them, a guy named Cory Tanner, was only just released from the hospital this spring, but he’s still something of a vegetable. Malaika led the charge to get the city to start patrolling that area more often and rallied a group of volunteers to clean up the park and start a neighborhood watch group. Once things turned around, the mayor agreed to a “victory” celebration and the city council commissioned a statue to commemorate the event. Guess who hooked Malaika up with the sculptor?
The blinding dagger of light from the welder vanishes, the machine’s hum dies down, and Erik lifts off the mask to find me in the doorway. I grin like a moron. I only have to wait the time it takes for him to discard the welder and helmet before he’s pulled me into his arms. His exposed skin glistens with fresh sweat that smells like sweet pickles.
“Hey,” he whispers, leaning his forehead in to touch mine. I love it when he does this. “Glad you could make it. Did Shan get in okay?”
I smile, but inside I flinch. Again, that weird feeling in my stomach: Shan knows about Erik.
“Piece of cake,” I report.
Erik takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Listen, I wanted to apologize. For just showing up at graduation. I should have checked with you first.”
He cups my cheek in his hand and tows me in for a kiss. How is this happening? How has this happened for nearly a year? I silently intone my kiss prayer: Please let this tell him that I love him and let things continue just as they have been when we go home at night. It’s childish but it’s what I think whenever we kiss. It’s worked so far.
When we break, I whisper, “You are always welcome in my life.”
He tilts his head and I consult my mental book, where I’ve cataloged everything there is to know about him: I call it the DictionErik. Tilted head. Noun. What Erik does when he’s not so sure about something. Add a sharp, quick intake of air and the meaning changes: Yeah, let’s talk about that. But instead, his shoulders slump.
Slump. Verb. Everything’s cool.
When he’s this close, I can see the cracks in the armor he wears around everyone else. Not even Super Boyfriend is impervious to stress. We haven’t seen much of each other lately, between our mutual race to finish school and his hospital job and extracurricular work on Fierce Angels. He’s tired.
“How was work?” I ask softly.
As a nursing intern, Erik often jokes that he’s so low on the totem pole, he’s not even above ground. As a result, he gets shit on a lot, figuratively and literally. He gets all the jobs that the registered nurses don’t want to do. But he takes it all in stride because he digs his work. He spends a lot of time working with AIDS patients, which alternately sends him home elated or ready to collapse. Today was a collapse day.
Worry and concern drain from his body as he announces, “Mr. Benton was discharged yesterday.”
“Erik, that’s great! No small thanks to your TLC, I’m sure.”
Sometimes I meet Erik at the hospital, and I’ve gotten to know Mr. Benton over the last few months. He’s an older guy, really funny, but with a lot of health problems. He’s in and out of the hospital frequently, largely because he forgets to take his meds. Erik went so far as to use his own money to buy this guy a watch that went off whenever it was time to take his pills. But he still forgets. Erik loves Benton and I love that he’s happy Benton’s home again.
We talk about little things. Movies we want to see, new restaurants we want to try. We’re swaying, not necessarily to what the boom box dictates but to what we want to hear. When we’re like this, I forget that I lead two lives. I don’t care.
I close my eyes and dismiss any conflicting sensations. The total commitment to joy when I’m with him versus the stifling tundra that is my other life. Happy/Sad. Hot/Cold. Somewhere in the middle lies the exact synthesis of how I feel about Erik. Rapture at
The blinding dagger of light from the welder vanishes, the machine’s hum dies down, and Erik lifts off the mask to find me in the doorway. I grin like a moron. I only have to wait the time it takes for him to discard the welder and helmet before he’s pulled me into his arms. His exposed skin glistens with fresh sweat that smells like sweet pickles.
“Hey,” he whispers, leaning his forehead in to touch mine. I love it when he does this. “Glad you could make it. Did Shan get in okay?”
I smile, but inside I flinch. Again, that weird feeling in my stomach: Shan knows about Erik.
“Piece of cake,” I report.
Erik takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Listen, I wanted to apologize. For just showing up at graduation. I should have checked with you first.”
He cups my cheek in his hand and tows me in for a kiss. How is this happening? How has this happened for nearly a year? I silently intone my kiss prayer: Please let this tell him that I love him and let things continue just as they have been when we go home at night. It’s childish but it’s what I think whenever we kiss. It’s worked so far.
When we break, I whisper, “You are always welcome in my life.”
He tilts his head and I consult my mental book, where I’ve cataloged everything there is to know about him: I call it the DictionErik. Tilted head. Noun. What Erik does when he’s not so sure about something. Add a sharp, quick intake of air and the meaning changes: Yeah, let’s talk about that. But instead, his shoulders slump.
Slump. Verb. Everything’s cool.
When he’s this close, I can see the cracks in the armor he wears around everyone else. Not even Super Boyfriend is impervious to stress. We haven’t seen much of each other lately, between our mutual race to finish school and his hospital job and extracurricular work on Fierce Angels. He’s tired.
“How was work?” I ask softly.
As a nursing intern, Erik often jokes that he’s so low on the totem pole, he’s not even above ground. As a result, he gets shit on a lot, figuratively and literally. He gets all the jobs that the registered nurses don’t want to do. But he takes it all in stride because he digs his work. He spends a lot of time working with AIDS patients, which alternately sends him home elated or ready to collapse. Today was a collapse day.
Worry and concern drain from his body as he announces, “Mr. Benton was discharged yesterday.”
“Erik, that’s great! No small thanks to your TLC, I’m sure.”
Sometimes I meet Erik at the hospital, and I’ve gotten to know Mr. Benton over the last few months. He’s an older guy, really funny, but with a lot of health problems. He’s in and out of the hospital frequently, largely because he forgets to take his meds. Erik went so far as to use his own money to buy this guy a watch that went off whenever it was time to take his pills. But he still forgets. Erik loves Benton and I love that he’s happy Benton’s home again.
We talk about little things. Movies we want to see, new restaurants we want to try. We’re swaying, not necessarily to what the boom box dictates but to what we want to hear. When we’re like this, I forget that I lead two lives. I don’t care.
I close my eyes and dismiss any conflicting sensations. The total commitment to joy when I’m with him versus the stifling tundra that is my other life. Happy/Sad. Hot/Cold. Somewhere in the middle lies the exact synthesis of how I feel about Erik. Rapture at
Similar Books
