Short Stories Read online

  That was the first night I’d felt alone with Graham. Even in bed, the stars glittering through the windows while we fucked, I felt on my own.

  “You seem distracted tonight,” Graham had said at one point.

  I reached for him, teasing, “Hey, we can’t have that.”

  He was gentle and inventive in bed. Passionate, yes, but the only time he’d ever lost control had been that first night. That was fine by me. When you spend your day with hormone-infused adolescents, you don’t mind a little restraint. Graham was maybe the gentlest guy I’d been with, which I hadn’t expected given what an outdoorsman he was. Not exactly strong and silent, but…laconic. Reserved.

  Not really my type, I would have said. Before I met him. Before I fell in love.

  It’s not like I had gone looking for this, wanted this, had opted for the pay-per-view gay soap opera with angst in hi def. All I’d wanted was an ordinary relationship with a nice guy. A guy I could share my life with. The good times. The bad times. Maybe even share my mortgage with. A guy who could get along with my friends — a guy who had his own friends. Maybe even a guy I could take home for the holidays. I don’t know. Whatever I had been thinking, the pleasant fantasy was so far removed from the vibrant and painful reality of Graham.

  And now that I had Graham — or didn’t have him — all those soft-focus dreams felt like someone else’s memories. The realization that Graham was not going to be part of my future, was already on his way out of my life, hurt so much it was hard to think past it.

  The very thought of his soft sleepy mouth finding mine in the lambent light of morning made me want to drop my pack and crouch down, hugging myself against what felt like a body blow. A mortal blow.

  How did people get over this?

  They obviously did. Every day someone fell in love with the wrong person and had to pack up all their fragile, misguided hopes and unwanted affection, and move on to the next picnic table.

  How many times had I had to gently — and not always so gently — redirect someone’s interest from me?

  Payback was a bitch.

  Nah, no dramatics. Hearts got broken every day. Nobody died from that. But it did kind of fade the sunlight and drain the color from the days.

  And the nights…the nights would feel too long to live through.

  The thought of those nights had me drawing a sudden sharp breath.

  Graham looked back at me.

  I gave him a thumb up. Maybe a little too vigorously.

  He turned hastily forward again.

  I turned inward. Sure, for a time the nights would be bad. But then I’d get over this and move on and maybe, finally, find someone who appreciated me for being me, who didn’t wish every minute we were together that I was broader and blonder and rode a bike and listened to Bonnie Raitt and loved to camp as much as Graham.

  The thought should have comforted me, but it didn’t. It hurt worse. Made my heart feel shrunken and lost, a pebble bouncing and clacking its way down a deep, empty pothole.

  Why did it have to be Graham? Why couldn’t it have been a nice normal ordinary guy who was as tired as me of the clubs and the earnest, organized efforts of social networks and of fucking around? Why did it have to be Graham with his perfect house in the hills and his tragically dead soul mate?

  Seriously.

  And why had fucking Graham had to drag me into it?

  Why couldn’t he have kept his crippled heart safe at home in his house of many windows? Why pretend to be open to moving on, to falling in love again when he was still mourning his ghost? Still grieving at the shrine.

  It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

  Or was it simply that Graham was ready but I wasn’t the right guy? Yeah, more likely that. It would take someone a lot more…whatever, to ease his grip on the past. Someone more like Jase. Or just not like me.

  Graham stopped walking and uncapped his canteen. He offered me a swig, which was surely a peaceable gesture seeing that I had my own. But I took his and tilted my head back. The water was warm and sweet.

  “You’re quiet,” he said.

  I handed the canteen back. Wiped my mouth. “Thinking.”

  “Yeah.”

  Way with words, Graham.

  I tried to keep my face blank but as I met his gaze, I could see the reflection of my bitterness in his eyes. Saw his expression alter. Saw that he had no idea what to do about any of this. That he was sorry.

  My anger leeched away. Kind of too bad because it gave me energy and purpose, but the fact was, it wasn’t Graham’s fault he didn’t fall in love with me. Any more than it was my fault that I had fallen in love with him.

  I took a deep breath. “The thing is, you’re right.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Am I? About?”

  “Not about wasting my time, because I don’t think being with you was a waste of time. I liked spending time with you. I enjoy your company. And I would like to be friends with you one of these days. But.”

  I managed a controlled stop rather than looking like I couldn’t go on, but it was close.

  “But?” he asked when I didn’t continue.

  “But it probably would be a good idea if I didn’t see you for a while.”

  His fluctuating expression was a study of emotions. It looked like everything from anger to relief flicked past while he absorbed my words.

  “If that’s what you want.”

  I guess my emotional equilibrium was still off because something dangerous surged inside me. If that’s what I want? You know goddamned well what I want! Reason prevailed — on Graham’s end too. Before I swallowed the heated words, he said, “Sure, Wyatt. Of course.”

  He sounded subdued. He gave great attention to screwing the cap on his canteen. “It’s just…”

  I closed my eyes. Don’t say it.

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  I opened my eyes. “I’m going to miss you too.” I waited for him to turn. When he didn’t, I walked past him.

  For a long time neither of us said anything else. The only sounds were the even thud of our boots on the crumbly soil, the hum of pollen-drunk bees, the faraway boom of thunder. The clouds were rolling in, the temperature dropping, but we were still well ahead of the storm. We’d be back at the car before the rain started.

  “It doesn’t feel like three years,” Graham said suddenly from behind me. “Since Jase.”

  “No. I guess not.”

  “Other times it feels like he’s been gone forever. Like it all happened to someone else. Like our life happened to someone else.”

  “I’m sorry.” Not the first time I’d said it, but what else was there to say? I thought I understood about as well as anyone on the outside could.

  “You don’t have to be sorry, Wyatt. I know I haven’t been fair to you.”

  Since that was exactly what I’d been telling myself, I’m not sure why I felt a little ashamed to hear him acknowledge it.

  “You were honest. And I thought maybe…”

  “I was angry for so long. Mad at Jase. Mad at…life. Why give people that much happiness if you’re going to take it away?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t believe in God anymore. And if he — it — does exist, I hate it.”

  He did. I could hear the undertone of rage still vibrating in his voice. I began to understand exactly how much control he had.

  I stopped walking, turned to face him. “I know it doesn’t help, but some people never have that. What you had with Jase. Never have it at all. They look all their lives and don’t find it.”

  Graham’s look was fierce and bright. “You’re right, Wyatt. It doesn’t help.”

  “Okay.”

  He took in my lopsided smile and sighed. Such a weary sound. “No. That’s not true. I know how lucky I was, and sometimes I can even remember it and be glad without getting angry.” He added honestly, “More often lately. I think that’s because of you.”

  It meant a lot to hear it. “Th
at’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  We stared at each other.

  “It’s true.” Graham’s gaze shifted to the mountains, his tone changed. “Maybe if the fucking killer had ever been caught...”

  Killer? Maybe not in the eyes of the law, but didn’t it amount to the same thing? It did for Graham.

  “If there had been some justice. Something. Some…closure.”

  How many times could you say you were sorry? I shook my head.

  “It didn’t have to happen. It shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t have…ended like that. It’s so goddamn fucking pointless.” Graham’s face twisted and then, shockingly, he was crying. His face screwed up, turned ugly as he fought it. But a sob tore out of him. A winded, broken sound. And then another.

  My own eyes stung. I couldn’t bear for him to hurt so much. I wanted to put my arms around him, protect him. I didn’t think he’d welcome it, so I didn’t move.

  Why did we all crave love so badly when half the time it left us annihilated?

  Graham choked out, “I think of him lying there. Not a mile from the house. I was home. I could have…”

  He’d never talked about it before. Not to me. Not really. I knew the bare facts. I’d got most of them off the Internet. Jason Edward Kane, 38, a professor of astronomy at the University of Oregon had been killed while out biking one early Saturday morning. It was a hit-and-run accident. The driver was never caught.

  I knew more about Jase’s death than I knew about his life.

  Having been in that quiet, peaceful house on a Saturday morning…been there with the satiny light filtering through the trees and pouring through all those sparkling windows, the songs of birds outside, the smell of coffee brewing. The perfect start to another perfect day. A false start, as it turned out. A faulty reading on the barometer because despite indicators reading all being right with the world, in fact the world was seconds from being rocked off its axis by an asteroid.

  Hard to not feel betrayed by the very cosmos. Hard to ever believe again in a beneficent fate.

  Another sob ripped from Graham. He sounded like someone took a knife to his chest and carved the sound out. “If you’d known him…”

  I hugged him.

  Last time, I thought. One last time. And I held him tighter. For an instant he hugged me back. Held me like I was a drifting spar and he was a shipwrecked sailor lost on the dark and rolling sea. On this vast golden windblown empty ocean where we stood together — and alone. Then he freed himself, embarrassed, of course, and angry with himself for breaking down — and with me for witnessing it.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish I had the power to bring him back to you.”

  He drew another shuddering breath and then fell silent, his expression…odd.

  We stared at each other. The moment stretched. For the space of a couple of heartbeats it felt like we were on the verge of some revelation.

  I felt a burning sensation near my inner elbow. I jumped, looked down and saw a honey bee stinging me for all she was worth. I slapped my arm. “Damn. It stung me.”

  How the hell could something so little pack such a wallop? It was like it had punched a burning cigarette into my skin.

  “Is the stinger still in?”

  “Is it? I can’t tell.”

  We both peered at my tanned forearm. There was a red patch about the size of a quarter near my elbow. Graham shook his head. “No. Little bastard lives to fight again.” He absently wiped at his wet eyes.

  “Good news for the collapsing bee colonies.”

  He grinned. “You’re not allergic or anything, are you?”

  “No.”

  “We’re not far from the car park now. Maybe ten minutes? I’ll get the antiseptic out of the first aid kit and fix you up when we get there.”

  “Sure.”

  The sky was getting darker. Graham was right. We needed to keep moving. We started walking again. My arm hurt like hell. I’d forgotten how much bee stings hurt. I tried to remember what we’d been talking about before I’d been stung. Of course. Jase. What else? But this had been different. For the first time Graham had loosened that tight control. He’d finally opened up to me. More than opened up. He’d cried in my arms.

  It felt unreal now.

  As a matter of fact, everything was starting to feel unreal. Everything but my arm which had stopped tingling and now throbbed with a dull, insistent pain. I glanced down and saw a large raised blister where I’d been stung. Worse, much worse, was the fact that my entire arm was swollen. My fingers looked like purple sausages. I rocked to a stop. “Oh shit.”

  An allergic reaction. Anaphylaxis. That’s the word for when the immune system releases a rush of chemicals in response to allergens like insect venom or shellfish. Overkill, in other words — with the key word being kill. You can die from anaphylactic shock. You can die in a matter of minutes. That flood of chemicals released by your immune system sends your blood pressure plummeting, your heart rate skyrocketing, and your entire body crashing in shock. Signs and symptoms included a rapid and weak pulse, hives, lightheadedness, and feelings of anxiety.

  I had them all. Especially the anxiety. That was increasing exponentially with each passing second.

  How far were we from the car park? Far enough that it was still out of sight.

  “Graham —”

  He was way ahead me, shouldering out of his pack, dumping it to the ground and yanking it open. “You said you weren’t allergic!”

  “I didn’t think I was…”

  Graham had the small first aid kit out. The white and blue metal tin looked like an antique. He popped it open to reveal a neatly stocked interior. Or at least neatly stocked until he began rifling through it. “Have you been stung before?”

  “I think so. I’m pretty sure. Yeah.” I held my misshapen arm up, examining the ugly welt. My arm looked like a prop in a horror movie. “Here I thought the day couldn’t get any better.”

  “When?”

  Oh fuck. Was it getting harder to swallow? Harder to breathe? Or was that simple fear closing my throat, shutting off my airways? My heart pounded all the faster in fright. What would happen next? Would I stop breathing? Would I lose consciousness? Would I die? I realized Graham had asked me something. I’d forgotten the question. “What?”

  “Wyatt, when was the last time you were stung?”

  I gulped out, “High school? It was a while ago.”

  “Shit.” He threw me a murderous look. His eyes looked black in his white face. “You can develop an allergy anytime.”

  I wheezed, “Well, how the hell would anyone know if they’re allergic then?”

  He made a sound of impatience, but I heard the worry. He wasn’t alone with that. I was scared to death. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted to live — even if Graham wasn’t going to be part of my life — until my future was in question.

  How long did I have? People died within minutes from allergic reactions. We were more than minutes away from help. Even if we could get to the jeep, we’d never get to the hospital in time. Which hospital? Where was there a hospital? I couldn’t think of one. I felt faint, or maybe tired and faint. I didn’t remember dropping my pack but all at once I was sitting on the ground leaning against it, watching Graham from what felt like a distance.

  I’d never seen him look like that. I wouldn’t have thought he could look like that. Scared.

  “What do you need?” My voice sounded thick, slurred.

  “Antihistamines. I used to keep a bottle in here. Oh goddamn it.” His voice shook. “It’s not here.”

  “I’ve got a bottle in my pack.” That’s what I meant to say but it came out sounding more like, “Ow…gow…boobie…ih…mah…pah.” I was surprised I had the air left for that. It was getting harder and harder to form words. My mouth felt numb. My whole face felt numb. Even my ears felt numb.

  I was even more surprised that Graham translated my words. But he did. He jumped up, brushing past me,
and tore into my pack. I slumped over, watching dizzily as my clothes went sailing into the sky above my head.

  Oh man. I was losing it…

  “Got it.”

  Graham scooted around beside me. He held my bottle of antihistamine spray. “Okay, Wyatt. You’re okay. Tip your head back, honey.”

  I wasn’t okay. I gurgled in alarm as he leaned over me. He ignored my panicked protest, stuck the small bottle up my nostril and squeezed.

  If it did any good, I couldn’t tell. I was dimly aware he repeated the procedure in my other nostril. The clouds must have been over us now, casting long, deep shadows dark as night. It was colder too. Much colder.

  Graham was talking to me from outer space.

  “Don’t do this, Wyatt,” he said desperately. “God. Not now.”

  Poor Graham. Some guys have all the luck.

  * * * * *

  The next time I opened my eyes I was in a hospital cubicle. There were the usual hospital smells and sounds. There was a fire sprinkler positioned directly over my bed and a blue curtain separating me from the activity in the hallway. There was all the usual medical paraphernalia, but I didn’t seem to be hooked up to any of it. Which was a big relief.

  In fact, I felt…fine.

  I turned my head. Graham was sitting next to the bed, watching me. I widened my eyes, narrowed them, blinked a couple of times. He stayed right there, eyeing me with equal interest. He said conversationally, “You know, the odds of getting struck by lightning are better than the odds of going into anaphylactic shock.”

  “I’m buying a lottery ticket first thing.”

  “You’re not kidding.” His eyes were the gray of imminent rain.

  I cleared my throat. “What happened? I thought I’d had it.”

  “We weren’t that far from the campground. I threw you over my shoulder and carried you.”

  Carried? I wasn’t the Incredible Hulk, but I wasn’t child-size either.

  Graham continued, “There was a paramedic truck parked next to my Jeep. They’d been called out for a heart attack that turned out to be a case of campfire indigestion. They gave you a shot of epinephrine and then we all hauled ass for the emergency room. When we arrived here they pumped you full of Benadryl and cortisone and oxygen and in a couple of hours you were back to normal.”