Why Not With Me?

Chapter Four: Inside Pockets

We’re putting our clothes on, getting ready to leave the gallery, when something falls out of Brian’s shirt pocket. I grab it without really looking, assuming it’s a condom. 

Instead I see a business card. I read it. 

“Elliot Stevenson, Psychotherapist. 417 E. Bayton Street, Pittsburgh.” 

Psychotherapist? Brian? What the hell would Brian be doing with the business card of a psychotherapist?

“What’s this?” I ask, holding the card out toward him. He turns to me as he zips his pants.

“Oh, just some potential client I met on the plane,” he says, but he is not quick enough. I saw a different look on his face, for a split second. And I know when he’s lying. 

“A trick?” I’m hoping not; I know we’re not exclusive, but I don’t like to think he’s picking up people on the plane for “later” when he’s on the way to see me. Still, I try to keep this feeling out of my tone.

Brian flushes angrily. “No. No names for tricks, remember?” 

Shit. That’s true. 

He glances over at me and I smile an apology before going back to my suitcase, putting in my sketchpad so I’ll have it at the hotel.

“So who is it? And don’t say a client. I don’t know any psychotherapists who do full scale, eastern-seaboard style ad campaigns.”

He frowns, knowing he’s caught and that his lie was a bad one. 

“And you don’t ever need to lie to me,” I say very softly. This was something I really need him to understand.

“I know. It’s just… I didn’t want to go into everything here.”

Go into “everything”? What the hell was going on that there would be an “everything” to “go into”? What that would involve a psychotherapist?  My mind is racing with the possibilities. 

“Relax, Sunshine. It’s nothing, really. I’ll tell you at the hotel. Let’s get out of here.” He smiles and slips his arm around me as we walk out of the gallery, pulling the door shut behind us. 

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We were sorting and unpacking at the hotel when I saw him slip the business card into his wallet. He was keeping it. 

Now I really, really had to know.

“You got that on the plane?” I ask as casually as possible, rifling through my bag in search of my good charcoal drawing pencils.

“I was sitting next to the guy.”  He’s pulling out an expensive looking razor, so sharp I’m surprised he made it through airport security.

“He was giving out his business card to everyone in first class? I guess if you want rich clients -- ” 

Brian smiles at this, liking it when I cut through his bullshit. 

“I had a nightmare on the plane. I guess it was a bad one; he said he was concerned, it took a couple stewardesses to wake me up.” 

I’m listening, watching him as he folds his clothes carefully and avoids looking at me. 

“They couldn’t wake you up?”

My voice does not convey my worry; I’ve learned that Brian will only discuss these issues if everything appears as neutral and mundane as humanly possible.  It’s not nearly as easy as he makes it look.

“No, guess not. Don’t really remember. Sounded like what you told me about them.” 

I’d witnessed a couple of these nightmares through the years -- nights when I’d wake up to mumbling, terrified mumbling, screams, Brian’s fists clenching the blankets. The first time it scared me so bad I was shaking as much as he was  when he  finally awoke. The next times I was calmer, just got him a cool washcloth and held his hands and whispered to him until he woke up. 

We’d never talked about it after the first time; after he told me this happened sometimes and I told him what it looked like from my side. 

“Are you okay? Do you know why…”

He’s organizing the clothes in the closet, under the pretense of looking for an outfit to wear tomorrow. I can’t help but notice that it’s taking a long time, being that he brought a pair of jeans and two shirts.

“I’m fine. The doc said it was caused by stress maybe, or it might be a kind of flashback. They are always just memories,” he says, holding up the white collared shirt for the third time.

“Do you remember the dream?”  I’m unpacking the toiletries, a good ten feet away.

 I glance over. He’s got the black dress shirt now, a pretend knitting of his eyebrows, as if this was a difficult, taxing choice of clothing. 

“It was just another one about my dad.”

I make a show of rinsing our toothbrushes under hot water, knowing the background noise would ease him into this rare topic.

“Did something remind you of him earlier?” 

“Gus,” he says, now critically eying the jeans he brought.

“Gus?” I shake the toothbrushes, letting them rattle together. 

I look over and see him looking for frayed edges at the bottoms of the jeans with great interest.

“Yeah. We were at the diner this morning. We had a really great time, and that’s when Gus started asking me if I ever went with my dad to breakfast, and why not.” 

Oh. That would be hard. Especially because Brian was always so…..vulnerable, with Gus. 

I put the toothbrushes away and fight the urge to go over to him with concern. Instead, I  rearranged the aftershave and razor in the medicine cabinet.

“Then what happened?”

“I said I didn’t know…and Gus said…that Jack would’ve liked having breakfast with me if he’d ever tried it --” here I was shocked when Brian’s voice broke momentarily with emotion.  

I stand in the bathroom and refold a folded towel, my ears listening intensely now.

“and I guess I started thinking about it and I just couldn’t think of any answer to Gus’ question. Why wouldn’t Jack have ever done that with me? Why not with me? Why not have breakfast with me? Why not watch a movie with me? Why not go to the park with me?”

I walk into the room as casually as I can, but inside I feel something like mild shock. I’ve never heard Brian talk like this; I’ve never heard him seem so…vulnerable. His voice is not pitying, but it’s 

I wrap my arms around him and pull him close, holding his hips to mine, and I look deep into his hazel eyes. He looked…unsure. Almost confused.

“I don’t know why not, Brian.” I don’t know what else to say. I kiss his jaw and bring my right hand to  the back of his head,  twirling my fingers in his hair a little bit.

Neither of us said anything for a moment and he leaned forward enough to kiss me very softly on the lips.

Now that I have him, I may as well find out about what happened on the plane. 

 “Your dream?” I remind him softly, one hand now on the small of his back, still holding his body to mine.

“Oh, it was just about a time when my father interrupted me and a friend at a diner, when I was in high school.” He slowly let out a long breath. He’s looking away, head turned toward the window.

I’d hardly discussed Brian’s past with him but instinctively I knew I had to stop. Had to approach with extreme caution.

“Interrupted how?’ I rest my fingers on his cheek, making him look at me.

“Yelling. Name calling. Uh, you know.” He’s doing his best to sound bored with the topic.

“ No, I don’t know,” I correct. “ I want to know. So tell me,” I encourage him softly.

“There’s nothing to tell, really,” he says, trying to step back but I hold him there firmly and don’t let him look away.

 He sighs, and then, in the tone of someone reciting the chores they’d completed, says, 

“I was having dinner after soccer practice with a friend. Jack came, he harassed me. Asked my friend about the technicalities of me being gay in the showers with the team…said I never defended myself. I hit him, he spit at me, he tried to choke me, someone stopped him, I ran away.”

I took in a breath. Replayed what he had said, trying to understand it for what it was, not as the mundane information Brian presented it as. 

His father harassing him…outing him, possibly…talking about his homosexuality in front of his peers in a very demeaning way.  Insulting him. Spitting at him. Trying to choke him. 

In that one day Brian had endured almost as much abuse as I’d known in my life, with my peers,  my father, and Chris Hobbs combined.

I looked at him, standing before me with a completely neutral expression, his eyes calm and accepting.

 I felt like I understood something then. Maybe I didn’t, really, but I felt something.  Suddenly I just knew, from the way his eyes looked. I knew what he was feeling. It seemed unfair;  I’m not sure he knew just what he was feeling. But I was pretty sure I did.

And sometimes I had to say for him what he couldn’t. 

So I told him what I saw.

“You think you understand why he abused you; what you don’t understand is why he never loved you.”

He stares at me, his eyes wide with surprise.  Disbelief. He’s staring at me and I can see him trying to process what I said. His breathing is faster, he looks away momentarily, then back at me, lowering his mouth to my ear.

“Say it again,” he whispers. 

I lean into him. I wrap my arms around him. I whisper it so he can hear it again.

“You think you understand why he abused you; what you don’t understand is why he never loved you.”

He blinks a couple of times and bites his lip, looking away. He pulls away from me and I let him go.

He turns his back to me for a minute, runs his hand through his hair. He goes to the night table and retrieves a pack of cigarettes and his stainless steel lighter. Flipping its cool surface, he lights a cigarette and replaces the pack. 

He takes the cigarette to the window and stands there, his back to me, taking a few slow, long drags, looking across the lights of Midtown Manhattan.

The atmosphere is filled with… something. It’s not tension; it’s not nervousness. It’s relief. 

I watch him for a few moments, then decide to put my clothes away, too.  As I close the drawer, I hear him, his voice softer than the sound of the traffic 23 stories down.

“Come here, Sunshine.”

I walk over and he pulls me close, kisses me, his lips barely pressing against mine, tongue tenderly stroking where our lips meet, his fingertips holding my jaw.

When we pull away, I look into his eyes again into the shades of golden copper, brown and green. He smiles a little at me. I kiss him back and taste the cigarette in his mouth. He hasn’t been smoking much lately and I’d forgotten how this tastes. 

We kiss this way for a while, lips and tongues tasting and exploring each other gently, both of us focused on the sensations. I’m lost in the smooth, wet warmth of his tongue with its surprising persistence.  

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It’s been too long since Justin and I have made out like this; it’s been too long since I’ve gotten to revel in the feeling of him flattening his tongue against mine, or analyzed the kind of latte he had this morning (pumpkin spice).  I love feeling his lips open wider against my mouth. Even after six years I guess he can’t get enough either.

Eventually though, he pulls away to breath and I’m running my fingers through his blonde hair. He’s looking at me, his eyes soft, the blue seeming to glow against the darkness outside.

I push him gently to the bed and crawl above him until he’s laying there flat. I kiss him again, our tongues easily returning to their game now that our lungs have refilled. His sighs are soft into my mouth and he’s looking into my eyes, silently asking me to get closer to him. I pull back, seeing his mouth still reaching for mine for a moment while I move on to kiss along his jaw until I reach his ear so I can whisper to him, “I love you.”

He smiles at me -- I think I’ll always get his biggest, patented Sunshine Smile when I say it. And it always, always makes me smile back.

“I love you too,” he replies, his voice breathy and warm in my ear.

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Brian made love to me that night with a slowness I surely didn’t expect after two weeks of being apart. His lips seemed to want to breathe me in, skimming softly along my chest, nibbling on my nipples. Tongue leaving slightly wet trails outlining my muscles, my ribs, tracing paths between my freckles.  His hands were busy claiming ownership, keeping me in place beneath him as I fought the urge to press against him, to fight for more of his mouth, his breath, his lips. For more pressure, more rawness, more power.

When he finally slipped inside of me, his chest against my back, he murmurs against my ear.

“Don’t ever leave me.”

“I won’t -- I won’t.”