What It Takes (19 page)

“But now you’re not?”

“There was a day about four years ago, maybe? She called, and needed help with something—not anything big, just something I could walk her through over the phone? I can’t remember. But I do remember talking to her and feeling more and more annoyed and short tempered. There really wasn’t a reason for my response on that call.”

“Just built-up anger, then?”

“Yeah. I barely got off the phone with her before I lost it. I threw my phone against the wall. Shattered the screen and everything.”

“Wow.”

Milo notices that Andrew is shivering a little. “You forgot your sweater,” he says, then takes his off.

“No, no don’t—”

“It’s fine. I’m not cold at all.” He drapes it over Andrew’s shoulders and leads them away from the water. They walk a little way until they’ve crossed from the resident stretch of beach into the tourist one, then finds a bench for them to sit on.

“I was with Patrick then. Scared the shit out of him. I don’t know that I’d ever been that angry before—” Milo stops and backtracks. “Well, acted that angry. It was like everything boiled over; it was huge and I was out of control.”

“Did this have to do with why things didn’t work out between you?”

“No, but the way I freaked him out—it’s one of the reasons I went back to therapy. I’d tried it before, and it had helped, but I let it slide. I think I thought it had helped as much as it could, which wasn’t really a lot.”

“So you went back,” Andrew says.

“Yeah. It took a while. I had to find the right person, which isn’t something I’d thought about before—how important it would be to find someone I really could trust and connect with. I was with Janet for at least a year before her lessons really clicked.”

“What was she teaching you?” Andrew asks.

Milo stops to think about how to phrase this. “That I wasn’t my feelings.”

“I… what?”

“I wasn’t an angry person. I was a person who felt anger.”

“No offense, but that sounds like the same thing to me.”

“I know, right?” Milo smiles. “I’m telling you it took an age for me to really get it. What she meant was that I let my emotions control me. I was letting myself be helpless to them, and when we think we
are
our emotions, instead of our emotions being something we experience, or can let go of, or survive… they’re in control.”

He stops while Andrew thinks this over. The rising wind picks up the sounds of the water. Milo buries his feet in the sand and tells himself it’s the cold that has him leaning into Andrew’s space. On the breeze he catches the scent of Andrew’s cologne. It’s new—to him at least—but lovely. “I sort of get that.” Andrew sounds dubious.

“I remember the day I figured it out. It wasn’t as though she was saying it differently. We’d been covering it for a while, and she was very patient with me, but there was so much cluttering my head and fucking with me, I had to really persist, you know? And one day, Patrick and I got into this ridiculous fight.”

“And?”

“And I stormed off. There was a small part of me that knew I was being irrational, but I couldn’t help it, and I kept thinking, ‘This is my whole life; this is what it’s going to be like.’”

“What was?”

“Me, being angrier and angrier and more and more fucked up and never moving past anything,” Milo says. The despair he felt then leaks into his words. Andrew lays his hand on Milo’s forearm, gently, and Milo smiles. “I wish I could describe what that felt like, always thinking my life was going to be this hopeless mess. And then…”

Milo looks up; the stars are brilliant and the night is heavy around them. Andrew waits patiently.

“Patrick came and found me. He told me he was sorry, and he loved me, and there was this…I don’t know. Dichotomy? Between what I wanted in my life, and what I saw as the only life I was actually going to get.”

“Ooh, now you’re breaking out the big words,” Andrew jokes.

Milo smiles at him and appreciates the lessening of tension. “Just taking a page out of your book.”

“So this dichotomy?”

Milo looks back at the water and tries to collect his words so that they will make sense.

“I guess… I lived all that time thinking happiness was out of reach. That it was something I had to wait for, passively. It was a beautiful idea that I didn’t really believe in. But you know what?” He turns to Andrew. In the warm light from the moon he can see that Andrew’s hair is falling and his eyes are intent on him. He knows he’s the sole recipient of Andrew’s attention; it’s a wordless language relearned with ease.

“What?”

“Happiness in our lives and future are things we
can
have. We can choose them. The things holding me back—they seemed so tangible. Like… I was carrying this huge bag of rocks. And I could see how holding on to them was holding me back. Each grief… one rock.”

“One rock?”

“Something I could take out of that bag and leave behind. Healing… isn’t something that exists in the future, waiting to find us randomly. It exists at our fingertips.”

“Huh,” Andrew says.

“Being mad at my mom… that was something I knew I could work on. Maybe even let go of. And it wasn’t immediate, but I could see how allowing myself be so angry was me holding on to things I could never change. I mean, I, I’ll never be angry or resentful or damaged enough to change what happened. And he’s not here anymore. But I am, and she is, and we both had to heal.”

“But she—”

“Did the best she could,” Milo interrupts. “I’m not excusing her. But when I imagine her life, and remember what it was like, I think… is that what she pictured for herself? When she was growing up, when she had dreams about her life… the life she had with him is nothing a person would choose. Now I can see how helpless he made her feel. And that she did try her best. I felt—when I really took the time to think about her life, and her regrets… I felt so sad for her. Forgiving her doesn’t have to mean excusing what happened. It means accepting it and separating those events from my relationship with her.”

“It’s gone? Like that?” Andrew snaps his fingers.

“No. But I am learning that my capacity for forgiveness is bigger than my anger.”

Andrew exhales loudly. His fingers tighten around Milo’s forearm, and then he leans his head against Milo’s shoulder. Against his better judgment but following a deep ache, Milo rests his head against Andrew’s.

“Look at the stars,” Milo whispers. “I haven’t seen anything like this in years.”

“I missed them too. They’ve never looked the same without you.”

“
Drew
—”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.” Andrew takes a breath. In the pause between sentences, Milo thinks of the years it takes for starlight to reach earth—the unimaginable time between the change and the perception of the change.

“Maybe I needed to hear that,” Milo says.

“You really are something special,” Andrew whispers. “You always have been.”

Milo closes his eyes; the dark of two a.m. confessions is disorienting, and this connection, his body touching Andrew’s, feels like the only thing connecting him in space.

chapter twelve

“
Andrew, we need to talk,” Dex says as soon as he closes the door. He puts his briefcase on the floor and toes off his shoes, giving Andrew enough time to save the draft of his blog post, shut his laptop so Dex can’t see it, and turn around. The words alone should be enough to worry him, and they do. What’s more, there’s Dex’s face, serious as it never is.

“Um, okay.” He fiddles with a button on his sleeve, then follows Dex to the couch at his gesture.

“Something happened, and we need to talk it over.”

For a gut-dropping second, Andrew thinks maybe Dex knows about the moment he shared with Milo on the beach.
That was nothing
, he reasons. Maybe it seemed like more than nothing, but that was only for him, and something he quickly packed up and away.

“Michelle wants me to apply for a job in D.C.,” Dex says. Andrew shakes his head, sure he’s heard wrong.

“She did what?”

“Recommended me for a job. A promotion.”

Andrew tries to read his face, and finds he can’t. It’s a terrible feeling.

“What did you tell her?” Andrew asks carefully.

“That I’d think about it. Talk to you.”

Despite not wanting to, he does in fact feel a thread of anger. “Dex—”

“Hear me out, please,” Dex pleads. Andrew takes a deep breath, and bites back the resentment that’s bubbling. “It’s an excellent opportunity, a big raise. It would be in D.C., yes, but there are so many nice places to live. We’d be able to afford a house, and there’s so much culture—”

“And politicians,” Andrew interrupts, trying to make light of what seems like a dangerous conversation. His tone is all wrong, though, acid and anger.

“Andrew, be reasonable—”

“Oh my god, do
not
patronize me right now,” Andrew says, too loudly. “Dex, you
promised
me a year. You promised me you’d try.”

“I have.” Dex winces. “I am. It’s been almost a year.”

“No, you haven’t. You’re buried in work. You don’t come anywhere with me unless it’s for an unplanned, whirlwind weekend to some stupidly crowded and ugly city—”

“You loved New York. I thought you’d like that; I did that for you!”

“Oh, please,” Andrew spits out, “that was as much for you as me. What was that, a trap? Some way to get me to realize how much I missed Baltimore?”

“No!” Dex paces back and forth between the armchair and the fringed lamp Andrew hates but puts up with because it was Dex’s grandmother’s. “I don’t know,” he says. “Not on purpose.”

Andrew closes his eyes and modulates his voice. “I’m not who I was, Dex,” he says, as gently as he can through his anger.

“I know. I don’t want you to be. I don’t want either of us to stagnate. But I want us to grow together and lately all I feel is us growing apart.”

A silence clangs through the apartment with the words. It’s not Baltimore, or D.C., or Dex hating Santuit. It’s a distance articulated for the first time. Words have power: As a writer, Andrew knows this perhaps better than Dex. Spoken aloud, they mean so much more than Dex might have intended. Andrew’s confessions to an anonymous audience on his blog are suddenly much more real and much too present.

“When do you have to decide?” Andrew asks finally.

“I have time,” Dex says. Andrew nods and stands. They’re both too emotional for rational conversation, and Andrew recognizes that in anger they’ll say things they can’t take back.

Dex doesn’t come to bed when Andrew does; he pretends to be working, but Andrew knows better. He made the bed in the morning, and the imprint of Dex’s head no longer shapes his pillow. Andrew lays his hand on it, wishes it was still bowled in, and pretends it’s still there, that shape he knows so well.

He wants to believe in a happy ending with Dex. His constancy in love is a beautiful capacity, but right now it seems like a hindrance. He doesn’t want to be a man pining for the impossible when love is at his fingertips with Dex, but in his heart, he can’t walk away from home. In the dead quiet of his room, Andrew understands that, no matter what, someone will end up with a broken heart.

° ° °

Milo drives
his mother to her first post treatment checkup, despite her insistence that she’s well enough to do it herself.

“You’ve spent too much time caring for me. What about your job? You have a life you’re neglecting.”

“You’re the most important,” Milo insists. He doesn’t want to say that the life he worked so hard for—independent, successful—somehow holds less appeal than it did. Other than his connection with Zeke, Denver now seems like a transient, distant phase of his life. He has no strong tethers to that life. He’s becoming self-aware enough to note that this was by design: a life without roots, nothing to keep him in place.

It’s not that Santuit has suddenly become home. But he wants to be here for now. With his mother. With open spaces he can lose himself in. Even with Andrew.

Dr. Schroeder has wonderful news for them, and the way Shelby’s hand squeezes his, so hard he’s shocked, tells him more about how scared she’s been than anything she’s said. It seems like a privilege to know her fears, even if it’s after the fact. It’s one of those moments when Milo sees himself as an adult in her eyes. They leave with pamphlets and information on life post cancer, outlines for follow-up appointments and support groups. It’s a lot to digest, so Milo tucks them into his binder.

“Celebratory lunch?” he asks in the car.

“Absolutely,” she says, laughing and buckling herself in. “Pick a place, and I’ll pay.”

“No you will not.” He tucks her hair behind her ear. It’s darker than it would usually be; she’s not been out in the sun gardening. “You did all the hard work. I’m taking you out.”

“Hard work? Hardly. Sat there and did what I was told is more like it,” she grouses.

“Mom.” He shoots her a look before turning into traffic. “It takes incredible strength to handle what you’ve been through. Don’t play it down. I think you should be proud of yourself.” When he looks at her again, she’s gazing out the window. When she turns to smile at him, it’s with damp eyes and a tremulous smile.

“Have I told you lately what an incredible man you are? I’m so proud of you. I haven’t told you enough. I don’t know how—”

“No sad stuff today. Today we celebrate.” It’s true that he wants today to be positive. But the truth is also that he’s not ready to really talk about the things she’s heading toward.

Milo is determined to spoil her as much as possible. He pulls her car door open and gives her a hand out. Opens the door, pulls out her chair at the restaurant and informs her that she is required to pick whatever she wants on the menu and to please not worry about prices. She shakes her head.

“I worry about your income, with your reduced work hours,” she explains.

“Don’t, Mom. I promise this is okay.”

“Do you think you’ll go back soon? Now that things are more settled here?” Milo shakes his napkin out and places it carefully on his lap. The truth is he has no easy answer. Thinking of Santuit as home seems dangerous and unreliable. He can’t be sure what is influencing that feeling—a renewed relationship with his mother, or Andrew. Something unfurling in his heart is emboldened with every moment he spends with Andrew. At his most rational, Milo knows this is playing with fire—not because he thinks anything will happen, or because he has any desire to break apart another couple who are obviously in love—but because he’s putting his own heart at risk.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits.

Shelby gives him a long, level look; it’s assessing and knowing and disconcerting. She doesn’t say anything, just taps his feet with her own under the table and smiles at him. “Anything I want?” She says, glancing at the menu again. “Really?”

Milo wonders when anyone last really treated her, just for the sake of spoiling her—not in years and years, probably. The thought makes him both sad and a little guilty.

“The world at your fingertips,” he jokes, because he said today wasn’t for sadness, and he meant it.

° ° °

Andrew shows
up to lunch twenty minutes late and without Dex. The look on his face is a cross between unhappiness and warning: Milo can tell he’s not supposed to ask, but he can’t help it.

“What’s going on? Is Dex okay?”

“He’s fine,” Andrew says shortly, then sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, completely disordering it. “He’s—you know, let’s not. This is a celebratory lunch, right?”

Milo swallows concern and nods. If Andrew would rather not talk right now, Milo can respect that. “I probably should have picked dinner to celebrate, so everyone could come. Do you need to talk—”

“Milo, really, don’t sweat it.” Andrew looks away, composing his face. “So, good news?”

“Yes!” Milo says, and he can’t control his own face, which is wide with a smile. “Dr. Schroeder had great results for Mom. Everything responded well to the treatments: She is cancer-free and doesn’t have to go back in for three months.”

“Oh my god, Milo!” Andrew gets up and leans down to hug Milo; it’s awkward and unexpected, but in the wake of all the good news and the relief Milo’s been carrying, the perfect note.

Andrew disentangles himself, tugs at the hem of his shirt and sits again. His cheeks are slightly red; it’s lovely to see someone else who’s so excited, someone who cares so much about his mother. After they’ve ordered drinks, they share a slightly awkward silence whose origin Milo can’t quite pinpoint.

“So,” Andrew starts. “What’s your plan, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Milo spent half of yesterday worrying over his confusion about his future. His head is a jumble of potential outcomes, and a nagging instinct that everything he’s doing is wrong because he’s not listening to the right parts of himself.

They’re quiet again, and Milo studies his plate and silverware too intently. Andrew clears his throat.

“Milo, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Andrew pauses, as if he’s coming to a decision.

“Did you do them?”

“Do what?” Milo asks. Andrew’s cheeks are still red, and he’s biting the inside of his cheek. His gaze is more direct, even if it does seem unsure.

“The things on your list?”

It’s an unexpected enough question that it takes a moment for Milo to grasp what he’s saying. “Why… what’s bringing this up?” he says carefully.

“I don’t know,” Andrew says. There’s a candor in the words Milo trusts. “There’s a lot we don’t talk about. A lot I wonder about.”

“Me too.”

“Maybe I want to ask now because I know you have much less worry on your plate.” Andrew shrugs.

“I do, yes. This is something you really want to talk about?”

“If you want to.”

Milo feels more relaxed than he has in a very long time, and he’s not sure if this conversation will weigh him back down. But he’s gotten to see Andrew’s life now, and his happiness. When they parted all those years ago, it was with a complete devastation Milo knows he wasn’t alone in feeling. He can’t pretend he hasn’t wondered what path Andrew took. They’ve touched on topics and moments in that gap in their histories. True to their promises, Milo has never forgotten Andrew’s wishes for his future, nor his own.

“Did
you
do them?” Milo asks softly. Their eyes meet; it’s intense, the secrets they’re sharing here, together in a place that remembers them as the boys they were.

Andrew smiles. “Most of them.”

“Me too.”

“And you remember them all?” Andrew asks.

“Of course. Do you?”

Andrew’s smile is challenging and fun, then. “Quiz me.”

“Tell me. Well, I mean, ask me.”

Andrew thanks their server when she drops off their drinks. He waits for Milo to order before ordering his own meal. When she leaves, he looks at Milo with soft eyes.

“Europe?”

“Paris, Prague, Athens,” Milo answers, pleased with Andrew’s choice.

“That’s an interesting assortment.” Andrew picks the lemon slice out of his drink with his fork and drops it into Milo’s drink without asking. Milo stirs it in and wonders how to summarize all of the lives he lived while healing and learning about himself.

“I had the money from Dad’s trust, and I wanted to do something that would piss him off.”

“What?” Andrew asks, laughing.

“I didn’t go for anything but pleasure. It wasn’t for education or professional development. I didn’t have a plan; I went to Paris first because it seemed like the thing to do. It was too civilized, in a way, for how I was feeling, or what I wanted. After a week, I booked a ticket to Prague. And it was everything I wanted. It was so many things; civilized, yes, sometimes almost not; startling in a lot of ways. It surprised me. It inspired me. It’s such a beautiful place.”

“And Athens?”

“I don’t really know how to explain Athens,” Milo admits. “In retrospect, the whole trip was what any post grad trip to Europe is—a spoiled rite of passage that’s little more than a cloaked excuse to ‘find yourself.’”

“Is that what Greece was about, then?”

“Yes and no.” If they’re going to talk about this, he has to do it with candor. “It felt like visiting a—a place of origin to try to figure
something
out. I hadn’t let myself acknowledge this when I left for Paris, because it had been two years since we’d spoken. But a lot of why I took the trip was because I promised I would.

“And I didn’t know what, but I was searching for
something
. I didn’t find it. It wasn’t a magical, eye-opening trip. It was beautiful,” he qualifies. “But maybe not what I was looking for.”

“And did you ever find it?” Andrew asks.

Milo wants to touch Andrew’s hand, wants some sort of physical connection, because this moment is terrifying. “I don’t think I could. What I wanted was what I couldn’t have, and nothing I could find abroad.”

° ° °

When Andrew
gets home, he can hardly pull himself together to act normal around Dex, or as normal as expected, given Dex’s sudden refusal to come to lunch, and the resentment that shimmers and pops between them.

Somehow, he and Milo managed to make it through lunch after Milo’s confession. The conversation was strained; they avoided anything that even tangentially touched the sore spot Andrew had exposed by asking and Milo struck by answering. That Milo wanted to be with him after James’s funeral isn’t a surprise. That he’d still been caught up in those feelings two years later is something Andrew hadn’t let himself consider once he’d pulled himself together and ordered himself to move on. He didn’t move on, really—not for a long time—but he pulled himself out of bed. He got through college despite a good ten months in which he almost flunked. He learned to live without Milo, and with the longing he buried deeper and deeper as the years went on.