Ten Years After/Part 8
It is nighttime. The darkness should help ease my anxiety, but it doesn't.
Not nearly as much as the man by my side.
I feel... It takes forever to come up with the right word, but I do. Safe.
I haven't felt safe in a long time.
My eyes tear, and I swipe at them surreptitiously. But he notices. He sees
everything, and still he doesn't turn away.
"You okay?"
I nod wordlessly. There is a lump in my throat. I don't think I can speak
around it. But a few moments later, I manage to say, "There are stars."
He smiles again, and I think, he looks almost peaceful. He raises his head
and stares up at the sky, and I take the opportunity to study him. There
are changes, both subtle and not so subtle, yet the essence of what makes
Curt *Curt* is still there.
He starts to walk, and this time, I follow him. I don't want to be left
behind. I need to stay as close as possible, merely to survive, but more
than that, I crave his warmth.
He stops, turns, and reaches out one hand to grasp my shoulder. "Let me
know if you get tired."
His kindness is killing me. Why isn't he angry? Why doesn't he hate me?
"Why?" I blurt out, unable to hold the words at bay any longer.
"Why what?"
"Why did you rescue me?"
There's that slow burn of a smile again. It softens the harsh lines around
his eyes. "What makes you think I was rescuing *you*?"
*****
He pulls me into the elevator and presses the button for the 5th floor. I
lean against the railing and look up at him. "Is this where you've been
staying?"
He doesn't dignify that with an answer. We both know that I sent the
tickets to him. Here. Why am I pretending otherwise?
"I'm sorry--"
"You don't have to make small talk with me, Brian."
Oh, yes, I do. If I don't, he might ask me what happened after he left,
and in my newfound spirit of truth-telling, I would have to tell him. He
says I don't need to be beautiful anymore, and he's right. But I don't
want to be ugly either.
And there is nothing left for me but ugly memories.
*****
His hotel room is like him, lean, almost austere in its simplicity, but
complicated underneath. I used to love his complications. Then I hated
them because they got in my fucking way.
Now I wish for what I can't have back.
"Do you have anything to drink?"
"I..." There is a slight hesitation that puzzles me as much as it
frustrates me. I don't know what he's thinking. It worries me. "...don't
drink much anymore. But I'm sure I can find you something--"
"Oh, no, I meant--" I blush to the roots of my hair. "So I can take a
pill. I've got medication."
He hands me a ginger ale, and I am inordinately grateful. I don't want to
take the medication in front of him, but I do. I don't want any secrets
between us...and telling him what he probably wants to hear is going to be
the hardest thing I've ever done.
I must look scared. He takes the soda from me, places it carefully on the
coffeetable in front of us, and say, "Maybe it would help if I tell you
what's *not* going to happen."
"I'm not going to jump you. Or beat you up. Or call the papers."
I manage to find my voice. "What *is* going to happen?"
"That depends on you."
*****