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He had no idea what to say or if he should say anything at all.
But Alan saved him from having to make that decision.
“Michael.” He touched the back of Michael’s hand then laid his own over it. He didn’t say anything more, just let his hand rest there, the pressure of his palm conveying without words that it was okay. But it wasn’t okay, far from it.
Turning his hand over, Michael interlaced their fingers, squeezed then let go. “I’m sorry, Alan. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“It doesn’t matter. And please don’t apologize.” He paused.
“But I think maybe I should go, if we’re done here.”
Michael wanted to say no, don’t go. Stay. He wanted to sit here with the fire crackling in the hearth and Alan talking to him about anything at all. He had a nice voice; low and smooth and quietly masculine. He wanted conversation and the occasional laughter.
But most of all he did not want to be alone.
“Okay,” Michael said and got to his feet. “Okay, well, I appreciate you coming over and helping me with the mail.”
Alan rose too. “Like I said, it’s no problem. I’m glad to do it.”
They left the study with its crackling fire and the feel of having been on the edge of something, something that still hung heavily in the air.
Alan took his jacket from the coat-tree and slipped it on.
Michael heard the quiet
zzt
of the zipper. So he really was going. Okay. He walked to the door, unlocked and opened it.
“Thanks again, Alan. Drive safely.”
“Have a good night, Michael.” Alan stepped onto the porch.
Michael listened to his footsteps crossing the wood, heard him descend the first step.
“Alan, wait a minute.” Michael stepped out and pulled the door closed. The chill instantly penetrated his t-shirt and he shivered.
“What is it, Michael? It’s freezing out here.” Alan walked
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back. “What do you need?”
Michael took a breath. “Do you like hockey?”
“Hockey?” The single word was accompanied by a laugh.
The man must think he was insane. Maybe he was insane.
“Yeah, hockey. You know, it’s a winter sport. They wear skates and play it with sticks and a puck on the ice.”
“I know what it is.”
“But do you like it?”
“I … guess so, sure.”
“Would you like to go to a game this Saturday?” When Alan didn’t answer right away, he clarified. “Saturday night, with me, down at the sports complex in South Philly. The Flyers are playing the Devils.” Alan still didn’t say anything, so Michael kept talking. “Phillip and I have had season tickets for years. We sell half and keep half, but I don’t have anyone to go to the games with now. I could take Ross, but he isn’t a fan, and it’s more fun with someone who actually likes the sport. So would you like to go?”
His heart was pounding like he’d run a marathon, which was just silly. Either Alan would say yes or he would say no.
“I’d like that a lot.” Alan spoke slowly and his voice held a note of what sounded like surprise. “What time shall I pick you up?”
“You’re going to a hockey game?” Alan’s brother sniggered as his fingers flew over the laptop’s keyboard. “Dude, you’ve never watched a hockey game in your life, have you? You aren’t even that much of a sports fan.”
“I like sports.” Since Tommy was sitting in the only chair, Alan wandered idly around his brother’s home office. “Remember the time we went to that Phillies game?”
“That was in high school. And you only went then because you were crushing on that kid who worked down at the stadium.”
Tommy leaned in, his nose nearly pressed to the laptop screen.
“Need me to read the screen?” Alan made the offer casually.
Though his brother had lost a good deal of his eye sight as a result of the histoplasmosis that had nearly killed him fifteen years earlier, he didn’t always take kindly to the offer of help.
“I’m okay.” Tommy’s answer was clipped, to the point.
Alan let the subject drop. If Tommy didn’t want help then Tommy didn’t want help, no matter if he could see the screen or not.
“Son of a bitch.” Tommy slapped the enter key. “Ha, gotcha, you little mother.” Leaning back, he swiveled in his desk chair, a wide grin lighting his face. “Okay, you’re all set. I reset the password to password. Tell your friend to change it the first time he logs on. Tell him do not leave it as password, even though he probably will anyway.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Tommy ran a hand through his spiky bottle blond hair.
Except for the hair, the two of them looked exactly alike. Same turquoise eyes fringed with red-gold lashes, same straight nose though Tommy’s sported a bump thanks to a break back in tenth grade, same wide mouth with a dimple at the left corner.
“Do you want to know what the password was?”
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“You can see that?”
Tommy nodded. “In addition to allowing me to reset the password, this software also tells me what the old password was.
Not that it’s really all that useful, but if there are passwords on other stuff, the dead guy might have used the same one.”
“Sure.”
“It was Mexico.”
“Mexico? That’s a weird password. I’ll tell him though. What are you doing now?”
Tommy had turned back around and was typing again.
“Nothing. Just looking. Man, dude’s got a lot of pictures on here.”
“Tom, you can’t just go rummaging through his laptop. What if there’s personal stuff on there?”
“Relax. I’m not going to do anything. I’m just looking at his pics.” Tommy let out a low whistle. “Ooo, baby, will you look at him? Come to daddy, sweetheart.”
Alan went over to the desk and peered over Tommy’s shoulder.
On the screen was a picture of an insanely good-looking blond, maybe in his early twenties. Sun-streaked hair fell in tousled waves just past his shoulders and wide amber eyes gazed into the camera with a look that said butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
He was bare foot and bare chested and wore only a pair of jeans, unzipped and unbuttoned that looked like they might slide off his slim hips at any moment. He leaned against a balcony railing, a wide view of the Philadelphia skyline at his back.
Alan knew it was the Philly skyline because of the statue of Billy Penn just visible behind the hottie.
“Is this the laptop guy?”
“No.”
“Is that the dead guy then?”
“No, it’s not. I don’t know who that is.”
Tommy clicked to another picture.
This one showed the same blond, only now he was lying in too soon FoR Love
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bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, a sheet pulled up to his waist, his erection clearly visible underneath. His beautiful face wore the same expression of guileless wonder even as he winked at the camera. Or at the photographer.
“Whoever he is, seems like he had quite a thing going with laptop guy. You don’t send pics like these out as Christmas cards.”
“Tom, stop. We shouldn’t be doing this.” Alan didn’t know how he knew, but he did. He knew too that he didn’t want to see any more pics of the blond cover-boy.
“Just one more, then I’ll shut her down.”
Alan turned away. But at his brother’s exclamation, couldn’t resist turning back for another look.
This shot had been taken outdoors, blondie lay on a blanket under the spreading branches of a maple tree. The tree was regaled in autumn finery, its leaves a glory of reds, golds and oranges. The blanket was green. And blondie was naked.
In this picture he appeared not to be conscious of the photographer, though Alan doubted it. His eyes were closed and his face wore an expression of pure bliss as he stroked his erect cock for the camera.
Alan shut his eyes. Who was this kid? Why did Phillip have all these pictures of him on his laptop? And, maybe most disturbing of all, how was he supposed to tell Michael about them?
The laptop played the traditional shutdown sound. Alan turned just as Tommy was getting up.
“Here you go, bro. All set. I guess we know now why the dead guy had his laptop password protected.” His expression turned serious. “You think his partner knows about blondie?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it.”
Tommy sighed. “Well, he will now.”
And it was going to be up to Alan to tell him.
Michael slipped his game jersey over his head and shoved his
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arms through the holes. Alan would be arriving any minute and he wanted to be ready to walk right out the door. After making an ass of himself and nearly kissing Alan the other night, he didn’t want to have an over-long time for the two of them to just sit around and shoot the breeze. He liked Alan, sure. Maybe a little too much. And besides he was an emotional wreck just now.
That afternoon he’d been packing up more of Phillip’s clothes for the Salvation Army when he all of a sudden broke down and cried like a baby. He’d just collapsed on their bed with his face buried in a gray cashmere sweater—he knew it was gray because he’d given it to Phillip himself the previous Christmas—and sobbed until there was nothing left inside him. Then feeling like a dried out husk, he had laid down and fallen into an exhausted sleep with his head on the pillow that still smelled a little like his lover.
Even now as he got ready for the game, he felt a little shaky, like the slightest thing might send him off again. So maybe getting out for a few hours was a good idea. One thing he did know for sure, sitting at home alone with all the memories was not.
Normally he wasn’t a crier. In fact, before the horror of losing Phillip so suddenly, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually wept. Now it seemed he couldn’t stop.
They’d had a good life, he and Phillip, with few sharp words and even fewer occasions for tears. Even this last year, when things had not been so great, their life together had been better than a lot of couples he knew. But that life was over now, and he needed to get on with the job of making a new one.
It was what Phillip would have wanted. Hadn’t he said so often enough?
✧ ✦ ✧
“I’m going to die long before you, you know.” Phillip’s tone was matter-of-fact as he opened the refrigerator and began to put away the cold items from their recent trip to the supermarket.
“Will you stop it with the death talk already?” Michael opened too soon FoR Love
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the pantry door and stowed a large box of Cheerios on the top shelf.
“I’m just saying, even if this thing turns out not to be cancerous, the fact is that I’m eighteen years older than you and as such I’m likely to die first.” Paper bags rustled as Phillip continued to unpack groceries. “Ask any actuary, the average life expectancy for a male in the United States—”
“I don’t care about that.” Michael walked over to his lover, slid his arms around his waist and pressed against his back. “Phillip, listen to me. We’ll go to the hospital tomorrow, They’ll remove that spot on your ankle and everything will be fine.”
Michael laid his head on Phillip’s shoulder and closed his eyes.
It had to be fine. It just had to be.
✧ ✦ ✧
And it was fine. No cancer.
Only after they got the good news did Michael fully realize how scared Phillip had been, how all his matter-of-fact talk had been a cover for the terror that had dogged him ever since his friend Martin, who was also his doctor, had found the dark, irregularly shaped mole on Phillip’s ankle and had recommended that it be removed and tested.
Had it really been five years ago?
Funny how something like that could scare the shit out of you and turn out to be nothing. Then when the grim reaper really did show up at the door, it was a complete shock that knocked you flat on your ass.
Picking up one of his ponytail holders from the top of his dresser, Michael gathered his hair in one hand and caught it back in a loose tail just as the doorbell rang. He shook off his maudlin mood. He tried a smile that didn’t quite seem to fit his face and went to answer the door.
“Nice shirt,” Alan said when Michael opened the door.
“Thanks.” This time the smile felt more natural. Michael stepped back and opened the door wider. As he reached for his
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jacket on the coat-tree, a chilly wind swirled through the open door. “We bought the shirts at the beginning of last season because we both had jerseys for guys who weren’t on the team anymore.”
An odd little silence fell between them. Michael would have sworn he felt Alan watching him. But that was probably just his imagination. He hoped it was just his imagination, and that his stupidity the other night hadn’t soured their … what? Friendship?
Were they friends? He didn’t know. He thought that they could be, as long as he hadn’t fucked things up too badly.
Michael checked his back pocket one last time to be sure the tickets were there. They were. “Okay, I guess we should hit the road. If you’re late, they make you wait for a stoppage of play before you can go to your seat.”
“I didn’t know that. I have to confess, I’ve never been to a hockey game before.”
“Never? Really? Well, you’re in for a treat then.” Michael locked the door then pocketed his keys. “I went to my first Flyers game when I was eight.”
“Yeah?” Alan offered his arm and Michael took it.
“Yeah. My aunt and uncle had season tickets and they took me for my eighth birthday. I got to go up to the broadcast booth and everything.”
“That must have been great.”
They descended the front steps and Alan opened the car door.
“You know it. I thought I was some hot shit.”
Michael slid into the passenger seat of Alan’s car and pulled the door shut. He was babbling, he knew. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong. Alan seemed quieter than he had the other night, less at ease, which in turn made Michael nervous and more talkative.
They drove for a few minutes in silence before Alan turned on the car radio and began station surfing.