Chapter 2 #2
This is the moment reality really starts to sink in, and while my feelings are many and varied both in content and intensity, I still cannot muster an ounce of grief.
When I return to the hospital, I’m clean and slightly better rested.
I’m dressed in the wrinkled cargo shorts and Perfume Genius t-shirt I pulled from my hastily packed backpack.
My clean hair was completely unworkable with the humidity this morning, so I gave up and put a wide, cloth headband on.
I wear my wavy brown hair long enough to cause issues, but not long enough to pull back.
I’m not expecting to see anyone who’ll care that I look like shit with dark circles under my already dark eyes and more scruff than I was in the mood to deal with. I can’t remember the last thing I ate, and I feel shriveled and weak, but thirsty more than anything else.
I’m operating on half-assed autopilot. It occurred to me while I thought about throwing my wadded up shorts into the dryer to get the wrinkles out that my brother is all alone.
I left him alone. The sense of urgency about being at the hospital must be some weird form of guilt making me skip past things that others might deem critical.
He’s only eighteen. The nurses must think I’m a real cold-hearted bastard. The urgency has more to do, I think, with trying to prove to myself that I’m not.
Tristan is in the waiting room when I step off the elevator.
He glances up, a passing glance at first, then he does a quick double take, eyes widening as he sits straighter, putting his phone on the seat beside him.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
I come to a stop in front of him. I’m not the only one who had a rough night.
He doesn’t look like he slept much either.
He’s wearing the same thing he had on yesterday, and his hair is tangled at the ends.
His exhaustion doesn’t make him any less attractive, which is probably more than I can say for myself today. “Is everything all right?”
“I think so. I just…I’m here, you know. Maybe I’ll have better luck with the nurses this time.”
“Did you sleep here?”
He glances around the waiting room, sighing. “Sleep isn’t what I’d call it.”
“What about the nurses?” I ask, curious.
“I guess they don’t think the family resemblance is strong enough.”
“Well, they’ve seen me, so…”
“Yeah. You look a lot like him.” He glances back down at his hands on his thighs.
I feel bad for this sweet guy. He’s earned his right to be here, and I’d also like to meet the person who could say no to that face.
“Mind if I sit for a second?”
“No. Go ahead.” He picks up his phone to clear the spot beside him.
“I’ve been at the house.” To me, the words are like a bomb detonating.
Tristan doesn’t even blink. “Yeah?”
So maybe my childhood home doesn’t read hellscape to anyone but me. “So, my dad moved out, but my mom still lived there?”
“He officially moved out a few months ago. Right after Christmas.”
I fail again at trying to conjure an image of my father. The words come without my even thinking. “You know I honestly can’t even remember what he looked like. I never saw him. He worked so much. It was always just her.”
“Will there be a funeral?” Tristan asks.
Fuck, I guess that’s on me, too. “I, uh…I haven’t really gotten that far.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “No, I totally understand. I can’t imagine what this is like for you—”
“It’s not like anything,” I say quickly.
“Hm?”
“It’s like—nothing.” I take a deep breath, shutting up.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like you needed to explain yourself. I’m available, though. If you need to like—put a funeral together at the last minute.”
I half laugh. “Thanks. You and Connor…you’re close?”
“Yeah. Very.”
I nod. “You seem great.”
He gives me a confused frown, and there’s some amusement in it, too. “Thanks?”
“You’ve been together how long?”
“Kindergar—wait—no.” Tristan waves a hand between us and gives his head a shake. “He and I are just friends. Platonic only.”
“I’m not judging, believe me, I—”
“I’m not worried about your judgment. I’m saying Connor and I are just friends. We’re both gay, yes, and I get people make assumptions about that, but we don’t like each other like that.”
“Got it.” He couldn’t be making himself any clearer. He doesn’t even sound defensive. More like he has to explain this to people a lot.
“We’re very close, though,” he adds. “If he wakes up…”
“When,” I remind him.
“Yeah, when, and if you’re still around, you’ll see.”
“Okay.” It’s easier to agree rather than pick apart all the things he just said. “Let’s get you in to see him.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to. I don’t mind being out here.”
I’m already standing. “Come on, I’ll talk to the nurses. They like me.”
“I’ll bet.”
His annoyed tone gives me pause, but he’s too busy gathering his things to notice. He picks up a small fanny pack and stuffs his air pods and phone into it. He plucks out a hair tie and slides it over his wrist before running a hand through his hair, then he nods at me like he’s ready.
He might have slept in an ICU waiting room, but he already looks way more put together than I do.
He follows me through the doors of the unit where I explain to the staff who he is—an extremely close friend of the family—and ask that he be allowed to visit Connor whenever he wants, given the circumstances.
The charge nurse agrees without any pushback.
A few minutes later, Tristan and I are admitted entry to my brother’s room, and I sit down in my usual spot by the window while Tristan tries not to have a total breakdown at the sight of Connor.
I admit, he looks pretty rough. The gaping, intubated mouth, the mass of black matted hair, the waxy sheen of his pale skin.
I’ve avoided looking at him for the most part. I feel bad for Tristan, though. I should have warned him.
When he starts moving strands of Connor’s hair around the bandages, putting it back where it might belong, I have to avert my gaze.
Their closeness is now blatantly obvious, but there’s a deep affection there, too.
I’m about to ask Tristan if he wants a moment alone with him, but he says, “I should have brought a brush.”
From the strain in his voice, I can tell how hard he’s trying not to cry. Same as yesterday with the lawyer, I feel like I should be offering him some form of comfort or words of reassurance. The burden of being the sole heir.
But I also don’t want to interfere with whatever’s happening between the two of them. I stay put, trying to mind my own business, and eventually a nurse walks in to push a button on something. Tristan backs away from the bed. He sits down next to me, with silent tears streaming down his face.
Normally, I wouldn’t do anything like what my arm is lifting to do, but he was there when I needed a hand yesterday.
I put mine on his back now and say quietly, “Hey…they say he’s gonna be okay.” Technically they haven’t said that, but no one’s acting particularly alarmed about my brother’s condition.
Tristan’s back shifts suddenly beneath my hand, and I wonder for a second if I’ve done the wrong thing. But instead of moving away or speaking, he turns toward me, hands reaching beneath my arms and past my sides.
It’s another hug.
Like random guys hug me all the time, my arms move, too, and they surround him until he fits himself back into place.
It’s obvious he’s crying now. I mean, any normal human would in this situation.
My hand strokes his back again and again.
I feel his hands, too. Gripping my shoulder blades the way they did yesterday.
Telegraphing that he can stay here like this as long as he needs to, I settle back into the stiff couch with him still in my arms. Eventually, the shaking subsides, and he begins to relax.
The way his lean body molds itself to mine is comfortable.
Comforting, even. Before I get used to it, he pulls away.
I pass him a box of tissues from the windowsill.
“Jesus, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting you don’t know who the fuck I am.
” He takes a few deep, shaky breaths and blows them out in little streams, trying to get himself back together.
I watch as he pulls his shoulder length hair up and wraps it in a bun on the crown of his head, securing it with the hairband from his wrist.
I blink in disbelief.
His face.
Okay, from a purely aesthetic standpoint, Tristan is almost irrationally beautiful.
As in it makes no sense to me how beautiful he is, and I should probably stop looking at him, but it’s hard.
Like when I saw Van Gogh’s “Red Vineyard” for the first time.
I’d been dying to see it, and when I was finally in front of it—how long was it before I looked away? Hours, maybe.
That’s what Tristan’s face is like for me. Like I could look at it for hours and still need to come back the next day to study it some more. Same as I did with the Van Gogh.
He scoots a little farther away, and I don’t blame him. I know I’m staring. “So, Seattle, huh? What do you do there?”
“I work at a museum. I just finished grad school.”
His eyes light up a little. “Yeah? What’s your degree in?”
“Art History,” I say. Speaking of my job, though, I should probably give them a call, too. I glance at the clock. It’s just past nine, so seven in Seattle. It can wait.
“And you still paint, I’m assuming?” He gestures to my hands. Oils don’t come off easy. It’s not on my skin so much as it’s on and under my nails. My hands never look clean, but they technically are—I just hate turpentine.
His hand hovers over one of mine. “May I?” he asks.
I nod, slightly concerned about the way he’s affecting me.
He lifts my left hand off my thigh, turning it over to reveal my blue-stained palm. His fingertips brush the heel of my hand, and a jolt of electric desire races down my spine. Yep. That’s more or less what I thought might happen.