Bombora Page 4

  And I know, without a doubt, whose fault that is.

  The only one whose world is moderately less rocked by this encounter is Hugh, who, with one hand on Callie’s collar to restrain her, skids to a halt a few feet behind me. He says, “Oh shit, Phel—I forgot!” in his typical oblivious way.

  There’ll be time later to figure out how the hell they even know each other—not that my mind isn’t already racing, trying to calculate the likelihood Phel somehow figured out who my brother is and stalked him across the country in an effort to get back at me. Right now I’m a lot more concerned with Phel either trying to shank me or run in the opposite direction. Both responses would give away the game pretty fast. Thankfully, he does neither.

  He mutters, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” in an undertone not meant for anyone else. “This cannot be happening.” I can’t help overhear it, and my gaze sharpens at the words.

  I want to say, You and me both, buddy. I feel myself go stiff and tense at the pure venom in his tone, a stark contrast to the part of me that wants to grab that beautiful face and check that he’s real. Among other things. Instead, I manage to keep it together and put on the expression I wore an awful lot during the year Phelan and I saw each other in secret. It hurts to use it against him now, but there’s a reason they say the best offense is a good defense.

  “Hey,” I greet him neutrally, and open the door like it would make my day if he came on in. “I’m Hugh’s brother, Nate. Now who might you be?”

  Before Phel can take the invitation to throw the first punch, and I can tell from the look on his face that’s just what he’d like to do, Hugh insinuates a fraction of his huge body between us, a reminder there’s a very thin line to tread here. Phelan’s interest in maintaining Hugh’s ignorance is as yet unknown, but for the moment he appears settled, giving Hugh the opportunity to clap him on the shoulder and say, “Nate, this is my friend Phel. He moved to Cardiff a few months ago and we’ve been doing a lot of surfing together. Phel, this is my brother.” Hugh has that look on his face that reminds me why I sometimes think of him as a big, eager puppy. A puppy I currently want to abandon on the side of the freeway without any food or water.

  Speaking of which, he releases his dog as Phel steps inside, and Callie jumps excitedly and licks at Phelan’s fingers like she’s in the throes of ecstasy. This more than anything confirms that Phel spends a lot of time here; Callie’s a sweet dog, but she never shuts up around people she doesn’t know well, and molests those she does.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Phel answers stiffly, one hand upon the dog’s head, and fails to offer the handshake that would make this whole fake introduction a tad more believable. Just like old times, Phel has these moments of borderline social retardation that used to endear him to me, but right now the quirk is nothing short of terrifying. While it’s not like we spent the bulk of our time together trading straight-acting tips, sometimes I have no idea how he pretended to be hetero his entire life. “Hugh didn’t mention you would be coming to visit…. Forgive my intrusion.” Crap, he’s doing his God voice again, which is what Phel always does when he has no idea how else to take control of a situation. “I should… go.”

  “No,” Hugh interjects, squeezing his shoulder again. “Nate surprised me too—you couldn’t have known. I should have called to say I couldn’t make it out today. Still, now that you’re here, there’s no reason you can’t stick around. Right?”

  For fuck’s sake, Hugh. Trying not to sound too desperate, I say, “Phel here looks like he was just on his way to the beach,” gesturing to his wetsuit and towel and the little smear of sunblock at his temple that hasn’t quite managed to be absorbed into the skin. A year ago I would have wiped it off for him or been the one to apply it in the first place. The image of slathering sunblock onto that pale back pops into my head unbidden, and I force it back down with something like desperation. “We should let him get on with his business.”

  This earns me an annoyed look from them both. “Don’t be a dick, Nate,” Hugh tells me in a flat voice. “Phel and I surf together every day.” Well then. To Phel he says, “You don’t mind the extra company, do you? Nate’s a lot less annoying once you get to know him.”

  Phel looks absolutely stricken, to the point I’d feel sorry for the guy if I weren’t so busy dying on the inside. “I—”

  “Awesome. We were just grabbing some snacks in the kitchen. Come on.” Expression mulish, save for the parting glare he sends my way, Hugh grabs Phel by the arm and shuts the front door before striding farther into the house, Phelan trailing behind with a look of dread on his face.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I curse to myself, and for a few seconds I stare at the space they’ve vacated, everything silent except for Hugh talking animatedly on his way to the kitchen and the whirr of the AC in the foyer. I don’t even know what just happened.

  Since when does Hugh choose some random guy over uninterrupted face time with his big brother, who just drove across the country to see him? And since when does that random guy also turn out to be my former gay lover? If there’s a God, please oh please don’t let them be fucking. The thought is just too damn depressing. Hugh’s resolute heterosexuality aside, with the run of shit luck I’ve been having lately, such a development wouldn’t surprise me. Someone really wise once said fuck my life, and given the current state of things, that about sums it up. Not that I wouldn’t deserve it. There’s a special circle of hell reserved for douchebags like me.

  Seeing Hugh and Phelan seated at the kitchen island, and Phel sending furtive glances in my direction, I elect to delay further interaction by slipping upstairs to my bedroom. Attached is a private balcony that faces the ocean. A deep breath of sea air goes a long way to calm my nerves and get me thinking straight—no pun intended—though I’m no closer to having any answers than before.

  Phel, here? In California? The only place he used to complain about visiting more bitterly than the South was Los Angeles, adverse as he was to the heat and humidity. A Midwesterner through and through. It makes absolutely no sense for him to be here, even excusing the problematical mindfuck, and the odds of him being best buddies with my freaking brother of all people are even worse. I know Hugh better than anyone—he doesn’t do friends, not like before Nell died, and Phel isn’t what you’d call a warm personality. Not unless there’s sex involved.

  And, I mean, I would know. I spent the better part of a year getting intimately acquainted with the inside of Phelan’s bedroom, as well as every square inch of his house, his body, and the deep recesses of his mind. More than that, I got a front-row seat to what makes him laugh and shout and smile and cry, all of which I directly accomplished at one point or another during our relationship.

  And, hell. Relationship. There’s a concept. Not in just general, though that too, but mostly in reference to Phel. After a year together, I suppose that’s what we had—something we never anticipated or claimed to want, but nevertheless managed to achieve. To me it’s a word that, even after the breakup or divorce or slammed doors and screening of calls has happened, implies some special connection remains, some invisible cord that tethers you to the other person regardless of time or space. Phel is the first person who made me feel there was nothing left to cling to after it ended, so effectively did he disappear. For months and months he was all I could see. Then he was just… gone. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  I met Phel on a perfectly average day in June, a Friday, notable only because I was in Columbus on a business trip and, later, for the events it set in motion. For the past few years I’d been working at a contracting firm owned by my wife’s brother-in-law, Craig, and most of my time was spent meeting with clients and potential clients, a lot of them large corporations or institutions such as hospitals and schools. My primary duty was to charm my way into a deal and make sure the client stayed happy by any means necessary.

  The work was different than what I’d expected going in. At first I started off as a carpenter, but
Craig, who did me no favors on account of my being the guy to knock up his wife’s sister, must have recognized my talents lay elsewhere. I’m the first to admit that, aside from working with my hands, my gift is people. Anyone who knows me knows I can talk my way out of anything about as well as I can talk my way into it. Suddenly I was being promoted to project manager, then business manager for the whole company, which was one of the more successful contracting firms in the Greater Columbus area.

  As such, I made a lot of trips into the city during the week and on weekends, close enough to Mount Vernon that I could drive home at the end of the day, but far enough away that it wasn’t unheard of to stay a couple of nights when wining and dining prospective accounts. Although I didn’t mind Columbus as a city, it was a lot bigger and noisier than I was used to, having grown up in small-town Alabama and relocated to equally small-town Ohio. Mount Vernon was practically a hamlet by comparison, which suited my family just fine. I’d been living there with Emilia and our son, Liam, for the better part of a decade, but to be honest, I looked forward to my trips to Columbus.

  I know how that sounds. If nothing else, I want to say I never set out to hurt anyone. Not Emilia, not Liam. Certainly not Phel. While that doesn’t excuse my behavior or change the fact that people did get hurt, none of it was premeditated or malicious—just self-centered and careless. Instead of facing my issues like a man, trying to shoulder the burden myself and minimize the damage to others, I failed to think about the impact of my actions or anything beyond what I wanted in the here and now. No matter what the excuse, cheating ain’t anything but an act of selfishness, because in that moment when you’re supposed to choose between yourself and them, the people you love, you choose yourself.

  I chose myself, my wants. I chose what made my dick hard and my heart beat faster. Sure, Phel’s a million times more than that to me now, but if I’d walked away that first night he never would have risen above the station of “hot guy at a bar.” So now my family’s paying for my fuckup, and me, well… I’m paying too, except that I don’t have a right to complain. As far as I’m concerned, I got off easy. But that doesn’t change the fact that I was toiling away in a marriage that no longer made me happy like it once did, or like I thought it did. Going to Columbus was a breather, my uncomplicated means of escape. Until I met Phel, that’s all it was—an escape. I never went there to cheat on my wife.

  Like a lot of marriages with unhappy endings, mine and Emilia’s started with a surprise pregnancy. I was nineteen, she eighteen, and what was meant to be an uncomplicated weekend of athletic, no-strings-attached sex culminated in Liam nine months later. Thinking it was the right thing to do, I married her.

  She’s a nice girl, is Emilia, and Liam got his grabby little hands right in there around my heart within five seconds of meeting. Hasn’t let go since. Your perspective changes when you find yourself looking down at this small human who bears obvious parts of you, whether it’s your hair or your eyes or the beginnings of the famous Fessenden smile that will go on to break a few hearts. There wasn’t really another option; I would never have forgiven myself for walking away a second time, especially not when that family made a place for me with no questions asked. Emilia even suggested Hugh live with us for a year before he went to college. It’s not often you find people willing to do that—having all but raised Hugh myself, I know that better than most. Now my kid is about to turn ten, and where the fuck am I?

  I wish I could say I didn’t realize I batted for the other team until recently, but that’d be a lie. In a sense, I’ve always known my interests don’t align with those of the run-of-the-mill straight dude I project myself to be, but it took a lot of years of running before I started to come around to the idea. Admittedly, I still have a hard time not hiding it. By the time I started to accept my sexuality, I was already married, firmly entrenched in the lifestyle everyone expected of me. One I expected of myself. Despite having experimented a little before marrying Emilia—nothing more than a few blowjobs or random bar hookups—I really didn’t know who I was in that respect, who I wanted to be. I still had a healthy appreciation for a beautiful woman, but even if I found myself checking out her boyfriend at the same time, I wasn’t sure I could picture myself in a relationship with a man in the way that seemed hardwired with chicks. Then again, I hadn’t had so much luck in the relationship department with women either. Was I bi, gay, or just confused? Damned if I knew. Liam happened before I could really figure out the answer to that question.

  At the time, I hadn’t quite managed to outgrow the anxiety that touching another dude’s dick established me as card-carrying member of Team Pink. For life. Marrying Emilia seemed the best solution for everyone: she’d get a husband and a father to our kid, I’d be a part of my son’s life and have someone awesome to hang out with, and hopefully my years of confusion would stay in the past where they belonged. Shit, even my father’s tough-as-nails cop’s heart seemed warmed by the sudden addition of a grandson and daughter-in-law before he died. And I was seriously going to fuck that up on a hunch that I might like cock? Hell no. I took my vows seriously. Maybe it’s no surprise I eventually cracked under the pressure of keeping that mask in place.

  That weekend in Columbus, I had no plans to do so. Honest. I’d entered a bit of a rough patch in the truce with my non-heterosexually inclined urges, but promised myself I’d do nothing more than look. Looking was acceptable, I reasoned, and it was something I needed, either to confirm my straightness or… I don’t know. I guess I never really stopped to think what I would do if I showed up at a gay bar and wanted more, but maybe I figured I’d cross that bridge if and when I got to it.

  I did not expect to meet him.

  The name of the bar was Foxley’s. I found the place on the Internet after hours of searching. Columbus’s gay scene isn’t exactly hopping, but thank God I learned how to delete browser history back when Hugh and I still lived together. Last thing I needed was Liam or, God forbid, Emilia finding all that shit. I went for the quietest watering hole I could find within walking distance of my hotel, and Foxley’s promised a laid-back atmosphere free of the aggressive trolling found at most gay bars and clubs. After a day filled with client meetings and phone conferences with Craig, I was in need of a stiff drink and a few hours to unwind. Used to being approached by the fairer sex at most of the sports bars I frequented, I found the prospect of not having to make polite conversation with interested women pretty appealing, this more a byproduct of marriage than my sexuality crisis. By comparison, I thought it’d be easier to tell a guy to fuck off, if it came to that.

  I don’t really know what I expected when I first walked in the door: male go-go dancers, maybe, or porn playing on the television screens, or a bunch of dudes having sex in plain sight. I was relieved to see all the customers fully clothed and grouped around the bar like civilized people, chatting, watching sports, drinking beer, and looking not at all like the rowdy club-goers you see on television shows like Queer As Folk. I guess you can like dick and still harbor misconceptions, huh? A giant deer head mounted on the wall set the tone of the place and, me being from Alabama, helped put me more at ease. I was still dressed for a meeting in my suit and tie, and quickly noticed others who looked like they’d also come from work. My wedding ring was tucked safely away in my suitcase back at the hotel. Feeling naked without it, I must have rubbed my ring finger a few times while I looked around.

  A few eyes shifted my way as I took a deep breath and wandered closer to the bar. Their rapid-fire appraisals made me feel like a bull being measured and weighed at a fair, the looks fast turning predatory when I seemed to pass some invisible standard. Now, I’m not blind or prone to false modesty—I know I’m a good-looking guy. I take care of myself and have never hurt for attention. But this was completely different from getting checked out by a group of giggling women with martinis in hand. At least there’s an element of coyness there, shyness even, whereas how these men looked at me was pure sex. Like they wanted to
eat me off the bone. To my surprise, it was a total trip, and not just a power trip.

  Forget feeling up another guy’s cock, I thought, this is how you tendered your resignation from the heterosexual lifestyle. It was the first time I’d ever set foot in a gay bar, period, and I couldn’t claim to have gone there at the behest of a female friend or a group of buddies in search of a laugh. I was there because I wanted to be, because this was where I thought I belonged. The feeling terrified me more than the moment I said I do and made Emilia my wife, more than learning I had a kid.

  I quickly made my way toward the back of the bar, where I felt I’d draw less notice. Luckily there was already someone attracting most of the attention, chatting to a few other men with his back to me, and I slid into a free spot a couple of seats down. Ordering a Scotch, midshelf but respectable, I settled in to take stock of the whole place, curious about the customers Foxley’s tended to attract; the crowd seemed mixed, men in their twenties to upward of forty or fifty. It was hard to get a handle on whether Foxley’s catered to a particular clientele, or if it was a locale favored by many regardless of income or social status.

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed the dude beside me behaved like he was pretty high up on the food chain, ruling over the small crowd he’d attracted like a king before his court. After a few moments of polite chat, he dismissed his companions and swiveled back around to face the bar with an expression caught somewhere between boredom and melancholy. Curious and with nothing better to do, I tried to get a closer look. And, well… shit.