Talker by Amy Lane Read Free Book Online Page B

Tate
    was always welcome there; he had a way of talking to people that
    made them feel at ease. Maybe it was the way he could just chatter
    through the numbness or shyness of the people in the soup kitchen
    line, or maybe it was the way he would touch their hands gently to
    make sure they had their bowls. E ither way, Brian had seen it that
    first day he’d invited himself to sit down in an empty seat.
    This particular day had been a lazy day, and Tate had spent it
    twitching himself into the stratosphere. At one point, Brian realized
    he’d been down in the laundry room for forty-five minutes and found
    him standing over the washer with his clothes in the basket, staring
    into space, while an empty washer agitated in front of him.
    Brian tried three times to get his attention, and final y resorted
    to a tentative touch on his shoulder. Tate exploded, sending clothes
    everywhere before he sank to a whimpering crouch on the floor.
    Brian calmed him down enough to walk him up to the apartment,
    then went down and took care of the laundry. When he got back to
    the apartment, Tate was doing dishes as though nothing had ever
    happened.
    That night they sat on the couch, and Brian made no pretense
    of being straight, of having “heterosexual space” or boundaries
    between them. He just pulled the guy’s head to rest into his lap and
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    47
    stroked the limp Mohawk away from his face. When Tate finally
    started talking, it had nothing at al to do with what happened, with
    what he wouldn’t al ow himself to admit had happened.
    “You know, Brian, when we first met, I used to go to sleep
    every night praying you were gay. I thought, ‘Please let him be gay,
    and then he’l be my Prince C harming,’ because man, I’ve never
    loved another human being on the planet the way I love you.”
    O h G od. “Tate….”
    “Don’t say it.” Tate’s voice started to fracture, to fragment, and
    Brian did what he always did: he listened. “Don’t say it. Because
    the truth is, I’ve never been so glad you’re not. Man… I don’t think I
    could do this right now, not if I had to look at you and know you
    were gay and I couldn’t have you.”
    “Who says you couldn’t have me?” Brian asked, begging Tate
    silently not to bring this up, begging him not to mention this right
    now, not when Tate was so broken. G od, he just needed some time
    to stitch himself back together and fil in the holes in the seams with
    bathroom caulk and good wishes.
    “Why would you want someone as fucked up as I am?” Tate
    asked, weeping softly again, and Brian blew out a breath.
    “Tate Walker, if I was gay, I’d… I’d be mesmerized by you. I’d
    listen to every word that fel out of your mouth like it was diamonds
    made of sound waves. I’d memorize the pattern of freckles on your
    back and spend months taking cooking classes just to find
    something you’d eat. You are kind, and you are funny, and you are
    brave, and any man who has you needs to see al that or he just
    isn’t worth the laces in your combat boots, you hear me?”
    The biggest speech of his life, the one time in his life that he
    spoke with passion and power and love, and he’d prefaced it with
    one little deal-breaking motherfucker of a word. He’d said “if.”
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    48

    But Tate was too distracted to notice that truckload of truth
    Brian had just run over with a tiny lie. He was still lost in his own
    black sky, a tiny pinpoint of flickering lamplight, smothered by the
    vastness of space.
    “I’m glad you’re not gay,” he murmured, and Brian stopped his
    own mental beat-down and said, “Why?”
    “Because I thought I wanted a lover, but… turns out, al I real y
    want is to be safe. You’ll keep me safe, Brian. I love you so much
    because you keep me safe.”

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    49

    P a rt V II
    See Me

    LYNDSE Y blew out a sigh as Brian finished the story and handed
    him a tissue so he could stop wiping his eyes on his