Chapter 5

Houston, May 1973

Bill awoke with a crick in his neck. Which was understandable, considering, he noticed as he blinked and took in his surroundings, he apparently fell asleep in an armchair.

Oh no.

He straightened up with a pained groan that he muffled as best as he could, and held his breath long enough to discern light snoring coming from behind him. He pinched his eyes shut and sighed.

He was still in Bobby's room.

As the rest of his senses came back to life, he quickly smelled the sweaty stench that seemed to emanate from him, mingling with the sweet aroma of rum. The combination was enough to make his stomach churn.

He pressed both palms into the armrests of the chair and pushed his weight forward, wincing when the leather creaked as he got up. A quick look behind him showed that Bobby, from where he was sprawled across the bed, still dressed, hadn't stirred from his sleep.

Bill tip-toed his way to the entrance of the room in search of his shoes.

They must have had a few drinks too many, right after… Oh. He brought a hand to his cheeks and jaws, palming at the skin and light stubble there. So he hadn't dreamed that part.

They'd had dinner. Had talked about very few of the important things, and too much of his ex wives. And then they'd shaved each other. It was lunacy, and far too much to be considering at…

Bill's watch was gone. Well, he'd better head to his room and try and find it later, if he didn't want to miss the concluding conference. It only hit him as he quietly closed the door of Bobby's bedroom behind him, that he would have to go up to reception asking for his key, looking rumpled, smelling of sweat and booze and in yesterday's clothes…

Panic swooped through his belly, and the nausea cranked up a notch.

He couldn't show himself like that. Not after the receptionist had seen him going up with Bobby last night. He couldn't risk… Whatever they would think. Or do, based on assumptions that wouldn't be exactly correct, but not exactly wrong either.

Sweating anew, he slipped back into Bobby's room and pressed his hands against his eyes, shutting out the rest of the world for a few seconds to think.

He needed a clean shirt. A shower. And then to make it look as if he was coming back from outside the hotel.

Alright, he could do that.

He crept to the wardrobe and opened it as slowly as he could, heart hammering away merrily under his ribs at what he was about to do. The shirt wooshed off the hanger smoothly, and he thought Bobby would wake up then, to catch him stealing his clothes. Stealing the privilege of a lover, one he had relinquished a long time ago.

But the other man was still sleeping soundly, one arm under a pillow and both legs extended towards the end of the bed, his feet hanging slightly off it.

Bill locked himself in the bathroom and kept the water on the lowest setting as he got into the shower. He gave himself a quick, perfunctory wash, grateful when he felt the sticky layer of sweat slide off him to go down the drain.

His face was red with guilt and shame when he patted himself dry with Bobby's towel, then slid his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. The arms of it were slightly too long, and it took him sucking in his gut to be able to properly close the buttons. It had clearly been tailor-made for his old friend.

Shaking his head, Bill put on the rest of his clothes again. He found his bow tie lying on the mini bar by the empty bottle of rum and Bobby's pack of cigarettes. Everything smelled of smoke, but he was used to that. Now he would smell of Bobby, too.

He sneaked away like a thief. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been such a nervous mess when he went down the fire exit staircase, looped around the neighborhood, and shamefully walked into the lobby as if he'd done nothing wrong.

The receptionist today was a young woman he hadn't seen before, who didn't bat an eye when he asked for his room key before eight am. Some people were leaving their rooms when Bill made it back to his, keeping his head low. After all, he hadn't made any friends during his stay here. Nobody would come and tease him about his wrinkled pants.

He still collapsed in a nervous, overwhelmed puddle onto his own bed, on the verge of tears. Everything was a mess. One he didn't know how to sort out. He was terrible at handling any unforeseen, sudden issues, always had been. And he didn't have time to cry, right now. Not that time had ever been the problem when it came to him letting go.

He changed into clean clothes, save for the shirt. It was digging into his belly but when he faced the mirror, hands on its collar, he was struck with the memory of Bobby's hands sliding his tie off a similarly cut shirt the night before, and couldn't bring himself to take it off. As if the ghost of Bobby's fingers lingered where the starched collar pressed around his neck.

He made his way down to the breakfast buffet and swallowed a coffee, then disappeared to the lecture hall before he could meet anybody else.

He didn't see Bobby come in, despite staring at the door throughout the conference.

He was the first one to leave as soon as the clapping stopped.

A few minutes later, he was closing his suitcase with a heavy snap, and closing the padlock. His car was waiting for him in the parking lot behind the hotel complex. He'd never been less excited to drive back home.

He dragged his feet down to the lobby. He was dizzy, as if still drunk on last night – he might actually have been, a little – and his head full of cotton wool, the world dimmed to his senses.

The sun was already too high. Nonsense. It had no right to shine so bright on a day like this. Nothing light should have mattered, right now.

Save for the sight of Bobby's shoulders and back, hunched over the trunk of his car, loading his own suitcase in. Bill's feet sped up and he nearly crashed into Bobby's shiny orange Mustang, making the other man spin around with a startled shout.

Bobby's eyes, wide with shock, settled on him and Bill's heart broke. He'd forgotten the sight of Bobby's mouth, freshly shaven clean of facial hair, lips soft and pink.

His own trembled to let out a terrible, warbled sound.

"Please don't go."

Bobby frowned.

"What?"

Bill let go of his suitcase and it toppled to the ground, unnoticed.

"Please, Bobby, I… I know I've made a mess of everything, my whole life. But I don't think I'll recover if we never see each other again now."

Pain flashed across Bobby's face, the same one Bill felt pulling his heart apart, mashing it into an unrecognizable pulp.

"Bill…"

"Come with me. For a few days, to Memphis. We need more time to talk, and… Here I can't, I can't say the right thing, I know it's selfish and idiotic and –"

"Bill."

Bobby's tone was sterner this time, sharp enough to cut through Bill's rambling, leaving him with only a sore throat, plugged with a ball of jumbled words he had never managed to get out. Bobby's eyebrows were arched and he looked… sad. And Bill knew he'd lost again.

Bobby ran a hand through his hair, letting out a desperate sigh.

"Listen… I know you're trying to be romantic… But this isn't leading anywhere, is it? You're just… nostalgic. It was fun, last night, to be close again but it's nothing but an illusion."

He could have plunged both hands into Bill's chest and it wouldn't have hurt more.

"You'd want me to drop work even longer to come hang out with you in Memphis, wait for you at home while you're at work, and then what? Get drunk together in the evenings, talk about the good old times? It doesn't make sense, Bill," Bobby grunted, face turned up at the glaring sun. "Besides, think about it the other way around. Would you abandon your patients who've waited for months for their appointment with you, just so you could spend a few days with me?"

Bill opened his mouth, but he found no easy answer. He hadn't even thought about any of that. He hadn't thought at all, before making his crazy offer. He'd just known he still had Bobby's shirt wrapped around him, and he needed more than scraps of fabric.

Bobby smiled, but a lingering sorrow prevented the corners of his mouth from lifting properly.

"I didn't think so. Goodbye, Bill."

In a daze, Bill watched Bobby side-step him to reach the front of his car and get into the driver's seat. He meant to shout.

Your shirt! Won't you take it back?

Is it as worthless as I have been?

I'm sorry.

You deserved better.

You're right to drive away.

The engine roared to life, and he watched the car get smaller in the distance, until he couldn't see it anymore.

Then he sat on his suitcase and squeezed his hands into fists. It was only then, as he felt something sticky and warm along his thumb, that he noticed the blood where he'd ripped the skin off.

In all fairness, it was a miracle that Bill made it back to Memphis in one piece. He was quite sure he hadn't focused on the road for longer than five minutes at a time, and got honked at several times as he nearly got off his side of the road, dangerously veering towards the opposite lane.

As he got closer and closer to what he reluctantly called home, the rage inside him rose with the disgust. The little bakery at the corner of the block, where the vendor had never once smiled at him. The road signs. The green lights, the sidewalks and the well-kept trees. It all made him sick.

When he parked in front of his building, he was convinced he would have driven away again, if only he'd had anywhere else to go.

The lawn joining the sidewalk to the front door was neatly maintained, mowed every other week. In the spring, tulips came to life in the flowerbeds that lined the facade. In this street, nothing was ever askew but him.

Mrs Heigel was ever so happy to see him and hand him his mail, and dog. The poor animal had apparently given her hell, although she was too polite to phrase it quite like that. The pooch started yapping as soon as it smelled Bill, who couldn't even muster guilt that he didn't feel the same excitement back. He thanked his neighbor with a smile that could have scared young children, picked up Albert's leash and headed up the stairs to the second floor.

His apartment was plunged in darkness when he pushed the door open. He didn't have any plants to water, so there was really no reason for anyone to open the blinds while he was gone. The living room was barely furnished: an old, graying couch he'd gotten off the sidewalk just as he was moving in, and a small formica table pushed against a wall, holding a TV that he switched on every evening out of habit.

There were no decorations on the walls. He had a picture of each of his kids on his bedside table, and that was it.

He sighed, bent down to unleash Albert and rolled his suitcase into a corner. The dog ran straight into its basket, spinning excitedly, clearly happier to be home than Bill was. Well, there was nothing to do except empty his suitcase, and prepare to get back to his old life. He'd been doing it last week. He could surely do it again.

He shoved his used clothes straight into the washing machine, and came back to the living room to find Albert waiting by his food bowl.

"Oh, don't tell me you haven't been fed properly at Mrs Heigel's, you little liar," Bill muttered while reaching into a cupboard.

He poured some kibbles into the bowl and watched as the pooch went to gorge himself as if he hadn't eaten anything in days. Bill petted his back as he ate, forcing a half smile.

"I don't like you a lot, you know," he said, and scratched the dog between his ears.

Albert's tail was wagging, and if that wasn't the saddest part: that this was the most affection Bill could remember getting in recent months.

"At least the kids are happy to see you, when they visit. And I suppose you're happier here than with Helen, since she never wanted to have you in the first place."

He got up again with a groan, his knees protesting the crouch.

His fridge was empty. And so was everything else, but he really couldn't muster the strength to go out in public again, today. He would have to settle with one of the cans he kept handy for days like these, when his heart was nowhere to be found and the only will he had was to lie down and doze off to the sound of a baseball game.

The couch was an old, worn and welcoming embrace when Bill collapsed onto it, all strength sucked out of him. Soon enough, Albert hopped on to curl up behind his knees, a warm point of pressure that would have been reassuring if that dog hadn't stunk to all hell.

"I had one chance to talk to him, make things right… and I blew it again. So he was right to dump me all these years ago, you see. I could never have made him happy," he talked at the empty room, quite aware that the dog couldn't care less about his love life unless it meant getting more treats.

And despite his words, Bill couldn't help but summon the memories from last night – what he remembered of it, at least. Of standing close together in the bathroom, stomachs brushing against each other. The faint smell of Bobby's cologne mixing with his in the small enclosed space. That odd smile Bobby had given him after they'd finished shaving each other.

Bill's heart ached with a force it hadn't since long before his last divorce. He moaned and pressed his palms against his eyes.

"What am I supposed to do now…"

Albert licked at his elbow in response, and Bill let a hand fall to its head to pet it some more.

"You're right. It's just us two, now. What a sad sack I've become…"

The dog huffed, as if protesting his words. Bill pushed up on an elbow.

"What? You don't get to tell me if I'm sad or not," he scowled, and was met with yapping.

Bill frowned, trying to understand what Albert could possibly want, until the pooch shot off the couch and in the direction of the bedroom. Bill heaved a deep sigh, and got up again. It didn't seem like he would be getting much rest today, so he followed to find Albert lying down inside the open suitcase he'd abandoned by the foot of the bed.

"What are you doing," Bill tutted, and made to catch the dog to remove him.

Albert turned around and growled, of all things. Bill wasn't sure he'd ever seen him do that.

"What is it? Are you mad that I didn't bring you with me? And then what, leave you in a hotel room all day?"

He decided to abandon the dog to his own devices, whatever they were. He had better things to do than try to make sense of them: namely, eat corned beef and mope in front of the TV.

Albert's nonsense kept going during the night, and the day after. And the next.

Despite Bill's best efforts, the dog refused to leave his suitcase except to eat and go outside a few minutes every day. When it became clear that it wasn't going to stop unless Bill took measures, he resorted to taking Albert to the clinic with him.

On a Thursday morning, he came through the glass doors, dragging Albert who was absolutely refusing to walk behind him.

Beatrice, the receptionist they'd hired six months ago and was still acting as if she could replace Bill's mother – or wife, maybe, now that he thought about it – gasped and ran across the desk to kneel by Albert and fuss.

"Oh poor dear! Doctor, what's happened to him?"

Bill rolled his eyes and bent at the waist to pick up his blasted dog and hold him like a baby.

"Nothing's happened to him, he's just acting up. And I don't know why."

Beatrice cooed at Albert a little more, letting him lick her across the nose and petting his torso.

"Oh of course, he must have missed you while you were gone…"

"I'm fairly sure he wouldn't be so attached to my suitcase if that was the case. It rather feels as if he's pushing me out the door again, to be honest."

He didn't exactly listen to what Beatrice said after that, leaving her to take hold of the leash and bring Albert with her to keep him on her lap while she worked.

Bill locked himself in his office. He didn't have an ounce of motivation for the day's appointments and consultations, and a selfish part of him dearly hoped that Doctor Susan Langlard would have settled in well enough in his absence to take over.

He still needed to work. He had four children's worth of alimony to pay, and had lost a house, car and savings in the first divorce. He'd been contemplating letting go of his position at the clinic for… a while, now. Ever since it became quite clear that he would never be loved for longer than a few months, when the excitement of an affair still made him attractive enough to overlook his shortcomings.

And now… he supposed he could get by with teaching only. Not that he had much drive for that either.

Everything felt… Smooth. Without asperity. Nothing for his mind to hold on to, as if he'd just been pushed down a polished slide that was taking him furiously fast towards the end of his life, with no prospect of change along the way.

The phone on his desk rang and he picked up the bright orange earpiece to find out that he was needed in consultation room number 3. He donned his shirt, straightened his bow tie, and gathered the scraps of energy he had left to walk out the door and into the world.

A few days later, Bill woke up to find the contents of his wardrobe onto the floor. The drawer containing his underwear had been pulled open, and his boxers were strewn about the room, along with a few pants that had clearly been pulled off their hanger with teeth.

In the middle of the chaos, Albert sat proudly, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

Bill rolled out of bed to contemplate the mess, sitting on the edge of the mattress in his pajamas and rubbing a weary hand over his mouth.

"What is it, then? You're really that desperate for me to go away?" he asked a pleased Albert whose tail never stopped wagging.

Well, there was certainly one way to find out.

Bill crouched next to his suitcase and dragged a few pieces of fabric towards it, keeping his eyes trained on the dog. As soon as he dropped the boxers into the piece of luggage, Albert let out an excited yelp, and spun on himself a few times.

"So it is really that," Bill frowned. "Mrs Heigel must have fed you a lot better than I do, I bet. Fish and chicken every day, right?"

Albert ran across the room, panting, and came back with a pair of socks in his mouth. He let go willingly when Bill took it from him to drop into the suitcase.

"You know I don't really have anywhere to go?"

Albert growled again, then barked three times. Yes, you do, he seemed to be saying, and Bill must have lost his mind completely. Surely he'd crashed his car and was stuck in the middle of hallucinations while the hemorrhage spread through his brain.

Stupid dog.

But even more stupid was the thought creeping into Bill's mind.

He hadn't stopped thinking about him. Woke up every day thinking back to the feeling of his hands on him, the gentle scratch of stubble under his fingertips and the twinkle in Bobby's eye while he gently teased Bill.

Unknowingly, Bill's gaze drifted to the entrance of the apartment, and the little console where he left his car keys.

"You don't suppose…" he trailed off, unsure what he was going to say. Or what answer he expected, really.

He had been talking to a dog this whole time, after all. And taking advice from it. God, he really was an old fool, wasn't he? But an old fool with drive and want, for the first time in days. When he thought about taking the road again and heading north, a swarm of bees started buzzing inside his chest.

What exactly did he have to lose?

Nobody ever missed him, here. Clearly his dog was excited at the idea to see him go again, for whatever reason. Doctor Langlard handled their most serious cases with the utmost professionalism and skill.

"Okay," he said, and this time, he was talking to himself.