100 Days (10 page)

Aiden finally appears an hour later, bleary-eyed and yawning as he sinks into the passenger seat. He’s wearing the same clothes as last night, his shirt only buttoned halfway up. Jake shoots him a brief smile, turns down the volume on the radio and forces himself not to let his eyes linger on the smattering of dark hair on Aiden’s chest—though it doesn’t seem to matter, since Aiden isn’t looking at him at all.

Even as it settles upon his shoulders, Jake tries to push away the sense that something isn’t quite right, and says, “You know, I really like this route we’re taking. Gets us out of driving all the way across Pennsylvania.”

“Small mercies.”

“How’d you sleep?”

“Fine. Where are we?”

“About five minutes outside Smyrna. I figured we could find someplace for breakfast, because I’m craving pancakes like crazy no other.”

Aiden snorts, shakes his head and looks out of the window at the other cars on the highway.

“What’s with you?” Jake asks. “Are you hung over?”

“Do you remember anything that happened last night?” Aiden asks, his voice even.

“Not really,” Jake answers slowly, a horrible thought occurring to him as he realizes,
Pancakes. I only ever want pancakes after sex.
Aiden knows this as well as he does. “Oh god, did it happen again? I hooked up with some stranger, didn’t I? Fuck.”

“No, Jake. You didn’t hook up with some stranger,” Aiden replies, and Jake breathes a sigh of a relief—not only does he want to avoid putting Aiden in that situation again, he really wants to avoid hooking up with strangers when he knows that any hookup would merely be an unsatisfying substitute for what he really wants and really can’t have.

“Thank god.”

“Yeah. Where’s the aspirin?”

“In the bathroom,” Jake says, and smiles to himself a little as Aiden passes by—Aiden is always grouchy the morning after a night out, at least until he’s eaten.

Jake, on the other hand, is in such a good mood that the pancake craving doesn’t even occur to him again until he’s sitting opposite Aiden inside Smyrna Diner, enjoying the spacious yet homey, throwback feel of the place as he peruses the breakfast menu. Aiden takes only a cursory glance at his own before he slumps in his seat and turns to watch the morning drizzle pit-pit-pattering against the windows. Jake begins to sense that edge of tension creeping back in and orders Eggs Benedict and home fries, though he doesn’t really understand why.

Something feels very, very wrong, and it isn’t until they’ve driven the rest of the way to Rehoboth Beach and parked by the Indian River Marina that Jake realizes why.

He’s on the couch with Aiden’s laptop, listening to music and answering emails, when Aiden steps out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his hips. Jake glances up once, twice, and freezes in his seat; on the back of Aiden’s left hip are four red, crescent-shaped marks.

Pushing through the crush of bodies around him, needing to get to Aiden and show him how much he’s wanted, give him everything he deserves. Moving against him, with him, arousal flaring sharply as he lavishes attention on Aiden’s skin; wanting to groan every time he brushes against the stubble on Aiden’s jaw. Hard, heavy, hot flesh on his tongue and himself in hand,
wanting to cry at the relief of
finally, finally, finally.
Aiden’s imploring eyes, curling into his warm body with an arm holding him close and then—

Jake shoots to his feet and swallows convulsively, panic rising in his throat like bile. He—they…
oh, god.

He doesn’t pause, doesn’t so much as blink, just takes his music and runs, the RV’s side door banging shut behind him as he takes off toward the north end of the marina. He’s wearing the wrong shoes for running, doesn’t even really own a pair of running shoes, that’s Aiden’s thing—Aiden, whom Jake sucked off without a thought.
Selfish idiot, you’ve ruined everything; you’ve fucked it all up completely and you won’t recover from it. It wasn’t supposed to be like this; it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, and did you even kiss him before you broke all the rules? Of course you didn’t. Take, take, take it all, just like you always do, but not from him, never from him because he deserves better and better isn’t you.

“Jake!”

One of his earbuds slips out, but he doesn’t care; his feet pound harder on the uneven terrain and he stumbles, arms flailing wildly in front of him. Somehow he keeps going, running faster along the trail until the loop takes him out to the spit of beach lining the shore, the sand little more than fine, weatherworn stones and pebbles and he can’t breathe, can’t think because it’s all around him, the damage that he’s done to them and he can still taste—

“Jake, stop!”

The rain is pouring down now and Jake is freezing in just his T-shirt and sweats but he can’t stop, can’t do anything other than run from what he did because maybe, if he gets far enough away from it so it’s nothing more than a passing blip on the horizon, he can ignore it, get past it, act as if it never happened in the first place. But then Aiden draws level with him, takes his arm and yanks him to a stop.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Jake,” Aiden pants, hands on his thighs, and now that Aiden is here in front of him, looking at him as if he’s utterly insane, Jake truly feels it. “Are you trying out for the Olympics or something? What the fuck
was
that?”

With shaking hands, Jake pulls out his remaining earbud and turns the music off, winding the cord for a few precious seconds to compose himself. It doesn’t work; it only gives the panic more time to overcome him, and he trembles uncontrollably as the rain pelts him full-force.

“Jake,
look at me,
” Aiden instructs him firmly, taking him by the shoulders. His hands are
burning.
Jake can feel those fingers gripping his hair all over again. “Look at me, and breathe.”

Inhaling as slowly as he can, Jake says, “I’ve fucked it all up, haven’t I?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ade, please. You weren’t even half as drunk as I was.”

Aiden takes a breath and exhales through his nose, shaking his head and shivering when rivulets of water run from the thick strands plastered to his forehead. “Okay, okay, I just…” Aiden trails off, scrubbing a hand over his face, and Jake wishes and hopes and prays that Aiden isn’t about to ask if being drunk was the only reason it happened, if Jake meant even one second of it, because those are dangerous questions with even more dangerous answers.

“Just what?”

“Look, let’s be honest…” Aiden says, and Jake holds his breath. After a long pause, Aiden cocks his head to the side, quirks his eyebrows and grins. “I’ve got moves.”

Just like that, the tension cracks and shatters. Jake bites his lip. “Such a dork,” he mutters, and the ground stops moving beneath his feet.

“Chalk it up to booze, temporary insanity, whatever you want. Let’s just forget about it, okay?” Aiden asks. With a deep, shuddering breath, Jake nods gratefully—he’s off the hook, even though that voice in the back of his mind that grows louder with each passing day says,
You don’t want to be let off the hook at all.
“You’re freezing.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Wordlessly, Aiden shucks off his leather jacket and tucks it around Jake’s shoulders. It smells like rain and spice and home.

“Come on, Jakey. What do we do when it rains?” Aiden prompts. “We…”

“We shop,” Jake answers, rolling his eyes as they turn to retrace their footsteps.

“A little bird told me that there’s a great outlet mall nearby. And Jake, did you know that in Delaware, you don’t pay sales tax?”

“Why no, Aiden, I didn’t know that.”

“Just
think
of all the awesome T-shirts I could buy for you.”

Jake laughs and leans briefly into the arm Aiden wraps around his waist.
This is good,
he thinks.
This is who we are.

1,534 miles

Chapter Three

Day Twenty-one: Maryland

“Are you really sure about my Halloween costume?” Aiden asks as he idly plucks scales, shaking out his hand every now and then. He hasn’t played seriously in nearly two weeks, and though his fingertips ache as new calluses blossom on top of the old ones, the feel of the black cocobolo and white spruce of his father’s Baranik Meridian is undiluted magic. It has him itching to grab his journal and scribble down the new lyrics beginning to meander through his mind.

Seated on the overstuffed crimson couch that stretches along the opposite wall of the music room in the Calloways’ basement, Jake glances up from the crate of vinyl records he’s flicking through. They’ve been down here since shortly after a surprisingly pleasant dinner with George and Fiona. Surprisingly pleasant seems to be the theme of the visit, and often throughout the day Aiden has caught himself wondering when the penny is going to drop.

“Why? It’s fabulous, very Adam Lambert-esque,” Jake says. “Much better than your original idea of going as a tube of lube and a condom. I mean,
really.”

“April told me it made me look like Elmo at a gay bar,” Aiden says.

“She’s just jealous that she doesn’t get to wear a Jake Valentine original, too,” Jake says. He pulls an LP from the crate and sets it on the floor, on the side of the crate Aiden can’t see. “Besides, why are you worrying about Halloween when it’s still weeks away? Unless—oh. You really
are
unsure about it, aren’t you?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. You
know
I love my costume. I don’t know; it’s just been bugging me ever since she said it.”

“Well, you could always go with the Freddie Mercury instead. But don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing,” Jake says lightly. He reaches the last LP, flips them back into place and looks Aiden in the eye, bracing his hands on either side of the crate. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

Jake wiggles his fingers in the air. “That thing where you nitpick at all the things you
think
are wrong because you’re just avoiding the big thing that’s
actually
wrong.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aiden mutters to the guitar, focusing on the grain of the wood beneath its perfect layer of varnish.

“Don’t you dare give me that, Aiden Thomas Calloway. There’s obvi­ously something that you’re not dealing with, and you and I both know what it is,” Jake says. He stands up, gracefully unfolding himself from the couch, and takes the vinyl he pulled from the crate to the turn­table. With­in mo­ments the basement is filled with that comfortable crackling, and the timeless big-band sound of an old Rat Pack song pours from the restored phonograph. Jake turns around and holds out a hand. “Care to dance?”

Aiden worries the inside of his cheek for a moment or two, then stands the guitar against the wall and crosses the room. “Where is this coming from, Mr. Valentine?”

“You’re going to talk it out, and I’m going to listen, and then we’re going to try and figure it out together,” Jake tells him, taking Aiden’s hand and settling his own on Aiden’s shoulder—a small gesture that says,
I’ve just told you what we’re going to do, now you take the lead,
and Aiden appreciates it. “Deal?”

“Sure, but—dancing?” Aiden asks.

“Grandpa Art’s eightieth, don’t you remember?”

Aiden blinks as the realization dawns—it was right before Christmas, the first holiday season after Jake’s father died, and as soon as this song came on Aiden took Jake’s hand and forcibly pulled him from his seat. They danced awkwardly at first, but soon found their feet and ended up having fun. It was the first time he’d heard Jake really laugh in four months.

“There it is,” Jake says, smiling. “So?”

Without further preamble, Aiden finds the rhythm and starts them off in a simple yet competent foxtrot, watching Jake’s face and waiting for reali­zation to dawn.

“I didn’t know you could dance like this,” Jake says, glancing down at Aiden’s socked feet as if to make sure he’s not imagining their progress around the room.

“You remember those lessons Mom had me take for cousin Lara’s wedding when I was seventeen?”

“I remember coming with you to one and it being the funniest thing I’d ever seen in my life. Still is, by the way.”

“Well… I guess I kind of enjoyed it, so I kept going back.”

“How did I not know this about you? I mean—wait.
This
is what you were doing every Wednesday night?”

“What did you think I was doing?”

“I just figured you were having your
alone time.
”

“You honestly thought that I scheduled time to jerk off?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jake sings-songs, and Aiden groans.

“Once, Jake.
Once.
”

Jake giggles, and Aiden can feel it when Jake really gives himself over to the dance, his arms adopting a pliancy that gives Aiden a little thrill.

The thrill dissipates all too soon, however, when Jake clears his throat and prompts, “So…?”

“So what?”

“You know what. What are you going to do about your dad?”

Though he already knows it will be fruitless, Aiden picks up the pace as the song bursts into the instrumental section, throwing in extra turns and dips and spins in an effort to distract Jake. To his credit, Jake just goes with it until the song calms again. His eyes sparkle beneath the spotlights set into the ceiling; it’s all Aiden can do to keep his wits while Jake is—essentially—wrapped around him. Somehow their dance position morphs into a close embrace, with their arms wound around each other’s waists and Jake’s hand resting over his heart.

As the song comes to an end, Jake licks his lips and says, “All those proce­dural crime dramas that your mom loves—when they’re looking for the guilty one, where do they look first?”

“What are you talking about?”

“They look for the person running away, Ade.”

“Okay…”

“Isn’t that exactly what you’ve been doing ever since it happened?” Jake asks, his voice forgiving but firm. “You’ve been punishing your dad for some­thing he did seven years ago because it was too big for you to process or forgive at the time. But since then it’s only gotten bigger, and now you’re just too scared to open the box you shoved it into. Look, he can’t undo it. But with all his heart, he’s sorry. I can see it in his eyes, and you would too if you just took the time to look.”

Jake moves even closer and lays his palm in the hollow of Aiden’s neck; Aiden almost leans into the touch, but lets the hesitancy have him.

“Don’t waste the relationships that you
could
have,” Jake says softly, his thumb rubbing absently just beneath Aiden’s jaw. He swallows and adds, “Not all of us get that chance.”

“You boys having fun down there?”

Aiden’s head whips toward the basement door and the sound of his father’s voice. He freezes, feeling all at once as if he’s been backed into a corner, while also realizing that Jake is right; he should have stopped running years ago, but never quite figured out what to do with the momentum. It isn’t just his father he needs to forgive, either—he needs to forgive himself. Rationally, he knows that coming out to his parents was not a reason for their split and subsequent divorce—but given the fact that he came out a mere three weeks before his mother discovered his father’s infidelity, it’s always been hard to believe it wasn’t partly his fault.

“Yeah, Dad,” he calls out, keeping his voice light. Jake’s hand has left his neck, and Aiden avoids his eyes.

There’s a beat of silence, during which Aiden notices that Jake has switched off the phonograph, followed by footsteps padding softly down the carpeted stairs.

“You mind if I join in?” George asks as he pokes his head through the door. He’s changed since dinner and now wears what he calls his “house pants” with a collared polo and a deep blue sweater. Aiden still can’t quite get past the gray in his hair. “I’ve been meaning to get down here again for a while.”

“You know, I think I might go find Fiona. She mentioned her roses earlier, and Charlie’s always looking for gardening tips,” Jake says quickly. With one last, sharp glance at Aiden, he makes a hasty exit.

George steps all the way into the room, clears his throat and gestures to the guitar. “I couldn’t help but overhear, when you were jamming before. You play even better than the last time I heard you.”

“Thanks,” Aiden says, unable to dampen the small thrill in his chest at his father’s proud tone. It makes Aiden want to tell him more, tell him everything. “I was, um—I had a band in college.”

“Yeah? Let me guess, you were the rock star front man,” George says know­ingly, seating himself where Jake sat before their dance.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but… yeah, I sang and played guitar,” Aiden says, grinning sheepishly. “We actually had our last gig together at The Cannery, the day before Jake and I left.”

“I bet that place still looks exactly the same.”

“Same gnarly old fishers nursing beers under the marlin in the corner, yep.”

George chuckles, and things are easy—and Aiden should have known it was too good to last.

“That was always your mom’s favorite place, and I could never figure out why. How’s she doing, now?”

A body-wide sweep of tension; Aiden tries not to bristle outwardly. “She’s fine.”

“Did I hear that she just got a promotion?”

It’s nothing,
Aiden tells himself.
It’s small talk.
Yet he can feel the old anger dredging itself up, churning in his gut and rising, rising, rising, high enough to flood and overwhelm the dam he painstakingly constructed to protect himself from it.

“Yep, three weeks before we left.”

“Well, that’s fantastic! How did you celebrate?”

“Dinner at the War Horse.”

“Ah, another favorite,” George says, a note of wistful nostalgia lacing his tone. Then he grows serious, eyebrows drawn down over his eyes. He leans forward in his seat slightly and asks, “And is she doing all right since Arthur passed?”

“Don’t you mean, ‘Is she back on the meds?’” Aiden asks hotly, staring his father square in the eye. “Because no, she’s not. She doesn’t need them anymore.”

“Well, that’s—that’s good to hear,” comes the mollifying reply. “And how was the, uh… the service? I would have liked to be there to pay my respects, but—”

“Grandpa wouldn’t have wanted them even if you’d been invited to pay them,” Aiden cuts him off. The room becomes very still.

“Aiden, there’s no need to be so rude,” George says. His steely tone would usually have Aiden backing down, but this time it only fuels the hot wash of anger roiling in the pit of his stomach.

“Dad, I’m not a kid anymore. You can’t just tell me I’m being rude every time I say something you don’t want to hear.”

“Now, wait just a minute—”

“No, I won’t. I’m an adult now—”

“You don’t look like much of an adult to me—”

“And that’s because you ran away!” Aiden yells, the dam finally breaking. He can feel how hot his face is, feel the adrenalin coursing through his veins, yet he also feels removed from himself, as if he’s been taken from his body and made to watch. “You never got to see me
become
an adult because you weren’t
there
to see it! You cheated on Mom, and then you ran away because you couldn’t deal with the consequences when she found out, and I bet you don’t even have any idea how bad it got; how she lost all of her friends; how she had a psychotic break while you were living it up with your secretary in fucking
Rockland
—”

“Aiden, stop,” Jake’s voice comes from the doorway, and Aiden whips his head around at the sudden intrusion. Jake moves to step forward, but Aiden holds up a hand.

“No, he needs to hear this,” he says quietly, and turns back to his father, who is sitting with the fingers and thumb of one hand stretched across his brow, his face mostly hidden from view. Aiden continues, in a voice so low and controlled he surprises even himself, “Dad, what you did almost
killed
her. I lived at Jake’s house for
six months
of sophomore year while they kept her in that place full of crazy people to make sure she wouldn’t try to kill herself again, and where were you? Why didn’t you come back?”

“I was too ashamed.” George’s voice is gravel-rough and bitten off, and his eyes are tortured when he looks up at Aiden. “There is
nothing
I can do now that will fix what I did to both of you, but you have to believe that I am so, so sorry.”

“Not good enough,” Aiden says. “I was ashamed of you too, but I still needed you. I
hated
you because of how much I still needed you, even after you broke everything.”

In the silence that follows, Aiden pushes past Jake and runs from the room without so much as a backward glance, even when Jake calls after him. He takes the stairs two at a time and makes his way through the pristine kitchen where Fiona poured them lemonade earlier. Passing through the wide archway into the grand foyer, Aiden’s feet slide against the smooth maple flooring and the marble of the wide, curving staircase that serves as the foyer’s focal point.

He finds his way to the guest room where he left his things, fully aware of the fact that what he is doing entirely contradicts ideas of “adult behavior.” The door slams shut behind him and he curses himself for bringing every­thing inside from the RV before really taking the temperature between him and his father. He stands at the foot of the bed for a moment, fists opening and closing, and then gives in to the urge to collapse face-first on the downy comforter.

He lies there for at least two hours, picking the day apart into its com­ponent minutiae as he watches the muted glow of the lanterns outside the window. Wind howls wildly for a spell, the sound of it like blowing across the lip of a bottle, and he can only just hear the music playing quietly from his laptop on the floor beside the bed.

The day had washed over him in bright pockets of time that burned pic­tures into his mind’s eye with crystal-clear precision: the scent of Old Spice accompanying the first hug he had shared with his father in years; George nervously clearing his throat and suggesting a tour of the house; Jake’s thrilled expression when Aiden agreed that it would be a shame to waste such beautifully-appointed guest rooms; Fiona’s bright, pleased smile as she shooed all three of “her boys” out the door for an afternoon drink; a window table at Frazier’s On The Avenue and the swirling fog of Jake’s Grey Goose martini juxtaposed with the startling amber clarity of Aiden’s Heritage Bourbon as his dad sipped an orange juice; laughing until his sides hurt and his dad’s eyes streamed at one of Jake’s perfectly timed Eddie Izzard references on the way back from the bar; giggling awkwardly around the dinner table at Fiona’s misapprehension that he and Jake were an item.