Читать книгу Damaged Hearts - Jan St. Marcus - Страница 16

I. Am. Fucking. Ecstatic! One of the kids in one of my numerous foster homes was this wanna-be surfer dude named Tyler. He was always telling people “Don’t harsh my chill, dude.” It sounded so douchey that I never paid much attention. I mean it was about the most annoying thing I’ve ever heard eight thousand million times. But as I stand in front of my bed with all my new clothes neatly arranged on the puffy white, satiny comforter, I’m just hoping that Michelangelo doesn’t come in and “harsh my chill” by reminding me that the food is getting cold. I just want to stand here and stare. And then I want to try on everything and look at myself in the mirror in every outfit and every variation. Truth be told, I wanna do it twice. Okay, spoiler alert: I’m going to remind you that I’ve been practically homeless my whole life and things that you take for granted are things that I wouldn’t even dare to dream about. Like having a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of brand-new clothes laid out on a comfy bed in a comfy house with a gorgeous, model dude who seems to genuinely like me and care about me. Um, yeah, except . . . I’m not really sure how much he spent on the clothes because he wouldn’t let me see the amount when we checked out, and when we were shopping, I was so excited looking at myself in the mirror that I never thought to look at the tags, and then he had that Mindy girl cut off all the tags, and I think he just told her to throw them away when we left. But it had to be a couple of hundred dollars, right?

And, of course, now I have dilemma number three for the day: Do I stay locked up in my bedroom trying on all my cool new clothes or do I go eat a really nice meal from Chipotle and drink some beers with my new best friend? Yeah, on second thought, it’s not that big of a dilemma. If you’ve ever been hungry, you’ll understand how I looked back over my shoulder at the clothes for as long as I could as I hurried out to the kitchen to eat. You’ll have to tell me if it’s weird that Michelangelo has placed all the food onto his really nice plates and bowls and set out pretty cool place settings with cloth napkins and stuff? Is that weird, or is that what most people do? I mean, he’s even cut little wedges of fresh lime and placed them into the tops of the Corona bottles. Earlier in the evening, when that asshole bartender carded me and refused to serve me a beer, I was kind of disappointed that we couldn’t stay, but now I am realizing that I actually prefer this.

“I thought I was going to lose you there, kiddo.”

“You almost did. I mean, those clothes are so cool. I know I’ve already said this but thank you so much. I literally have never been shopping for new clothes before in my whole fucking life. You don’t even know.”

Michelangelo smiles and gestures for me to sit. He doesn’t have to ask me twice. He lifts his beer and reaches over to toast. So I pick up my bottle and tap his before shoving the lime wedge in and taking a swig. I think the combination of the ice-cold beer and the sourness of the lime combine to do something weird to my throat. It’s a pretty cool sensation. I’m not really a big drinker, but when I can, I enjoy a nice cold beer. Wait. That’s a lie. I would like to enjoy a nice cold beer, but being homeless, you know, it’s not really a thing for me. A couple of swigs of lukewarm beer, watered down by the backwash of whoever was drinking it before doesn’t really qualify. Then again, if it’s an option, this ice-cold Corona with a lime is something I could get used to.

“Ahhhh,” I say with a satisfied sigh. “That’s the best beer I’ve ever had.”

Michelangelo smiles and nods. “I like it just above freezing. If it’s not cold, it’s not beer, is it?”

“No arguments here.”

“Let’s dig in. I’m starving.” Michelangelo looks up at me nervously. “No offense. Sorry.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I wonder out loud.

“I don’t know, it just sounded kind of . . . awkward? Insensitive? Just weird talking about starving to a guy who was homeless two days ago.”

I nod. “No offense taken, dude. Nothing to worry about.” He smiles again and my eyes start to dance over the food.

“Help yourself,” he says, handing me a spoon. I take the spoon and shovel some of the burrito bowl onto my plate and then pile some chips and guacamole on the side and hand him back the spoon. “Don’t wait for me. Dig in,” he says as he serves himself some of the food.

I take my first bite and it’s so good I can’t stand it. I hear myself making little sounds as I eat and it’s kind of embarrassing, but I really don’t care. I can’t help it. I look up and Michelangelo is smiling at me again. “I know. I’m sorry, but I can’t help it.” He just nods and takes a bite himself. He seems to be enjoying watching me enjoying my food. That’s okay. I don’t care as long as I get to enjoy this food. We eat in silence for a little while . . . well, for a long while, actually. After I have cleaned my plate, he hands me the spoon again and gestures to the bowl. “Go ahead, it’s all yours if you want it.” He stands up. “You want another beer?”

“Yes, please,” I tell him. As I’m serving myself seconds, I hear the pfft of a beer top popping, and then he cuts another lime wedge, placing it in the spout as he returns to the counter. “Thank you,” I mumble through a mouthful of rice and chicken.

“You’re welcome.” He has been nursing his beer, which I only notice because he didn’t get one for himself. I’m wondering if I’m being rude or something, so I look up at him, and he’s munching on his chips, sipping his beer, and acting like he doesn’t have a care in the world. How can I describe this to you? He’s just so casual about everything. He’s sitting on the same kind of stool as me, but the way he’s sitting is kind of leaning towards the counter. Not slouching but leaning. He’s so comfortable. I mean, I don’t know if he’s actually comfortable, but he looks so comfortable. And then I feel it. For the first time, I realize that it’s not just that he’s gorgeous—it’s me. I’m attracted to him. Oh, hell no! Fuck that! I take a big swig of beer and shove another mouthful of food into my mouth, trying to distract myself. There’s no way I’m going to ruin this good thing—no—this great thing I have going by developing feelings for him. Not like that. I’m not going down like that. How weird would that be, anyway? I all but offered myself to him that first night, and he made it clear that he didn’t want to fuck me, so he’s not gay, and even if he were, he’s not into me at all. So there’s no way. Not going there.

And before you call the PC police on my ass, I’m not a homophobe or anything like that. Whatever people choose to do in the privacy of their own home is fine with me. I mean, who would I be to talk about it anyway? I’ve had sex with guys before—for money even. I don’t think that makes me gay, does it? And even if it did, what difference does it make? Even if I were gay and he were gay, I wouldn’t want to develop feelings for him because nothing good could come of it, right? We’re just kind of, sort of roommates, and his dog likes me, so I’m hanging out with him for a while and that’s it. No way I’m going to let feelings interfere with that. Period. Hell, I don’t even know the guy. You know when people say that things “have a mind of their own” when unexpected shit happens? Well, my mind kind of has a mind of its own. The fuck if it ever listens to me. Or pays attention to what I want to pay attention to. It just wanders off like an untrained puppy looking for a sneaker to chew on or something. I don’t want to be thinking about Michelangelo right now. I just want to enjoy my food and my beer and think about my new clothes and the shower I’m going to take and the bed I’m going to sleep in and the breakfast I’m going to have in the morning. But my fucking brain is going to do whatever the fuck it wants—and right now, it wants to remind me that I just said I don’t know the guy.

And if I don’t acknowledge that fact, my brain is going to keep needling me until I do something about it. So I better get it over with or I’m going to drive myself crazy. I look at my mostly clean plate and pick up my beer, looking at Michelangelo as I take a generous swig. “Man, that was really good. Thanks.”

“No problem,” he says casually.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Will you let me clean up, please?” I hope I didn’t sound too desperate.

“If you feel that strongly about it, sure. I mean, I have a dishwasher, so it’s no big deal.”

“Yeah. I do feel kind of strongly about it,” I say as I stand up and walk my dishes to the kitchen. I feel proud of myself until I get to the sink and realize that I have no idea where the dishwasher is. The cabinets all look the same. And the cabinets on either side of the sink are just blank—no handles or buttons or dials. Just . . . cabinets. I look back to the counter, and Michelangelo is smiling and pointing to my right. Okay. Got it. Of course, now that I know where it is, I have no idea how it opens. Fuck me. I look back towards Michelangelo, and he’s laughing.

“Just push in at the top.”

I push the top of the cabinet and it pops open. I’m impressed and embarrassed at the same time, and I can feel my face starting to get red. I guess I’m more embarrassed than impressed. No matter, there’s a certain calm that comes over you when you realize that you have already made a fool of yourself. He stands up and brings me the rest of the dishes, gently placing them in the sink and moving off to the living room with his beer. I glance up from the dishes and see that he’s standing in the same place in front of the large picture window looking over the beach. I finish putting the dishes in and start to close the door. “Should I start it or something?”

“Nah. It’s not full yet. Don’t worry about it.”

I close the cabinet, grab my beer, and walk over to stand next to him. I take a swig of my beer and look at him, trying to read his expression. No luck. “So what’s your story?”

“Huh? My ‘story’?” He looks down at me, gray eyes flashing.

“Um, yeah. I don’t know anything about you. Not really.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

“You could. But would you?”

“I might.”

“Does that leave us at an impasse?” I ask, beginning to like the banter.

“Not necessarily.”

“Do you have any brilliant ideas on where to go from here?” I can see him smiling.

“In fact, I do.” He turns to me and gestures to the couch. “Let’s sit.”

I sit on the couch and he takes the chair next to me. “Please share.”

He takes a sip of his beer and looks me right in the eye. “It’s a little game called Five Questions.”

“And how does it work?”

“Simple. You ask me a question, and I have to answer it honestly or else if I don’t want to answer, or don’t want to answer honestly, you get to ask me another question.”

“And what happens if you do answer?”

“Then it’s my turn to ask you a question, and you have to abide by the same rules.”

“When does it end?”

“When five questions are answered.” He smiles again. “Got it?”

“Any other rules?”

“Nope. The only rule is that you have to tell the truth. If you don’t want to tell the truth, you can’t answer at all.”

“You seem to be enjoying this a little too much. What are you hiding?”

He laughs. “Good catch. It’s actually not quite as simple as it seems.”

“Tell me why,” I say, beginning to get intrigued.

“Most people think that the other person can’t learn anything important if you just don’t answer the questions you don’t like.”

“Makes sense.”

“Does it?” he asks in a high voice.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Not if you’re paying attention. I can usually learn more about people from the questions they don’t answer.”

“Ooooh. Tricky.”

“Do you still want to play?”

I take a swig of my beer and wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. Hesitant, I say, “Yeah. Let’s go for it.” He puts up his hand.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot, I can also learn a lot about you by the questions you ask.”

Ok. Fuck this mind game shit! “Really?” I ask, unsure of myself for the first time. “That kind of makes me nervous.”

Michelangelo leans back in the chair. He’s trying to conceal his smirk, but not doing a very good job of it. “Totally up to you,” he says.

Our eyes meet and his eyes are dancing. I want to know more about this guy, but I also don’t think I want to give too much away. Then the realization hits me that I can’t win. I feel my shoulders slump. He takes another sip and looks out the window at the beach. “Okay. Let’s do it. I go first, right?”

“Sure, if you want to.”

“Oh, you’re on like Donkey Kong,” I say, instantly regretting how corny I sound.

He sits up and looks me in the eye. For some reason, his intense stare rattles me, and I look away. I have to. I forgot what I was going to ask him, but then I remember when I asked him why he helped me last night, he couldn’t answer. “Why did you help me last night,” I ask. Boom!

He stirs uncomfortably and sips his beer. He looks me in the eye. “Long answer or short?”

“Let’s try the long one,” I drawl smugly.

“My brother died about six months ago—”

“Sorry for your loss,” I say, instantly sorry I asked.

He waves his hand dismissively, and then gets a faraway look in his eyes. He looks back at me. “And I was walking the beach for about three hours, trying to figure out how I’m going to learn to enjoy my life again when I saw what those ass-hats were doing to you. Something about it just got under my skin, and as much as I tried to ignore it as none of my business, I realized that if it weren’t my business, whose business would it be? And the more I thought about it, the more pissed off I got. I’m not very good at being pissed off.”

“Clearly,” I laugh. “Is that all?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“Okay. Good enough. I’ll buy that.”

He laughs. “Thank you for your generosity. My turn?”

“Go for it.” I take a sip of beer and steel myself for his first question.

“Why are you homeless?” Kaboom!

“Fuck you.” Oh shit! “Did I say that out loud? I didn’t mean it like that, but fuck, dude. Don’t you want to start with a softball question?”

“No,” he says, returning my earlier smugness. “I’m happy with my question.”

“Gimme a minute?”

“Remember, you don’t have to answer if you can’t be honest.”

“I know. I know. Let me figure this out.” Now it’s my turn to look out at the beach. Should I tell him everything? It doesn’t seem fair. I knew this shit was going to happen. Me and my big mouth and stupid runaway brain always get me into trouble. But what the fuck? I have nothing to lose. “You want the long or short answer?”

He laughs at my turning around his own words. “Gimme the long answer. Fair is fair, right?”

I nod. “I guess so.” I take a generous swig of beer and meet his eyes. “I’m an orphan. I never knew my parents. I guess my mom gave me up right after I was born and there’s no father listed on my birth certificate. So I grew up in foster homes, group homes, and had a couple of stints in juvy for doing stupid shit. Mostly fighting, I guess. When I was fifteen, I had finally landed with a decent foster family, but I was so fucked up by then, I didn’t know how good I had it. Couldn’t appreciate it, you know?

“Anyway, after about eighteen months, the older kids had really started bullying me pretty bad and when I had had enough, I punched one of them so hard I broke his nose and crushed his jaw with a single punch. And that was it. They pulled me from the foster home and put me into a group home that was even worse. I ran away and never looked back. I lived on the streets in Memphis until I was seventeen, and when I got tired of being cold and hungry and tired and broke, I joined the Marines. I mean, it took some doing because the dickheads at Child Services couldn’t get it through their heads that for me, dying in the Marines was better than dying on the streets. So I got emancipated so I could sign for myself at seventeen, and I joined up.”

My eyes have drifted down to my beer bottle. When I realize it, I look back up at Michelangelo, and his expression breaks my heart. His eyes are wet around the edges. Is he really about to cry? I look back down and go on. “When I was in Afghanistan . . . wait, let me go back. At first, the Marines were pretty good for me. Nobody there cared about my past or my background. All they cared about was if I could be a good soldier. I guess I could be. Once they realized that I would always be a bit of a smartass, my sergeant, Master Sergeant Kilroy, took a special . . . let’s say he took a special interest in me. He rode me really hard, like all the time. But one night he pulled me aside and told me that the reason he rode me like he did was because he saw my potential and wanted me to pull my head out of my ass so I could survive that shithole and make something of myself back in the real world.

“Long story short, Kilroy was walking right in front of me one day on patrol and he got sniped. His head exploded all over me, and we had this massive firefight. We lost three more dudes that day, and my squad mates said I walked around with a piece of his brains on my face for like three hours. Shit.” I take a swig of beer.

“We can stop if you want,” Michelangelo offers.

“No. Let me get through it,” I say. “Anyway, I served the rest of my tour and we lost four more guys and for some fucking reason, I made it out. I survived. But I’m not okay. Far from it. I can hold down a job for little stretches at a time, but fuck, people are such assholes. I end up fighting with dickhead bosses and dickhead roommates, and I can’t seem to save any money because I can only get minimum-wage jobs when I work at all, and they don’t pay enough to get a place of my own. So being homeless is just easier.”

There is a long silence and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore outside seems to take over the room. “Damn, dude.”

“Yeah. It is what it is, though, right?” I sip my beer again.

“So you didn’t need my help at all, did you?”

“Not if I wanted to kick the guy’s ass. But I didn’t care. I sure as hell didn’t want to go to jail for beating the shit out of him.” I look at Michelangelo and smile. “Does that count as your second question?”

“Do you want it to count?” I smile. “Fair is fair, right?”

“Okay. Your turn.”

“Why don’t you have a boyfriend/girlfriend/significant other?” Boom!

“Who says I don’t?”

“Remember the rules, dude. You don’t have to answer, but you have to be honest. There’s no way you could rescue me and offer to be roommates if you had anybody to answer to. And there’s no sign of anybody else that’s spent any real time here with you.”

“Fuck you!” he says. But he’s smiling. I nailed it! “I’ve never had a boyfriend or girlfriend. And no, I’m not gay. At least not that I know of. My twin brother was the only significant person in my life, so if you want to call him my ‘significant other’ I wouldn’t lie and disagree.” He gets that distant look in his eyes again and looks out over the beach. “Our parents died when we were eight. Our aunt and uncle raised us, but we were pretty much a burden on them and their family—they had three other kids. So when we both got into college, that was about it. We exchange Christmas cards, but we were never like real family.

“Did I mention we were twins? Like totally identical. We had our own language and basically spent every waking moment with each other. People who knew us thought we were weird, but they don’t know the half of it.” He stops and looks at me. “Are you sure you want to hear all of this?”

“Fuck yeah. I just poured out my soul to you, so spill, dude.”

“Okay. Twins can be a really weird thing. I was like forty-five minutes older, and my mom was in distress when they were trying to get him out, so they had to do an emergency C-section and they thought he was deprived of oxygen for six minutes, so they were all panicked. When they finally got him out, they put him in an incubator and wouldn’t let us be together. Apparently, I was going ape-shit until they finally put us together in the same incubator. Then I calmed down. And my dad used to tell the same story all the time. While we were in the hospital, they couldn’t ever separate us or else I would just keep going ape-shit until they put us back together. I can’t explain what it was like growing up, but I couldn’t stand being away from him for even ten minutes without hyperventilating and having these panic attacks. He had trouble, too, but not in the same way. I guess I was just so protective because he was my little brother or something.

“It took years of therapy to get us somewhat normal when we were apart, but we were never apart for that long. This is going to freak you out, probably, but we slept together all our lives. Not sexually or anything gross like that, but we shared a bed all the time. You’re sleeping in his room, but he never even used that bed. It wasn’t weird for us, but, duh, society wouldn’t understand two brothers sleeping in the same bed as adults. But we didn’t care. I couldn’t sleep without touching him. And I never felt complete without him. I guess I was never a whole, complete person unless he was with me. So to answer your question, I don’t have anybody because I always had somebody—my other half was literally my other half.”

“What was his name?” I whisper.

“Leonardo. Both my parents were art professors and artists. My father’s favorite artist was Michelangelo and my mom’s was Leonardo Da Vinci.”

I laugh gently. “That actually makes perfect sense.”

“You realize that you asked two questions, right?”

I have to think about this, but it doesn’t take long for me to realize that he’s right. “Okay then. You’re up.”

Michelangelo takes a swig of his beer and smiles. His eyes blaze at me. “Are you gay?” Kaboom!

“Fuck, dude! Really?”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I don’t know for sure one way or the other.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s honest,” I tell him. “Feel free to ask a follow-up question if you must,” I add, egging him on a bit.

“No. I’m good. Your turn.”

“Do you really want to be my friend?” I blurt without thinking. Fuck me! How the hell did that happen? I quickly look away, studying the pattern my lime is making as it slowly swirls near the bottom of my bottle.

Michelangelo is silent. After a minute, I look up at him and his eyes are blazing at me again. “I want that more than I’ve wanted anything in a long, long time,” he says.

“Really?” I say, again speaking before my brain has fully activated.

“Absolutely. And that’s five. I win,” he says. I can do nothing but smile, finish my beer and look back at this remarkable human being.

“I want that too,” I say softly, staring into his eyes.

“I didn’t ask,” he says, looking serious.

Oh shit. Did I just screw everything up? He leaves me hanging for another beat or two before he starts laughing. “I didn’t ask, but I was going to.” Our eyes meet again. “I’m glad.”

We sit in silence and finish our beers. He stands up and returns to the window. I follow shortly after. So we’re standing there, side-by-side, looking out the window at the beach with our empty beer bottles for a long time. I don’t know how long, but it was long. And there’s nothing weird about the silence. It’s like what we just shared was all that needed to be said. Well, maybe not forever, but for a good long while. I’m okay with that. Then he turns, squeezes my shoulder with his powerful hand. “I’ve got a meeting in the morning, so I’m going to turn in.”

“Good night,” I say softly.

“Have good dreams,” he offers as he walks towards his bedroom.

“You too.” I hear his beer bottle clink into the recycling bin and his footsteps retreat down the hall. Sparky, who has been sleeping in the corner of the living room through all our drama, wakes, sneezes, and follows him down the hall. “Traitor,” I say. Sparky looks back over his shoulder at me, and he’s looking at me like, “What do you want from me, dude? You’re cool and all, but he pays the rent.”

I turn back towards the window and realize that, once again, I’m all alone. I smile when I realize that I’m not really alone anymore. Not the complete aloneness that has been with me all my life. Michelangelo likes me and wants to be my friend. And at that moment, my chest feels full, like I can actually feel my heart filling up. I take a deep breath, and my body tingles from where he squeezed my shoulder. And with these fresh feelings, I decide to call it a night and go to my room, admire my new clothes again (no, I didn’t forget about them), and go to sleep. Yeah, I also plan to have good dreams, just like Michelangelo told me to.