Split (26 page)

Nick’s body tensed, and his fingers left my skin.

“Nick—”

“I’m damaged, O’Reilly.”

Damaged.

Tampered by karma.

“Lie with me, Nick. Turn the light off and lie with me.”

His eyes glazed with tears.

Tears.

In Nicolai Lund’s eyes.

How can sorrow and beauty coexist in such a way?

My throat closed up.

“You’re one of those, O’Reilly, the ones that come out of things stronger.”

And what kind is Nick?

“Come,” I whispered. “Come Nick.”

Nick wrapped himself around me, hiding his face between my neck and shoulder. “I’m scared, O’Reilly.”

“Everybody’s scared, Nick. Everybody.”

I pulled him to the mattress, and we fell onto it.

I turned my head to the light, and flicked it off.

Darkness shrouded us.

Our breaths echoed each other.

Nick warmed my skin with his.

I closed my eyes to the world and spoke quietly. “Your father used to wonder what you would do when you came to the edge.” My fingers combed his silky hair. “Did you find it Nick? Did you find the edge?”

I felt his wounds under my palms. These invisible scars, hardened by time.

“No, O’Reilly. It was the edge that found me.”

And when the last breath had streamed out of David’s lips, had Nick stepped off it?

“Nick—”

“Ease my pain.”

“Nick—”

“I cheated and lied.”

“David’s death isn’t your fau-fault—”

Nick’s body stiffened against mine. “I killed him.” He pushed his face into my shoulder, and I held him.

“Oh God,” he moaned, clutching my hand. “Oh God.”

David was a melody.

I know that now.

Nick never could learn that tune.

“Listen to me, Nick.” Nick’s pain burned my flesh. “Every day is a new promise. We die with the sun, and receive a clean slate when—”

“I don’t want a fucking clean slate.” Nick’s tears choked his voice. “I wanna feel it.” He slapped his chest. “In here.” His body quivered next to mine. “I wanna feel it, O’Reilly. Every goddamn minute I stole from him. Every fucking empty night I gave him. Every letter I didn’t bother opening. Davie spent his good years sitting in airports, waiting for me to give him a smile, but I was so caught up—”

“Shh. Enough, Nick. Enough—”

“His mistakes were mine, but I got lucky O’Reilly. Oh fuck.” Nick shook violently, and I held him tighter. “I watched David die and I packed my life into a duffel bag…” His voice died, and at last, tears snuffed the poisonous words out of him.

I rocked Nick all through the night, and my lover came undone for me.

I woke up to the sound of the radio and squinted at the clock.

It was ten past noon.

Against the vivid blue sky, the sun was a faded primrose.

I sat up and glanced around.

Escoffier cocked his head, watching me scan the empty apartment.

I raised a brow. “Where’s our man?”

The dog barked, then sighed.

I stripped the sheets off my legs and picked up my jeans off the floor.

Escoffier sprung for the door before I heard the key turning in the lock.

Nick pushed the door open with his thigh and set down what appeared to be three years’ worth of groceries. “Good. You’re up.”

I smiled. “Why didn’t you wake—”

“’Cause you reminded me of a Botticelli painting.” He bent to my head and kissed it. “Hungry?”

Every one of my senses was. “A little.”

Nick lugged the bags to the kitchen area and rolled up his sleeves. “Okay then.”

For the next half hour, I sat in my undies, watching him do what he does best. To Nick, cooking is part dance, part battle, and part sleight of hand.

Finally, he set a plate of debauchery under my watering mouth. My fork hesitated over the fluffy orange zest waffles, but I picked up a spoon and dove into the ginger ice cream instead. As the homemade ice cream melted in my mouth, I glanced up. “You’re not eating?” I asked, wiping my cold lips with the back of my hand.

Nick drank the last of his black coffee. “I don’t do sweets.”

“But why did you—”

“’Cause I remembered how much you like sugar.” He winked. “Especially my mom’s tapioca pudding.”

Heat filled my cheeks, and I stuffed a piece of waffle into my mouth.

“Oh,” teased Nick, “there’s the O’Reilly I remember.” He leaned in, and with a sensuality that bent my knees, ran the tip of his tongue along my lips, gathering the last of the ice cream off them. “You taste like innocence,” he whispered, his eyes darkening again.

I remembered the night’s confessions and folded my fingers over his. “Are you okay—”

“I feel a little raw.”

“Can I say so-something—”

“Not yet.”

My face hardened.

“O’Reilly, things are changing for me in a way I can’t explain to you right now.” Nick sighed, then softly kissed my fingertips. He glanced around. “I need to get some furniture soon.” For a moment, his eyes seemed vacant, but slowly, his blue gaze met my stare. “And—” But he stopped.

“Tell me, Nick. You can talk to me.”

“I know I can.” He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead on mine. “That’s why I need you in my life.”

My mouth popped open.

He laughed, but his smile was tense. “I’ve never said that to anyone.” He shook his head. “Holy fuck.” He rubbed his face. “Shit.”

I chewed on my lip.

“Do you remember when you had that asthma attack in your bathroom?” Nick asked.

“Yes.”

“’Cause I’d tried to put makeup on your face.”

“Yes, Nick. I remember.”

Everything.

“Well.” He frowned, staring into space again. “Don’t freak out, but that night, I wanted to kiss you, or something.” He inhaled deeply. “But you were just a kid, and I—”

“I would have let you.”

“Yeah?”

A boyish giggle exploded out of my mouth, and I hid my face in my hands for a moment.

“What is it, O’Reilly?”

“If you knew half of the things I wanted you to do to me, you wouldn’t be-be tasting innocence on my lips.”

The sound of Nick’s deep, resonant laugh spun my head with lust. I pushed my plate up and tugged on his T-shirt. “Do you have to be downstairs?”

“Not for another hour.” He cracked a smile and jerked his head in the bed’s direction. “Come?”

I laughed. “Oh yes.”

There was a
Golden Girls
marathon this afternoon.

On my way to the couch, I passed the entrance mirror.

I paused and debated on a shower, but went back to the kitchen to pour myself another glass of Mountain Dew instead. I dropped some vanilla essence in it and rummaged through the fridge in search of something disgustingly unhealthy to sink my teeth into. I decided on cheese dip. I grabbed a spoon, a heavy-duty bag of chips, and my drink, then headed back to the couch.

It was Monday afternoon, and as I dug my way through the dip, trying to keep the crumbing to a minimum, I knew I had officially stepped through the gates of Loserville.

I went through that bag of chips like a teenage boy goes through a box of tissues.

I glanced down at myself.

I was something you’d find at a thrift shop.

I leaned back and stared up at the ceiling.

My phone jingled.

I answered Nick with a breath.

“O’Reilly, hey.”

My heart banged up against my chest. “Nick.”

“Listen. I need you to come over.” I heard him exhale into the phone. “Come through Split’s back door.”

He hung up without bothering with good-bye.

I ran to the kitchen to get a garbage bag, and proceeded to dump the chips, dip, and my “clinically depressed” uniform into it.

I ran back to the main closet and pulled the vacuum out, running it up and down the couch, like some kind of coked-up Martha Stewart.

I ran back to the closet and tossed the loaded vacuum into it.

I jumped into the shower, washed, rinsed, and scrubbed all at once, then threw a gray T-shirt on and slipped into my good black jeans.

I bolted out into the street, with my winter coat hanging off my sleeve, and tossed myself at the first available cab.

“Wow. That was quick.” Nick shut the back door behind us.

Immediately, I was entranced by the wonderful, rich scent of fresh salmon and dill. “Smells great, what—”

“Come.” His fingers wrapped themselves around mine, and he tugged on me. “In here.”

I followed him through the small kitchen.

It was immaculate. Cleaner than I could have imagined, and atop one of the industrial gas ovens, a huge pot filled to the rim with brown liquid, simmered gently. “What’s that?”

“Brown stock.” Nick pulled me away from the stove. “Come on, O’Reilly, I’ll let you strain the fucking thing if you like it so much, but come now. Come on.
Come.
”

There was something almost mystic in Nick’s smile.

We passed through the swinging doors into the dining room.

The larger back table was set. Candles flickered here and there, and in the middle, on a beautiful silver platter, a large pink salmon seemed to be sleeping in a bed of sea salt and fresh dill.

But that’s not what had my attention.

“Say hello, Spencer.” Nick had scooped up a child out of a colorful playpen and was holding his pudgy little hand, waving it up and down for me.

My jaw hung loose. I dropped my bag. “Nick?”

A shadow moved through Nick’s eyes, but his smile did not fade. “O’Reilly. This is Spencer.” Then Nick’s voice weakened, as if it could not carry the weight of what he had to say. “My son.”

The child squirmed inside his arms, and Nick combed the white-blond hair out of his eyes. “Where’s your nukie?” Nick looked around, toting this little blond elf on his hip, fumbling through the toys and blocks in the playpen. “Where’d you put it, Spence?”

I stood, stiff as a mannequin, with my eyes pulsing inside my head.

Nick pulled a pacifier out of a toy truck and dangled it. “You want this?”

The boy smiled, jerking the pacifier out of Nick’s fingers. He stuffed into his pink mouth.

“Okay, buddy.” Nick set the child down into the play pen. “Give Daddy a minute, I gotta make sure O’Reilly’s still breathing.”

Daddy.

Daddy?

Nick carefully made his way to where I swayed. “I didn’t know how to say it. I tried, but I just couldn’t find the right time…I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to tell you. So I figured—”

“You figured you’d just invi-i-te me here and-and —”

“O’Reilly, listen, I—”

“You’re a fa-father?” My eyes darted down to the child. Nick’s child.

His son.

I shook my head, backing up to the door. “How could you-ou not tell me?”

“You think this is easy? You think—”

“But-ut—”

“O’Reilly. No one knows.” He let out a long sigh. “I didn’t know myself. Not until six months ago.” He peered into my face, searching for something. “She never told me. One May morning, she shows up at Split, and makes me look at this kid’s eyes, telling me he’s my son. My boy.”

I closed my eyes, sick with emotion.

“The paternity test came out positive. I’m Spencer’s dad.” Nick sighed deeply. “She was a fling. You know? I met her during a catering gig, and we told our sob stories and fucked around for a few days. I never even knew her last name.” He looked over at the baby. At Spencer. “I get to see him every few weeks. Until we figure something out, her and me.” He took a step closer, and I felt his body trembling. “O’Reilly, I don’t know what I’m doing half of the goddamn time.”

Nick’s eyes were full of truth.

At our feet, the baby babbled.

Nick leaned into me. “He’s a good kid, O’Reilly. Not like his old man.”

I shot the baby a glance. “He looks like your mother.”

That’s all I could say.

Nick watched his son try to push a square block into a round one, and shook his head. “I’ve got some
major
karma issues.” He paused, letting the silence give us repose, then added, “O’Reilly, I’m gonna tell ’em all. Don’t worry. Just need to figure something out with my schedule, and—”

“Your life.”

“Right.” He rubbed his strong chin and nodded. “Right.”

Nicolai Lund is a father.

A father.

Spencer, whose mother is a ballet dancer living in Trois-Rivières, is sixteen months old.

He was born in July of last year.

July is a good month to have a birthday.

Nick says, “Lately, I’ve been asking myself some important questions, and, O’Reilly, I’m getting high off their answers.”

I think I know what he means.

*

It’s done. Aunt Fran’s apartment is empty.

There was a lot more in there than I had anticipated, and if it hadn’t been for Boone and Lene’s help, it would have taken much longer. Aunt Fran had so many clothes, shoes, and magazines that by midday, I had filled half of Nick’s Econoline with items I know she would have agreed to donate.

Mom only wanted the pictures.

When we were finished, Boone shut the van doors and sighed. “Are you all right?”

I nodded.

I miss her so much.

Her voice.

Her ways.

“You wanna come by the house? Kenya would like that.”

Lene kissed my ear. “Go, Der, I’ve got a date anyways.”

I smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She giggled, climbing into her Echo. “And no, he isn’t a patient.”

The radiant smile on her face killed Boone’s and my inclination to mock.

“So,” said Boone, watching his baby sister drive away. “Coming?”

I watched the sky.

The November wind flew into my jacket and blew my mind. “I think I’m going to go see your brother.”

“Nico? Good luck, man, it’s Saturday.”

“I know.”

Boone smiled. “All right then.”

I shook Boone’s hand. I held his great big paw inside my fingers for as long as he would let me, remembering how his blue eyes had rolled back into his head that afternoon, in our schoolyard.

“Here goes nothing.”

“I love you, Boone.” The words had leaked out of my mouth, and embarrassed, I glanced up to Boone’s face. My cheeks scorched. “I meant—”

“Derek. Shut up.” Boone grinned. “I love you too, man. You’re like a brother to me.” And quickly, he bent his scrubby face to mine and kissed my mouth.

It was only a dry peck. Nonetheless, the feel of his lips sent a pleasant chill rippling down my back.

Boone slapped my shoulder and laughed. “Always wondered what that would feel like.”

I smiled. “And?”

“I prefer my Kenya.” He pulled the passenger door open. “Come on, get in, I’ll give you a ride. Besides, Nico owes me one fucking decent meal.”

Split was jam packed.

I had never seen it at its peak. Every table was full, and at the bar, people, young and handsome, piled up against the counter.

I recognize the boy behind it. Andy, his name is. Nick says he’s the only honest bartender he’s come across, and that pretty Andy has won Flair competitions.

I watched the little tramp throw bottles around. Mr. Cocktail himself.

Boone pulled his cap off and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Maybe I should have changed.”

I looked him up and down. Probably.

“Yes?” The sultry hostess had a thick Eastern European accent. “I can help you, yes?”

Boone’s eyes moved over her, but his stare was more boyish than disrespectful. “I’m the cook’s brother, and he’s his—” He winked. “Never mind. Can you get him, please?”

She squinted. “Cook?”

“Chef Lund. Tell him it’s his lucky day. The police and tax man are here.”

She didn’t smile. Just made a little moue and turned on her spiked heels.

Boone whistled. “Nico sure runs a tight fucking ship.” He nodded to the bar. “Let’s get a drink.”

I let Boone nudge his elbow through the sardined stools, and with his build, we had a nice, comfortable space in no time.

In the background, a remix of Bob Marley’s “One Love” played.

Suddenly, I had an urge to ask for a lime daiquiri
.

“Oui,”
snipped Andy.

Was Mr. Cocktail wearing a tank top, or red body paint?

Andy’s mouth should be insured. It looks like a porthole to queer paradise.

Boone frowned. “Are you the barman here?” He seemed to be sizing the boy up. “How old are you, kid?”

I cocked my head, staring into Andy’s face. “Yeah, how old
are
you?”

Andy pursed his pulpy lips. “What’s it to you?”

Boone reached down into his pocket and pulled out his badge. “Seeing that we’re law enforcement, I think you better answer my simple question.”

I nearly came from sheer satisfaction.

I’m twenty-eight years old, but in gay years, that adds up to sixty-two.

Yes, I’m jealous. Bitterness is only one of the well-documented side effects.

Andy’s eyes sharpened. He then glanced down at Boone’s badge and shrugged. “I’m twenty-one. So what’s your order? I’ve got a line of people here.”

We’d each had three rum and Cokes.

My stomach gnawed, and I kept yawning, staring at the kitchen door. Every other minute, it swung open, and my heart leaped, but it was always some waiter carrying a tray of steaming plates. I tried to catch a glimpse of the kitchen, but never could.

“What the hell is taking him so long?” Boone was reading the menu again.

I had already memorized it.

Hot starters
: Mussels with Aquavit and tarragon. Mushroom sandwich with rye bread, and maple syrup. Swedish meatballs.

Soups
: Porcini consommé. Svalbard beet soup. Scandinavian pea soup.

Salads
: Fresh asparagus and cucumber salad. Beet and orange salad. Danish potato salad.

Main dishes
: Vodka-marinated sirloin served with potato gratin with parsnip and rutabaga. Gravlaks and mustard sauce. Creamy rice with parsnip puree and root vegetables. Orange chicken served with pasta, green vegetables and herbs.

Desserts
: Veiled farm girls. Apple ice cream with rosemary and honey. Cream cake with berries.

Every time I glanced over at a table and caught sight of one of Nick’s fabulous dishes (his presentation is flawless), my mouth salivated. “Should I just—”

“Yes. For fuck’s sakes.” Boone slapped the menu down. “Go and get his ass out here before I lose my cool and shoot somebody in the leg.”

I laughed. “Be right back.”

I slipped out of my seat and wiped my hands down my thighs.

As I came to the kitchen’s door, a waiter intercepted me. “Can’t go in there.”

“I’m a friend.”