Love Wins Page 4

  Well, they could take pictures openly now. The family was gone, and the only person still at the burial site lingered behind. After a moment, Paul moved to the little hill covering his spouse and knelt. He took one hand and caressed the earth as if he was trying to touch the man in the coffin beneath it. He set the rose gently on the dirt, then spoke quietly, his head bent. There was another click, then several more triggered by the first.

  When Paul was done, he stood. It seemed as if he was going to fall at first. Brad almost went to him then, but he stopped. What was he thinking? He didn’t know the man other than what he’d researched about him. Paul didn’t need him. But he needed someone, and no one was there to shoulder him up, to support him. He’d lost a man he was married to for ten years, but the couple had been together for fourteen.

  Where were his friends, his family?

  Shaking his head, Brad quickly penned down the way Gavriel’s husband looked, the way he gathered himself. He wrote about his lonely exit from the cemetery, his shoulders back, his head held high as he got into a little powder blue Volkswagen Beetle.

  Then he wrote how Paul completely and utterly broke down with the cameras clicking away to capture his grief.

  II.

  PAUL WAS finally home. He’d driven on autopilot to get there, to the little yellow house with the dark green shutters. Gavriel wanted a house close to his family but not too close, and for that, Paul was grateful.

  He got out of the car, the first hurdle to cross. He’d left his love behind, Gavriel’s body in a casket in the ground. And Paul? Paul walked away.

  Paul numbly opened the front door, but not before he kicked a newspaper off the porch. He hadn’t looked at one since the shooting. That paper could join the several others littering the ground beside it.

  “Maybe they’ll stop dropping them off,” he said as he shut the door, sealing himself in. And into what, really? There was nothing here. The wine-colored curtains were closed, the house dark and musty. He’d barely been here since the shooting. He’d been at the hospital at first since he was on Gavriel’s list, his first call. He was there to identify his lover, to mourn along with his mother-in-law. He’d sat with the family through talks with the police, funeral arrangements.

  He walked to his bedroom, a room he would never make love to Gavriel in again. He sat on the bed, a bed he hadn’t slept in for a few days, choosing the couch when he had been here. It hurt too badly not to be able to hold Gavriel, to sink into the protection of his strong arms and know he would be all right, that he’d never be alone again. He took off his clothes, rose slowly, and walked into the bathroom.

  Gavriel loved this house, but his favorite thing here besides a spacious kitchen for him to cook Paul’s meals was the bathroom. Paul turned the handle, the many heads spurting out streams of water and trickling down rocky walls. Paul sat on the hewn seat, letting the water hit him, the pressure pelting him all over.

  And he wept.

  When the water was cold and icy, Paul finally pulled himself out. After turning off the heads, he grabbed Gavriel’s towel. Wrapping the extra-large bath towel around him, he went back into the bedroom and dried off. He went to the bureau, tugged out a faded Florida State University T-shirt—Gavriel’s—and crawled into bed. He pulled Gavriel’s pillow toward him and hugged it tightly. It was hours later before he finally went to sleep.

  PAUL WAS exhausted. He struggled out of bed and walked to the kitchen.

  “There’s nothing here,” Paul whispered as he looked around.

  He should probably get some food in the house. Everything was either stale or on its way there. He had time. His boss understood, had told him to take his time since the shooting, that if he needed more, it was his. Tamyra Colling was a good person to work for at OUC, the water and electric service. Paul was in IT, so he could work from home when he was ready.

  “You have time,” Tamyra had said.

  Time, that’s all he had now. Time without Gavriel, time in this house without the man who’d always understood him, who knew him, loved him.

  Deciding to forego breakfast for a cup of coffee instead, Paul thought the best thing would be to get out of the house and walk to the coffee shop.

  At least then he wouldn’t be alone.

  III.

  IS IT considered stalking if you just so happen to be at the same coffee shop as the person you’re profiling? Brad questioned himself. He sat a few tables over and watched as Paul held on tightly to a cup of coffee.

  After Brad left the burial site, he couldn’t get the image of Paul out of his head. He’d arrived in front of Paul’s home later—okay, parked a few car length’s down because he knew this was leaning a tad bit to the creepy side—and waited. When Paul hadn’t appeared, he’d driven away.

  He’d been back, day after day, waiting. But Paul’s Beetle just sat outside the home on Abbot’s Hill Drive. Many days, Brad had sat there too, waiting.

  Finally, Paul exited the home. There was a pile of newspapers on the side of the porch, some rolled, others not. He hadn’t stopped to pick them up, just kept walking.

  Paul was tall, not as tall as Brad, but at over six feet, there weren’t many taller. He’d lost some weight since the first time Brad had seen him, the light blue shirt wrapping his frame like a boat sail, fluttering in the wind.

  Brad stepped out of his own car, locking it quietly. He picked up his notebook, grabbed a pencil, and followed a few paces behind.

  Now they both sat in a little coffee shop, Brad nursing a warm cup of coffee while he watched Paul a few tables over.

  I could go over there. Say hi or something?

  Or he could just sit here and stare like he was already doing. What was he doing here, anyway? He could go home and start typing, begin piecing his profile together, gather his observations for the funeral of the first victim, for the others that had taken place since. He could work with his storyboard, organizing his ideas since he had a significant amount of information compiled.

  He didn’t have to sit here and stare at Paul. But as he looked around the small coffee shop, he realized he wasn’t the only one staring. Oh, they were quiet and careful, but he saw them, saw the way their eyes would glance over and away. Some sat hunched over laptops, others on phones. An elderly couple spoke quietly. But they all looked.

  Nothing about Paul showed he knew he was being observed. He simply sat there, one hand holding the cup, the other methodically tracing lines over the ridged surface of the table. Every once in a while a person would go over to him, place a hand on his shoulder, say something. Each time, Paul’s shoulders would become less rigid, lose some of the stiffness.

  Brad watched as Paul’s coffee cup was taken, another set in its place. And he realized something. These people were caring for Gavriel Bachman’s husband. When a barista slid a tiny blue plate with a large muffin before Paul, Brad watched as he was encouraged to eat. At first Paul did nothing, just sat there, but little by little and piece by piece, the muffin disappeared and a worn, exhausted Paul looked a little better, less like he would pass out at the table and more like he could actually make it on the brief walk back to his home.

  More time passed, and the sunlight waned, the loss of its light casting shadows through the coffee shop’s stained glass windows.

  Finally Paul stood, pulled out his wallet, and moved to the counter, only to be stopped by a larger guy who quickly circled around to him. The men spoke briefly, and Paul put away his wallet. The larger man pulled him into his arms and held on tightly. When he whispered a few words in his ear, Paul nodded.

  “Jenny, honey,” the guy called back.

  “Yes, Amadeo.” A slim woman came out from the back, the one who’d given Paul the muffin. She was drying her hands with a towel, a green apron tied around her waist. When she saw Paul standing with Amadeo’s arm around him, she nodded.

  “I’m going to walk Paul home.”

  “Okay, honey. We’ll see you tomorrow, Paul?”

  Paul nodde
d.

  “Good.” Turning, she went to the back.

  Brad watched as Paul and Amadeo left. Placing his coffee cup on the receptacle, he followed.

  IV.

  THERE WAS someone on his doorstep, knocking. Other than Chinese food, or muffins and juice dropped off by Amadeo and Jenny since the first time he’d gone to the coffee shop, no one had stopped by. Not one person. Sure, there had been photographers hovering since Gavriel’s funeral, but not many. Two months after Paul had buried his husband, they, like everyone else, had drifted away.

  But now someone stood there, knocking.

  Paul rose from his reading chair and walked to the door. He pulled back the blinds and looked out.

  A man stood on his doorstep, his shoulders nearly blocking the view of the evening sun, but Paul could still see the blond hair, the pensive features of the reporter from Gavriel’s funeral and the coffee shop. He could swear he saw him once in the parking lot at work.

  Paul had surprised everyone by showing up at work so soon after Gavriel was gone, but it was either that or stay at home alone. There were only so many times he could go to Gavriel’s closet, run his hand down his favorite shirts. So many times he could start to walk to their spot at the beach only to turn back even before he made it to end of the street, the grief too heavy to contain. At least if he went to work, he would be surrounded by people who knew him, who needed him to fix one technical emergency or another.

  But it was like some dark, ominous cloud hung over him, a cloud that rained barbed wire and land mines. The ringing phone and people stopping by to ask him for something weren’t enough to take his mind off his grief. Moreover, when they stopped to give him a kind word, to express their political outrage or commiserate over the difficulty of being gay living in America, that exhausted him.

  Many days he left work early, tired and drained, only to return to his silent home.

  Now a reporter stood outside.

  “That’s enough. Just fucking enough.” Paul swung the door open, his patience worn thin. “What are you doing here?” His voice was loud even to him.

  The man on his porch lifted both hands, holding two things that grabbed Paul’s attention immediately: coffee from Amadeo and Jenny’s coffee shop, and a bag of food, the scent drifting beneath Paul’s nose and reminding him just how hungry he was.

  He looked up from the bag and back to the man holding it. The guy was tall, his hair pulled back to reveal a brilliant pair of green eyes, eyes that watched him intently.

  “What do you want?” Paul asked.

  “Well, I think it should be kind of obvious.”

  Paul felt the growl of frustration rumbling in his chest as he opened his mouth to speak.

  “Wait. That was the wrong way to start. Food. Oh, and coffee. For you. I brought them for you.”

  “For me?” Paul asked. He was confused. Was this how they did it, how reporters wormed their way in to people’s homes?

  “Yes, for you, Paul. I was in the neighborhood,” the man said.

  “No, you weren’t.” The way he used Paul’s name, like they were friends, irked him. They didn’t know each other.

  “Okay, no, I wasn’t. I went to your neighborhood coffee shop and then picked up some Chinese for you.” He bent his head as his spoke, looked at Paul appealingly.

  Paul just looked back.

  “Who are you?” Paul said when the man thrust food and coffee forward. Before he realized what he was doing, he took them, bringing the coffee up to his nose and inhaling the scent. God, it smelled lovely, and he was hungry. Jenny had popped by early that morning with breakfast. He’d skipped lunch in favor of hiding in his cubicle, as much as a person could hide in his cubicle. So the teasing scent of the coffee and Chinese were doing a lot to distract him. But not enough.

  “Brad Truscott. And no, I’m not a reporter.” He looked around the neighborhood, taking in the opened doors, the faces peering through parted blinds. “May I come in?”

  When he stepped forward as if he would, Paul stopped him. “Why? What do you want? And if you’re not a reporter, who are you?”

  Brad closed his eyes, opened them again to reveal a warmth Paul couldn’t ignore. “I’m someone who would like to be your friend.”

  V.

  BRAD STOOD in the center of Paul’s living room, gaze tracing his movements. He couldn’t believe he was actually in Paul’s home. He looked around the neat little cottage, saw the light from a lamp in the corner, a chair where Paul had probably been sitting since a book lay on the small table nearby.

  “Have you been stalking me?” Paul asked. His rich brown skin was so smooth Brad actually wanted to touch it. But he stopped himself before he could reach out, not wanting to spook Paul when he was actually this close.

  “No, I wouldn’t call it that,” Brad said.

  “No?” Paul responded, his tone only enhancing the doubt in his hazel eyes.

  “No,” Brad said again.

  Paul nodded slowly, then lifted the cup he held in the air. “This is my favorite coffee, made just the way I like it.”

  Brad had to agree. After all, he’d seen Paul order it several times. Brad was known for being pretty amazing with details. It was what he did as a writer, remember the details. So he knew down to how many sugars Paul liked his coffee.

  “And this?” Paul raised the bag of Chinese food.

  “What?” Brad asked. He knew where this was going. It hadn’t been hard to learn where the owners of the coffee picked up food for their friend. He’d even seen them drop it off once or twice. So the first thing he did when he hatched this idea was to go pick something up. A few questions, some brief and confusing staccato answers at Double Dragon, where the family had to be first-generation Chinese immigrants, and he had Paul’s standard meal.

  “What?” Paul repeated. Brad could tell by the way his hand trembled, he’d maybe overdone it a little on the amount, but the Paul he’d seen kneeling at the grave had looked healthier, better, not on the verge of exhaustion. The graphic T-shirt and blue jeans barely hugged his long frame. Intervention was needed.

  “You need to eat.”

  “I need to eat.” Paul slowly enunciated each word carefully, as if Brad were a crazy man. But if Brad were honest with himself, he could see where his sanity might be questioned a little. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Not true. I know you moved back here with your husband Gavriel about five years ago when Adina Bachman’s husband died, that you work as an IT tech at OUC.”

  Paul sighed. “What do you want? Why are you in my home? If you’re not a reporter, who are you? You’re not a friend of Gavriel’s, not his family.”

  “Right. All of those things and none of those things. I’m a writer, a freelance writer.” When Paul moved to the door, Brad spoke fast. “No, wait. I’m not here to interview you or anything. I saw you at the funeral, saw you speak to Adina Bachman.”

  “Try,” Paul corrected.

  “What?”

  “You saw me try to speak to Adina.” From the way Paul’s face fell and his shoulders dropped as if they held the weight of the world, that blow was just as crushing as Brad felt it was.

  “Yes. I saw you try. I was there.” Brad moved closer, gently took the food from Paul’s hand, and placed it on the coffee table sitting in the middle of the room. There was a television on, but the volume was low, as if it were only on for noise in a silent home.

  “I remember,” Paul said as Brad tugged him gently to the couch, his larger frame almost cradling Paul’s smaller one.

  “Well, I’m profiling the lives of those left behind after the Orlando massacre.” Brad felt the shudder run through Paul’s body at the words, but he wanted everything out there.

  “So, you’re here because….” Paul tried to move away, to put some distance between them.

  “I’m here because you need someone to be.” Brad looked at Paul.

  “I don’t.” Paul’s eyes looked anywhere but at Brad, who was sitting
right next to him.

  “Look, I know it’s weird, but I’ve seen you for a while now, and other than the people at the coffee shop, no one’s been here. Besides the sharks swimming outside your front yard ready to take pictures, you haven’t had anyone. You’re always alone.”

  “And that means what to you?” Paul looked back at Brad, his eyes wide.

  “I want to help, to be your friend. I saw you, see you, and I want to do something to help. If it’s just to be a friend, someone who you can speak to, share what I’ve heard is some excellent Chinese takeout, I’m interested.” Brad placed his hand over Paul’s. “I know you don’t know me, but look. After writing these profiles, seeing the pain riveting our city, witnessing your husband’s family leave you outside in the cold? That hurt me, and if it did that for a stranger, I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” And there it was on the table. Now, what would Paul do with it?

  “You want to be my friend?” Paul asked.

  “Yeah. I want to be your friend. Let me be your friend, Paul. And let me fix you something to eat. Okay?” Brad nodded as he spoke. He needed Paul to believe him, to know that he just wanted to be there.

  Paul glanced up to Brad, then away.

  VI.

  “OKAY.” PAUL watched Brad, the blond giant who’d stood watching from the sidelines, pore through the bag, separating the little Styrofoam containers with succulent meat from the little tubs of sweet and sour sauce, then set aside two large trays of pork fried rice.

  “Okay.” Brad’s little smile of victory was sweet. “Now let’s eat, and then you and I are going out for a walk.”

  “A walk?” Paul asked. First, food and now a walk, when Paul hadn’t been any place other than home and work in so long. Still, it would be nice to go out, to share a conversation with someone who didn’t know him before his world fell apart.