Shame slides through my veins like molten worms. How did I not see this coming? How could I let myself be tricked in this way? I want to scream, hideous words for the hideous monster.
There’s another soft knock on the door, the same three beats. And the voice again, “William, I’m sorry.” The monster’s voice is slow and broken. The monster has Martin’s soothing,grounding tone, and is using my full first name. It’s too much to take in.
I will not be tricked again! I won’t fall back into that trap. I try to wipe away the embarrassment with my wrist, but it’s sticky like dried honey. I don’t respond, which seems to work this time because the monster is quiet. No more knocking. No more hideous, soothing voice. I hear footsteps shuffling away from the door slowly, then nothing.
The room closes in a little tighter and the sofa holds me tight. The silence outside my door won’t stop.
I’m left alone with my knees.
I guess I fall asleep, curled in a ball on the far end of my sofa because I awaken with a start and some confusion about where I am. The room is completely dark and it takes me a minute to piece together that the small blue lights from the kitchen and the glow from somewhere behind the TV indicate that I am actually in my living room. My face is sticky with tears and my insides ache.
I make my way to the bedroom, working mostly from spatial memory, hoping there is no obstacle in my way, feeling for the doorway. My knee locates the end of the bed softly and I make my way to the side table, flipping on the lamp with a click. What I see makes me freeze in place.
The book. On my nightstand. Right where I left it.
The stolen book.
I’m not sure how long I stand looking at the book through blurred vision, unmoving, but my brain is functioning slower than normal. I pick up the book slowly and flip through the pages mindlessly, fanning them against my thumb. I land on the cover page with its sloppy message written in blue pen. Written by Martin. In Martin’s messy blue scrawl.
The words blur in and out of focus several times. The heat in my neck begins to rise again. I don’t know if it’s anger or shame, but I feel it bubbling up from my core. I try to stop it. I can’t process any more mental replays tonight.
I flip to the next page, the first chapter, and mindlessly start reading. At first, I welcome the escape, a mental break from my emotional treadmilling. But then, I become engrossed in it.
This book is about two stepbrothers, well, actually two men who grow up together in the same foster home. I can’t put it down. The brotherhood these two men share through their life warms my heart.
I discover that I’m still standing. By the bedside table. Seventy pages into the book and I can’t stop reading.
I read about the small things they do for each other to simply stay sane in their crazy world. The older boy protects simple things like sleep and meals so the younger one does well on the important moments at school. He never finds out. The younger boy fronts the cost of sports fees for the older without him knowing. In a family where they have been pieced together randomly, they become the only family that each other has, and they do it secretly for each other.
I’m deep into the book when I realize the sunlight is leaking through the windows and I’m leaning on the edge of the bed, entranced by these two characters. I suddenly realize that I can’t go to work this morning. I’ve been up all night, I can’t leave this story. I get on the phone and make arrangements for work to function without me until noon, at least. Then I grab my book, plop myself against the wall by the bedroom door and disappear again into the pages.
There is an ache in their relationship, these two men. Their entire life, each man sacrifices for the other and they never find out. It remains a secret kept between them, or rather, from them. They love each other, and they simply never know. Or say.
I turn another page and realize a beam of sunlight from the window has crawled all the way across the floor and has enveloped me. I’m sitting in a square of sunlight, dust particles swimming in the beam. I exhale and watch them spiral. I dog-ear the page and slowly flip back to the cover page, nearly blinding in the harsh light.
The blue pen.
The scrawling words.
Martin’s handwriting.
I lean my head against the wall, book in my lap, and watch the air spiral. It feels like I’m underwater.
I love him.
The words float in the mystic air, in the ray of sunlight that engulfs me.
And in this calm whirlwind my world shifts.
I would sacrifice anything for him, give up everything to make certain that he could thrive. I begin to see things clearly in the spiraling brightness. It’s been right in front of me this whole time. Of course, my secret person is Martin! He was my secret person long before that first note on my doorstep. Every time I’ve needed someone, he’s been there. He was with me when I was new to the city, through the start of my job at Pratney, through the lonely times being away from my family and old friends. And all I’ve ever wanted is to be there for him too. When his mom died, my heart broke with his. I love him more than I’ve loved anything in my whole life.
I love him.
I can’t stop the words. They keep repeating, floating in the particles around me, shimmering in the light.
I look back to the writing in the front cover, and I see it. I see the person who is Martin in everything we did together, everything we did separately. The brownies and the pay-it-forward. The street fair and the thrift store. And the karaoke.
That was where it shifted. Every task before that was just some simple fun. Go get something. Have an adventure. And then it shifted; it became something bolder. He believed in me. He knew what I could become, what I was capable of if I just believed in myself too. Then the tasks became about living life to the fullest, stretching and enjoying the moments that make us who we are. And every time I wanted only one thing: Martin. I wanted him to be there, to share the moment with him. To channel his wisdom and energy. To be with him. And for him to be with me. For me to be his William.
