Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
“I’m taking you out. You game?”
I nod. I’m sort of surprised, but I want to go with him. Forget my trouble.
I put on a pair of his olive-colored jeans and a white T-shirt. He loans me a pair of Vans-type shoes, and then he brings out the mask. Only Vance—thinking about that before he left San Francisco.
Before we go, we brush our teeth. We stand at his counter, me in the mask, him with damp hair—the two of us looking like a couple. And my chest aches.
22
Vance
We take the subway, being careful not to touch too much as we stand for the ride toward the Upper West Side. A few times, I have to stop myself from wrapping an arm around his back, taking his hand. We exchange a few small smiles. I can’t see his mouth, but I can see it in his eyes.
Mine.
Even after the tumult of my feelings last night, being out with him makes me possessive.
We get off near Central Park, and Luke slips on the baseball cap he borrowed from me. Then he takes my hand. The air is perfect—not too hot or too warm, just a light breeze pushing my hair back off my forehead. I have the thought, as we walk a trek I’ve walked by myself many times—past the used bookseller, past the bagel place, under the worn awning of a guitar shop—that this is more than I had dared to hope for. Being with him this way, on a sixty-six degree day in late April, holding his hand, headed for The Lake.
I’ve got a backpack on, with water, food, and two blankets inside.
I try to watch his face as we enter the park and make our way toward Bow Bridge. It’s hard to discern his expression with the mask on. Still, his eyes are warm when they catch mine. When we get to the swatch of grass I had in mind, I spread a blanket underneath some trees, and we sit side by side.
Luke surprises me by lying in my lap. He grins up at me—a little squint of his eyes, and the rounding of his cheeks. Then he pulls the mask off, tilts the bill of the cap down over his face. “Vance—this is great.”
I feel buoyed by his praise. It occurs to me that this might be the outest Luke has ever been—this moment right here. I wrap my arm around him and lies on me for almost an hour—half asleep, or maybe just suspended in the moment. Then he sits, pushes his hat up on his head, and arches his brows.
“Let’s walk somewhere.”
He dons the mask again, and we walk deeper into the park. His hand never loosens its grip on mine. We pass a kid holding two ice cream cones, being trailed by a dad who looks frazzled and tired, and I see Luke’s eyes tilt in a sympathetic smile. Someone on a horse trots by, clad in knight-like garb, and I think he laughs.
“Central Park.”
His fingers squeeze mine. As we wind down a stone path, I realize he’s leading me.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
He takes me to the rowboat rentals, and he pays for one with cash. We row out into The Lake, and he takes off his mask. He pulls a blanket out of my bag, and we lie together in the bottom of the boat. The sky is cloudless, perfect blue.
He’s quiet a long time, his eyes never leaving the sky. Then he looks at me. He looks more beautiful than ever with the sunlight shining on his tiger eyes, his soft lips inches from mine.
“Do you think it’s ever really possible…to move past things?” He swallows, and his lips part like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t move. His eyes just bleed at me.
“What kind of things?” I manage.
His face is a mask of anguish. “I don’t want to tell you.”
“You don’t have to.”
He moves closer, so his face is near my throat, his knees are angled toward me. His arms are folded in front of his chest. I wrap mine around him. It feels good to have him up against me. I can keep him safe if he’s here, save him from the sort of shit that would need to forget.
“You don’t ever have to tell me…but you can.”
And so he does. In whispers first, and then in soft words framed by gently sloshing water, he gives me his stories—those old, time-worn scenes stained strange by time; vaunted, steepled chapels that cave when their mysteries are spoken aloud.
They say secrets are the currency of intimacy. He pays me in blood money as we lie together, drifting. I try to baptize him in understanding.
Afterward, we step out of the boat like travelers from another time. I feel heavy. As we walk the park’s paths, he says, “Thank you. I feel like…someone took something off me.”