12. Diem

12

Diem

A fire ignited in my belly and spread through my veins. Kissing Tallus was like walking on the surface of the sun. Incinerating. Blistering. It had the power to reduce me to ash. It was like tumbling blindfolded over a cliff. It was the feeling you got when the roller coaster crested the hill and plummeted down the other side. It was the fear of being lost and the joy of being found.

I had no words.

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t move.

But I didn’t know how to participate or what was expected of me, so I stood there like an idiot and let it happen, proving the inadequacies I’d been trying to vocalize to him since we met.

It had been over a decade since I’d felt another man’s mouth on mine. I’d adamantly never allowed it, so my experience was limited. I’d kissed a grand total of two people in my life. Once, at a party in high school, when I was so close to blackout drunk that by morning, I’d convinced myself it hadn’t really happened. Once, on my twenty-first birthday, with the only man I’d ever dated. The following six months were a nightmare. We’d never kissed again after the first night. He was a man who’d done more harm than good to my already severely damaged mental health. I didn’t like to think about him.

But Tallus.

Tallus had starred in all my dreams for the past ten months. Yet, as he kissed me, I stood immobile, unable to participate. His mouth moved on mine. His tongue grazed my lips as he tried and failed to encourage me from my shell. After a good thirty seconds of paralysis, I found the wherewithal to mimic his motions, knowing it was glaringly obvious I had zero skill when it came to this sort of thing.

It was why I’d never let it happen. How many times had I stopped him in the past? A few. He hadn’t tried in a while.

But he caught me off guard, and for the first time, I didn’t dodge the advance. I didn’t hold him back. I didn’t tell him no.

But I was clumsy, and my awkwardness showed. My shame was suffocating.

The kiss lasted less than a minute before Tallus, hands still cradling my face, pulled back. He smiled lazily, and it shone out his eyes, more green than gold or brown. He hummed with pleasure.

“You let me kiss you.”

I grunted in affirmation.

“Was it so bad?”

I didn’t know how to answer. In my opinion, it was awful, much like the embarrassing sex we fumbled through when I showed up at his house, not because of Tallus or his skills, but because of me and my hang-ups.

His thumb brushed my bottom lip. “D? Are you upset?”

“No.”

“Was it okay?”

“Was… good,” I rasped, unable to find more words.

Another smile. “Want to try it again now that you’re more prepared?”

“Yes,” I croaked.

So he kissed me again. It wasn’t much better. My hesitancy showed, but I let Tallus be the guide and tried desperately to keep up without appearing helpless.

When the soft glide of his tongue came in contact with mine, I almost whimpered. My knees wanted to buckle. How could a kiss be so humbling?

It ended too soon. I was getting my feet beneath me when Tallus pulled back. He released my face and stepped away. “I’m going to head home.”

“You’re… What?” Home? Why? “But I thought…”

“We’re going to work on this.” He swung a finger between us. “I need you to step outside your comfort zone. You don’t need to be perfect, but if you want something with me, you need to try. Make a tiny effort. Stop treating me like a nameless hookup from Spark.”

That stung, but I deserved it because it was exactly what I’d been doing.

“Don’t be afraid to touch me, D. I want it. I like it. I need it.”

He collected his shirt, tie, socks, and shoes. At the door, he turned back. I hadn’t moved, struck dumb by the kiss and his words.

“Are we going to keep looking into Madame Rowena, or is it stupid?”

“I’ll find the neighbor.”

“Call me?”

I nodded.

Then he was gone.

Before I caved and bought alcohol or cigarettes, I packed a bag and headed to the gym.

***

The TV droned with a daytime soap of some kind. I wasn’t watching it. My focus was on the black-and-white framed photograph on a shelf nearby. The man smiling from the past reflected the one I saw in the mirror each morning, except more handsome.

Boone Leason Krause was thirty-two when the picture was taken. Smartly dressed in a suit and tie, grinning at the camera, he looked like the happiest man on earth with his new bride on his arm. Robbing the cradle, marrying a woman a decade younger.

Boone smiled like he’d won the jackpot. I remembered my grandfather as stern and stoic. He was never unkind, but you wouldn’t catch him emotionally compromised. Boone grew up in a time when it was frowned upon for men to show fear, for men to cry, or for men to be openly affectionate or vulnerable in any way. Between the war and his job working alongside the police department, displaying masculinity was fundamental. Men were tough. Unshakable. Women were the compassionate ones.

I’d never seen him kiss my nana, and although their love had been undeniable, it was never on display. Affection was reserved for behind closed doors. As his grandson, I was never allowed to be soft. The customary greeting was a firm handshake or slap on the back. Boone showed love in other ways. If he ever raised a hand to his wife or child—as might have been customary in his day—I never saw it. Boone, so far as I knew, had never been cruel.

Leroy Krause, my father and Boone’s only son, was a different story.

I glanced from the dated wedding photograph to the wilted woman in the rocking chair beside me. She’d fallen asleep ages ago, gnarled hands curled around her abandoned knitting, no longer watching the program.

I wanted to ask a thousand questions, but those days were behind us. Even if Nana had a clearer day, she wouldn’t comprehend my struggles.

Gently removing the project from her hands, I examined the line of sloppy stitches on the needles. The last few rows were a mess. She had purled when she was supposed to knit and knit when she was supposed to have purled.

I pulled it back, refit the stitches on the needle, and mindlessly fixed it for her, wondering why boys weren’t allowed to have feelings and emotions or be affectionate, but they were allowed to learn a distinctly feminine craft.

“Why did Boone let it happen, Nana?” I didn’t know if I was asking about knitting or my father’s abuse. It didn’t matter.

Nana slept on. I could never ask such a question when she was awake, fearing I knew the answer. The truth was, Boone had interfered, many times, but in the end, he believed a father had a right to discipline his son, and Nana’s concerns were nothing more than the softhearted complaints of a woman. Whatever Leroy did to me must have been deserved on some level.

Boone wasn’t to blame. He grew up in a different world, and my grandfather had never laid a hand on me.

Setting the knitting project aside, I watched Nana sleep, knowing her time on this earth was coming to an end. An ache bloomed in my chest. How would I survive without her?

“I don’t know what to do, Nana.” I squeezed my thighs and chewed my thoughts. “There’s… this guy. He’s… It’s like being offered a piece of chocolate cake but knowing you’ll get your hand smacked if you try to take it. He’s not meant for me, but he won’t listen.”

I buried my face in my palms. The TV droned on. Nana slept.

Midday was not my typical visiting hour, but I knew the old man would be at work, and it would be safe. Encounters with Leroy Krause were best avoided. They never ended well. He ignited a fire inside me that burned out of control. I’d never hated a human being more than I hated my father.

Another TV sounded from upstairs. Mom was home and likely watching the same daytime soap Nana was missing.

After the incident with Tallus the previous night, I’d been restless, unsure where to put myself. Short of calling Dr. Peterson for an appointment, which was a waste of time since I didn’t feel the urge to regurgitate the same bullshit conversations we’d been having for years, I’d sought the only person in my life with whom I had a somewhat stable relationship.

Nana.

Except the ninety-one-year-old woman suffered from late-stage dementia and didn’t know who I was half the time, so even if I wanted to talk to her or ask for advice, I couldn’t.

I used the remote to shut off the TV and found an oversized afghan on the back of the couch —one she’d made decades ago—and spread it gently over Nana’s legs. I studied the elderly woman’s wrinkly face and sagging skin. How many times had she rescued me from her son? How many times had I run to her for respite?

The shell that remained struck grief in my heart.

If I had been a better grandson, a healthier man, I’d have kissed her cheek before saying goodbye, but it wasn’t something I did.

“Birdie should be back soon,” I whispered. “She went to grab you a few things at the store. Maybe those shortbread cookies you like with your tea.”

Nana slept on.

“Love you, Nana.”

I left her and softly trudged up the stairs to the landing, where a door exited the side of the house. I could have escaped without seeing Mom. She likely didn’t know I was visiting.

Instead, I continued down the hall and poked my head in the doorway. Marlow Krause was a wilted woman, dulled from years of repression and abuse. Sallow skin, eyes clouded, and hair limp and lifeless. Silver strands eclipsed the brown more every day. She never smiled, never spoke above a tentative whisper, and slinked when she walked, doing all she could to go unnoticed.

I couldn’t find it in me to feel sorry for the husk of a woman on the couch. She’d chosen this life. She’d chosen Leroy Krause over me every single time. In my fucked-up brain, she was equally responsible for the abuse I’d endured at his hand.

“Hey, Mom.”

Marlow shifted her attention from the TV, took a second to notice my presence, and turned back. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Popped in to see Nana. She’s sleeping.”

“Your dad’s at work.”

“I know.”

“Do you need coffee?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Apart from the program, silence filled the room. Marlow Krause wouldn’t ask how I was doing. She wouldn’t get up and hug me hello. Inquiring about my friends, job, or love life was off the table. Leroy had beaten it out of her years ago. She was not to coddle his son. And when Dad had found out I was gay—not from me, I wasn’t stupid enough to tell him—it was Mom’s fault for treating me like a sissy when I was a boy.

She hadn’t.

I debated sitting down, but the air was stuffy and stunk of oppression. It was hot and stale despite the air conditioning. Besides, I wouldn’t have known what to say regardless. Mom and I had nothing to talk about anymore. She’d checked out long ago, leaving her defenseless son to the lion.

Frustrated, unsure why I’d bothered making the trip in the first place, I left. I wouldn’t find help or support in the place that had caused my issues to begin with.

All I could do was sit around the office and wait for Tallus to finish work. Part of me wondered if he would show up. Another part of me worried about what might happen if he did.