KNIGHT #2
It’s an annoying fact that Sullivan keeps his distance from me for the whole thing.
There are members of the press around, not that I was going to let that stop me from talking to him, but my “D-line” sure as fuck does.
Every time I so much as glance Sullivan’s direction, there’s Derek or Deandre pulling a rabbit out of a hat or some shit to distract me, and admittedly, I’m easy to distract that day.
My place is with my mom and sisters, anyway. My hand is always tightly grasped by one of theirs.
The one thing I do remember about the funeral with nauseating clarity is Sullivan’s charcoal gray suit.
It’s an extremely nice suit, and, while it’s a little snug across the shoulders because he’s broadened out so much, it otherwise fits him like it was custom designed to.
I want to rip it to shreds. I’ve seen his mother’s house.
I also know he wouldn’t spend the money he earned last year in college sucking fuck knows how many dicks on a designer suit.
Which means it was purchased for him at some point by the one person in his acquaintance who could afford it and expect him to wear it places.
Where all has he worn that suit? Did Adrian take him to dinner?
To the symphony? Did he dress him up for parties and show him off?
Introduce him as a brilliant musician—Just look at this lovely young thing I’ve found. So beautiful. So talented.
“I need you out of that suit,” I tell him on the car ride home.
“Dang, Knight, buy a guy dinner first,” my sister Kat says with a laugh.
But Sullivan’s not laughing. He’s staring at me, puzzled and a little flushed.
“I’m serious,” I say in a lower voice. “I don’t ever want to see you in that thing again.”
He gulps and turns his head.
I take a deep breath. I’m drunk. Too drunk. And I’m being an asshole.
“I just mean—”
“I know what you mean,” he says sharply.
I shut my mouth again.
In my room, back at home, he goes into the bathroom to change clothes. I take off my own suit, too, laying it over the back of my desk chair for now. I put on gray sweats and a long sleeved t-shirt. I knock on the bathroom door when it’s been too long.
“I’m almost done,” he says.
“I’m drunk,” I say through the door.
“Great.”
“I’m sorry,” I add.
“It’s fine. I get it. It was just all I had on short notice.”
Leaning my head against the door, I say, “I miss you.”
I mean a lot of things by that, but mainly what I’m saying is that I acutely miss my father. I’m desperate not to have to weather this loss, but I have no choice. What I’m also saying is that I’ve been dealing with the ongoing loss of Sullivan for over a year now.
Yes, he’s still here, still alive with warm flesh and a beating heart, but I lost something when we went from lovers to friends, and I lost something even more profound when he was assaulted after Christmas.
While my father’s death was sudden, this death of what Sullivan and I could have been—or almost were—is the death of a thousand tiny cuts.
He opens the door in jeans and a nice button down with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his long, lean forearms and some of his nicer tattoos. “What are you wearing?” he asks after taking in my much more casual appearance.
“I don’t want to go down there.”
He sighs.
“Did you hear what I said?”
He shakes his head.
I say it again. “I miss you.”
His cheeks hollow like he’s biting them. “You’re drunk,” he finally says. “And I don’t wanna do this right now.”
“Do what?”
“Talk about us.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a fucking funeral, and I’m exhausted. If you don’t want to go down there, fine, we can stay here, but I think sleep is the thing we need to do. Not talk.”
I’m sure he’s right, but it’s not what I want to hear. We’ve spent too much time since he’s been here not talking. Still, I trudge over to the bed and crash onto my side, sick of holding myself up. He settles behind me, making me the little spoon.
I close my eyes, trying and failing to make myself believe I haven’t lost everything. But it doesn’t work. When I wake up, Sullivan isn’t even there.
It’s late when I make my way downstairs with a headache and a dry mouth.
Sullivan is at the kitchen table with my roommates, and they’re playing a quiet game of cards. Not UNO. Phase Ten, I think.
They all glance at me, and I don’t know what they see, but no one says anything.
My aunts are shoveling leftovers into Tupperware containers, and there’s a huge pile of dishes in the sink.
The trash is overflowing with bottles and cups and plastic plates.
I grab that, walking it out back to the trash bin, then I come back inside, replace the bag, and get a bottle of water from the fridge.
Still, no one speaks. There’s music on. The eighties classic rock that would have had my dad jamming, and it chokes me up hearing the familiar guitar riffs.
“Knight. Good. There you are. Come out back with me.”
I frown at my uncle Luke, surprised for some reason to discover I’m slightly taller than he is. When the fuck did that happen? The man is a giant.
I glance back over at the table, at Sullivan, who gives me a nod, at least acknowledging me. With that piece of my heart settled into place, I follow my uncle outside to a couple of lounge chairs by the pool. Since there are no kids around, I have to assume it’s past their bedtime.
I crack open the seal of the water bottle and drink half of it down in one long, continuous swallow.
“I talked with Sullivan for a while today,” he says, and I nearly choke.
“Excuse me? Who said you could do that?”
Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
“Did I need your permission? Does he?”
I shake my head, mortified with myself. “No. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting you to say that. I feel like I blacked out most of today.”
“I’m sorry your dad couldn’t meet him. He’s kind of an amazing person, huh?”
“He told you about his music?” I ask.
My uncle shrugs. “Not in so many words, but true talents are always the humblest, I’ve found. Like you.”
I snort. “I’ve been training since I was four. I’m not sure what raw talent I’ve got. It’s just a skill. Sullivan’s different.”
“In what way?”
“He’s a prodigy. He’s like—Mozart.”
“Hm.”
I fidget in my seat, wanting him to make his point. Tell me the reason he dragged me out here. “So, what’d you talk about?”
“The two of you. I admit to having more than a few questions.”
Of course he does. I sigh and lie back on the chair instead of facing him. “Honestly, it’s none of your business.”
“You know, I thought a lot today about your dad. About what he would have said to you if you’d come out—if you’d brought Sullivan home. About how it might make him feel to know you felt safe enough here to be who you are.”
“Do we have to do this right now?” I groan.
“You haven’t been to many funerals, I take it,” he says.
“No.”
“They tend to make you question your own mortality. Among other things. My little brother just died of a massive heart attack, so me more than others, I imagine.”
How he says all that so casually is a mystery of moving on I’m not sure I’ll ever master. “How do you do that?” I ask bluntly.
“Sorry?”
“How do you act like him dying is no big deal when we literally just buried him?”
“Oh,” he says, looking sheepish. “I think it’s mostly denial. None of this has really hit me yet. Nicole asked me the same thing earlier. Kinda hard to process.”
“Yeah,” I say, still staring at him, mystified.
“It’s way easier to worry about you because I can see you’re really going through it.”
“I’m fine,” I say reflexively but not convincingly at all.
“Can you keep a secret, Knight?”
I almost laugh. I’m the fucking prince of secrets at this point. “Yeah, I think I probably can.”
“Then I think you should.”