20. Adam
CHAPTER 20
ADAM
I can’t sleep. Can’t get the look in Markus’s eyes out of my head, the one I saw when he left me last night. So empty and cut off, like whatever switch had turned him on before was shut down. Lying on that lumpy bed, the smell of sex still rich in the air, I feel weighted with dread, exhausted by…everything.
Up at dawn, I get in a jog before breakfast. The road is wide and flat, so I take the shoulder and run against traffic as I head into town. The historic hotel at the city’s center is my halfway point. I loop around it, marveling at the lovely old place that stands tall above everything else here, then go back.
In my room, the shower is practically pointless. Water pressure in this place is pathetic, and the showerhead is shorter than I am, so I crouch and bend and scrub and rinse until I manage to clean myself and change into the jeans and T-shirt from my bag.
That bag is a sour reminder of the conversation I had with Markus last night. He went from being so hot and relaxed in my arms to cold and aloof, rushing to get away from me after I explained about keeping a packed bag in my truck. I try to understand why his mood shifted so abruptly. My sex life is a little bit casual, sure, but he didn’t let me explain anything, didn’t stay long enough to listen to a word I had to say.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I stuff my key in my pocket and knock on Markus’s door. He swings it open like he was waiting for me. But nothing in his posture or expression suggests he’s glad to see me.
With both of us freshly washed and dressed, it’s like all remnants and reminders of our night have been scrubbed away. But, me—I remember.
“Hi,” he says with a curt nod.
“Hey.”
“I’ve been thinking”—never a good start to a morning-after conversation—“you should get back home so you don’t miss your next shift. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and I can’t expect you to stay with me the whole time. If you’ll just take me by the airport on the other side of town, I can rent a car so you don’t have to keep chauffeuring me around.”
“Oh.” That’s all I can think to say. His reasoning is sound and practical, but his passionless tone cuts me to the bone.
It’s like last night never happened. I’m used to casual goodbyes after casual sex—it’s the script for my entire dating life. I thought this time, though, was different. After sex, we lay together, and I let my mind wander with images of waking up together. Sharing a hot, steamy shower and a morning of soft smiles and stolen kisses. But that was just a fantasy. In reality, all he has for me is indifference as he talks transportation and logistics. No emotion involved.
“Okay. Sure.” I’m quick to give him what he needs right now. After all, this is his town and his family tragedy to navigate. If he wants distance from me so he can handle it all, then I’ll give it to him. Clearing the emotion from my throat, I add, “Let me pack up and check out, then I’ll get you to the rental agency and head home.”
Markus nods, but he won’t look me in the eyes. He steps back, and the door shuts between us. It feels cold and suffocating, like an avalanche crushing my chest.
Voicing my frustration with a groan, I return to my room, stuff my things into my bag, and toss it into my truck as I head to the hotel lobby to check out. Before leaving, I grab a few granola bars from a vending machine and coffees from the pot steaming beside the front desk—the extent of the continental breakfast offering—then go to my truck and text Markus that I’m ready when he is.
A few moments pass before he comes out with his own bag. He climbs into the passenger seat and silently straps himself in, and everything he does, every movement and breath he takes, seems to hurt me.
This feels like rejection, and I don’t get rejected. It’s a rule of mine, a rule I’ve never broken. My relationships are so casual that I hesitate to even call them “relationships,” and they are one-hundred-percent rejection free. When I meet someone I like the look of, I make a move. If they aren’t interested, I move on. If they are interested, we have a good time, and then I move on. There’s no room for rejection in my life, not since that first and worst rejection, not since my dad left. The memories of that awful night flash through my head and send a shiver down my spine.
“I found coffee and granola in the lobby.” I gesture to the cup I got for him, and take a sip of my own like it’s a demonstration. It burns every inch of my mouth. With a gasp, I caution, “It’s hot.” Then, changing the subject, I add, “I’d like to redress your wound before I go too.”
Adam blinks at me, like I’m not speaking a language he can comprehend. I don’t bother explaining anything, just go where the nav tells me to get to the small airport. As I drive, Markus flips the passenger side visor down and pulls the bandage off his forehead, looking at the wound in the mirror, poking at it a few times. When he flops the visor back up and stuffs the soiled bandage into his pocket, I glance over to see for myself how it’s healing. All looks well, so I will drop the subject with him, since he seems determined not to speak to me unless absolutely necessary.
The drive southeast of Mineral Wells is flat and empty, not much to see. Marking the entrance to the airport, a T-38 Talon Air Force jet painted in red, white, and blue is mounted on a post, meant to look as if it’s flying out of the ground. That’s pretty cool, but otherwise, the airport isn’t much to speak of. A municipal water tower is the tallest structure around. And two boxy metal buildings that serve as airplane hangars line the narrow runway. The terminal itself is a smaller metal building with a faux stone facade and a row of mailboxes out front.
“There’s a car rental desk here?” I ask, very suspicious.
“That’s what the map app on my phone says.”
“Don’t car rental agencies usually have signs advertising their presence, and”—I glance around at the handful of road-weary vehicles parked in the gravel parking lot—“shiny cars for you to rent?”
“The map app says?—”
“The app must be wrong. I’ll be surprised if that door is even unlocked. Look” —I grab my phone and start searching for the nearest car rental agency —“let’s find?—”
“It’s fine,” Markus says as he pushes his door open. “Thank you for the ride.”
I reach out like I’m going to grab him, and, what, yank him back into the car? Ten bucks says that wouldn’t go over well, so I drop my hand on the center console where Markus’s coffee and granola bar sit untouched.
Once Markus has his bag and he’s ready to go, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wad of cash. and sets it on the seat he’s just vacated. It’s a stack of hundred-dollar bills, six hundred dollar bills. I frown at him. “What’s this for?”
“To cover the costs of the rooms, gas, mileage, and, well, everything. This should cover your troubles.”
“Six hundred dollars? This whole trip cost one hundred fifty dollars at the most.”
“It’s for your time too.” He smiles. The fucker actually smiles at me as he closes the door.
Oh no he didn’t!
I kick my own door open, grab his cash, and storm around the front of my truck to find him at the airport door. He turns back to face me just as I throw the money at him. It rains down to the gravel ground, and he just stares at it as I stomp up into his space.
“Look here!” I yell, and, as if it’s an actual command, he looks up and meets my raging gaze as I continue, “I know you’re going through something rough, so you can be in a shitty mood, and you can rush off to be rid of me all you want. But I will not tolerate you treating me like your hired escort. Yes, we fucked, and maybe that’s uncomfortable for you. But I consider you my friend, and I’d like you to be my friend too. And friends are kind to one another, for free , so you can keep your fucking money, Marcus!”
When I’ve said my piece, and I’m huffing and puffing like a raging bull, I give him a moment to give me a piece of his mind, too, but he says nothing. He does nothing except look away, down at his feet and the money scattered all around.
Okay, well, if he’s got nothing to say, then this conversation is over. I storm back to my truck, hoist myself inside, and slam the door shut. But I don’t leave. I’m one-hundred-percent convinced this is not a car rental agency, and I’m not going to abandon him here in the middle of nowhere, so I drink my coffee and eat my granola bar.
He’s lucky I stick around because after he picks up his money and shoves it back into his pocket, he tries the door, and it’s locked. I hide a grin behind my coffee cup. It takes him a moment to swallow his pride and walk back over to my truck. I’m sure he expects me to make him grovel, but that’s not my style. When he opens the passenger door, I show him my phone screen, where I’ve mapped out a new route. “There’s a car rental agency twenty miles east in Weatherford.”
Rather than listen to silence as we drive, I connect the truck to one of my playlists and soon Lil Nas X’s “Old Town Road” fills the air, and I sing along with the Billy Ray Cyrus part. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Markus grin, just a little, but his posture eases, and he reaches for his coffee, taking a couple of sips.
Weatherford isn’t a big town, but it’s twice the size of Mineral Wells, and when we pull up to this car rental agency, the parking lot is paved and filled with shiny, clean rental cars. I feel much more comfortable leaving him here. This time, when he steps out of the truck, he sounds a lot less angry and impatient when he says, “I’d like to at least pay you back for the motel rooms.”
With a shake of my head, I say, “Donate it to charity. and we’ll call it even.”
Markus frowns, but he doesn’t argue. I wait again, making sure this door is unlocked, though I know it is. The walls are made of plate glass, and I can see the perky blond behind the counter who grins wide when she sees a handsome man walk into her store.
That’s my cue to leave. Cranking my music as I head south toward home, I try to ignore the pain in my chest. Why does it hurt so much? I run through a list of possible medical conditions that might cause this deep gnawing sensation.
Heartburn or heart attack, or could this be heartache? It couldn’t be that, could it? I hardly know Markus. But that doesn’t seem to matter, because the farther I drive, the more I think about him and the more I fixate on the emptiness of the seat beside me. I miss him. And damn, ain’t that a thought.
At a stop sign in one of the little towns this road passes through, I turn on my camera and record a video, talking myself through my thoughts with my followers watching.
“Cock-a-doodle-doo! Hello! Hello! Hello! It’s your number one favorite queer fireman Rooster Crows, coming at you live from, well, my pickup truck. Now, as you know, I very rarely stream from a moving vehicle. As a firefighter, I’ve worked far too many car accident scenes. I take distracted driving very seriously, and you should too. Currently, my phone is in its hands-free holster, so I can focus on the road while I talk through some thoughts.
“And those thoughts are focused on a certain someone. I’m not generally a long-term lover. I’m a casual guy, and I keep my connections casual too. But what does it mean when you want…more? And before you ask, ‘What sort of more do you want, Rooster?’ let me just say, I have no earthly idea. I just, well, I miss someone. And I was just literally beside him thirty minutes ago. I’ve gone through my checklists, and this ache isn’t a heart attack or heartburn, so…that leaves…heartache. Right? I guess I’m looking for some expert opinions here. Help me understand: How do you know when you like someone, like, really like them…as more than just a friend?
“Jesus, I sound like a teenager gossiping in the school cafeteria. Okay, enough of this nonsense. If you have thoughts, leave them in the comments, and I’ll check them out when I’m not driving. Ciao, my brood.”
Immediately after I stop the recording, I regret even making the video. Sure, I share a lot about myself online, but never anything as personal as talking about a guy I’m into. Probably, because I’ve never been into a guy like this. Still, I need to delete this video. When I get home, I will.
But I don’t go home. When I reach town, I go to Mom’s house instead. Because there is really only one cure for the sour mood I’m in: puppy therapy.
Mom and Alice are in the kitchen, cooking something that smells amazing, and my niece Avery is in her high chair, kicking her little feet and giggling at me. I give Mom and my sister hugs then make funny faces at my niece before I exit out the back door and cross the yard to the kennels.
Drusilla and Rufus are excited to see me, their tails wagging their whole bodies as I let them out of their adjoining pens. The purity of their affection fills my heart. I trade head scratches and back rubs for sloppy kisses and tail wags, and it is rejuvenating.
Grabbing a tennis ball out of the toy bin, I have them fetch a few. Drusilla can’t keep up with Rufus, so she resorts to ambushing him as he returns the ball to me.
“Everything okay?” Mom asks from behind me, and I startle.
She loops an arm around my waist, and I rest my arm on her shoulders. Together we watch the dogs as they wrestle and roughhouse, the ball forgotten.
“It is now,” I answer with a smile.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner? We’re making a roast. And you can spend the night. I’m sure these two lumps would love to share your old bed with you.”
I chuckle at the idea of spending a night in my childhood bedroom with the dogs. Before answering, I check my phone for any missed calls from Markus. I’ve been checking every few minutes since I left Mineral Wells. Nothing.
“Sure, Mom. Sounds good.”
Mom hugs me a little tighter, seeming to sense I need it. She could always tell when I needed the comfort and support of my family. She doesn’t push for me to explain, and I’m grateful. Instead, we just stand together, watching the dogs play in the waning light of the setting sun.