Faith and Fidelity (4 page)

Within a month, they were meeting for drinks on a weekly basis, whenever Evan was free. Evan's kids were his number one priority and he spent every possible night home with them, but more and more his in-laws were pushing for overnight stays. Unable to say no, Evan watched as his kids piled into their grandparent's station wagon and waved good-bye. He didn't blame their craving for home-cooked meals and warm hugs. He was a ghost now, haunting his house with quiet desperation that grew larger and heavier every day. He didn't know how to make things special like Sherri had. He could barely manage the minimum. His only outlet besides work was the simple comfort of sitting across from Matt Haight and drinking until he saw double.

They kept going back to O'Malley's for the quiet and for the surprisingly good buffalo wings. Their table was kept available most of the time, the bartender knew them and their order by the third visit. The routine was comforting, they liked not having to think about anything but the beer and the conversation.

It started out with sports, cop shit, superficial things until the buzz turned into a roar and then the ugly truth came out in a rush.

Maybe it was the beer or the quiet intimacy of sitting so close together in the near dark. Whatever the combination, Evan found himself opening up to Matt like he'd done with no one else in his life. There were no soothing words or trite advice when Evan talked about his dead wife on the gurney, wishing he could have five minutes with the son of a bitch who killed her so he could crush his skull in the exact same manner.

They became good enough friends to politely forget the tears, the self-pity, and the bitter outpouring of emotion. Matt kindly ignored the wet tracks down Evan's face.

And Evan just nodded when Matt slurred out his hatred of his “brothers” for ruining his life, even though he knew it was his fault alone, his fault that he had lost everything. Evan agreed without judgment, reaching for the pitcher to refill both their glasses. He knew how that felt.

Matt didn't know about Evan but it was the highlight of his week, sitting in the near-dark, just talking, listening, drinking. They created a little cocoon of their misery, a safe haven in which to feel like a piece of garbage. To be tired and bitter and a failure, with no apologies.

How exactly that moved to daily “shoot the shit” phone calls, he couldn't exactly say.

“So I got Giant tickets for this weekend— you game?”

“Where the hell did you get those?”

“Grateful client with box seats. So?”

“Yeah. Kids are away again. My sister-in-law is taking them pumpkin picking.”

“Why don't you go too?”

Matt could practically hear the shrug over the phone. “Can't seem to work up the energy I'd need.”

“I'll pick you up at ten a.m. on Sunday then.”

“You got it.”

After hanging up the phone, Matt got back to making dinner (two Lean Cuisines in the microwave) and nursing a bottle of Coors.

He couldn't pinpoint when he'd started noticing the little things, like the odd silver-blue color of Evan's eyes, or the way he moved... in control. The way his body moved under his unassuming button-down shirts as he sprawled in his chair, tipping his head back to work out the kinks. He couldn't remember when he'd begun moving his chair a little closer during their weekly drink fests, catching the subtle scent of soap and cologne from his skin. Matt imagined one of his children bought it for him, for Christmas or Father's Day. In his mind's eye he could picture Evan standing in front of the bathroom mirror, splashing it on, rubbing his face with damp hands. He tried not to spend too much time dwelling on any of it, because it posed a much larger question than Matt was willing to ponder.

Of course the not pondering didn't help the situation once the dreams began.

The first one was just... strange. The only thing he remembered was the USMC tattoo. At first, Matt thought he was dreaming of the bartender at O'Malley's, which was frightening in and of itself. But they weren't in the bar, they were... in the squad room. Matt's old squad room at Homicide. He was at his desk, typing, and when he looked across to talk to Abe, he saw... it was Evan. Smiling.

He could see the USMC tattoo on the inside of Evan's arm, a reminder of his brief time in the military before marriage and fatherhood demanded he return home. And that was all Matt could remember.

The second dream— a few nights later— was pretty unforgettable and this time Matt didn't have to decipher its meaning. He woke up in a cold sweat, his heart thundering in his ears. The sheets were damp. But this wasn't a nightmare.

In this dream— and all the ones that followed— they were sitting somewhere dark and... soft. Side by side, almost touching. Matt whispered, because it almost felt like church. Almost.
What does your tattoo taste like
? Evan said nothing. He was barely more than a ghost, his eyes radiating some kind of light... and then he pushed himself against Matt, lifting his arm to just outside the reach of his lips. Without a second thought Matt ran his tongue from Evan's wrist to the crook of his elbow. Paused. Then kept going. Up his forearm, tasting muscle. Past his shoulder, into the dip of his collarbone. The taste was addictive. Oh and his mouth...

His mouth.

After the latest dream— the morning after he'd made the plans with Evan for the Giants game— Matt ended up with his hands buried in his hair, breathing deeply, nearly turning to check and make sure there wasn't anyone in bed with him. This dream was driving him crazy. Every fucking night for the past two weeks he'd wake up shaking— and rock hard— his mouth burning with a memory from his imagination. This had never happened to him before. He'd always been strictly into women, 100 percent. Lost his virginity at fourteen, for Christ's sake. Granted, the past few years had been less than successful, and he honestly could not remember the last real relationship he'd had.

Like the one you have with Evan, you idiot
? His inner voice sounded like his late partner Tony, sort of a cross between a wise guy and a sitcom dad.

Oh no. Matt shook his head violently, tossing the covers back to get up. He tried to pretend the hard-on was the result of needing to take a piss, but he wasn't fooling himself and hey, he wasn't fooling his dick.

Peering into his bathroom mirror he got close enough for his nose to touch. The drinking was taking its toll. He'd seen it happen to his old man, knew the signs. Was he aging badly? Would he ever find someone who looked at him with anything more than pity? Or contempt? Or casual affection? He wanted what Evan had, what he talked about from the bottom of a pitcher of beer. He wanted to love someone enough to grieve for them.

He also wanted to stop dreaming of running his tongue all over Evan Cerelli's body— well hey, we could start there and work toward the rest later.

Facing him on Sunday was going to be tough. Hard. He groaned inwardly.
Don't remind me
, he thought, trying to ignore the throb located in his groin. It's just a fantasy; it didn't mean he was gay. Didn't mean anything as a matter of fact. He was spending a lot of time with Evan, the first person in a very long while who listened to Matt, who made him feel comfortable, calm. His subconscious was just equating sex— which he hadn't had in a very long time— with that comfort. Man, all that time spent around his friend Liz the Shrink had apparently made him a dream analyst. How impressive. Maybe he should give her a call and ask her opinion of a been-heterosexual-all-my-life guy having sex dreams about another guy who happened to be his closest friend. And also straight. No, he didn't actually want to hear what she had to say. It would probably just make him swan dive off a pier.

He poured a glass of orange juice down his throat, trying to scrub the tingle off his tongue. Crawled back under the covers repeating his theory about his subconscious doing a little creative writing. Pretended that he wasn't thinking of Evan when his hand finished the job his dream had started.

Christ.

On the Friday before the Giants game, his day off, Matt Haight started jogging and hated it after about five minutes. He huffed and puffed around his block once, twice, three times, waving to the crossing guard as he went by.

“You want me to time you?” she called out on his second trip.

“God no,” he wheezed.

Back at his apartment he stumbled into the shower and stood there, dazed and in pain. He used to be in shape— he vaguely remembered this. Didn't he run after criminals? Didn't he walk up many, many flights of stairs without having a heart attack?! Were these figments of his imagination?

“I'm not an old man. I will get back into shape.” He felt better announcing this fact to his shower stall. The echo made it sound like an important thing.

He ate lunch sitting in his recliner, pulled up so he could rest his feet on the windowsill and enjoy the stunning view of the neighboring building's rooftop garden. His whole apartment encompassed one large room with a tiny kitchenette and bathroom. He paid a pittance for it, and it was close enough to his office that he could walk in good weather. It also looked like shit. He hadn't painted it since he'd moved in, the furniture was Salvation Army reject, and, God forbid, he actually clean it once in awhile.

After his delicious ham sandwich and glass of iced tea (no sugar— he really was trying), Matt wandered around the room, taking stock. Maybe he could get a sofa bed. Replace the recliner with something that didn't need electrical tape to keep the stuffing in. A table, some chairs. Dishes that matched. New towels. Oh yeah. That would be nice. He had the money, sitting in the bank, collecting shit interest and dust. Why not spend some of it? The first thing the apartment needed was a fresh coat of paint.

Maybe Evan could come over and help him out... Yeah, and maybe they could rent gladiator movies and make out on the couch.

Christ almighty. He was losing his grip on reality. Matt needed to get laid as soon as humanly possible. This unnatural celibacy had to be the reason for his... odd dreams.

And the fact that you know what another man smells like. And It Turns You On. Admit it Matthew. Another Man Turns You On.

Paint. Think about paint. Was yellow a good color? Cream? Did he even know the difference between the two?

Matt pulled on his shoes, grabbed his wallet and jacket, and headed out the door. Paint. He needed paint.

Evan's plans for the weekend were rapidly going south.

He'd committed to the game with Matt on Sunday because Elena was taking the kids for the day. But she called Saturday night, asking if it would be all right if she switched the outing to next week. A friend needed help moving... something or another. The kids were disappointed, and Evan wasn't sure what to do with the day. The Weather Channel mentioned snow so he lamely suggested a fun day of board games and dinner out at their favorite restaurant (an Italian place around the corner, casual and with the genius idea of having video games in a separate room). After some skeptical looks— because Daddy wasn't usually into having fun these days— they agreed it sounded good.

Then he realized he'd have to call Matt and let him know about the change of plans. He got the kids settled for the night and grabbed the phone. Let it ring and ring and ring. No answer. No machine. The cell went straight to voice mail, which declared itself full.

“Shit.” Evan put the phone down and paced around the room. He had no idea how to get in touch with Matt. He didn't want the guy to get all the way out to Queens for nothing.

By midnight Evan gave up and lay down on the couch, where he regularly pretended to sleep. He'd try again in the morning.

Once Matt got started he found it hard to stop. Painting. And cleaning. And throwing shit out.

Thankfully, his only real neighbor— the guy downstairs— was stone deaf so Matt kept going well past eight o'clock. At first he was going to cover his furniture but it looked like shit so why bother. He left the mattress on the floor. Everything else he marched down to the dumpster behind the apartment. The paint he'd bought was called “eggshell” and looked like beige on the walls. Or maybe what he thought was beige actually turned out to be eggshell. He pondered this mystery of life as he painted his apartment.

At one a.m. he finished cleaning his bathroom. The apartment was freezing cold. He left the windows opened to help the paint dry, clear the fumes out. He was looking forward to putting nice furniture in, making the place a little homey. After five years it seemed about time.

An hour later he was curled up on his mattress, under every blanket he owned and two overcoats. Thankfully, exhaustion kept his more erotic of dreams at bay and he finally had a decent night's sleep.

By nine a.m. he was on the road and heading to Queens.

Evan made pancakes. Miranda discreetly pointed out the ones that weren't cooked all the way through and put them back on the stove. He made sausage patties, which seemed to pass muster. They had a nice breakfast, chatting and planning the day. Kathleen wanted Scrabble. Elizabeth and Danny voted for a video store run. Miranda shrugged— she didn't care as long as they did it together.

“Let's do it all,” Evan said, trying to get into the spirit of the day. Movies, board games, dinner. Talk had turned to Thanksgiving break when the doorbell rang.

“Oh no.” Evan knew exactly who would be standing at his front door. He'd completely forgotten to try calling Matt again.

“Hey.”

Matt stood on his steps, smiling. “Hey. You about— ” And then, glancing a bit father into the house, he caught sight of the breakfast table full of junior sized Cerellis over Evan's shoulder.

“Sorry— I tried to call you. The plans fell through.” Evan felt terrible. “I'm sorry you had to drive all the way out here.”

“No problem.”

“The tickets... ”

“They were free. Don't worry about it.”

“Hi!” a voice called out from behind the two men. Elizabeth, ever the social director. “Want some pancakes?”