Uncovered (Dev and Lee Book 4) (28 page)

He laughs and then catches himself. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make light. But you’re so young. This all happened last night, and it’s your first big difference. You’ll talk it out.”

“You and Mother didn’t.”

“We talked a lot.”

“Really?” The word slips out before I can stop it. Of course they’ve talked about things. Just because I’ve never seen it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

Father goes on. “We had fights, we had conversations. Honestly, when you went to college, it made things a lot easier. We weren’t staying together for you anymore.”

“Wait, it started before I graduated?”

“Wiley. I told you that this wasn’t all about you. Your mother was bored, looking for something to do with her life as you were growing up and needed her less. She turned to places that I wouldn’t necessarily have thought were appropriate. We had a lot of talks. She said those groups gave her something that she wasn’t getting elsewhere. Our common ground shrank year after year.”

“I thought she liked to write articles for magazines.”

“Yes, but…” He sighs. “There’s only so much you can write about when you’re not leaving the house. So she felt she had to go investigate places to write about them. She visited a lot of community organizations. Her family was always very involved with charities. When you…invited us to that dinner…” The one where I told them I wasn’t going to graduate, where Dev showed up to support me and possibly, in retrospect, intimidated Mother and confirmed that I really was gay. “She reached out to people in the community who had dealt with similar issues. I thought at the time it would help her deal with it. But it went in another direction.”

“A crazy direction.”

“At the very least, it was less expected. Knowing her family, though, it wasn’t a huge surprise.”

I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. “I thought she was so proud of not being like the rest of her family.”

“Age does funny things. You start missing the things you were comfortable with growing up and then rebelled against later. When cracks appear in your life, you start wondering if rebelling was the right decision. Sometimes you just don’t have the energy to keep rebelling. In your mother’s case, well.” I hear him tapping his claws on his desk. “I think when her father died, it hit her hard. They’d never had a chance to make up.”

“But they fought. They hadn’t talked in years.”

“Imagine if your mother died tomorrow, with your anger and hers still between you. You’d feel pretty lousy.”

“Well, yeah,” I say. “My mother would’ve just died. But I wouldn’t go straight and find Jesus and…and deny who I am.”

He exhales. “I don’t think you would. But I also don’t think that this is denying who she is. I think it’s just a part of her that she kept repressed for a while. You can’t do that forever.”

“I can’t do it for two weeks, apparently,” I say, and that brings back thoughts that I would rather not be exploring on the phone with my father. “Oh, by the way, you don’t need to talk to her about the court case. I got what I need another way.”

“Okay. Useful info?”

“Um. Not really.” Talk about cracks appearing. I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to feel the spiderweb of cracks all around me, in every aspect of my life.

He’s quiet, mulling over whether he wants to ask me more about it. I forestall the question. “It’s complicated. I’d rather tell you about it in person.”

The thought of seeing my father in person is surprisingly reassuring, an island of stability I cling to. He says, “Okay,” and then goes on. “You and Dev—Wiley, you’ll talk it out. You’re a passionate fox and he’s got to know that. Passionate people hit highs and lows and have fights and work it out. Your mother and I kept things a little more quiet, which is great for a stable home in which to raise a cub. Maybe not so great for working out relationship issues.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. We yell a lot and he seems to take it pretty hard when we do.”

“You’ve had these kind of fights before.”

“Yeah, but…” How do I explain this? “The stakes…it’s the championship for him, and for me it’s…it’s this whole mess of stuff. I had a chance to do some real good and I keep getting it cut off at every turn.”

Father chuckles again, then catches himself. “May I remind you again that you are young? You’ll have more chances and they will come around again and again.”

“Not chances like this one.”

“Yes. Not this exact one, but others like it.”

“But this…” My voice catches. “This is the one I wanted.”

“Okay,” Father says. “Do you have anyone there you can talk to?”

“Yeah. I’m staying at Hal’s.” I rub my eyes. “He’s a good guy. We’ve been hanging out.”

“All right. Look…” His voice softens. “If you need to talk, call me at home this evening. I don’t know what I can offer, but if I can help at all, or if you just need to talk to someone…”

“Thanks,” I say.

Hal’s on his phone in the other room, his voice a low murmur through the wall. I close my eyes and lean my head back. It’s not a tiger’s voice, and my nose isn’t filled with a tiger’s smell, but it’s another island, a part of my life that, at least for the moment, is solid.

Chapter 12 – Moving On (Dev)

Thursday is cloudy and cool and perfect weather for stomping around a football field and slamming into tackling dummies. “Easy,” Gerrard says after I bounce off of one dummy and stand there panting. “Save something for the game.”

“I’ve got plenty for the game,” I growl, then stand up and go at the dummy again.

Gerrard and Carson do sprints and footwork drills, which to be honest are probably more useful than tackling drills at this point, but I feel like tackling things. Not that I’m imagining that the dummies are Lee. I push any thought of him out of my mind as soon as it comes in. I’m focused on football, perfecting my technique and being the best I can be.

In the afternoon, the backup linebackers come around and we go over film and formations. There’s little deception involved in Crystal City’s offense. They run a lot of standard formations and they run them very well. They have a quarterback who can thread the ball through a tight seam, an elk at running back who just doesn’t quit, and a rabbit and fox at wide receiver who make coverages difficult. We review film of our game against them, and even though I didn’t play a lot in it, Gerrard points out Corey’s mistakes as though they were mine. “He’s cheating here, and the quarterback sees that,” he says. Or, “Here he’s watching the quarterback instead of his assignment, and the wolf just looks him off so he isn’t in position when the throw comes.”

“I know my assignments,” I say. “I know what I’m supposed to be focusing on.”

Gerrard looks around the room, past me to Zillo and Marais and the couple others sitting there. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourselves,” he says. “Yeah, it’s the championship game. But in the end, it’s just another football game. The lights are brighter, the crowd louder, but the other team is the same as they were at the beginning of the year, and the football is the same, and the ground feels just as hard when you hit it.” He stretches the corners of his mouth back in a narrow-eyed smile. “So make the other guys hit it.”

The backups murmur behind me, but I stare ahead at the screen. “Keep going,” I say.

Gerrard and Carson have to drag me out to dinner. Even then, I stay at the steakhouse until everyone else has left for one last night with their families. Zillo and I sit there nursing our fourth beers of the night, with our bills sitting on the table in their faux-leather folios, our plates long since cleared away, only crumbs and meat juice stains left on the tablecloth.

“You don’t have to hang out with me,” he says. “I know you’ve got your fox to go home to.”

“Yeah.” I let the beer wash over my tongue, barely tasting it. “I don’t mind.”

He flicks his ears back, then cups them toward me. “Everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m just antsy to get on the road and get to Crystal City to practice.”

“All right.” He pulls down another drink of beer. “I don’t know how I’m going to get to sleep.”

That question’s been on my mind, too. “Can’t you just hook up for the night?”

Zillo laughs. “Probably. But sometimes I just wanna be by myself, you know how it is?”

“Sure,” I lie.

He squints at me again. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” I snap. “Fine. I’m going to be great once we get to C.C. and I can settle into the hotel.”

“Is your fox coming later?”

“Probably, yeah.”

“He must be pretty excited for you.”

I drain the rest of my beer. “You know, I think I will get on home,” I say. I toss a hundred on the table and stand up. “I’ll see you at the plane tomorrow.”

He blinks up at me. “Sorry,” he says, and his ears are back. “Look, if I said something wrong…”

“Nah.” I hold up a paw. “It’s not you. It’s just some shit I gotta deal with, that’s all.”

“Okay.” He digs into his wallet and covers his check, then stands up. “Lemme know if I can help. I mean, I dunno what kind of things you guys have to deal with in relationships or if that’s even what’s going on…”

“It’s fine,” I say, and we’re quiet, walking out of the restaurant.

Near the cars, Zillo speaks up again. “You know how I get ready for games?” I shake my head. “I listen to Cold-T’s ‘Stone Cold’ album like twice in a row all the way through before bed. Then I’ve got it in my head the next morning and like all day. It gets me pumped up for special teams and shit, it’s great. You wanna try that?”

“Nah, thanks,” I say. “Not really my thing.”

“I didn’t think so.” He grins. “There’s this one song, though, ‘Knock ’em Down,’ which just goes like, nnf!” He punches the air and raps a couple lines. When I don’t respond, his grin falters. “Anyway, it’s pretty awesome.”

I feel bad because I know he’s trying to help, but all I can do is wish him good night and drive on home. The sun’s set already and the air is cool. I roll the window down and lean my elbow out, and I feel sort of like I did on the Forester campus back in the day, when the team was doing well and everyone was excited to be seen with us. There aren’t many stars visible with the city lights on, but I drive past Firebirds pennants and a big “GO FIREBIRDS” in the windows of an office building downtown, and that cheers me up, lifts my spirits. The whole town’s pulling for me, for us.

As I get closer to the apartment, I slow down. I stop at red lights and stop signs and observe the speed limit. I don’t know what to expect. Maybe Lee will be waiting there with an apology and a bottle of wine, or maybe he’ll be at the door naked and we’ll just have the best make-up sex ever. He didn’t text me at all today, but he’s prone to surprises like that, so I wouldn’t put it past him.

But then I wonder what tomorrow would be like. I mean, sure, I want to make up and fuck him and hold him and wrap my tail around his leg, so bad it almost hurts. But how long before the tension creeps back again, even if I try to do everything right? He said himself that he was having trouble keeping it in, and that was when I was trying to be helpful and understanding.

Maybe he’ll get a job. Then he’d be distracted. Again, though, that just papers over the problem.

But shit, haven’t we been papering over the problem for years? I mean, my parents don’t have a perfect marriage, but they stay together, they tolerate each other. They don’t have big screaming fights, as far as I know, but I know Mom has her local friends and Dad has his work friends and they don’t overlap a whole lot.

That line of thought makes me think of Lee and his father and mother, and then I squelch that because I don’t really know all that much, just that they split up. But it darkens my mood. Maybe Lee won’t be there in the apartment after all. Maybe he’s serious about leaving, about us spending time apart. After all, I guess we got along really well when we were living at the top and bottom of the country. So maybe he’s just figuring he’ll go back to that.

Still, I avoid the spot where his car is (was?) parked, so I don’t have to see whether it’s gone, because I kind of feel like it is. Then I pull into the parking garage and just sit in my truck. I don’t know what I want, if I want him to be there so he can apologize, or if I should apologize (because I feel sort of like I should, though I’m not quite sure why), or if I want him to not be there because that would make things easier leading up to the game, or if it would make things easier or just harder.

If today’s any indication, I can stop thinking about him long enough to play. If I can keep that up for a few more days, then I’ll feel better about going into the championship game.

Funny. I never thought I would be better at football if I stopped thinking about him.

That thought doesn’t sit well with the confused mess of anger and loss in my chest. Fuck, I am not going to cry. I’m not. I’m just going to sit here and squeeze the steering wheel.

Finally, the need to use the bathroom drives me upstairs. Four beers inside me doesn’t leave a lot of room for anything else. So I slam the car door and slam the elevator door and squeeze my legs together the whole torturous slow ride up until the door clatters open and I can get my key in the lock.

Once I’ve finished in the bathroom, I step back outside. I already noticed that Lee isn’t in the apartment anywhere. Standing in the bedroom, I lift my nose, but his scent is suffused through everything, like the fine layer of his fur all over the apartment, and I can’t tell when he was last here. I think it was more recent than last night, but I can’t be sure.

Then I notice the bottom of the closet, where his overnight bag is gone. And when I check the dressers, there’s one shirt of his that I notice missing, which means there’s probably more missing, too.

I kick the closet door shut and go into the kitchen, but there’s no note on the fridge. He didn’t even have the courtesy to say good-bye or anything, not by text, not by phone, not by calling me. Even after our fights, he was always the one who made sure to talk to me, to tell me what he was doing. And now…nothing.

There’s still beer in the fridge, so I take one out and sit on the couch. The UFL ’09 disc is still in the game console, but when I turn it on, I just sit and stare at the startup screen and I can’t make myself start a game. I down the first beer and then go and get another, and still the players on the startup screen run through the same motions, over and over again, never changing.

Drinking brings back the anger and the loss. He’s only been living in the apartment for a few months, but already it feels wrong without him. My tail slaps the couch restlessly, so I get up with the beer and walk into the bedroom. The bed’s sheets are still mussed from when I got up in the morning; he didn’t make the bed because he wasn’t here. And he didn’t sleep with me that night.

God dammit, why is he so obsessed with his gay rights crusade? Why can’t he just be a supportive boyfriend for two fucking weeks? And why can’t I let it go, why can’t I be more like he wants me to be? I do care about gay rights, if it’s not already fucking obvious to the world by this point. But it can’t rule my life. I have a job to do, and if I cost myself a million or ten million dollars because I’ve had a meeting with some senators that ultimately doesn’t matter anyway, how does that benefit gay people? Once I get a big payday, I can donate to charities and causes. And the money isn’t even the issue. I think about Fisher, how passionate he is about playing, how one injury cost him half the season and another might cost him a chance to play in the championship. I don’t even have the history he does. An injury could leave me with nothing.

And nothing is what I feel like I have right now. When I sit down on the bed, I notice the naked picture of him, smiling at me. I remember him saying
I promise I’ll never go anywhere
. Well, fuck. I lash out and smack the picture off the dresser; it smashes against the wall with a tinkle of shattered glass and falls to the floor.

Immediately I feel shitty, and the disappearance of his picture makes the real Lee’s absence that much more painful. I press my nose to the bed, inhaling his scent. Before I know it, I’m crying into the sheets. There’s a moment where I try to stop, and then I think, fuck it, better get it out now. So I let myself cry, while at the same time I shred parts of the blanket with my claws and then the beer falls to the floor with a clatter and I’m pulling the sheets off the bed to throw them aside. I kick them all into a pile, wiping my eyes, and drop to the bare mattress. The pillows smell like him, so I sweep them aside as well, keeping only one, the one that smells like me, and I press my face to it and shudder on the bed, gasping into the cloth.

Moments, hours, hundreds of tears later, I prop myself up on my elbows. So I’m alone, I guess, just like that. My phone lies still in my pocket, so I fish it out. No calls from Lee, no texts. Nothing. Well, fine. If he’s not thinking of me, then I will show him I’m not thinking of him. I text him, though it’s hard to see the letters as my thumb slides over them.

Fine them. Maybe dee you Shen I’ve get back. Marble.

The phone’s changing my words as I type them? Is it supposed to do that? I hit Send anyway and then drop the phone to the floor and press my face to the pillow once again. I inhale my scent, only mine.

*

In the morning, I have a mild headache from drinking too much beer and not enough water, made worse by the chirping of my phone. “Sorry,” I mumble as I answer it, vaguely remembering something I said last night.

“You’ll be sorrier if you’re not here in like twenty minutes,” Fisher says sharply. “You know it’s Friday, right? Even that damn cheetah is here.”

“Wha?”

“Trying to make me take one of his fucking shakes. Listen, just get your tail down here. They’re not going to hold the plane for you.”

Plane? Oh shit. “Dammit. I didn’t set an alarm.” I scramble out of bed, still holding the phone to my ear. “And I didn’t pack. Stall them, Fish.”

“Fucking rookie move, Dev!” He’s yelling. “Why didn’t Lee make sure you were up?”

“Don’t yell at me!”

“Then don’t fuck up like this! Asshole. Fuck, I’ll do what I can. You’re on your way, right?”

“Yes, yes, fuck yes.” I stand paralyzed in the middle of the room for a second and then grab my bag out of the closet, which reminds me of Lee’s bag—no time for that. I throw clothes into it and then grab my toothbrush and toothpaste. I cram everything into the bag and force the zipper shut and tear out the door, locking it quickly and then giving only one glance to the elevator before taking the stairs, three at a time.