Chapter 16

Memphis, 1951

Bobby knew the corridors of the hospital well, by now. A few years as interns meant he and Bill already felt part of the medical team, when Bill had excitedly phoned him after his interview.

He'd gotten the job.

Bobby walked past the lunch hall, janitor closets, turning a corner to make it to the oncology aisle and let his fingers trail along the wall, brushing against every door until he could stop and touch the pads of them against the letters of his friend's name. A brand new plaque, just for him.

For a second, he thought about the scared little kid hiding his pain after Bobby had scared the bullies off. How terrified Bill had been to even let an ounce of fear show. He could imagine him now, nervous out of his mind that he would be trusted with patients on his own but still… the feeling of accomplishment. He'd made it.

When Bobby pushed open the door without knocking, Bill was sitting at his brand new desk, fiddling with a silver fountain pen that Bobby had gifted to him the year before.

It wasn't a big room, not for such a new hire, but he had his name on the door, and Bobby was so proud.

Hopefully, very soon he would be able to brag about the same thing. He stalked closer to the desk until he could lean with one hand against it, hands anxiously crossed and resting on his lap. Bill's focus was somewhere on the scattered papers across the surface of the desk. Lost.

"My interview's next Monday," Bobby breathed out, still high-strung from the phone call he'd gotten earlier.

"That's wonderful," Bill said, but he wasn't looking at him, and hadn't for a while.

Bobby continued to eye him, suspicion rising, and asked:

"Won't it be nice to be able to properly work together, then?"

"Hmm."

Something hot and prickly settled in Bobby's belly, churning. Something that told him he shouldn't be happy to be here, after all.

"Bill."

Bobby pushed off the desk and briskly spun to plant both palms on Bill's desk. The other man appeared startled, and Bobby's stomach sank upon recognizing in his eyes the same expression he usually had on just after he'd climaxed, when the regrets and fear were sinking back in.

"What's going on?" Bobby snapped.

Bill's chin trembled, and he quickly looked away again. Bobby clenched his jaw and swallowed back the harsh words that were pushing up in his mouth. They'd been doing this for six years now, and he felt awful to realize it, but he'd reached the end of his tether.

"Fucking tell me what's going on, Bill," he demanded, keeping his voice low enough that they wouldn't bring in hospital personnel, curious to eavesdrop.

"There's been talk going around the hospital," Bill finally confessed in a barely audible whisper.

He was staring at his hands now, and the stupid pen he'd been opening and closing again since Bobby had entered the office. He snatched it away in a fit of rage.

"What talk?"

"About you and I…"

Bobby thrust the pen back into its holder and squeezed both hands on the wood of the desk, nails raking against the surface.

"Same as usual, I assume? Bill, there's been rumors about everyone and everything since we started med school."

"Not like that," Bill shook his head, the breath wheezing out of him.

"Like what, then?!"

Bill opened his mouth once, twice, lower lip trembling as if he was about to cry. He never did, though, and Bobby knew every beat of this. Or at least, he'd believed he did.

"The board… came to talk to me."

Cold drenched Bobby, and a sudden icy downpour couldn't have done a better job of freezing him to his core.

"Go on."

"They asked me about you… and I… if we…"

Bobby closed his eyes. So this was how it ended then. All these years, he'd been a fool and continued to hope for what deep down, he knew would never come.

"And what did you say?"

He didn't look at Bill again. He knew the other man would be pleading silently, eyebrows raised in a silent apology that wouldn't work this time.

"What. Did you. Say."

"I said… I said I wasn't like that. And that… what you did in your personal time was none of my business."

Bobby slapped the desk with a palm.

He stormed to the other side of the office, which wasn't far, but enough for him to turn his back on Bill and hide his reddened hand and wrist. He might need ice on that, later. For his heart, who knew what would do the trick.

"You know you've as good as shoved me out the door, then," he deadpanned.

Bill knew. There was no doubt about this, and now it was sinking in that the awkwardness when Bobby came into the room was the stifling weight of the other man's guilt.

"I'm sorry, I panicked and…"

Bill never finished his sentence. And Bobby didn't stay around to give him a chance to say more either. He slowly made his way to the door, hurt hand pressed against his chest.

A few days later, Bobby gathered his courage, spoke his truth, and that would be the last he'd see of Bill Mercer for twenty-two years.

The next Monday, Bobby showed up to his interview. The look on the faces of the board members was loud enough that he knew not to bother making a case for himself. He politely explained that he'd gotten an offer somewhere else, thanked them for considering him for the position, and walked out.

A week later, he handed in the keys to his apartment, and got on the road. His mother didn't ask, when he parked in front of her house, but the way she held and rocked him on the couch that night, she must have known.

St. Louis, 1952

Life didn't turn out so horrible, away from Bill.

Only it was… dull.

Away from him, though, Bobby had gotten things back on track.

A house, a job. A new hobby, apparently, if the half-covered canvases strewn about his living room were to be believed. His new colleagues were nice enough, and at least, here, they didn't give him a side-eye trying to imagine if he took it up the ass.

He still thought of him every day. How could he not? He had done that ever since he was fourteen. At this point, he wasn't sure he would ever stop.

He was fairly sure the opposite wasn't true though.

So he hadn't expected the small, blue envelope slipped in the middle of his other mail and newspapers. And he wasn't particularly bracing himself when he cut it open and his eyes fell on the first line.

"Fuck!" he yelled at the wall of his home office.

He fell with elbows on his desk, pressing his palms against his eyes.

Bill Mercer and Helen Johnson

Have the pleasure of inviting you to their wedding reception

On the 9th of August 1952,

At…

He didn't bother reading the rest. How could anyone have thought he'd show up to that event, he didn't know. Or perhaps it had been Bill's way, however cruel it was, to let him know.

That it was over for good now, and not to expect him back.

Which Bobby hadn't. He'd been fucking his way through the gay population of St. Louis and ticking more notches in his figurative bedpost than he'd ever thought he would.

But those men held no weight against the image of Bill Mercer in a tuxedo, lifting a white veil and kissing his bride.

When he was done crying, Bobby set fire to both card and envelope, and let them burn until the flame reached his fingers.