30. MAX

Chapter thirty

MAX

I went home before Jared got back. Eddie and I kissed behind his front door before I slipped out into the bright afternoon. I rode home on my motorcycle. The afternoon light had the color of honey and cast an amber glow on the streets, the lawns, the tree-lined sidewalks of my home city.

I had lived here all my life, pretty much, apart from when I was in prison. I had been one person. Was I now another? I was not sure. I was almost afraid to wonder.

We had told each other we loved each other. That made me happy, but it also made me wonder: now what?

***

We confessed love on a Thursday, and on the Friday, I rose from bed in the morning, reached for my phone, and went through my texts: there was one from Eddie just saying good morning with a smile emoji and another from Jared asking, "Do you know someone who would buy my bike if I go to NY?"

Then I noticed a text message from someone I knew, a guy I had known for years named Tim, an urgent request to do some work on his truck. Could I go that day? It would be several hours' work, at least, and he would pay me well.

That meant I wouldn't see Eddie that day. I knew I had to text him.

Got an offer of some work to do today – I won't be able to come over

I waited a moment. He came online and then was typing.

Sure of course

I was aware that big things had been said the day before. I didn't want him to read anything negative into my not coming over the very next day. I lingered on the screen, seeing him online, waiting for me to say something back, but I didn't, and then he went offline.

***

I revved up my motorcycle and sped through the city streets toward Tim's place, a mile and a half away. The heat of the day whipped against my face as I rode.

As I pulled up outside Tim's house, I could see him already waiting in the garage, its door open, the truck not quite completely inside, its hood already popped open.

Tim was a regular kind of guy, forty or so, divorced with kids, living on the other side of town with a very relieved ex-wife. A wrench was in his hand, and a look of frustration was upon his face as he looked at the engine.

Turning its engine off, I dismounted, parked my bike, and made my way over to him. Tim only turned at the last moment, hearing my footsteps on his short drive.

"Hey, Max, thanks for coming over at such short notice," he said.

"No problem. What's up?"

"This damn truck's been giving me hell lately."

He ran through a list of problems; some were fixed, and some were not. Now the engine rattled and thudded so loudly when he tried to drive it that he was afraid to go to the end of the street, he explained.

"No problem," I said, walking toward the engine, the hood up. "Let's take a look and see what we're dealing with."

As I began to run my gaze over the engine, my eyes narrowed in focus, searching for any hint of something out of place. Usually, these rumbling, unspecific problems are either the result of something pretty simple or something catastrophic.

As I worked, Tim filled me in with tales of his latest romantic adventures, with the edge of someone who is concealing that he didn't want to get divorced at all.

"So, Max, you wouldn't believe the woman I hooked up with the other night," he said. "She works at that bar down by the community college. What's it called? McGill's?"

I raised an eyebrow to play along.

"Oh, yeah? What's her name?"

"Tiffany," Tim replied. I knew Tiffany; she was a nice woman. "Let me tell you, man," he started saying rather too hornily for my liking, "she's something else in the sack. Wild."

I groaned.

"Oh, man, don't start. I know Tiffany. She's cool."

Tim chuckled sourly.

"Don't get all feminist on me." I rolled my eyes as I kept touching and feeling for any kind of loose connection in the engine. "What about you?" he asked. "Got any action lately?"

I chuckled. I wasn't answering that.

"Nah, I'm in a bit of a dry patch."

I reached under the hood to continue my work, but I could feel Tim's eyes on me.

"I thought you were an infamous ladies' man," he said, and there was almost sarcasm in his voice.

"Yeah, well," I said, keeping it light, "even the best of us have our phases."

I looked at him briefly and saw Tim smirking at me. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he wasn't saying. Had I missed something? I let it go and got on with my work.

It wasn't long before I spotted something suspicious. A bolt was loose near the alternator. That was what was causing the engine to rattle and thud. I had been there barely an hour by the time I was fixing the truck. I tightened the bolt, securing it, and told Tim to hop in.

I wiped my hands on a rag as Tim climbed into his truck. As he turned the key in the ignition, the engine start to purr beautifully; no more rattle.

"Thanks, man," Tim said, "I'm really grateful."

He turned the engine off, and we walked out of the garage and onto his drive. He handed me a wad of cash. As I took the bills, Tim asked me, "You wanna grab a beer later? I'm meeting Doug Wesley. He would love to see you."

It had been years since I'd seen Doug. The idea of catching up over a few drinks actually sounded okay.

"Sure, why not?" I replied. "Where should we meet? Not McGill's, huh?"

Tim gave me a terrified look.

"Nah, man, I am not heading over there for a while yet."

I thought of poor old Tiffany. Did she check her phone every five minutes to see if he had texted her, or would she be relieved if she never heard from Tim again? "How about we meet at the Rusty Nail? It's been ages since I've been there."

The Rusty Nail was a relaxed neighborhood bar, known for its laid-back and unpretentious vibe. It was the sort of place you'd meet someone like Tim or Doug. I wondered what Eddie would make of it after years living in New York.

"Sounds good," I said with a grin. "About eight?" I asked, and Tim said sure.

***

So that evening, I found myself at the Rusty Nail, pushing my way through the busy bar, looking for two old friends, if they were even that. The room was lined with massive TVs, all showing sports. The scent of beer and fried onion rings hung heavily around.

Tim and Doug were seated at the bar. I made my way over to join them. As I reached them, a chorus of jokey, bro-ish greetings filled the air.

"Maximilian!" from Tim.

Maximilian is not my name…

"Maxxy!" from Doug. "Man, you look about sixty!"

Doug could talk. He looked like he had been left out in the rain for a long time.

"About time you showed up," Tim exclaimed, clapping me on the back as I pressed myself up to the bar. "We're already on our third beer," he said, pointing at the nearly full glasses in front of them.

"What time did you get here, then?" I asked.

"Oh, like, forty-five minutes ago."

And they were already on their third beer?

I found a third stool for me to sit down. As we settled in and ordered more beers, the conversation flowed easily between us, filled with talk of old times and what we were up to now. Doug reckoned it was "at least" ten years since we had seen each other properly, since before I "went inside."

He said it loudly, and I looked up, embarrassed, in case anyone heard him. I didn't want to lie about it, but I didn't want to advertise it, either. I wasn't that person anymore.

We started to drink and joke and laugh. Doug shared the updates on his life and surprised me by talking sincerely and proudly about his kids and how they were doing at school, and his wife's new business, how proud he was of her now it was finally doing well.

The conversation turned to me, and I couldn't help but feel a bit of discomfort. What was I doing now? What was going on in my life?

"Oh, you know, same-same," I replied. "Still fixing up cars, keeping busy as a grease monkey."

Doug's brow furrowed.

"Good-looking guy like you never got remarried?" he asked a little humorously.

I shook my head with a small smile.

"Nope, never felt the need," I replied honestly.

Tim squawked ironically.

"He used to rail half the women in the city."

I shook my head, sipping my beer.

"I really didn't –"

Tim cocked his thumb in my direction.

"But these days, he doesn't chase the women."

"What does that mean?" Doug asked, and Tim took a big gulp of beer, murmured pssht , and said no more.

But I noticed Tim's meaningful glance toward Doug and back at me. I used to be a scrapper. I could get riled up easily. I felt that same feeling then.

"What's with the looks, Tim?" I asked.

Tim's response was immediate, a casual shrug that concealed something else: maybe he didn't want to go too far.

"Nothing, just messing around," he replied, but again, he gave Doug a strange look. But it was clear Doug wasn't in on it.

"Oh, come on, spill it," he said. "What's the big secret?"

"It doesn't matter," Tim insisted, and I heard a note of irritation in his voice.

But I wasn't about to let it go that easily.

"No, come on," I pressed, and I could hear myself becoming angrier. Why was I getting angrier?

"I heard that you were doing gay stuff with Megan Smith's brother from New York."

I felt an instant, awful terror.

"What?"

Tim shrugged and gulped his beer. Doug was staring at me open-mouthed.

" What ?" he repeated.

How had Tim heard about Eddie and me? And more importantly, what did this mean that people knew about it at all? When Julianne brought Frank over, I thought it was just insinuation. But this was not insinuation; it was direct statement.

The secrecy – and the intimacy – of our relationship had been shattered. My heart sank, but not because of that. It sank because of what I was about to say:

"It's not true."

Tim laughed.

"If it's not true, why did Mitzi Connor, who lives behind Megan's house, see you creeping over there every afternoon this week, see the brother's curtains pulled in the middle of the day?"

I felt so ashamed. I felt like I had been stabbed in the chest. I jumped to my feet. The barstool on which I was sitting went crashing to the floor.

"Fuck you, Tim!" I yelled.

Tim threw his hand out toward me as if to shake me off.

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger, Max. I heard it through the grapevine."

As our voices grew louder, I could feel the eyes of the other patrons in the bar turning toward us.

"The grapevine ?"

"The gay grapevine," Tim drawled, turning around on his barstool fully to look at me standing above him.

I knew I should calm down, but I couldn't do it.

"What did you say? You son of a –"

"Mitzi said you were half-naked in his back yard, hosing down plants but looking like – her words – ‘you had just pulled your shorts on after spending a couple of hours fucking Megan's gay brother in the ass."

The bar around us seemed to fade away, and a roaring drone was in my ears. It was the pounding of my own pulse all over my body at once.

I saw Tim's face register a flicker of fear, and then I did the thing I knew I should not. I smacked him in the face.

Tim went tumbling along the bar, knocking his and my glass of beer flying, liquid spilling a clear two or three feet, causing other patrons to groan and move away.

The impact of my punch echoed through the bar. Gasps of shock and disbelief filled the air. Tim was on the ground, looking up at me, holding his jaw.

Doug helped Tim get up to his feet, and people started to crowd around. The barkeep was telling me to get out, saying he was gonna call the cops. Tim's eyes widened in astonishment as he kept clutching his jaw.

As the reality of what I had done sank in, remorse crashed in over me. What had I done? How had I let my emotions – an idiot's words – so get the better of me?

I knew the answer: shame. I was ashamed.

I turned away and hurtled out of the bar. People tugged at my sleeve for me to stay, to wait for the police, I guessed. I wasn't running from that. I was running from my shame.

As I moved down the street, like a criminal fleeing the scene, everything seemed to blur around me. The noise of traffic and people passing by faded away. My head throbbed with a dull ache. All I could hear was that same buzzing drone in my head.

Feeling lightheaded, I stumbled to a stop and sank down onto the curb, my head in my hands.

I felt the vibration of my phone in my pocket. Sighing, I pulled it out and looked at the screen. I saw his name at once:

EDDIE

I could see the text on my notifications.

You okay? Saturday tomorrow – will we see you?

I didn't answer the text. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, got to my feet, and made my way home.

Eddie coming back was the thing that was supposed to make me feel safe, so why did I feel so unsafe ?