Vadim
I've never been to a hospice before so I wasn't really sure what to expect other than it being a slightly different version of a hospital.
It's a lot quieter than any of the hospitals I've ever been to and nowhere near as clinical. The hallways are wide, the pale-sage carpet muffles everything, and because Preston's mom pointed it out when we came in, I know the place smells more like lavender than antiseptic.
Christine was incredibly appreciative when she came back from running her errands yesterday and Preston told her I'd booked Eric in here. She broke down in tears, hugged me, cried some more, then hugged me again.
I don't deserve her gratitude. The money to cover Eric's stay here doesn't mean anything to me. But it does to her.
And to Preston.
He's already thanked me three times and promised to pay me back, with more pledges no doubt on the way, and we've barely been here fifteen minutes.
Eric is resting in the bed by the window, propped up slightly against the pillows, awake but barely present. His breathing is shallow and labored in a way Christine told me is to be expected for someone in the last stages of pleural mesothelioma.
A nurse moves quietly around the far side of the room, checking something on a clipboard without disturbing him. The medication, she told us, keeps him soft around the edges. There are long stretches where his eyes are open but glazed, like he's only half here.
"How are you holding up?" I ask Preston quietly when Christine walks over to speak with the nurse.
He's wearing a washed-out denim jacket over a cream crewneck with loose corduroy trousers that are slightly too long and rolled at the hem, the new clothes as close to his vintagey style as he could get, I suppose.
He's also shaved, so the stubble is gone, and he's wrangled his wild locks into a very small ponytail with sandy tufts hanging from both sides.
"Better, actually." He grabs me by the forearm. "Thank you so much for this." That's four times now. "I feel like this is where he belongs, and between you and me, I was low-key super stressed about Mom and me not being able to handle what comes next on our own."
"That's why I did what I did, Pres. Everyone deserves to have dignity in their final days. Especially your dad."
"Why especially him?"
"Because he created you."
Preston lets go of my arm and tugs at the hem of his shirt. "Did you intend for that to be as sweet and meaningful as it was?"
I lean in closer, until I'm just a hair's breadth away from his face.
"I did." He starts to choke up, his eyes welling, so I take his hand in mine and smile. "Am I getting better at this whole communicating thing?"
His head bobs, eyes shining. "And your current bad joke tally stands at zero, so kudos to you on that front, too."
I crack a half grin and bring the back of my finger to the side of his cheek. I don't trust myself not to say something even more sappy than I already have.
This communicating thing really needs to come with training wheels. Or at least a beginner's guide would be helpful. Something like The Dummy's Handbook for a Grown-Ass Man Finally Starting to Use His Words.
The truth is, I'm falling for Preston. My chat with the bro-ligarchy only confirmed what I've known all along but wasn't ready, or able, to admit to myself—I've been under Preston's spell since our first encounter at The Butterfly Lounge.
"Hey, boys." Christine comes over to us. She looks soul-tired, and I wish there was something more I could do for her. "The nurse just gave your dad some meds, so he'll be sleeping for a while. You two should go and grab some lunch, or at least some fresh air."
"Okay. Do you want to come with us?" Preston asks.
"No, no." She takes my hand, then Preston's, and joins them. "You two should be alone. You've been apart for long enough."
Preston and I look at each other. I give a small nod to indicate I'm fine with it.
"Are you sure you'll be alright on your own?" Preston checks, and I don't blame him. I'm picking up that stubbornness and fierce independence run strong in the Miller gene pool.
"Positive. Now go."
Preston's not hungry, so instead of getting a bite to eat, we wander a few blocks from the hospice before finding a strip of green between two residential streets. The late-morning light comes through the canopy in uneven patches, and somewhere above us, a bird calls out once then goes quiet.
We find a bench near a cluster of old oak trees, the ground crunching beneath our feet as we wade over scattered dry leaves.
"I'm going to pay you back every single penny," Preston announces before my ass lands on the bench.
"We don't have to discuss this right now."
"But I want to." He twists his body to face me. "This is important to me. Mom and I really appreciate everything you're doing, but I refuse to be a charity case. And before you interject and say that's not what this is, I need you to hear me that this is what it feels like for me."
I bite back the words on the tip of my tongue and take a long deep breath in through my nose.
He's right. I was going to counter with precisely that argument, but I need to factor in his feelings.
And his stubbornness.
And his damn pride, too.
"Okay, fine. You can pay me back one day."
"Not 'one day.' That's too vague. I want something more concrete. An actual date."
"Preston."
It comes out a bit too sharp.
"What?"
Another breath, a last chance to consider whether I should say what I'm about to say. This time my tone is calmer, lower.
"I don't want this to come out the wrong way, but how are you going to pay me back? You're not even working at the moment."
"About that. I've been doing some thinking."
I get a feeling I'm not going to like where this is going. "Okay?"
He continues. "I've been texting with a guy I work with at the spa. His name is Andre. In addition to working as a masseuse, he has a side hustle. As a cam boy."
I shrug a shoulder. "I don't follow."
"Well, he makes a ton of money doing it. And he's always dropping hints here and there that I should do it, too, and…I need the money."
I inhale at the wrong moment and end up choking. "You can't be serious."
He folds his arms across his chest. "I am. It's something that I'm considering. Seriously."
"But this doesn't make any sense. You won't even have sex until a third date, but you're okay with exposing yourself to the whole world?"
"I wouldn't be exposing myself to the whole world. The way it works is that there are private rooms that people pay to visit."
Something heavy settles in my gut. "I don't like…any of this."
"Yeah, well. It's not your call to make. It's mine."
I glare at him, panting roughly through my nose like I've run a marathon. He's not backing down. Eyeballing right back at me.
I won't win this by arguing with him, so I do my best to tamp down my anger and, instead, ask, "Why?
Why this? Why not wait until you get back home, you and Ellie figure out your living arrangements, and then you either go back to your old job, or if that's no longer an option, find another similar job? "
"It's not that simple," he says, releasing a loud sigh.
"Then talk to me," I urge. "This communication thing, it's a two-way street, Pres. That's in chapter two of The Dummies Guide to Talking for Emotionally Immature Men."
He shakes his head, smiling limply. "Damn. You just broke your bad joke tally."
"But I'm making a serious point. Talk to me. Please."
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
He narrows those beautiful hazel eyes, and I can't tell if he's gearing up to tell me to mind my own business or if he's going to let me in on what on earth could possibly possess him to even be considering such an outlandish idea.
No judgment on the idea itself, I have no problem with sex work. But it's confusing because it's such an un-Preston thing to do.
He looks away and leans back, draping his elbows over the back of the bench.
"I'm sick of working my ass off and barely scraping by. Dad's medical bills have to be paid. The legal bills, too. But it's not even just that. I'm sick of not having anything to show for all my hard work."
"What do you mean?"
"Everything, Vadim. I mean everything. Look at what I'm wearing."
I take him in. "I like what you're wearing. It's vintage, isn't it?"
"It's thrift store is what it is. I make the best of it, and I do like this style, but just once, I'd love to be able to afford new clothes from some upscale department store.
I'd love to go to music festivals and on summer vacations.
I'd love to live in a house that isn't the worst house on the street.
I think back to his and Ellie's place. I had a similar thought when I first saw it. It was kind of a bomb.
Perhaps not the best turn of phrase considering what ended up happening to it.
"Why did you and Ellie choose to live there?"
He stares at the ground for a moment. "Forget it."
"I'm not going to forget it. Tell me."
Slowly, Preston lifts his head until his eyes find mine.
"We moved into that house because it's the only place I could afford.
And even though Ellie offered to pay a bigger portion of the rent so we could live somewhere nicer, I refused.
I wasn't going to let him do that. Because he's such a great guy and an even better friend, rather than ditching me and finding some nice place on his own, he chose to slum it with me. "
He huffs out a breath. "I don't expect you to get this because it’s so far removed from your lived experience.
But not having money sucks. It's so limiting.
And I'm not talking about being crazy rich.
I just want to have enough money to be comfortable, even if it's just for a little while.
I need you to understand how much I want that.
How much I need that. I am so fucking tired of barely being able to keep my head above water. "
His voice cracks toward the end, and I have to admit, he's right. Money has never been an issue for me. I have no clue what it's like to live paycheck to paycheck, or worry about how to pay a bill, or not be able to afford something.
We come from two completely different worlds on that front. So who am I to tell him what he can or can't do to make a buck?
I just wish I didn't hate the idea of him performing for other men so damn much. Just thinking about it makes my whole body clench.
"Fine. If that's what you want to do, I won't stop you. I don't like it, but I accept it."
"Thank you. And I haven't even decided for sure if I am going to do it. It's just an option on the table."
"That you're seriously considering?" I poke.
His cheeks flush. "Well, yeah."
I hate this for him. And I hate this for him now.
His father is lying in a hospice, literally a few days, or weeks, away from dying, and Preston is forced to deal with economic practicalities. I can't fathom it, but again, that's probably my privilege talking.
"Promise me one thing," I say, clutching his hand.
"What?"
"Promise me that if you decide to go ahead with it, you'll tell me. Okay?"
"O-kay. But why?"
I squeeze his hand tighter. "Because I want to know."