Bombora Page 13

  For a few seconds Phel just blinked at me, which I guess I should have anticipated, but what freaked me out was the total lack of expression on his face. Usually this meant he was trying to throw me off of how he really felt about something—Christ, that face could have made it to the finals in the World Series of Poker—but in this case I think he was just trying to decide how to react, and coming up empty.

  “You have a son,” he eventually repeated.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you… joking?”

  I frowned. “Why the hell would I joke about something like that?” I dug out my wallet and threw it to him so he could see the photo of Liam I kept there. It was one of my favorite pictures of him, taken about a year ago. In it, he was scowling at the camera in my dad’s old leather jacket, which was comically huge on him.

  When Phel said, “You have a son,” a second time, his tone was very different. He gazed at the photo for a few minutes and then looked at me with his eyes slightly narrowed, mouth opening and closing like he couldn’t figure out where to start. It would have been amusing if there’d been anything funny about the conversation. “Were you… were you planning on telling me at any point?”

  “Aside from now?”

  He grimaced. “No, I asked you point-blank; you didn’t volunteer the information. There’s a difference. And it’s not like this is the same thing as telling me you keep sixteen ferrets in your basement, Nate. Not the same thing at all.” Christ, with semantics like that, Phel could have been a lawyer. But something in his expression softened, and I caught an edge of hurt in the twist of his mouth, like it was only just occurring to him what I’d said. “This is… big, Nate. A big part of your life.”

  It went without saying: Phel was offended I hadn’t told him sooner, hadn’t unlocked this part of my life as readily as he’d unlocked himself to me. But when I considered whether I’d have done differently, even without Emilia in the picture, I realized the answer was no. Liam sometimes reacted badly if we gave him the wrong thing for lunch without sufficient warning, and this seemed the kind of thing you didn’t spring on a kid. Significant others… that was a big fucking step, not one to be taken lightly. Not that Phel was the clingy type, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if he started to express an interest in meeting the kid, now that he was aware of Liam’s existence. In all fairness, my son was pretty irresistible.

  “You’re right,” I answered. “He is a big part of my life—huge—and I guess I felt protective about sharing too soon. It’s not that I don’t trust you, or else I wouldn’t be telling you now, but….” I shrugged helplessly. “I wanted to be sure, you know? Before I went and introduced him to something this major. Or vice versa.” Funny how it came so naturally to tell Phel he was something major in my life, and mean every word.

  Another few minutes crept by while Phel considered my confession and continued to gaze at the photo. Much to my relief, he nodded and handed the wallet back to me with a brave smile. “This is significant. Sorry for being so surprised, I just….” He swallowed heavily. “This is significant,” he said again.

  It was my turn to hesitate, to swallow around a cold stone of fear. “‘Let’s talk about it’ significant, or ‘Get the fuck away from me’ significant?” Suddenly I realized I had no idea how I’d expected Phel to take the news. He’d never expressed any particular dislike of kids, but it’s not like he’d ever claimed to want one either, what with his jet-setting lifestyle and apartment full of valuable, breakable things.

  He frowned. “I don’t know what to make of the fact that you thought I’d kick you to the curb.”

  Fair point, but I’m sure plenty of legitimately single parents go through this dilemma all the time. “Does that mean you’re not?”

  I felt his hand squeeze mine. “Nothing that dramatic, Nate. I can’t say I saw this coming, but… I want to accept all parts of you, even your son, and I suppose I understand your hesitation. Your guardedness. The boy’s had no say about who you involve yourself with, and you have to make the right choices on his behalf.”

  Sensing Phel’s approval, not just of Liam, but also the fact that I’d taken a big step in a positive direction, I shifted around until I could crawl over his body and bear him back against the soft leather of the sofa. “You know that means you’re my right choice, right?” I asked, voice muffled as I pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

  “I think you’re trying to butter me up,” he corrected. Despite being half-trapped in the tangled blanket, Phelan’s arms came up to wrap around my neck. “But I’m glad you told me. I didn’t mean to push.” Smile growing, he added, “I hope you’ll tell me all about him. He looks just like you.”

  I grinned, unable to stop myself. “Handsome little bastard, isn’t he? His mom’s quite the looker too.” The words slipped out before I could hold them back.

  Not surprisingly, Phelan’s face darkened and he started to withdraw his hands. “His mother… where is she?”

  A nervous lump choked me up for a moment. I prayed Phel wouldn’t notice, or wouldn’t interpret the pause for what it was, and I fought not to withdraw myself from his embrace. “She’s around,” I explained. This lie was much harder, when it came. “We’re divorced, but Emilia’s a big part of Liam’s life. And mine. Raising him without both of us being involved wasn’t an option, so she’s in my life too. She doesn’t know I’m gay, though. Not yet.” I watched his face carefully. “I’m sorry if that complicates stuff.”

  Phel hesitated and then slowly nodded. “It does, but… it’s just how things go, I guess. You don’t have to explain what it’s like to hide this from your family, Nate. It’s a freedom I don’t enjoy either. So there’s no judgment on my end. I often think about telling them too, just to put an end to all the lies, but I know what a huge disaster it’d be. Protecting yourself is nothing to be ashamed of, even if it’s from your own family.”

  I smiled sadly at how Phelan’s voice hardened when he talked about his family, the way even his words became more tight and formal. Now that I knew who the Prices were, I knew he wasn’t exaggerating about how they’d react to this information about him. Phel’s father was not only one of the wealthiest and most successful ad men in the United States, but one of staunch Catholic values. His support and endorsement could make or break a brand, and to hear Phelan tell it, he felt a responsibility to promote only those companies that upheld the proper, God-fearing attitude of the Midwest. That didn’t include much room for a gay son, even if Phel had a stronger sense of morality than most. At least to me, he did.

  “I’m not just protecting me,” I said, though that was certainly part of it. “Sometimes you gotta protect your family from yourself too.” Did I mean about being gay? No. Even then, I think I knew Liam would have handled it well if I eased him into it, if there hadn’t been other factors to consider. What he needed the most protection from was the lies building up around him and his mom, without their knowledge.

  The memory, in retrospect, is no happier now that I know its resolution. Phel and Liam went on to become friends, the few times he was able to meet his dad’s “nerdy pal from Columbus,” but I never quite shook the desire to come clean to them both, never felt it was a whole victory. It feels damn good to have told Liam the truth at last, since, as it turns out, he needed even less protection from my sexual preferences than I thought. I guess I’m more of a “nature over nurture” kind of guy, because I don’t think being attracted to men is something I’ve got a choice over. Much as I’ve tried to fight it over the years, anyway. What’s left to account for is the fact that I lied my face off to him the whole time, which is the real reason he should be upset. Maybe he doesn’t understand, or maybe he’s just that much better than me as a person, I don’t know, but even as I end the conversation with a promise that he’s my number-one priority, as well as his mom’s, I know there’s still a long, hard way to go before Liam will feel like he’s got his dad back for real.

  HUGH is locked away in his study b
y the time I get home. He’s either writing or jerking off, two things he’s always done with the door closed, but I’ve got no desire to interrupt him in either case. I settle for some aimless channel surfing instead, both impressed and repulsed by the ungodly large television and accompanying surround sound. It’s bigger and flatter than the one he had last time, and I can picture Liam going crazy over it, since like most kids his age, he seems to have a direct link between his brain and his Xbox.

  Thinking about Liam sucks the mindless enjoyment from watching TV, though, and reminds me of how badly I want to be there to curl his small body into mine. Not just to make all the pain and confusion go away, but to thank him for being so awesome that he took the news of my being gay on the chin like a champ. No one could think that’s easy, finding out everything you knew about a parent is wrong. Coming out to Liam did to my brain what the Vulcans did to Romulus, and if his world is only slightly less shattered right now, it’s a friggin’ miracle.

  What I don’t expect is the sense of freedom that comes with it, like a weight’s been lifted off my shoulders after years doing the Atlas routine. For that alone I could latch on to him and not let go. One aspect of parenthood no one ever warned me about is how seriously addictive it is to hug your kid; I could do it forever. My own father was never much inclined toward tactile affection, not like my mom, and the tendency to be physical with my family probably comes from her. It’s how I was with Hugh growing up, and Liam and Emilia—even Phel, who always squirmed and protested but, I could tell, secretly loved it. I don’t think he came from a very affectionate family either.

  Having no such physical outlet here makes me feel out of sorts and even more alone, almost as much as having no one to talk to about how my kid is the greatest human being on Earth. How his mom’s levelheadedness rubbed off on him, despite my fuckups. I can’t tell Hugh, because that might raise one of his massive eyebrows, though if I’m honest with myself, the one person I want to call the hell up and boast to is Phel, because he’d get it. Once upon a time, he was always the one to tell me not to worry about my kid so much. Liam made it obvious to everyone he met, Phel included, that he would grow up to be a really outstanding guy. If I called Phel now to say he was right, he wouldn’t be surprised to hear about Liam. Okay, he wouldn’t pick up the phone to begin with, not with my number on the caller ID, but if he did, I know he wouldn’t have anticipated a different outcome for my son. The kicker is that I wouldn’t know what to say to him, even if I did manage to reach him outside of Hugh.

  I don’t believe in God, but the second I notice Hugh’s Android phone sitting there on the coffee table, the realization is so sharp I might as well have asked for a sign. Guilt tightens my throat before my fingers close all the way around it, my hands suddenly clammy against the rubberized skin of the casing. My gaze ticks instinctively down the hall in the direction of Hugh’s office, senses on the alert for any sign he might be about to find me out. Even through the paranoia, the thought occurs to me I haven’t quite decided what I plan to do. Except that as far as my hands are concerned, I have. It’s nothing to click into the address book and scroll down through the alphabet until I see Phelan’s name there in front of me like the Holy fucking Grail—well, almost nothing, since with this futuristic phone of the future, I barely know which buttons I’m tapping at first.

  I don’t recognize Phel’s number, which makes sense considering he had them all disconnected at the same time he changed the locks at his apartment, but I can see the area code is local. The call connects with a click of my thumb, so fast I could call it an accident, had I the stomach for it. Speaking of which, that pansy-ass organ is slowly sinking to my feet as I listen to the pregnant ring, ring on the other end. My breath hitches when someone picks up. Every muscle in my body tenses.

  “Palermo Springs Rehabilitation Centre, how can I direct your call?”

  Wait. What?

  Except for a slight choking sound in the back of my throat, I’m silent for long enough on the other end that the receptionist sighs in a huff and repeats, “Palermo Springs, hello?”

  “Uh, sorry,” I blurt out. “I think I’ve got the wrong number or… something.” I end the call immediately and sit staring at the phone.

  Wrong number. Has to be. It makes no sense that Hugh would still have this number kicking around in his phone, because it’s been ages since he set foot in a rehab facility—and yet it dawns on me I haven’t exactly been around to know for sure, one way or another. But Hugh hasn’t touched more than a couple of beers around me the whole time I’ve been here, and, well—I would know if he were using again. Wouldn’t I? He was a whole other person on blow. No way that’s the case, I tell myself. Hugh’s way too much of a dick on drugs for any backsliding to have escaped my notice.

  Besides which, I don’t even remember having seen “Palermo” in his address book entries to have dialed the facility by mistake. It’s possible I hit a speed dial button or something, but…. Only one way to be sure.

  I glance down at the phone again and, very deliberately, hit the call button to dial Phelan’s number, my earlier nervousness almost forgotten in the confusion and sudden slap of fear about my brother. I’m practically eager to hear Phel’s voice on the other line, and pray for him to pick up as the phone rings a few times.

  Rationally, I know what’s going to happen before it does; a few theories about Phel are already starting to come together in my mind. But denial has always been one of my strong suits. The idea of Phel on drugs is kind of absurd, I tell myself, considering the guy barely drinks. I’m sure there must have been a bender or two after we broke up, but he’s like Hugh—I’ve never seen him drink much around here. Following Hugh’s lead, most likely. Still, he’s been acting totally different, nervous and withdrawn compared to the sharp, confident cat who picked me up at a bar like he ate man-shaped people for lunch. I wouldn’t have recognized him if not for his face. Drugs can do that, if Hugh’s Dr. Jekyll routine was anything to go by, and I find myself holding my breath again until the line clicks and I hear that chipper voice again.

  “Palermo Springs Rehabilitation Centre, how can I direct your call?”

  Fuck. Mind still racing, I stutter a greeting in response and tentatively say, “This is Hugh Fessenden calling,” in the hopes that, if he’s a patient there, the receptionist will recognize him. I remember Palermo—not only is it small, but staff members are so expertly trained that they’re on a first-name basis with everyone, especially celebrity guests. It’s kind of creepy.

  “Hi, Mr. Fessenden,” chirps the receptionist. Definite recognition in her voice, and warmth like she’s plenty used to him calling. Huh. “Did you need me to direct your call?”

  “Uh….” Though I’m conflicted, the receptionist’s gentle hmm? of encouragement settles the issue. I’ve come this far already. If I’m going to steal my brother’s phone and stalk his friends, I might as well go all in. Just in case, I lighten my voice to sound more like my brother’s, which is noticeably less gruff than mine. “I’m looking for Phelan Price,” I say shakily.

  “You usually are,” she replies with a laugh. “Should I connect you through, or did you just need to leave a message for him?”

  No to both—it’d do me no good to be ignored and have my name placed on a blacklist or something. “I misplaced his info,” I answer. “Can I get his room number off you again? I’m thinking of visiting this afternoon.”

  “He’s in cabin number four.” Wracking my brain, I recall at the last second that Palermo has a bunch of small cottage-type places for patients with less severe issues, or who are starting to regain their independence. Well, “small” is a bit inaccurate: Hugh stayed in one for a week near the end of his program, and at the time I remember thinking it was bigger than some of the apartments we’d lived in growing up.

  “Right, of course. Silly me.” I clear my throat a little and decide to wrap this up before I can blow my cover. “Well, thanks for your help, I’ll be coming by in a little
while.” I hang up.

  Sucker-punch nausea is a normal response to discovering that your ex-lover is in rehab, right? I don’t even know where to begin trying to wrap my head around that, because—Phel. This guy I love, who is quite possibly the biggest square on the planet, apart from my memories of him in bed that can still make me blush, is camped out in some fucking facility?

  My brain can barely compute, but what Hugh said about Phel’s “issues” is starting to make a hell of a lot more sense. Between my dad and my brother, it’s safe to say I come from a family of addicts; I’ve hit the sauce too hard enough times in my own life to know how destructive it can be, though thankfully never around Emilia or Liam. The thought of Phel being caught up in drugs or alcohol, because of me, sends me pitching forward to sit with my head between my knees so I don’t vomit all over Hugh’s bazillion-dollar carpet. It should be enough that Phel is getting help, clearly near the end of his program if he’s living unsupervised, but now more than ever, I feel how important it is to go talk to him, to just… apologize for everything, right up to yelling at him on the beach last week. For all the good it’ll do.

  In the process of trying to convince myself I don’t have every intention of going to Palermo to see Phel, I spend a fair bit of time wandering around the house, no less aimless than before. As I shower, I wonder if Phel showers a million times a day to contend with the heat I know he must hate, and afterwards I spend so much time pondering the selection of clothing from my open suitcase, I’m both embarrassed and tempted to announce this sartorial dilemma to Hugh and say, “See? Gay.” Although Emilia threw out all of my flannel and jeans with rips in the ass during the first year we were married, even she was a little puzzled by some of the outfits that started showing up in my wardrobe under Phel’s influence. I distinctly remember the way her eyebrows went up the first time I wore a scarf when it wasn’t cold outside.