Chapter Nine

The prospect of meeting with his father for dinner only increased Chris’s desire to end the book tour. As the days went on, he longed to see his son again (phone calls were not cutting it anymore), and though he was certain having dinner at his parents’ house would lead to a night of headaches, he still felt glad that his father had sought him out and made peace. Plus, Chris thought Ty would love to meet his other grandparents and to see the house in which Chris had spent his childhood.

Certainly, Chris had also grown tired of reading to audiences almost every night. He still greatly appreciated the support from his readers and found himself still in disbelief over the sheer number of people who came on those nights, but the monotony of it all bored him. He read from the same passage at each event, and the people he met started to blend together after a while. He began to see that there were only so many different types of people in the world, only so many personalities to be had.

In retrospect, however, the days passed quicker than he thought they would. He would consult his mental calendar after waking every morning, and one day he realized that the tour only lasted for another week. Seven more days and he would be finished. He could go back home. He could see his son again.

This discovery put a little spring in Chris’s step. He felt guilty about it, but he found himself smiling widely as he went about his usual routine. He smiled at the woman behind the counter of the sandwich shop; he smiled at the benches along the sidewalk. He smiled at his mustard-stained pants, and he smiled as he spoke the all-too-familiar words from the pages in his hands. The crowd at the bookstore probably thought he was ecstatic to be there, when really he was just ecstatic to leave.

Of course, the approaching end of the tour was not the only contributor to Chris’s smile. Having found nothing to do in the evening (Ty and Kirsten had gone out for dinner that night, so a phone call was not an option), Chris arrived at the bookstore several hours earlier than required. He felt very relaxed as he stepped inside; walking among the quiet bookshelves and staring at the perfect spines of the books gave him a peaceful feeling. Walking among the quiet bookshelves, everything seemed right.

He browsed through a few children’s books (he had nearly finished the book for Ty, and he decided it would not hurt to compare) and, in various sections of the store, found several other books which he considered purchasing. The walls of his and Ty’s apartment were already overflowing with books, yet Chris thought that there could never be such a thing as too many books. If at all possible, he would gladly trade his skin for the crisp paper, his blood for the shiny black ink. He thought very briefly that in writing, he was trying to become what he wrote, to morph himself into the physical words.

And then a pair of hands reached from behind him, enclosed his eyes, and Chris felt his heart attempt to escape his body as a soft voice said into his ear, “Guess who?”

Chris started, closed the book he was holding without removing his hand from the pages. He ignored the minor pain, as his heart still raced uncontrollably. After the initial fright had slightly subsided, his brain was able to analyze the voice and to reassure the rest of his body that no, he was not in any danger, because yes, he did in fact know this person behind him. It was Tristan.

“Well,” Chris responded in a shaky voice, “I can't guess after I've died from a heart attack, can I?”

“Aw,” Tristan cooed. He retracted his hands and leaned over Chris's shoulder to place a kiss on his cheek. “Does that mean I just kissed a dead person?”

“I don't really want to answer that,” Chris said. He pulled his hand out of the book, but did not replace the book on the shelf. As Tristan laughed, Chris turned to face him. He felt a rush of happiness crash over him at the sight of the man he hadn't seen in a few weeks, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he asked, “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Tristan sighed and rolled his eyes. “Claire said to me this morning, 'Tristan, would you like to come to this book reading thing with me tonight?' and she showed me the paper for it and I said to her, 'Claire, you have to ask me if I want to go see my own boyfriend?' She told me that she hadn't realized you were the same man on the paper. I certainly wouldn't put it past her either way.”

“Hey, I heard that!” a feminine voice called from behind the bookshelves. The head of a petite blonde woman suddenly appeared over the top of the shelf in front of them. “You better not be saying shit about me, Soldel. Don't make me come over there and punch you.”

Tristan gasped in mock surprised. “Would you believe it?” he said to Chris. “It's a mask. As soon as we leave the school, all smiles and friendliness – gone. Just gone.”

“You're saying shit about me again!”

The woman's head disappeared behind the bookshelves. Moments later, Claire stormed up to Tristan and gave him a menacing look. Chris thought that for someone as tiny as she (she might have been just below average for a woman, but standing beside Tristan and himself she looked so small), Claire could be quite intimidating. She glared at Tristan for only a moment, before her fist came up and collided with his arm.

“Hey!” Tristan shouted, any previous hint of mock surprise now gone. He hadn't expected her to actually hit him. “That hurts, you know.”

“Well, good,” Claire retorted. “Maybe you'll stop saying shit about me.”

Chris watched the interaction with uncertainty. He was sure that he should have felt some sort of gut reaction (anger, perhaps?) at the sight of some woman punching his boyfriend in the arm. Instead, he felt a strange nothingness. Instead, he heard a tiny voice in the back of his mind:

There's always that one person, right?

But he disregarded the thought as Tristan linked their arms together, and he suddenly found himself being pulled away from the spot where Claire remained standing.

“Come on, Chris. Let's not waste our lives consorting with the likes of women,” Tristan loudly announced as they walked away.

Chris chanced a look over his shoulder to find that Claire didn't seem to mind. She browsed the books Chris had looked at earlier. He realized then that he still held a book in his hand. He didn't really want it. He stuffed it at the end of the bookshelf as they rounded the corner and felt guilty doing so.

“She really is a charming girl,” Tristan said when they were far enough away. His hand slid down Chris's arm, and he laced their fingers together. “Some idiot cut us off just as we pulled out of her driveway and she's been in a mood ever since.”

Chris nodded, but said nothing. He let Tristan drag him to the door, listened to him explain that they needed to go somewhere to get food and to catch up. Chris asked if Claire would be mad at them for leaving, and Tristan informed him that she would probably be glad they were gone.

Chris had already eaten, so he ordered nothing from the little coffee shop down the road from the bookstore. Tristan ordered some sort of sandwich, which looked absolutely disgusting to Chris, though Tristan assured him that it was, in fact, delicious and possibly the best sandwich he'd ever eaten.

With almost two hours left until that night's event, the two men spent a good hour talking in the coffee shop, seated at a small table in the back. Tristan was content to tell Chris all about his life in Chris's absence and didn't ask even one question about how the book tour had fared. Chris was glad for this, though; living through the monotony was enough. The last thing he wanted to do was to recap it.

Tristan finished eating, and the pair made their way back to Chris's hotel room per Chris's suggestion. They spent half an hour rolling around in the bed, and used the remaining thirty minutes to walk back to the bookstore as slowly as possible.

“I read your book,” Tristan said as they turned down a new road. “It was really good.”

Chris didn't know how often Tristan read books or what Tristan's taste in literature was, so he couldn't be entirely sure that the compliment held much weight. But he felt happy enough just hearing Tristan say the words.

“Thank you,” he replied, somewhat shyly.

“One question, though. Is the main person supposed to be a guy or girl?”

“Neither, actually. Or either one.” Chris knew that this answer would probably confuse Tristan, would probably confuse anyone who asked, and so he decided to continue with his explanation. “The character is androgynous, so that the reader can more easily relate. I wanted it to be very nonspecific.”

“Oh,” Tristan said. He sounded greatly disappointed, as if he had spent hours searching the book for clues and had felt certain that he knew the answer, only to find out that there was no answer. Chris felt a little guilty.

“To be honest, I had started writing it from a girl's point of view, because I didn't think most people would appreciate it from a boy's point of view.”

Tristan laughed softly and grinned at Chris. Chris figured he must have said something right, and his guilt subsided as Tristan said, “Chris, I've missed you.” Tristan brought his hand up and ran his finger around some of Chris's curls. Chris smiled, if not only because the sensation tickled him.

“I've missed you, too.”

“You've only another week left, right?” Tristan asked, to which Chris responded with a firm nod. “Good. It's so sad to see Ty walk into the school by himself every morning.”

Chris felt a bubble of anger rise in his chest, and he was about to express his outrage before he decided that it wasn't worth it. He just needed to accept that Kirsten would never be the sort of parent he hoped she might one day turn into. At least, she wouldn't become that parent any time soon. They were both still so young.

A few minutes passed in silence. Chris thought about how good it would be to come back home, how long seven days actually felt. The awning over the bookstore was clear in the distance as they drew closer to the building. Before they stepped in front of the bookstore's large window, Tristan stopped and placed his hand on Chris's arm.

“Wait,” he said. Chris faced him as Tristan slid his hands up to cup Chris's jaw, pulled him in, and placed a soft kiss on his lips. In that kiss, something changed; Chris realized then that their relationship thus far had been mostly physical, that even the most seemingly emotional interactions between them had been laced with a hint of sex. This was a simple kiss, but it was a big step for them.

Chris asked if Tristan had any plans after the reading was over and if they could possibly get some tea then. Tristan said that unfortunately, he and Claire had to leave as soon as it was finished, as it would be rather late and they both had to work in the morning. Chris frowned, but felt that the afternoon he had spent with Tristan was enough. He had been lucky just to have that.

And so it was with a grin that he read from his book that evening. Tristan stood close to the front of the crowd, and during the book signing he pulled up a chair and sat with Chris. Claire had left to get her own food, as, like Tristan, she had not eaten beforehand and she had not chosen to eat anything while she still had time. Nor did she wish to sit around and watch Chris sign books.

After the whole thing finished and Tristan left with Claire, Chris decided to get himself a cup of tea. Even if Tristan couldn't come along, there was no reason for him to deprive himself of such a delicious beverage. As he walked down the dark and deserted streets, he couldn't help thinking of the afternoon.

He wondered what it would have been like if he had been allowed absolutely no contact with the people in his life while he was gone. He didn't quite consider the encounter with his father, as his father was someone he hadn't even seen in years, but he had been fortunate to have the ability to call Ty as frequently as he did. Now that Tristan had made an appearance, it almost felt to Chris like he had never truly left – and, in a way, he was frustrated by this. Life had brought all of these familiar people back to him and had made it so much more difficult for him to feel homesick without also feeling guilty. Life had brought elements of home to him before he had enough time to properly be gone.

Life did not stop there.

The shop in which Chris was about to enter had almost emptied out by the time Chris walked through the door. He still had plenty of time before the place closed, but it seemed as though the fun had already been had that night and nearly all the customers had moved on to find newer, better sources of entertainment.

A block of space to the side of the café had been separated from the rest of the building by several lines of duct tape on the floor. The duct tape looked like it had been laid down recently, though there were already many bits and corners peeling away from the ground. Within the confines of the duct tape stood a microphone and several stools. Brass instruments rested on some of the empty stools, the instruments’ cases lying open against the wall.

Judging by the makeshift stage, the entertainment for that night had been some sort of band. A jazz band, perhaps? Chris wasn’t sure what other genre of music would use a trumpet, a trombone, and a saxophone. He supposed the instruments could theoretically be used for any type of music.

A few people sat at a table by the stage. Chris thought this might have been the band, enjoying a well-deserved rest after their performance. Or they might have been a combination of band and fans, chatting about the music. After all, if there were only three instruments and one microphone on stage, the band probably consisted of three instrumentalists and a singer; there were no less than five people at the table. In any case, the group seemed to be composed of the only remaining people in the shop, excluding Chris and the employees. They were all deep in conversation, but kept their voices at a relatively decent volume.

Chris approached the counter and ordered his cup of tea. The young girl behind the counter looked at him as if he were insane, walking into the shop after all of the fun had already been had that night. He may as well go home and make his own tea there.

Then the girl seemed to have remembered her manners and exactly what her job was, and she set off to get Chris his cup of tea. As he waited, he listened in on the group’s conversation. He rationalized his eavesdropping by explaining to himself that he couldn’t help it: The group was the only real source of noise in the entire shop; Chris couldn’t simply turn off his hearing whenever he pleased (though such a skill might come in handy every now and then); and since he had his back toward the group and could therefore not stare at them while he was listening, he felt much less creepy and much less intrusive.

He thought he heard several of the group’s members repeat the word, “Jazz-zilla,” which would have confirmed his earlier suspicion regarding their music. Chris learned through listening that “Jazz-zilla” was, in fact, one of the band’s members. According to a female voice, “Jazz-zilla was on fire” during their performance (Chris assumed the woman meant it figuratively, though the mental image the phrase brought on of a giant saxophone-wielding mutant lizard engulfed in flames was quite amusing), and one of the males at the table agreed.

“Jazz-zilla could have burned the place down, man.”

“He could burn my place down any night,” another woman said. This was met with several groans from the rest of the group, and seconds after the woman spoke, Chris heard the sound of a hand making contact with flesh. It had sounded harsh, but the air in the shop hadn’t changed afterward. No one in the group thought the action which had made the sound was negative. He supposed whatever punishment the woman suffered might not have been such a big deal after all.

“You can’t say stuff like that about him, man, you know how he is.”

“OK, OK,” the woman replied, though she did not sound regretful. If anything, she sounded angry. “I’m just saying, you know. I meant musically, he’s really talented and I would… you know… not object to him–”

“All right,” another voice interjected. “Let’s stop her before we hear anything about horns being blown.”

Unlike the woman’s first comment, this last statement was well-received. The tiny shop instantly filled with the booming sound of laughter. Chris wondered for a while how exactly this “Jazz-zilla” must have been for the mere idea of making suggestive comments about him to be completely taboo. Perhaps he was underage? If this so-called “Jazz-zilla” were a teenage boy and the rest of the group older men and women, then that could explain the man’s unease about the inappropriate comments. But age is not a static thing, and the way the man who defended this “Jazz-zilla” spoke made it sound as if the condition were a permanent one.

Jealousy could be an option. Chris knew that it would be wrong to assume that any man who defended another man so vehemently would obviously be gay, but he couldn’t rule it out completely. If this man were in denial about his feelings, he might defend the other man, but blame the defense on some aspect of the other man’s personality. He’s too nice, so you can’t hit on him, rather than, I want him, so you can't hit on him.

Chris sighed. That wasn't quite it, either. Whatever was so important about “Jazz-zilla” that warranted slapping anyone who made suggestive comments about him had nothing to do with anyone else in the group. Could the real reason be that “Jazz-zilla” was simply uncomfortable with such attention?

The light tinkling of a bell rung out and cut short Chris's thoughts as another patron pushed the shop’s door open. This new person must have been yet another member of the group, as moments later the laughter subsided and several happy greetings were shouted out.

The young girl returned to the counter with a cup of tea, which she then handed to Chris. She rang up his order; he gave her the money, took the cup, and decided that he couldn’t leave the shop just yet. This mysterious group intrigued him, and he wanted to continue to subtly eavesdrop on their conversation. So, he picked a table not too far from the makeshift stage. He rested his cup on the table and sneaked a glance over at the group.

What Chris saw made him feel like his heart had stopped. Had he not already let go of the cup, he might have dropped his tea on the ground and perhaps on himself. The man known as “Jazz-zilla” stood beside the group's table, the corners of his full lips turned up as he laughed with the rest. Without thinking, Chris spoke up.

“Jay?”

For a moment, it seemed as if the man had not heard Chris. But his smile faltered slightly at the sound of this disused nickname and he turned.

“Hey, Chris,” Jonathan answered, as if the meeting were an everyday occurrence. He quickly consulted his bandmates, motioning to them that he would return later. Then he stalked over to Chris, stood with his hands in his pockets, the smile still stretched across his face. “How've you been?”

“How...” Chris mindlessly repeated. He blinked a few times and breathed deeply. “I've been well. I... never thought I would run into you like this.”

“Yet here we are,” Jonathan added with a shrug of his shoulders. “Are you free to chat? I think we have a lot to talk about, huh?”

Slowly examining Jonathan (they had both grown up quite a bit since last they had seen each other), Chris's head bobbed up and down. “Yeah, we do. And yeah, let's–” Chris spontaneously summoned his consciousness and became truly present in the moment. He waved to the table which they stood beside and said, “Here would be fine, if you're comfortable with it.”

Jonathan smirked. Chris stood and watched as he pulled a chair from under the table and sat down. Chris soon followed, taking the seat opposite Jonathan. He wrapped his hands around his mug of tea. Jonathan clasped his hands on the table.

The two watched each other for a while. Chris's thumb ran in tiny circles over the porcelain surface of the mug. Though his chest had certainly tightened, his heart did not seem to beat any faster. He had imagined a moment like this many times over the years, but the swell of anxiety and desire that had always presented in those fantasies did not appear here. His body relaxed into the hard wooden chair and an odd contentment flowed through his veins.

“How's school going?”

“Probably well. It's going without me, in any case,” Jonathan replied. He brushed his hand over the stubble on his jaw. “I dropped out.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, after...” Jonathan's hand fell to the table. He tapped his fingers lightly against the wood. “Do you want to hear a story?”

Chris turned up the corner of his lips. “That's kind of a funny thing to ask a writer.”

Jonathan let out a soft laugh in return. His fingers continued tapping as his eyes scanned the space behind Chris's seat. He seemed preoccupied with gathering his thoughts, and so Chris took the opportunity to openly stare at him. Apart from the hair that lined his chin, Jonathan looked almost exactly the same as he had the last time they saw one another. He did, however, look a little happier. His eyes shone with clear purpose; years ago, that light green had always been laced with uncertainty, ironically, a quality not quite noticeable until it disappeared.

When Jonathan finally spoke, he did so without moving his eyes from the background of the shop. His eyes clouded over, most likely a side effect of vivid memories.

“When I left, I said I was going back to study, but I started driving and realized that I couldn't go back to the dorms. Not right away. So I drove around for a bit, and I ended up in this little pub somewhere. There was this guy there playing sax. It... was like nothing I'd ever heard before. And I knew I'd found my calling.”

Chris leaned his elbows on the table, mug still gripped tightly in his hands. The sentiment in Jonathan's voice pulled him like a magnetic force. “That's amazing,” he softly said.

“It was certainly a relief. I spent a long time thinking that I'd never be passionate about anything like that. But I found it. You know what else I figured out?” Jonathan flicked his eyes over to stare back at Chris, drawing Chris even closer. “You and I are meant to be together.”

Yet again, Chris's fantasies provided a stark contrast to the reality of the situation. If Jonathan had ever uttered those words in Chris's dreams, Chris would surely have grabbed him and run off into the sunset (or the moonlight, at this time of night).

Now, though, he could only picture a petite, dark-haired man as he stuttered, “I have a boyfriend.” His chest tightened a little further and his stomach churned.

Jonathan looked completely unfazed.

In fact, he stared at Chris for a few seconds, as if expecting Chris to continue speaking. When he realized Chris had nothing more to say, he nodded quickly and smiled. “Yeah, of course,” he said. “I hope he makes you happy, and I hope that he continues to make you happy for as long as you're together. Then, when he doesn't, I hope you find someone else to make you happy.

“But one day we'll meet – I mean, the universe already brought us here, of all places,” he said with a quick laugh, gesturing around the tiny shop. “One day, when the circumstances are right, we'll meet and we'll know... we never have to be apart again.”

A wave of emotions overcame Chris so quickly that he could perform no action other than to inhale very deeply and promptly struggle to exhale. He fought the urge to cry as his eyes tingled with the prospect of tears. He dug his fingers into the mug as much as the sturdy surface would allow.

He wanted nothing more in that moment than to leap across the table, wrap Jonathan in a tight embrace, and never let go. The flashing images of Tristan held him back, and he felt more torn than he had ever felt in his life. If Chris had thought that Jonathan had simply spewed a bunch of nonsense at him, then he might not have felt so conflicted. But he couldn't help thinking back on the happy evening he had spent with Tristan, and how that joyful feeling paled in comparison to the way he knew he would feel with Jonathan.

Jonathan reached across the table. Chris thought for a moment that he intended to grab Chris's hand (and perhaps he did), but ultimately he laid his hand down on the table beside the mug.

“Chris, you don't have to worry about it, OK? Things will work out in the end.”

“Can't they work out now?”

Jonathan laughed. “That would be nice. But you’re a writer. You should know that you have to build it up first, yeah?”

Chris gawked at Jonathan, scanning his brain's database for any counterargument, but he couldn't deny that Jonathan was right. Reluctantly, he nodded. He turned his eyes down and watched his tea.

“And ours will be the greatest story ever,” Jonathan added. His voice was soft, as if he had spoken to himself rather than Chris. In fact, when Chris did look back at Jonathan, he found the other man eying the tabletop, twiddling his thumbs in an almost nervous fashion.

The corners of Chris's lips seemed to turn up of their own accord at the sight. He pictured the way Jonathan had looked the first time they spoke to one another, timid with his averted gaze and shocked by Chris's proposition of a relationship. They had both come a long way from that alley around the side of the school, but Chris couldn't help noticing all of the little traits which had attracted him to Jonathan in the first place, not one iota different after six years.

“Congratulations, by the way. On the book and everything.” Jonathan met Chris's eyes, the confidence back in full force. Chris flushed a pale red and quietly thanked him. “Which book was it?”

And if Chris thought that he had flushed before, then at this question he sent the entire Red Sea down the toilet bowl of his face. He released one hand from the mug of tea and nervously scratched the side of his neck.

“The one I wrote... you know, about you,” he said in a sort of mumble, though Jonathan had clearly heard his answer. Jonathan chuckled and gave a sarcastic comment in response.

“Well, that explains it, then.”

The sound of chairs and feet shuffling across the floor emerged from the nearby party.

“Jon, we're leaving,” one of the men announced. Jonathan glanced over at the group, eyes wide as if he had forgotten that his bandmates were there, that other people existed in the shop apart from Chris and himself. He turned to Chris and smiled one last time, wide and dauntless.

“I'll catch you later. Good luck with the rest of your tour.” Chris smiled back and nodded. He contemplated saying something in return, but if he had tried, it might have only come out as a plea for Jonathan to stay a bit longer. He knew he shouldn't be so greedy; after all, their encounter happened by pure chance to begin with.

Jonathan stood up. Chris assumed that he would then walk away and join his bandmates as they exited the shop; therefore, he did not expect Jonathan to slip around the table and stand to the side of Chris's chair, gesturing for Chris to stand as well.

Though slightly confused, Chris rose without question. Jonathan opened his arms, held them out for a hug. Chris finally felt his heartbeat speed up, but again he acted without question. He lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Jonathan's torso as Jonathan did the same to him. He felt a rush of happiness, which lingered even after Jonathan had pulled away, even after Chris was the only person left in the shop other than the young woman behind the counter.

He drank his tea as quickly as possible (though it had become rather cold), and strolled along the dark and deserted streets once more to reach his hotel room. After all the excitement the day had brought, Chris felt unsurprisingly fatigued and decided to lie down as soon as he returned to the room.

He had a habit of sleeping on the left side of the bed, and generally favoring the left side of the bed for other activities as well. As he lay in the darkness, he examined the empty space to his right, the space which Tristan had occupied only a few shorts hours before.

This revelation surprised him. So much had happened that afternoon that he had a hard time believing it had only been one afternoon and not several. He closed his eyes for a moment.

He reached out and held his hand over the comforter. He knew this feeling well, the feel of air around his skin where another human would fit perfectly. As a couple, he and Jonathan had only lived together in Penny's house, where they each had not only separate beds, but separate rooms. Then Chris moved into the apartment with Ty and Jonathan moved into a dorm room at the university. Jonathan would spend an occasional night at the apartment, but those nights were few and far between.

After he and Jonathan decided to split, Chris focused on working and taking care of Ty. He had no time for dating or anything of the sort – at least, not until Tristan came along. He and Tristan had only spent one actual night together as well as that very afternoon. Chris was used to being the only person in his bed.

Yet, now he longed for company. He opened his eyes. He felt so conflicted by what Jonathan had said to him, the confident way he spoke when he said they were meant to be together. He thought back to when Tristan lay beside him. Slowly, the image of the dark-haired man morphed into Jonathan. His imagination fluctuated between the two for a while, and as it did he experienced a nasty sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Chris figured the waves of guilt might subside if he stopped staring at that pillow, or at that side of the bed in general. He could push away any thoughts of Tristan if he simply turned and slept facing the other way. He began shifting his position, but stopped halfway through.

Jonathan's voice rang through his head: I hope he makes you happy...

Then he realized a better way to rid himself of the guilt. Maybe Jonathan was right. Maybe they were meant to be together. But if that was the case, then Jonathan would have also been right about it all working itself out. In the meantime, why should Chris waste his precious moments longing for something that he already had?

Chris wasn't sure how successful his plan would be, but he put it into action regardless. He moved again, but this time he scooted himself over to the right side of the bed. He buried his face in the pillow which still smelled a little bit like Tristan, and he fell asleep with his lips stretched into a smile and his thoughts full of a certain dark-haired man.