There was a sharp tang to the air. Howie smelled it as soon as he let himself into his condo. It was a mixture of salt sea breezes and furniture polish. With a sense of awe, he closed the door behind him. Although he had been living in his new home for a while, it still struck him as something marvelous and novel when he was there. The last of the finishing touches had just been completed. Now he was going to spend a brief few days there, his only break in a grueling tour schedule that he 'd be taking for some time.
The lighting, on timers, was moody and muted, making the deep bronze walls of the entry hall glow. He walked slowly down the short corridor to the living room and kitchen, passing the game room in search of his bedroom. His room was alone on one side of the expansive, fifth floor space that graced one of Cocoa Beach’s few condominium complexes located directly on the beach. It was off the living room, a private nook comprised of an intimate sitting room, bed and bathroom. The other wing of the condo held two other bedrooms. His brother, John, lived in one when he visited. The other room was a guest room.
Naturally tidy and ordered, Howie emptied his two pieces of luggage and put things where they belonged: dirty clothes in the laundry room, clean clothes back in his closets, toiletries in the bathroom. He stripped out of the suit he was still wearing, and put it in a bag designated for the dry cleaners. Sighing to himself, he tightened the string that held the bag closed.
What a way to end a leg of a tour. Everyone had been prepared, but still, no one was ever prepared for a funeral.
He slipped into cotton pants and a gauze, India shirt, pulled his hair back into a pony tail, and went into the kitchen for something to drink. He hadn’t had anything more than a cup of tea since he left Orlando, knowing that he would be driving to the beach that afternoon He was thirsty and wanted something stronger than the herbal concoction he had sipped at the wake. He opened a bottle of red wine and set it on the counter to breathe.
Poor A.J.
This entire tour had been mapped out when they had gotten word that A.J.’s grandmother was very ill. It had been a tense scramble to rearrange dates, switching the European and Asian legs of the tour back to American and South American soil so A.J. would be accessible if he needed to be. Rehearsals had been strained. Traveling, too. A.J. had simply been out of it. He’d been out of it from the onset of the promotional tour, putting on a good face out of necessity, but still coming off as removed and sad. The general public imagined it was all because of his recent break-up with his long-time girlfriend. Those inside the insular world of the BSB touring machine knew better.
Then, during the break between the first American leg and the South American leg of the tour, A.J.’s grandmother took a turn for the worse. They had all been in California, rehearsing for a television appearance when word came. A.J. had promptly left for home, frantic to say a final good-bye. Several days after her passing, while funeral arrangements were being finalized, he had flown back to California to tape a video for their latest single. Then all of them had flown back to Florida for the services.
Now it was over and done with and Howie was feeling drained.
While he was waiting on the wine, he surveyed the contents of his refrigerator and saw that John had filled it with all the staples he would need and then some. He helped himself to a few potato chips, then poured a glassful of burgundy and walked out to the terrace to sit and sip it while dusk settled.
The funeral had brought up all sorts of memories for Howie. Memories of his sister’s funeral, of the loss and desolation he had felt.
He empathized with A.J.’s grief, admired his fortitude. A.J. had been stony calm during the services, during the burial, during everything. He had taken charge for his mother, for his grandfather, for the other family members who had come from hither and yon to attend the funeral. Howie had found himself wondering several times during the course of the day if A.J. was as together as he appeared. It felt as if a wall was around his friend, it had felt that way for a long, long time now. None of them could penetrate it. A.J. was there, but not there. Different. Changed. Howie wasn’t sure why that disturbed him, why A.J.’s turn of personality weighed on his mind, but it did. Then again, he shouldn’t question it. He, himself, was an entirely different person, too, since his sister’s passing.
Hell, he was an entirely different person since A.J.
Howie closed his eyes and hugged himself in the sultry breeze that blew in from the Atlantic Ocean. Why would he think about THAT now, of all times? Why would those kinds of thoughts fill him? Three years had gone by since that weekend in Manhattan, so much time that it seemed a lifetime ago. But when he closed his eyes, when he was alone and closed his eyes, he was there again, reliving it again.
The doorbell ringing broke him from his thoughts. He put down his glass and got up, wondering who would be there. Not John, he had a key and he was staying behind in Orlando to work and to give him some space. No one else really knew where he was. No one but...
“Aje?”
A.J. stood there on his doorstep, limp and defeated in the waning light of the coming evening, his shoulder sagging under the weight of a duffel bag.
“I gotta...,” A.J. began, and he stopped, his voice caught in his throat. He looked everywhere but directly at Howie, took a deep breath. “You left before I c.. could talk t.. t.. to you,” he stammered. He raised red-rimmed eyes from his feet to look into Howie’s. “I n.. n.. need..” He couldn’t get the words out. He couldn’t even see now. He wasn’t sure how he had gotten all the way to Cocoa Beach. Now that he was there, whatever had been holding him together was falling apart.
“Aje,” Howie said again, this time without a question in his voice. He reached out and put a hand behind his friends bent neck, drew him into the house, into the hall, into his arms.
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A nightmare. That’s all that A.J.’s mind could register anymore. He was living in a nightmare and couldn’t wake up. And he had been living there for a very long time. Six months, eight months, maybe a year. It had started in a vague sort of way, faint rumblings in his head that all was not right with his relationship with his girl friend. Even though they had been together for years, and despite the fact that she seemed to have an endless capacity to put up with the bullshit he repeatedly foisted on her, something wasn’t right with them. Then this fog he moved in had descended, and descended in such subtle increments, by the time he was lost in it he didn’t know how to get back out. Within that fog, he had lost his girlfriend, his grandmother, his pride and some of his sanity.
Life had become an exercise in going through the motions of living.
This funeral had been the culmination. Although he knew he appeared rigid, appeared capable, inside he had been frantic, bordering on hysterical. His focus had ping-ponged from Nick, to his mother, to Brian, to Kevin, to his grandfather, eventually settling on Howie. The only thing clear in his mind was that Howie would know what to do, what to say; how to make this better, to help. The wake and services couldn’t be over soon enough. He needed Howie.
Then Howie had left, had said his good-byes, paid his respectful condolences to the grieving family once again and left.
A.J. had been devastated, yet held it back. Held it in with everything else he was holding in. In an instant, he knew that he, too, had to leave, to get away from the house, his family, everything, and follow Howie to the beach.
During his drive to the coast he had, little by little, let his emotions, his hysteria out.
Now he was standing in Howie’s foyer, in Howie’s arms, crying like a baby; without restraint, without any feeling other than misery and the need to salve it.
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‘Divine Guidance’
“It’s going to be okay.” Howie had said the words over and over to A.J., until he began to believe them himself. They weren’t quite the truth. He wasn’t sure if anything was going to be okay, but there was no possible way to explain to A.J. that even if circumstances weren’t going to straighten themselves out into something resembling the past, HE would make it through. So he told him it would be ‘okay’. It was the best he had to offer for the moment. And the moment was dragging on into oblivion, or so it seemed.
Eventually, A.J. fell into a fitful sleep, his body curled into a ball on the sofa in front of the fire. Howie was able to get up and see that, in reality, less than one hour had passed.
He puttered around the kitchen, corked the wine, put the chips away. Then he rummaged around the liquor cabinet until he found a bottle of tequila that was half full. He quickly poured himself a shot and gulped it back, closing his eyes in the process to ride the burn that went down his throat and into his feet. That was better, and the second shot was even more effective in creating a warmth in the pit of his stomach. The third brought him the mellow feeling he was looking for.
Thinking ahead, he left the bottle and glass on the counter. A.J. might want some, and if he didn’t, he might make him have some anyway. If he balked about it, he had a few other things floating around the house to entice sleep, which was the biggest missing factor in A.J.’s life at the moment. More liquors, some weed, a few muscle relaxants. Nothing serious, just some sleep enducers for those nights, or days, when nothing else worked.
Howie wandered back to the small sitting room where he had left A.J., hoping to find him still asleep. He was disappointed to see that A.J. was awake, sitting up and staring into the fire, his knees hugged tight to his chest, his feet on the edge of the sofa.
“Man, I thought you were out,” Howie said, sitting beside him.
“No. I dream,” was all A.J. had to tell him. He dreamed and woke sweating, all the time, every night without fail. Occasionally he dreamed and jolted himself from sleep, his heart pounding in his chest. He never remembered the dreams, the events that occured during them, just the panicky feeling he had on waking. Even here, even with the heat of the fire, the sweet sea breezes filling the room, even with Howie, the dreams came. A.J. hadn’t told anyone about them. He was almost ashamed of them. He was definitely afraid of them.
“I’ll be right back,” Howie said, getting up again to get the Cuervo.
“No, stay.” A.J.’s hand reached out and took hold of Howie’s wrist, pulled him back onto the sofa. When Howie was sitting again, A.J. leaned into him. “Don’t leave me alone.”
“I was just going to the other room and...”
“Please, don’t leave me alone.”
“Sure,” Howie said. Something in A.J.’s voice made him stay. Something almost plaintive. A.J. never asked for anything and Howie wasn’t about to let this request go unanswered. He even felt a little bad for having gotten up for the drink, for leaving A.J. unattended in his sleep for even the slightest amount of time.
“I don’t know what to do, D,” A.J. began, his voice low and slow. “I don’t know how I can go back out on the road in, what, two, three days? I just can’t see it.”
“It’s hard,” Howie agreed. It was the worst thing in the world. He remembered having to perform only days after his sister’s funeral. But he also knew that the security of the group, and the love and concern from their fans, had been a sustaining force. It would sustain A.J., too, if he’d let it. “We’ll all be there for you,” Howie assured him.
A.J. sighed and the sigh rattled his frame.
No, they wouldn’t. Brian was distant and cold right now. Nick was still a little hurt and hostile since their last private moment together, a moment he hadn’t wanted and that Nick really hadn’t wanted either. And Kevin. Kevin wouldn’t even look him in the eyes these days. You can’t keep rejecting someone and expect them to be there. You can expect them to be gone. Like his girl. Like his grandma. So much for taking people for granted. Just something else to worry about, to let pile up in his already overcrowded head.
Only two things were clear to him at the moment. He wanted to feel something, some emotion, other than pain and he wanted to be near Howie. Howie equaled soothing and calm. Howie was steady.
A.J. uncurled himself and stretched out on the sofa, placing his head in Howie’s lap. Without thinking, Howie began to stroke his fingers through A.J.’s hair. It was matted and wild from the car ride, from the salt air and the humidity. He was wearing it longer, too. Howie had noticed him growing it out, letting it go natural until he couldn’t stand it anymore and tinted the ends a bronze color. Subdued, though. So unlike A.J. Everything about him had become subdued in recent weeks, a complete contrast to his behavior early on the first leg of the tour when he had been manic and obnoxious.
Howie wasn’t sure which of these two sides to Aje’s personality disturbed him more. He wanted the old A.J back. Goofy, smiling, cocky, cracking dumb jokes that no one laughed at. Charming. His charm was gone.
“What am I going to do with you?” Howie said, not realizing he was saying it aloud. The words just slipped out as his mind rolled over the options. As he said them, A.J.’s arms and hands gripped at his legs, gripped so tight that they shook with the effort of holding on.
“Let me stay here until we leave,” A.J. pleaded.
“Sure,” Howie murmured. He expected that, assumed that was the way A.J. wanted things as soon as he’d stumbled through the door.
A.J. raised himself up a little, eyes averted, looking down at the place where his head had just been. He was still shaking, crying again, the tears coming unbidden, dripping onto Howie’s legs and making a random pattern of perfect circles on his pants. It took a supreme effort to balance himself on tensed arms, to try and get up and stand on his own feet.
“Bathroom?” A.J. asked, his voice strangled. He was going to be sick. Sick from relief that, for the moment, he had a place to hide, to lose himself in.
Howie heard the panic, sensed A.J.’s urgency. Easy enough to lead him into the bath off his bedroom. Easy to stand beside him while he vomited, hell, they had all done it for each other at one time or another. There had been so little privacy between them over the years that there wasn’t much they hadn’t seen. When it appeared that A.J. was done and simply dry heaving, Howie moved and took up a washcloth, ran it under cold water, then washed A.J.’s face with it himself.
“Sorry,” A.J. said, his voice sounding like his own for the first time since he had walked in the door.
Howie said nothing, shook his head and shrugged. He thrust the wet cloth into A.J.’s hands and rummaged under the sink for a fresh toothbrush. Then he placed it on the counter top, along with toothpaste and mouthwash.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Howie told him, leaving the room. He needed another drink. Maybe a few more. This was crazy, A.J. like this. Howie sat at the kitchen table and poured himself a fresh shot of tequila. And the kitchen was where A.J. found him, too. The slender man leaned in the doorway, hugging himself while watching Howie throw back yet another shot of liquid fire. “You feel better now?” Howie asked.
“Yeah,” A.J. said, his voice quiet. Subdued. Eerie, almost.
“Have a drink,” Howie said. It wasn’t an offer, it was a command. A.J. sat at the kitchen table and took the offered shot glass. “Go on, drink it.”
“This is a first, someone telling me to HAVE a drink,” A.J. said with a small roll of his eyes.
“This is the first time any of us must have thought you needed it,” Howie told him. When A.J. drained the glass and put it down, Howie filled it once more. “Just this and then you need to try and get some sleep.”
“I don’t sleep,” A.J. said, kicking back the second shot. “I can’t... I...”
“You can. You will,” Howie assured him. He needed to do something mundane, and washing the shot glass, putting away the tequila, served that purpose. When he turned from the sink A.J. was still sitting at the table, silent, pensive. In the overhead light he looked worn and old. The trembling in his hands as they rested on the table before him did nothing to remove that image, only underscored it. “C’mon,” Howie said, patting A.J. on the shoulder.
“Can I sleep on the couch?” A.J. asked. He stood, looking at the floor of the hall outside the kitchen as Howie picked up his bag. It was still sitting there where he had dropped it.
“No,” Howie said. He shouldered the bag and approached his friend, reached out his arm and guided A.J. down the hall, past the sitting room. “You can sleep with me.”
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‘Mercy’
It was Howie’s turn to be restless and wakeful. After getting A.J. to lay down, which had been a struggle because he wouldn’t get into the bed until Howie got in, too, he found himself wide awake on his back, staring at the ceiling. The room wasn’t completely dark, A.J. had been adamant about having light, so Howie had turned a lamp on low in the sitting room and it shone through the double faced fireplace. Its muted light illuminated the ceiling, making patterns on the fan that rotated slowly above them, making patterns on the sheer curtains that blew inward on the sea breeze.
Howie turned his head on the pillow and watched the sleeping figure beside him. Two years or three since the last time he’d had this view? A.J. slept on his back, his head to the side, the comforter bunched up in his arms. One leg peeked out from under the covers, the skin of his thigh pale in the light. Fragile. Fragile, thin limbs. A.J. looked small and vulnerable under the bulky weight of the bedding.
Howie reached out a tentative hand and touched the curls that spilled across the pristine, white pillow. Silk. He let his fingers linger for a while, then withdrew them.
He shouldn’t do this.
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sleep beside this man.
No.
He sighed and closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep, only to find himself on his side and facing the unconscious object of his desire.
Desire.
So inappropriate to feel that now. Now. Tonight, when A.J. was in such obvious pain. But he did and was beyond helping himself. His mind, fogged with tequila, reeled with images from the past. Feelings surfaced, long buried in the effort to forget them, but never forgotten for very long. The intimacy, the tenderness that had melted into the most sublime pleasure, it was all there at the edge of his memories, ready for him whenever he wanted to relive it. Now, right now, the scent of A.J., the warmth of him so near triggered each moment, brought it all into such vivid relief, that Howie felt his own skin warming, felt his heart lurching with anticipation.
He reached out once more, a feather light touch that scraped the beard on A.J.’s cheek.
Wrong. Wrong to want this man, and more wrong to want him now.
Howie’s eyes followed the line of the slender body that made no ripple under the blankets until his gaze rested on the far wall of his room, the wall that was beside the sliding glass doors that were opened to the night air. A crucifix hung there, ebony against the stark white of the walls. He stared at it. He tried to pray, but the prayers wouldn’t come. He hiked himself up on one elbow and stared harder, focused harder on the cross, focused harder on the implications of it, on the implications of what his head was telling him and the conflicting message from his heart.
“What’s wrong?”
The voice startled Howie. He jumped and felt the pace of his heart increase. Brown eyes glistened up at him, questioned.
“Nothing,” Howie replied. His fingers wanted to reach out and smooth the wrinkles from A.J.’s furrowed brow, wanted to feel the texture of his face. While his mind was occupied with these thoughts, he noted A.J.’s eyes darting, left to right, from looking at him to looking at the wall. Then back again. The familiar face below his relaxed, and A.J. gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Go back to sleep,” Howie whispered. He laid down himself, closed his eyes.
The shock of warm skin against his sent his eyes opening wide. A.J. had rolled over and curled against him, rested his head on his shoulder, wormed his way under his arm. Howie felt the hot imprint of lips on his neck, then on his cheek. His ears heard a sigh as A.J. made himself comfortable in what quickly became an embrace.
Howie ran his hand up A.J.’s neck, tilted his head back to look into those dark eyes once more.
The perfect blend of innocence and corruption. Heavy lidded eyes, full lips parted ever so slightly, feline and sensual, all of him, as he allowed Howie to pull his mouth close for a kiss that was nothing more than a pressing together of lips and a promise of more. More.
“Go back to sleep,” Howie repeated, his lips brushing THOSE lips, lips that had trembled under his at that one touch. Lips that hovered close, waiting. Lips that had owned him once and could own him again.
That nod, that capitulation once more, and A.J. laid his head down on the pillow, forehead touching Howie’s shoulder, lips caressing the skin there. A.J. didn’t even know how tense he was until he let himself relax. And he didn’t let himself relax until he was confident that Howie wasn’t going to let him go, that Howie was going to let him stay in his arms. It was then that he could unclench himself enough to let the sleep come, that he could allow himself a glimmer of hope that his sleep wouldn’t be filled with vague fears that would plummet him back to wakefulness yet again.
Relief washed through Howie as he felt the body in his arms grow limp and heavy. A deep, quiet moan escaped THOSE lips, and traveled across the hairs on his chest, making him shiver. Instinctively, Howie held on tighter, squeezed the narrow shoulders encased in his arms, pulled A.J. closer, so he was draped across his chest, so his arm encircled his waist.
Another moan, and a soft shudder.
Howie sighed, looked up at the ceiling again and watched the rotation of the fan.
“Sleep,” he breathed into the damp curls on the top of A.J.’s head. “Sleep.” And he repeated the word until he fell asleep himself.
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‘Contemplation’
A.J. thought that irony was cruel. The sun in his face woke him near dawn from the best night’s sleep he’d had in months. He got out of bed as carefully as he could, so as not to disturb Howie, and walked out onto the terrace.
A perfect day. Cornflower blue skies without a trace of clouds and the ocean reflecting that rich color in its ripples. A breeze, warm from the South. A stellar moment as the sun rose from the far reaches of the horizon. Birds circled overhead. The waves made a lulling noise as they deposited themselves on the shore. Everything was bright and clean and whitewashed by the increasing heat of the sun.
A perfect day.
A sublime day.
He wanted to die.
He wanted to die and not have to think or feel or do anything, anymore, ever. He wanted black oblivion to come and take him away. He wanted nothing. Nothing.
The sun, fat in the sky now, listened to his unspoken plea and gave him just that. Nothing. The birds went about their business. A person, a form, a figure, appeared on the shoreline. It walked through his field of vision and around a curve, out of sight. Nothing.
All his life had been nothing. Sort of shallow, when he looked back on it. Sort of, sort of a desperate search that always ended in nothing. He felt empty, had always felt empty and had always scrambled to fill that emptiness with anything he could, but he was too tired to do that now. Tired and lifeless and still empty after all of it anyway. Nothing fulfilled him, not money, fame or career, not family, lovers, not a damn thing. And he was even too tired to be angry about it.
He swiped away a tear that dribbled down his cheek.
How could a day be so beautiful? How?
It would be easy, to just walk into the ocean. No one would ever question it. Went for a swim, didn’t come back. Or his car. Went for a drive, you know that Florida freeway traffic and he always did drive too fast.
The sun burned his face, created a pleasant heat there, dried the wash of tears that just kept coming.
Maybe he could just close his eyes and will himself away. Then he wouldn’t have to be him anymore, he could be nothing. Nothing. He wouldn’t have to struggle with trying to belong, or, even worse, struggle to be beyond belonging. He wouldn’t have to scoff at the world, or listen to the world scoff at him. He wouldn’t have to be.
And it was such a beautiful day. The kind of day made for the beach. Hot, it would be hot and the sand would be hot and the water would be warm, green gulf water that caressed your skin with salt and sand. You could sit out in that kind of sun all day, get drunk with it, revel in it, do nothing in it and be exhausted from the lack of effort. It was so beautiful he couldn’t look at it anymore, and closed his eyes to the potential of what the day might hold. He closed his eyes and it didn’t matter because it was STILL a sunny day, a long, long time ago. He was sitting in a car, his legs drawn up on the vinyl seat so it wouldn’t burn him, so he wouldn’t stick to it. And hands were buckling the seat belt around him, hands that didn’t care if they got burnt on the heated metal hinges, hands that rubbed knuckles down the side of his cheek. And he turned his head and smiled at his grandma as she turned the key in the ignition and backed the car out of the driveway of the old house. The OLD house, the second old house where he and his mom had lived with grandma and grandpa.
A.J. had to sit, and he had to sit now. His legs were giving out as the memories washed over him. He just sat right on the concrete patio and held himself and rocked as the vision of that small house came rushing at him. That sunny day, a sunny, hot day when he had come home from that school, that terrible, awful school where he knew no one and no one knew him. But it had been a good, hot day and he had come home with good news, a good report card, something like that, and his grandma had been proud. Very proud of him. And then they were in the car and she was going to get him a treat and it had been a perfect day, just like this perfect day.
Simple. Everything had been simple once.
He could just walk into that ocean. Just, right now, before he woke Howie with all this bullshit, before he woke himself with it.
He got up and steadied himself against the low wall. He stared out at the ocean, that endless expanse of blue and green, laced with white froth.
His grandma had loved him. Without question, without reservation. She had always, always loved him, no matter how ridiculous he was. Infinitely patient, kind and giving, she had always been there, his rock. More than his mother, more than anyone else, she had been there always and now she was gone, the last of a long string of gone people and he really couldn’t bear it, this loss. He’d had to bear so many losses, this wasn’t fair, it had never been fair, never, ever, ever.
Leaning over the edge of the wall, it occurred to him that he was high above the beach below. There were no stairs down, either. Not here. He looked to his left and there was nothing but the wall of the building. He looked to his right and there was the flat strip of concrete dotted with patio furniture. But there were no stairs.
He’d have to walk through the apartment.
Well, shit.
He wiped at his face, rubbed it. Then he let himself into the bedroom again, trying to be quiet.
Howie was gone.
A.J. panicked. Full on panicked. The blood went to his head so fast he thought he was going to pass out. He looked in the bathroom, but it was empty. He raced from the room and found Howie in the kitchen at the stove.
Time halted. A.J. stood and watched Howie, unobserved. He watched him as he broke eggs into a bowl and stirred them with a fork, adding salt and pepper and milk. He watched as Howie whipped the contents of the bowl with furious, short strokes before dumping it all into a hot pan. Then he picked up a fork and turned over strips of bacon. Methodical, neat, all his movements economical, Howie was making breakfast.
Breakfast.
A.J. watched Howie’s face, the gentle profile. He was concentrating on what he was doing, serene in his motions. He was perfect. Completely contained. Every detail of him became evident to A.J., the tight curls that were spilling over his shoulders, the way his hands worked a spatula, the set of his shoulders and arms. There was a half-smile on D’s lips. Beautiful lips, full and soft. Once, he had kissed those lips and they had kissed back. Once, Howie had been afraid and he had been the brave one. Brave one.
Brave.
Once. A long time ago. Once, it had been all right. For a few minutes of his life it had been all right and he’d had love that was simple and unquestionable and it had been okay. Now it was just complications. Tangles and lies, hiding and complications. The simplicity was gone and the safety, that was LONG gone and he was just hanging here by a thread.
Howie turned and went to the refrigerator and got a carton of juice out.
Good juice, the fresh squeezed stuff, not the usual bargain basement ‘almost as good as the real thing’ stuff. And Howie turned around to pour it and saw him standing there.
“I was just about to come and get you,” Howie said. He picked up a glass and filled it. “You looked... occupied and I didn’t want to bother you.”
Ordinary talk. Just like any other day. Just like every other day. Breakfast, his all time favorite meal, and good juice and Howie being Howie. Just like every other day. The perfume of the bacon and eggs, the smell of coffee and the tang of juice all started to mingle together. Familiar smells of home, of what home had been. Comfort smells. The good cooking in his grandma’s house, those breakfasts of a lifetime ago, laid out on plastic plates and served up with love. Simple love.
Howie had managed to recreate that right here, now. With the same motives. Love and concern for his well being. It was here. It was here and A.J. wanted it to penetrate him, wanted to feel enveloped in it, but it hovered just beyond his reach. He was seeing it from being outside of it.
“You had a bunch of phone calls,” Howie went on, returning to the food on the stove, ready to serve it up. “Your mom, Kevin and Brian. Even Nick.” He portioned out the eggs and bacon, put down the toast in the toaster that was sitting on the table, took the lid off the butter dish. “I told them you were sleeping. Told them you’d call back.” He picked a sliver of bacon from the pan and popped it in his mouth. “Sit.”
A.J. sat, stunned into silence. He hadn’t heard the ringing of the phone, he hadn’t heard anything but the sound of his inner voice. And he was surprised that anyone had called for him.
“They’re worried,” Howie said, putting a cup of coffee beside his place, then in front of A.J. “I told them you were fine, just tired.” He slid into his own chair. “You can call them later.” He took a bite of the food, chewed it thoughtfully, then looked at A.J. who was sitting there, motionless. “Aje, are you okay? What’s going on?”
A.J. looked into Howie’s soft brown eyes. He took a deep breath and bit the inside of his mouth. He didn’t want to cry anymore. He couldn’t handle it, this moment that was creeping into him, little by little. Later, he’d have to deal with the rest of the moments as they came to him.
“Aje, what’s up?” Howie pressed.
“Nothing,” he said softly. Then he picked up his fork and began to eat.
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‘Salvation’
The beach was deserted, which was why Howie had chosen this particular location for his home. The five story condominium was set on a large portion of beach that was now private. To use it, you had to live there, and the people who lived in the eight other units were quiet, professional people who took no interest in the diminutive man who lived in the penthouse and was their silent landlord.
Howie dragged a reluctant A.J. out to the shore line after breakfast. If ever there was a man in the need of a little sunshine, it was A.J., and the day was too good to waste inside. He cajoled, and finally demanded A.J.’s presence beside him on the large beach towels, safely hidden beneath an umbrella.
“Have some tea,” Howie said, handing A.J. and icy water bottle filled to the brim with mild herb tea, extra lemon.
“Thanks.” A.J. took the bottle, took a sip and dug it into the sand to help keep it cool. Lemony tea, just the way he liked it.
“Put this on, you look like you’re going to burn,” Howie instructed, handing him a bottle of sun block. He had never seen the usually swarthy man looking so pale. Some of it, he knew, was due to A.J.’s state of mind. From the corners of his eyes he watched as trembling hands slathered on the heavy cream, working it into his arms. He noted the chipped black nail polish on fingers and toes, some ridiculous affectation Aje had adopted for the tour. He noticed the tattoos and every spot of skin the lotion was missing. “Turn around,” Howie told him, and worked some of the cream into his back, across his shoulders, up, under the dense curls on the back of his neck and down the tops of his arms.
A.J. shuddered. The physical contact was too much, but there was no getting away from Howie’s firm hands. Eventually he relaxed a bit, but he was conscious of the fact that Howie had gone beyond just putting on some sun screen and was giving him a full on massage. The hands were pushing him, forcing him to his belly.
“What were you thinking about out on the patio this morning?” Howie asked him, still working on the tensed muscles in A.J.’s back and shoulders. The man was rigid. It was like massaging stone.
“Just, you know, nothing,” A.J. hedged, shrugging his shoulders. “’Bout my grandma and stuff.” He heaved an enormous sigh. “Sometimes it’s just not fair. Everybody goes away.”
“Yeah, I know,” Howie agreed.
“It sucks. I feel like... I don’t know what I feel like,” he said. “I don’t wanna talk about it, okay?”
“Sure.” Howie gave A.J.’s back one last pat then bent down and kissed the soft skin between his shoulder blades. Such soft skin, pale tan freckles dancing across his shoulders. He knew every one of them. Marked them. “But if you do, I’m here.”
A.J. nodded in silence, then turned to recline against one of the low beach chairs and closed his eyes. He was so confused. He wanted Howie to ignore him, and then again, he wanted Howie to be nice to him, to do exactly the things he was doing. And there was still that nagging voice in his head that was telling him it was time to give up struggling to have things he was never going to have. That it was time to give up.
He rolled to his side, out of the chair again and onto the towel beneath it, curling up in the shade of the umbrella. His back burned where Howie’s lips had been.
Howie said nothing. He did nothing. His gaze fell on A.J.’s narrow back for a moment, then returned to the newspaper in his hand. There was nothing for him to do. If A.J. didn’t want to talk, he wasn’t going to talk. Maybe it was better if Aje tried to work things out in his own mind, first. He’d had to do that himself, make peace with his own losses before he could genuinely share that loss with the people around him. The only thing Howie knew for sure was that this was more than losing his grandmother, that this was some culmination for A.J. that was far more painful. And he knew that A.J had come to him. For what, he still wasn’t too clear about, but A.J. was in trouble, in pain and needing him, so he would be there for whatever the reason.
He looked over the edge of the page he wasn’t reading. A.J. had rolled to his back now, his chest falling and rising in an even rhythm that Howie recognized as sleep. He watched him as he settled into one of the convoluted postures he adopted when sleeping, watched as he began to snore in time to the sound of the surf landing on the shoreline.
Good.
It was the best thing.
Some things couldn’t be faced head on, and this was one of them, at least for A.J., and it was maybe better that he got some rest. Day after tomorrow they needed to get back to Orlando and catch a plane to South America, to Argentina. They had work to do, and Aje was either going to have to get it together to do it, or have a complete nervous breakdown and ditch it.
Howie folded up the paper and stuck it under his chair. For a moment, he closed his eyes, thinking to get a nap in himself. He could sleep anywhere, he could sleep standing up and had done it on numerous occasions. But his eyes opened and wandered back to the sleeping figure beside his. He wondered if A.J. would be amused at how often he watched him sleep. Not just here, or then, that weekend, but on busses and planes and in cars, anywhere. He wondered if it would make him smile. He was passed recalling the last time he’d seen a real smile on that lean face.
And he wondered a little more, if, maybe, he could put the smile back there.
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“Aje, wake up,” Howie murmured, shaking the man by the shoulder. He was sleeping soundly, but dusk was in full bloom and it was time to go inside again. They had been on the beach for hours, for the entire afternoon. Howie had swum and sunned while A.J. had slept, continuously. If this was all it took, Howie was planning on having him out there again tomorrow.
“I’m up,” A.J. said with a yawn and a stretch. He opened his eyes.
For a few seconds, it was just A.J. lying beside him and Howie took in the neutral expression on his face, the softness around his eyes, the almost smile that played on his lips. It was fleeting, but memorable. Once he was truly awake, though, his features seemed to droop and turn in on themselves.
“C’mon. Time to go inside, it’s almost night,” Howie said, trying to ignore the sudden change. He hauled himself up, brushing sand off his legs, and began to gather the umbrella, towels and drinks they’d brought out with them. Arms full, they trudged up the dunes in silence to condominium. Howie cast surreptitious glances at A.J. as they walked in tandem. He was walking in a fog, following automatically.
They dumped the beach chairs and umbrella in a storage area inside the garage, tossed the trash in a bin, and took the towels back to the apartment.
Once inside, A.J. hesitated. He was sandy and sweaty and just felt disgusting. His stomach hurt and his head hurt and he was exhausted from sleeping so much. Besides all that, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Howie’s place was so pristine, he didn’t feel right about wandering through it and trailing sand all over.
“C’mon,” Howie told him, nudging him to the back bedroom again.
“I’m all shitty,” A.J. said.
“We can take care of that.”
Howie pushed him to the bathroom and the shower. He didn’t wait for action from A.J., he didn’t listen for protests or objections, just led him into the shower and turned the water on him.
“Shower down quick,” Howie said.
A.J. nodded. Sure. Quick. Of course. Howie would want one, too. And he was already being an inconvenience, a burden. He peeled out of the oversized Hawaiian print trunks he was wearing, dropping them to the floor of the shower, and began scrubbing himself. Nice smelling soap and plenty of hot water. In the middle of rinsing shampoo out of his hair, Howie’s hand reached into the stall, offering up toothbrush and toothpaste. Again, A.J. didn’t question, just complied with Howie’s silent request. In no time he was clean and ready to get out from under the relentless spray of water that stung his skin.
No towel.
“How, man, I need a towel,” A.J. shouted.
“Right here,” Howie said, opening the door to the shower and holding a big, thick bath sheet out to the dripping man.
“Thanks.” He started to dry off, but Howie took him by the hand and pulled him from the shower, leaving the water still running. “What?”
“Get in,” Howie said, gesturing to the tub. It was a big tub, a deep one, and it was filled with hot water and a thick layer of suds. A towel was bunched at one end, and a small waterfall spilled into the pooled water from a wide tap. “Go on, Aje, get in.”
“I...”
“Don’t talk, just move,” Howie insisted. He stood, arms crossed, waiting until A.J. was up to his shoulders in bubbles and steam. “Here, like this,” he said, adjusting the towel and guiding A.J. by smoothing his wet hair back from his forehead, stroking him down until his head rested on the towel. Howie stayed beside him for a moment, rested his lips on the smooth skin at the bridge of his nose while his fingers stroked the long line of his neck. “There’s a cup of hot tea here for you. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
A.J. looked to where Howie had gestured to, saw the huge cup of herbal tea that sat on the edge of the tub. There was something fragrant and oily in the water, too, making his skin slick. The towel behind his neck was just right. Everything was just right. He felt tears pricking at his eyelids once again, forcing themselves out. He was glad that Howie had gone into the shower himself, glad that he wouldn’t be watching him fall apart for what felt like the hundredth time that day. But it was only a few tears this time, not the deluge he was becoming accustom to. They were easily wiped away. The hot tea helped to settle his stomach, and the warm water surrounding him helped to sooth his headache. Some of the fog lifted and he found himself drifting, letting his hands float on top of the heavy water. He heard the shower turn off, heard the door click open and click shut, all from a distance. Slow, like moving through mud, A.J. began to sit up, to get out of the water. Howie was in the tub before he could even get to his feet. And A.J. found himself embraced in strong arms.
Howie had a speech prepared. He had been forming it in his head since yesterday, but only became aware of the words moments ago in the shower. It was eloquent, it was crafted, full of explanation and full of the emotion he felt for the man in his arms. He had planned on delivering it now, in the first seconds of contact so that A.J. would understand that there was no disrespect in his desire. That he only wanted, with everything inside him, to make A.J. feel good, feel wanted and supported, and that endless massages and cups of tea couldn’t say it as well as the physical contact he was craving. Yes, he had the words and was ready to say them as he trickled handfuls of bath water over the pale shoulder that was before him, as he looked into the deep brown eyes that were surrounded by so much hurting.
They were right there, on the tip of his tongue.
A.J. leaned forward, cupped his face and kissed him and the words were gone, lost forever as A.J. gave his mouth up to him, turned the kiss around so that Howie was the one kissing. Not a long kiss, not one that lingered, just a kiss, but it was lovely. A.J. was the one who backed off of it, too, resting his head on the rise of Howie’s shoulder.
“I love you,” A.J. said.
Howie squeezed him tight, realizing that A.J. was really the one who was better with words.
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‘Agony in the Garden’
There never had been another man. Howie had learned many things about himself during that weekend in New York years ago, but the pivotal point had been that there never had been another man he’d been attracted to other than A.J. He had known his inclinations, he had known what his curiosities were, but when it came down to it, to actually being with someone, A.J. was that only someone who had haunted him for years. And after that weekend, A.J. continued to be his point of reference. He was more in control of his desire by then, having had it fulfilled beyond expectation, but the desire remained. Between then and now there had been women. Many women. Any women that suited his taste and were willing. But A.J. was always there, an unobtrusive figure in his emotional life that neither rejected nor pursued him.
They rested in the water, quiet, unmoving but for the wet caress of Howie’s thumb on A.J.’s jaw and the occasional readjustment of limbs.
It occured to Howie in the long minutes they soaked together that it was going to be up to him now. It occured to him that it had always been up to him, that, perhaps, A.J. had purposely remained a hovering entity in the background of his life and that it was to be his decision and his decision alone that dictated what turns their relationship would take.
“Do you want to get out now?” Howie asked, breaking the quiet that surrounded them. He lifted A.J.’s hand from his chest, where it had been resting, and studied the puckered finger tips. “Look.” He ran his thumb across the wrinkled surfaces, then he kissed the fingers and held the wet hand to his face. “Are you hungry?”
“Yeah,” A.J. said. He was lightheaded and hollow. He was lethargic from the heat of the water, but inside he was jumpy and nervous.
Howie got out first, gesturing for A.J. to wait. He toweled off and A.J. watched, studying his small, compact build. Even though Howie was a little shorter than he was, he was more broadly built, not willowy, with a more powerful chest and straight shoulders. His arms and legs were in better proportion, unlike his own, more elongated, stick-limbed build that he hated. His face was creamy tan and nice looking. Big eyes, full mouth, small ears lying close to his well shaped head. Good nose. Not big, not small.
“Aje?”
“Hunh?”
“C’mon.” Howie had wrapped the towel around his waist and held out a dry one for A.J., who had gone off somewhere in his mind yet again and seemed lost in there. He finally moved, careful as he got out of the low tub, reaching for the towel. Howie wrapped the large bath sheet around A.J.’s shoulders, then took another towel and began to dry him off himself. “You’re cold,” he said, noting the rising goose flesh on his arms and legs.
“I’m fine,” A.J. said. He was fine. He didn’t feel so bad anymore. He didn’t not want to feel now, because Howie’s hands were firm and sure and soothing him along with drying him and he wanted to feel those hands on him, feel soothed. There was still this edge of darkness in his head, waiting, tripping along the rim of his consciousness, but it wasn’t as frightening when Howie was there, nothing was. So he was compliant when taken by the hand and led from the bathroom into the bedroom. The bed, still unmade from the morning, loomed in the center of the room. It beckoned with all its implications. That was okay. That was fine. Maybe he might feel something here, something that wasn’t scary and terrifying. Anything was fine as long as Howie didn’t get too far away.
They skirted the massive piece of furniture and went into the closet.
A.J. became confused. The interior of the large closet overwhelmed him even more. He had never seen anything so neat and organized. His own closet at home was a nightmare of clothes and shoes and sneakers and crap. This was like a store, the shelves neat, shirts and casual stuff like sweatpants folded and stacked, suits and dress shirts in tidy rows, by color. Shoes on racks, all matched and waiting to be worn. His own bag was sitting on a low bench, opened, the items he had crammed into it refolded and waiting for him. A small line of hangers holding his miss-matched collection of shirts and pants marched just above his bag.
“Silk?” Howie asked with an arch of his eyebrows as he picked up a pair of black boxers and a no-sleeve T-shirt he’d found in the bag.
“They feel good,” A.J. said, feeling a hot blush steal across the bridge of his nose. He took the pieces of underwear and put them on. They were cool against his skin. Then he found a pair of baggy cotton pants, pulled them on, too, tying the drawstring tight about his waist. The coolness he had first felt turned to a chill, and he scanned his meager wardrobe for a jacket or sweatshirt, but he didn’t have anything with him with sleeves. “D, do you...” he began.
“Help yourself,” Howie said as he pulled his shirt over his head.
“I’m afraid to touch anything,” A.J. said under his breath, but his eyes searched the shelves for sweaters or a sweatshirt, anything.
“Here,” Howie said. He handed A.J. a V-neck sweater, light weight, but warm.
“Thanks.” He put it on. It felt good, too.
“Keep it, it looks better on you.”
“No, it’s a little small,” A.J. noted, smoothing the soft fabric over his chest.
“Aje?’
“Yeah.”
“It’s not small, it’s just your size, not three sizes bigger. It fits.”
“Funny, D.”
“I thought so,” Howie said with a grin. A.J. smiled back at him, just a faint smile, but something. “Let’s get something to eat.”
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There was plenty of food, but Howie didn’t want to take the time to cook. He warmed up some soup from a large container of it his brother had left for him. He loved soup and he loved his mother’s homemade soups the best. This one was thick with tomatoes, corn and black beans, a summer soup. They took their bowls outside to the patio and sat watching the night roll in, eating and not talking much. Howie was being too watchful to talk, making sure that A.J. finished everything in his bowl, that he was ‘okay’ and not drifting too far from him. A.J. was too nervous. His mind was playing games with him and he didn’t like it. One minute he felt all right, like himself, or close enough to it, and then this thin thread of anxiety would start to worm its way through his brain. Not about anything specific, it was just there. Howie was watching him like a hawk, too. Openly staring with those huge brown eyes.
“D, I’m not going to spontaneously combust or nothin’,” he finally said, lying just to make him stop.
“I know,” Howie lied back. Well, at least some instinctive thing inside of A.J. was working, he had about read his mind.
“You don’t have to keep staring.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just... concerned. Besides, I like to look at you.” He offered a smile and a shrug. “Finish your soup. It’s getting cold.”
A.J. grew quiet once again, lifted the steaming bowl to his lips and drank the thick concoction in small sips. It was good. It was warm and warmed him on the inside. ‘I like to look at you’. The words ricocheted in his head. It was a truth. He knew that Howie liked to look at him, knew that he looked at him all the time. He had felt the weight of his gaze so much, he had come to accept it and ignore it most of the time. He couldn’t do that now, not here.
Exhaustion washed over him once more. Part of his brain, some tiny, rational part was appalled at how tired he felt considering how much he had been sleeping. He had craved sleep, mindless, blank sleep, and gotten it, but now it felt as if he couldn’t get enough. At least if he could sleep, sleep without dreams, he wouldn’t be thinking.
He took a few more sips of soup and put the bowl aside, drawing his legs up and hugging them to his chest. As soon as he did, Howie was there, taking the place on the lounge that his legs had occupied.
“Aje, finish it. I know it was a lot, but you haven’t eaten much,” he insisted, picking up the oversized mug he liked to use as bowls and putting it back in A.J.’s hands.
“I’m tired. Again,” A.J. said, taking the bowl in hand and swallowing another mouthful.
“That’s good. You should be.”
“Howie, you’re gonna make a wonderful mother some day, ya know?” A.J. commented, his fingers tracing the smooth edge of the bowl.
Howie just snorted, but his heart soared at A.J.’s sarcastic quip. Humor, another good sign that A.J. wasn’t as bad off as he suspected, but it was only a small glimmer. As soon as he said it, his eyebrows came together in a deep furrow and the brooding look on his face that had become all too common descended. Still, Howie clung to that glimmer. He stayed sitting beside A.J., letting him worm his bare feet under his thigh and gently rubbing his knee while he finished his meal.
“Happy?” A.J. asked, handing Howie the empty bowl.
“Ecstatic. Help me wash the dishes and then you can go to bed.”
“Wash the dishes?” A.J. questioned as he got up and followed Howie back into the house. A.J. didn’t understand that, the need to wash something when there was a perfectly good dishwasher available, but then again, he seldom grasped the concept of dirtying pots and dishes when take out food was only a phone call away. Regardless of his opinions, A.J. dried the dishes that Howie washed by hand.
“Something to drink? Coffee, tea, wine?” Howie offered.
“No,” A.J. declined. He was groggy and his anxiety was beginning to build again. Fuck, it hadn’t been like this just moments before. He had only felt tired. The same feeling he had today on the beach: no problem, no dreams, nothing. Nothing. Like the night before. Nothing to wake him with unnamed fears and worries. Nothing. He wanted that back, that feeling of nothing pressing on him.
“C’mon, then,” Howie said, reaching out and taking his hand, taking him back toward the bedroom. He turned out the lights, shut all the windows and doors, locked up for the night, all with A.J. in tow, standing close beside him.
When they finally got to the bedroom, A.J. stood and stared at the fire burning low in the fireplace. Lost in his thoughts, that’s what he was, a man lost in his thoughts and it was chipping away at him. Howie saw it now, saw it clearly in his drawn face and in the bent shoulders of his slender body. It was terrible and terrifying to see someone who was always vibrant brought so low. So he was careful as he stood beside him at the fire and undressed him. Not caring, truly not caring, he tossed the pants and sweater onto the floor and stripped out of his own clothes, letting them fall wherever they would. A.J. was like a doll, like a puppet that not just allowed someone else to move him, but needed it. No, Howie wasn’t worried about him spontaneously combusting, he was worried about him imploding and crumbling into himself.
A.J. took long, shuddering breaths as Howie did the every day task of undressing him. This was never part of the picture in his head. He had thought about it plenty, about being just ‘every day’ with Howie. Sometimes it had made him laugh at the absurdity of it, how their clashing personalities and habits would surely run over each other. Sometimes it had made him sad. Always, these little fantasies of his ended in explicit, erotic postures, some more tender than others, but always, always in a shared moment of sexual intimacy. But Howie having to undress him for purely practical purposes, for the sheer fact that he became unable to do it himself, was unable to move his arms and legs and hands without Howie’s divine intervention, smacked of the humiliating.
They got into bed, Howie reaching out to extinguish the light. Tonight A.J. made no plea for light, seemed content enough in the glow of the gas fire turned down low. Howie slipped an arm under his neck and shoulders, held him loosely and stroked his wayward hair while they reclined on the pillows.
“I love you, too,” Howie said, finally responding to A.J.’s declaration in the tub. “I love you and you’re scaring the hell out of me. Tell me what to do to help you, Aje.”
“Nothing,” A.J. said, closing his eyes tight and holding onto Howie’s arm with shaking hands. “Just what you’ve been doin’, just this. Be here. Just be here. I don’t want to be alone.”
“I’m here,” Howie assured him.
“Don’t leave me alone, D,” A.J. pleaded. He couldn’t tell him anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to give voice to the fear that, if left alone, the black fog in his head might take over for good. It had come close that morning. It could do it again. This, here, now, was what he wanted.
“I won’t.”
“D?”
“What?”
“You don’t have to love me,” A.J. said. He didn’t. He had made a promise to himself years ago that, no matter the temptation Howie presented to him, he would never hold Howie to anything he said or did during their time together that weekend in New York. Never. It wasn’t fair. If Howie ever came to him, then that would be different. But Howie never had. So that was that. He could live with that; he just couldn’t live without him right now, without him being present and ‘there’. Howie didn’t need to profess love, just because he had. He couldn’t help how he felt, but he didn’t have to back Howie into a corner about it.
“No, I don’t HAVE to, but I do,” Howie said, resting his face against A.J.’s neck. The prominent vein there beat a tattoo out on his cheek as he nuzzled the man in his arms. “In fact, I didn’t really want to, but I do. I tortured myself over it for years. Now I’ve tortured myself again, waiting on you, waiting for you to come to me again, and all this time, you’ve been waiting on me, haven’t you?” A.J. nodded. “Stupid me, stupid you.” Howie lifted his head and turned A.J.’s face to him. “So, let’s not be so stupid anymore.” He kissed him lightly, letting his lips linger for a brief moment.
It was A.J. who deepened their kiss, his hand reaching up and pressing the back of Howie’s head close, then sliding down his face, his neck, his arm, to his hand. He took that hand, pushed it down, down his chest and belly, down, until Howie stopped him.
“No,” Howie said, his voice hushed but firm. The look on A.J.’s face was one of utter confusion. “Aje, I want you, but not like this, not like you are right now. It wouldn’t be right. I thought it would, but it really wouldn’t. Don’t think that means I don’t want you. I do. When it’s time.”
“I’m fucked up, D.” His eyes shifted away, he couldn’t look Howie in the face.
“I know. And it’s gonna be okay, we’ll get you through it. Whatever you need, whatever it takes.” Howie smiled at him, made him look at him. “Besides, you’ve always been fucked up, Aje.”
“Thanks,” he said, with a slight roll to his eyes.
“Hey, what makes you different, makes you beautiful...” Howie began to warble.
“Oh, god, please don’t,” A.J. protested, the vestiges of his usual smile playing on his lips as Howie quoted the lyrics to the next single they were considering for release, one that Howie had written himself.
“Well, who the hell did you think it was about, fool?” Howie said with a shake of his head. “Go to sleep, it’ll be different in the morning,” he promised, and urged A.J. down to the pillows.
“Hold me,” A.J. whispered backing into Howie as he curled to his side and clutched a pillow.
“I’m right here, I’ve got you,” Howie assured him, wrapping him tight in his arms and holding him as they both fell into untroubled sleep.
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‘Resurrection’
A.J. woke with the sun in his face from the best night’s sleep he’d had in months. He got out of bed as carefully as he could, so as not to disturb Howie, and walked out onto the terrace.
A perfect day. Cornflower blue skies without a trace of clouds and the ocean reflecting that rich color in its ripples. A breeze, warm from the South. A stellar moment as the sun rose from the far reaches of the horizon. Birds circled overhead. The waves made a lulling noise as they deposited themselves on the shore. Everything was bright and clean and whitewashed by the increasing heat of the sun.
A sleep warmed body pressed up behind A.J. and two arms circled his waist, hugging him. He turned his head slightly, rested his scruffy cheek against Howie’s.
A perfect day.
A sublime day.
And just as Howie promised, everything was different. Everything was going to be fine.
He needed nothing.
He had everything.
He always had.
© 2001 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
