “Don’t you get it! She was my home! She was the-the only one who ca-cared—”

“Derek! Enough!” Mom had grabbed my arm and was trying to wrap her hypocrite arms around me, but I jerked myself away from her phony embrace and threw my finger up in her face. “You!”

Yellow breath.

Empty mornings of muted cartoons.

Silent threats of abandonment.

“You don’t touch-touch me-me!”

Dad’s palm whipped the air out of my throat. The strike caused me to tumble back, then, before Johan could restrain me, I had lunged at Dad, shoving him into the wall, shouting until my vision blurred. “Fuck you!” The anger burned my throat. “Go fuck you-yourself!” I beat his chest, slamming my fist down into him. “I ha-hate you, I fucking ha-hate you.”

Dad’s eyes stared blankly as I pummeled his chest.

Johan and Boone’s hands tore at me, trying to pull me off him.

Then Nick’s voice shot my fury dead. “O’Reilly.”

He had come.

Nick had come for me.

My muscles loosened.

My fists opened.

Boone’s arms circled my shoulders. “Easy now. Easy.” He then turned to Nick with surprise in his eyes. “Take him, please. Get him outta here.”

Nathan hurried to me and intercepted Nick, forcing himself between us. “I got it, thank you.” He then turned to me. “Come on, baby, it’s okay. Let’s go downstairs and get you some water.”

I shook all over. My teeth clattered. I could barely hold my own weight. “Nick,” I managed to plead. “Nick.”

Nathan’s eyes flicked to Nick’s face, then back to mine. “Derek—”

“Nick,” I said more forcefully.

“You’re Nick?” Nathan’s question carried all of the answers.

Boone coughed.

Lene seemed to hold her breath.

Johan shifted, reaching out for Nick’s arm. “Be still,” he whispered to him. “Be still, Nicolai.”

Nick stared Nathan down, and nodded quietly. “That’s right.” His gaze blazed with defiance.

Nathan stiffened, but held on to my limp hand. “Okay. Well,
whatever
. I’m Nathan, and I’m taking him home. So you mind?” He pulled me near.

I resisted. “Nick,” I said again.

“Derek, let Nathan take you home. No more trouble from you, please. Nicolai, go find some coffee for John.”

My legs felt stronger. “Nick, please.”

Nick’s eyes roamed over my face. He rubbed his chin, exhaling a long, hard breath.

“Nicolai.” Johan’s tone was authoritative. “No. Go find the coffee. Now.”

Nick didn’t move.

We stood, face-to-face, with Nathan fidgeting at our side. “Der, what’s going on here?”

“I’m not going home with you, Nathan.” My voice was quiet. I held Nick’s cold blue stare.

“Derek, now is not the time to cause a scene, son.”

But I didn’t heed Johan’s careful words.

I took another step in Nick’s direction.

Finally, Nick set his fingers on my hand. “Come,” he murmured. “Come with me, O’Reilly.”

Nathan slapped his hand off mine. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Get your hands off him—”

“Nathan,” warned Boone. “You don’t wanna do that.”

Nick flinched. His jaw tightened, and I witnessed the violence rising inside him.

I remembered the rumors that had been whispered about him, a long time ago, and reached out for his hand again. “Don’t, Nick. Let’s go, plea-ease.”

“You’re gonna walk away like this?” Nathan’s face was twisted with indignation.

Not hurt, or loss.

Indignation
.

As if I were a prize he had won, only to find out I was broken.

“You’re gonna end us like this?”

Gently, Nick’s hand drew me close to his chest, binding me to him.

At last, I was in his arms.

Johan sighed. “All right. Go, you two.” He slowly shook his head at Nick. “I miss you. My Nicolai.” His kind eyes twinkled with tears. “
We
miss you. We need to see you, Nicolai. So much more.”

Helga extended her long fingers, but never touched her stubborn son. “Come by sometime. Our door is open.”

“Maybe I will,” was Nick’s only reply.

I let him escort me down the hall, and didn’t turn back once.

Nathan never even chased me.

I suppose a closer knows when the deal has soured.

As Nick and I passed through the cancer ward’s final door, Aunt Frannie’s last words forced my drowsy inner eye to open.

“Keep staring, hon. And don’t you dare blink, baby. Don’t you dare.”

I squeezed Nick’s hand.

November is here, and with it comes the end of many things.

Beginnings come too. No matter how slowly they seem to crawl, when I would like them to sprint, they are still promises of something new.

Let me knock you out of your dancing shoes.

I live with Lene Lund. In her one-bedroom apartment in the Mile-End district. And no, she hasn’t ravished me yet. Of course, this living arrangement, as pleasant as it is, is only temporary. I’m looking for an apartment.

And…
a job
.

Three days after Aunt Fran’s funeral, I handed my resignation to Mr. Goldman, who, only a few weeks before, had praised me for my “quiet leadership.” He called me Eric through the whole private meeting; it was very anticlimactic.

Jake spotted me emptying my desk. “Where you going, man?”

“Quit.”

His face turned a vibrant shade of red, and he rubbed his dark hair back, then jumped up and down as if his team had won the cup. Jake’s arms stretched above his head in sign of victory. “Oh yes, my man! You fucking rock! Oh yes! Give it to the man! Up his ass!”

I chuckled.

It took a little convincing on my part to keep Jake from feeding his tie to the shredder and following me on my reckless whim. I’ll miss him, I think.

Not sure.

What I do know is that whatever Jake does, he’ll manage to screw it up fantastically, but will always be forgiven for it.

I remember walking home that afternoon, carrying a box of useless things, feeling strangely calm. I had no money saved up. No other job waiting for me on the next Monday. The Ducati’s insurance was going to be up in less than two months, and I couldn’t afford half of it. I would have to store my sexy red toy in Boone’s dirt basement.

When Nathan left (first class, Milan), I had exactly three days to “get my shit out” of
his
condo. Those last brittle days were terrible. I slept on the couch, with my eyes open for a few nights, scanning the darkness for a shiny blade. Thankfully, Nathan was too busy with transferring accounts, shipping furniture out, and tying up loose ends to stab me seventeen times in the throat.

I wanted to drive him to the airport.

“I have someone to drive me to the fucking airport, Derek,” he said.

More like
snarled.

“I’m sorry,” I lied, thinking about the bellboy, whose name is Joaquim.

They met in Toronto. Joaquim breeds dogs.

I hope he enjoys sushi and dry fucks.

“For what, Derek? You think you broke my heart?”

I would like to think that I did, at least a tiny fragment of it.

Nathan picked up his Delsey suitcase. “No, Derek,” he reminded me before stepping into another life, one I have been written out of. “You didn’t break my heart.” His dark eyes gleamed, and this time, I caught a wolf in them.

Yes.
A wolf.

These last two years, I have been Red, prancing about, like some adolescent idiot, waiting for Nathan to swallow me whole in the name of mainstream love.

“Derek, you didn’t. Okay? All you did was waste my goddamn time.” He shut the front door behind him.

I stared at that door for a long time, and then spent the next five minutes hurling shoes at it.

Lene showed up at my doorstep the very next day. “Our baby misses you.”

*

I moved in on a Tuesday.

It took less than ten minutes. I had exactly two boxes, and that’s counting the one from the office.

I thought I owned more. Every thing in my life was borrowed.

Lene and I get along fabulously. I supposed we always did, in our own demented, asocial way. She works evenings; I lounge days.

I walk around.

Sit around.

Pine around.

Wait for Nick to call.

Which he hasn’t.

*

Lene and I were eating nectarine and almond couscous in her eclectic kitchen this afternoon.

That’s all she eats, really. That and chocolate chip cookies.

“You could go into income taxes, you know, open your little office and do people’s taxes.”

“Dr. Lund, you’ve just depressed me.” I dragged my fork across the orange mess.

“No? Not taxes? Okay—” She bit down on her lip and nodded, seeming to have a conversation with herself. She does that. The first night after I moved in, I stayed awake, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Lene debate the importance of democratic psychiatry.

With herself.

“How ’bout you set up a website, and—”

“Offer my queer Irish ass up?”

She smiled. “Do you accept credit cards?” She reached for my hand. “Oh, Der, you’ll find something.”

I sighed. “Lene, I’m twenty-eight years old. I’m too old for the jobs that starve the wallet and challenge the mind, but still too young for the jobs that numb the brain and pack the pockets. I’m overqualified, overeducated, and underexperienced. Not too mention
unmotivated
.”

“You said that whole long boring thing without stuttering.”

I glanced up. “Guess I did.”

Since the wolf has left my land, I have been treading new ground. I feel fearless at times.

“I gotta go to work,” she said, getting to her feet. “What are you gonna do?”

“Panhandle.”

She slapped my hand, and kissed my hair. “Call Nico.”

“Lene, it’s Thursday. It would be easier to get a sample of the pope’s shit.”

“Right.”

And that goes for every day of the week. The last time I tasted Nick’s mouth was nine days ago.

“O’Reilly,” he always says, jumping into his big black boots. “I’ll see you around.”

*

Boone and Kenya were over for dinner last night.

I cooked.

Then I called for Thai.

As Boone and Lene rummaged through Lene’s boxes of past Christmas decorations, hard set on decorating the balcony before the first snow, Kenya and I sat at the kitchen table, whispering softly over black coffees.

Aunt Fran used to say, “To some people, a breath is nothing but a breath, until the last one comes.”

For the best of us, that last breath comes way too soon.

David Pinet died in 1999.

David was twenty-seven years old.

A dancer and painter.

Nick’s longtime lover and dear friend.

AIDS-related, yes.

When Kenya murmured those four deadly letters, my whole body tightened with dread. Her inky eyes shimmered. That homicidal virus has wiped out many of her spiritual kin as well. One thing gay men and African women share is this bloody waiting game.

How long? How many more?

My heart leaped.

Nick.

The breath caught in my throat.

“No, Derek. Nick is HIV free.”

I closed my eyes. “How do you know?”

She smiled, glancing over at Lene and Boone. They were cursing under their breaths, trying to untangle a string of Christmas lights.

“In strict confidence,” she said quietly, “I’ve been drawing Nicolai’s blood every six months for the last five years. At his home. You know how Nick hates hospitals and clinics.” She chuckled. “In exchange for my trouble, Nicolai whips me up a meal fit for Mami Wata, the Goddess of Beauty.”

My shoulders sank with relief.

He had been spared.

“It was difficult for Nicolai. To see him go like that. To watch David wither away.”

I remembered David’s beautiful dark eyes, and for a moment. I was ashamed. Ashamed of my good health.

My complete lack of gratefulness for it.

“Nicolai stayed at his side until the very end. In David’s home. In Victoria.”

The last thing David had seen before leaving this plane, too young, too fast, was Nick Lund’s savage eyes gazing back into his. That thought brought a small measure of comfort to me.

What were the last whispered words between them?

When David closed his eyes to the world, did Nick hold his hand through it?

And later, when everything had been put away, cleaned, and stored—all of Dave’s costumes, pictures, music, books, those things that make us who we are—had Nick turned his back to that dreadful empty bed? Had he stared out the window, at the blue Pacific Ocean, and died a little?

“When Nicolai came back to us, he was possessed.”

Had he wondered how to make every thing fit again?

Had he hurt for the ones who want so much, but never get?

The boys who give, but seldom take?

Had he looked east, and wondered about home?

“The spirits lived within him. I could see them breathing inside Nick’s eyes.”

Had he wondered about a redheaded boy?

“But he battled them Derek. One by one.”

Had he heard that boy calling him home?

*

Last night, I woke up to the sound of my own breathing.

I watched the sky through the window.

And sweetly, the purple night called to me.

When the cab pulled up by Split’s back door, I slipped my hat off and turned my face up to Nick’s window.

Through the thin curtains, I caught sight of Nick’s dark silhouette moving along the loft’s bare walls.

I slipped the driver a twenty and stepped out.

I pressed my hat against my chest, tapping my heel to the beat of my heart.

Finally, I climbed up the wrought-iron stairs.

I knocked twice.

The sound of Escoffier’s threatening bark ripped the silence to shreds, and I tensed yet a little more, waiting for my lover to let me in.

Light flooded my eyes.

Nick’s face appeared in the doorway. “O’Reilly.” He leaned his head against the door frame and smiled. “Come.”

I peeled my feet off the ground and took a step inside.

Escoffier welcomed me with a thorough examination, and after he had stuffed his snout in every possible crease of my jeans, he padded back to his cushion to keep watch.

The air was dense with humidity, and the scent of
Ivory soap filled the loft.

Nick’s hair was wet and slicked back. The white towel around his waist was his only garment. “I just got home.” His hand swept the air, inviting me to enter. “Sit down.”

My eyes would not leave his naked chest. “Thank you.”

Nick laughed. “You’re welcome.”

I went to the living area. I stripped my jacket off and sat in the only real chair. “Hope you-ou don’t mind that I—”

“No. I don’t.” Nick slowly unfastened the towel around his waist and let it drop to his feet.

My cock stretched to the point of burn.

Nick walked to the other end of the loft, and my eyes followed his bare skin until my breath scorched my chest.

I sat and stared at his mattress.

My body spoke hard sentences to my pounding heart, and I rose, nervously, with my hands clinging to my shirt. I let my fingers have their way, and watched them unfasten my shirt’s buttons, one by one.

My eyes were fixed to the washroom’s door as my hands stripped every useless layer of clothing that held my limbs prisoner. When my pants carried my underwear to the floor, I glanced down at my naked body and caught sight of my heart thumping under my bare skin.

I need you. I need you. I need you.

The air moved along my skin, and I turned my head to the window, studying the naked man in its reflection.

“Make your eyes see. You are the sorcerer. When are you gonna start working some of that magic of yours?”

Hesitantly, my fingers grazed my smooth chest.

I stood, revealed and engorged with need, watching the redheaded man in the window.

Sexuality wet my lips and cock.

I let my fingers roam. They were warm soldiers, tearing through my inhibitions.

“O’Reilly.”

Nick stood a few feet away from me.

His eyes were two beams of blue light slicing through the night. “Show me,” he murmured, moving closer to me. “Show me everything.”

His fingers joined mine in search of the end of me.

I lifted my gaze to meet his and leaned my spinning head against his broad chest. “This is all there is, Nick. You can have it all.”

His mouth hesitated over my shoulder. “I wanna kiss you—”

“Kiss me.”

“But if I kiss you, then I’m not tasting this.” His fingers glided down my ass and reached into me. “And if I’m tasting this, then I’m not fucking you. I want everything you have to give me, but I don’t know how to take it.”