My lips brush against the blond strands of his hair and I close my eyes, drawing his scent deep into my lungs. “I’m so proud of you.”
He lets out a broken laugh. “Thank you.”
We stand there for a while longer. Me holding on to him. Him soaking up my touch. It’s nice. Better than nice.
Walter’s crashes were always dramatic and painful. They involved panic over what and how much crap ran through his veins, followed by long nights of care.
Sam falls, but he doesn’t fall apart. His strength is spent, but still intact. Catching him this way soothes something deep inside me. A need to care for someone, to keep them whole.
When he finally pulls away, Sam’s long fingers wrap around mine. “I want to show you something.”
I follow as he leads me down the hallway and into what appears to be a spare bedroom. Rounding the foot of the bed, he slides open a door to reveal what would have, at some point, been a walk-in wardrobe.
“This is my private meditation space.”
The space is relatively large, about two metres by three. There’s no sign of the usual clothing racks. Instead, the two longer walls are hung with bright blue mandala tapestries. The back wall is white, with some simple wooden shelves to hold books and candles. A couple of fake plants provide colour. The wooden floor is covered with a plush rug and several thick floor cushions. Sam flicks a switch, and a pendant light comes on overhead. The light is cast through what looks to be a Moroccan-style lampshade, creating motifs on the ceiling and walls. The effect is subtle, but ethereal somehow. Like we’ve been transported to the place where serenity goes to lounge about in its spare time.
Sam watches me, though his head is still lowered and his body is rigid. Does he think I’ll make fun of him? That I won’t understand his need for a place that’s hidden from the world? I understand more than he’ll ever know.
“This is beautiful.” I keep my voice low, not wanting to disturb the peace of the tiny space. It would be like yelling inside a church.
A breath escapes Sam’s chest and his shoulders lower. “Thank you.”
He gestures to the cushions and we sit, facing each other with our legs crossed. “I created this place when I first had the idea for the app. I’d read closets are a good place to record at home, fewer echoes. So I bought a decent microphone and started practising.” He points to the corner behind me, where his recording equipment is neatly arranged.
“I assumed you hired a recording studio.”
He shakes his head. “Couldn’t afford it, but this works. At least, no one has complained about the quality of the recordings.”
“Trust me, when you speak, echoes and background noises are the last thing anyone’s thinking about.” I didn’t mean for that to sound dirty, but when I lift my gaze, a tinge of pink is detectable on Sam’s cheeks.
Not wanting to make him uncomfortable, I try to lighten the mood.“You know, openly gay men don’t usually spend so much time in a closet.”
He grins. “It never occurred to me to spend time in the metaphorical closet. Mum accepted me, I assumed others would, too. Which hasn’t always been the case, but I have no regrets there.” His eyebrows lift in question. “What about you?”
“For a while,” I say with a shrug. “Then I got caught kissing a boy while drunk at a high school party. There wasn’t much point denying it after that.”
“Did the other students give you a hard time?”
A bitter laugh bubbles up through my chest but I tamp it down. “Sometimes. But they had better reasons to hate me. I was used to people talking behind my back, staring when I walked past. Being out didn’t change my life overly much.”
Sam frowns as he puts a hand over mine on my knee. The questions are there in his eyes.Why did people hate you? What happened? What did you do?
His mouth opens, but I beat him to the punch. “You use this place for more than recording now?”
He stops, and then a barely perceptible nod acknowledges my right to keep my past to myself. “I do,” he says, looking around the room. “There’s so much I struggle to do. Talking to new people, going out, doing stuff. It’s tiring, always having to work so hard to do things other people do without thought. When I’m in here, I can just be.” He smiles, and there’s an ease to it I’ve never seen before.
“When you’re leading your class, you make it seem so easy. Sitting there, being you. Like nothing can touch you.”
He watches me for a long moment. “Your thoughts can’t hurt you, Tristan. Not by themselves.” He’s said those words to me before, but apparently I need reminding.
“My thoughts could,” I whisper. “If I let them. I’m not brave like you.”
Both our hands are joined now, our fingers threaded together over my knees. This time, the tremor isn’t coming from his side. Why am I saying these things? He brought me here to show me his sanctuary, and I’m treating it like a confessional.
“You are brave,” he says with quiet insistence. “I know you’re scared. But you’re here, asking for help when you need it. That’s brave.” A new depth has crept into his tone as we’ve talked. A commanding gentleness I recognise.
“Your voice…” I take a shaky breath, my mouth twitching at the corners. “My siren has arrived.”
