Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,87
he be the most beautiful man in the world?”
Gloria laughed like I was a little simple. “Elien, he’s the most handsome man in the world. After his father.”
“Now, Gloria,” Hubert said, but he shook the paper a little, fighting a smile.
“We’ll have to have a night,” Gloria said in a stage whisper, “just the two of us, and you can give me some new tricks for how to drive a man wild.”
“Please call a nurse,” Dag said. “Or a doctor. Anyone with a puke bucket.”
“Hubert has this little spot,” Gloria said.
“Where is the emergency call button?” Dag said, dragging on the cables around the bed.
“And I think you could try it with Dagobert.”
“Nope,” Dag said, “a regular doctor’s not going to do it anymore. Somebody call a surgeon. A brain surgeon. Frontal lobotomy.”
“But, of course,” Gloria said, “the gays are lightyears ahead in sex, so I bet you’ll have all sorts of ideas for us.”
“I think we’re doing just fine,” Hubert said, shaking out the paper again. “If you’ll recall just last night I made you—”
“An execution squad,” Dag yelped. “Somebody please call an execution squad.
Every day, when Dag’s parents left, I opened the page Gloria had given me.
“I don’t want to know,” Dag said.
“You’re a little curious.”
“Nope.” He shook his head. He crossed his arms. “Throw it away. Or better yet, burn it, just to make sure the evil is really gone.”
“Today’s offering,” I began.
“Don’t you dare.”
“This is part seven in a ten-part series.”
“Please stop.”
“Is there a doctor in the house?” I quoted from the title. “Helping your man be a sexual commando from the hospital bed.”
“You are a monster.”
“Part seven has a subtitle.”
“I will do whatever you want,” Dag said. “I will have your babies.”
“Pass,” I said. “Part seven: don’t let that cafeteria food go to waste.”
Dag pretended to vomit over the bed rail.
“There’s a whole section on Jell-O,” I said.
At night, after we’d eaten whatever food I’d brought in—at Dag’s request—and with the TV playing a sitcom quietly, we’d just sit. We didn’t really need to talk. I’d done a lot of talking over the last couple of years, and I didn’t feel the need to do any more. Dag seemed ok with that. Most of the time, he just wanted to hold my hand, and sometimes he’d hold it really tight, and sometimes he’d kiss my knuckles, and sometimes he’d turn my hand over and run his fingers up the inside of my arm.
“What are you going to do now?” Dag asked.
“Probably head to your parents’ house in a little bit.”
“No,” he said with a smile. “Big picture.”
“Oh.” I thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”
His fingers dragged up and down my arm.
“I guess,” I said, “my life kind of stopped after everything with Gard and my parents. For a while, I was just treading water. Then I met Richard. After that, everything happened fast: we were dating, we were serious, I was moving in. I think I needed a lifeline. I mean, obviously he had his own reasons too. I’m twenty-two, and I feel like I haven’t had a life of my own.”
Dag made a small noise; his fingers kept moving.
“I did the club scene after high school,” I said. “You know, until my family died. And I was with Richard. But I never really dated. I never lived on my own. I was never an independent, functioning adult.”
“I think you’re pretty independent,” Dag said. “And you’re definitely functioning.”
“I guess we’ll see what my new therapist has to say about that.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Oh, I definitely need a new therapist.”
“No, I mean . . .” Dag seemed to fumble for words. “To be independent? On your own?”
“Yeah. Kind of figure out who I am.”
Dag’s hand stopped. He looked at me, those very soft, very brown eyes holding steady. “I know who you are.”
“You’ve known me for a couple of weeks.”
“I know you. I know you’re brave. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for. You’re tough. You see things through. You don’t give up when you hit roadblocks. You’re funny, and you’re really hard on yourself. You’re maybe the most compassionate person I’ve ever met, and when you’re scared or hurt, you’re brittle and you lash out.”
“You don’t know I’m compassionate.”
“Yes,” he said, “I do.”
My eyes stung. “Dag, I think I should go. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Ok,” he said, but he didn’t release my hand. “I love you.”
In the silence, the