Crossing Borders (46 page)

Michael did understand one thing. He understood it wasn't just the job that had Tristan running scared. Tristan wasn't ready for what Michael represented. He wasn't ready for the life that Michael wanted. Whether that meant that Tristan didn't want to be in love, that he didn't want to pick the first guy he'd been with, or that he wasn't ready to be married to a cop, Michael understood. It meant that the ball was in Tristan's court, and all Michael could do was wait. And that jangling fear that knotted in the center of his chest whenever he thought about it? Was becoming an old friend.

* * *

“I still think this is a dumb-ass idea,” said Emma.

Michael frowned at her, but Ron spoke up. “Aw, now, Emma, the boy just wants to get away for an afternoon. I promise if he hurts too much I'll call you, and you can pick him up in the car.”

“Michael?” asked Emma.

“Yeah, Mama, I'm going to just take it easy and let Ron drive,” he said, putting on his helmet.

“Son, I—”

“I'll be fine. We'll get a little air and some lunch. I can't sit inside the house forever.” Michael thought then,
Well, I can. I probably will
. But not today.

“Well…”

“Emma, it's going to be fine,” said Ron again, pulling on gloves and sweeping a puff of dust off his jeans. Michael gingerly slung his leg over the saddle—okay, that probably wasn't the best idea. “You okay, boy?” he asked Michael, seeing him grimace.

“No, fine. Muscles pulling. Get on, Pop, don't kick me in the balls.” Michael grinned.

“You take all the fun out of everything, boy. You always have.” Ron kicked the Harley to life, settling in and sort of checking things out, getting the feel of Michael on the back of his bike again, like when he was a kid.

They roared around the neighborhood, getting the kinks out, and then out onto the canyon road he'd taken with his Sparky. Michael tried not to hear himself think, tried to just feel the wind rush against him, to feel the sun, shining now through thick, puffy layers of rain clouds. He looked around idly for a rainbow, but whether there wasn't one or he just couldn't see it, he found nothing. They rode east for a while, but kept it short and ended up at Esther's Taco House.

“Stiff?” asked Ron, bringing drinks over. “Here.” He gave Michael a bottle of water.

“Jeez,” said Michael, looking at Ron's beer.

“It's water or nothing for you for a while, boy. Doctor's orders.” That wasn't strictly true, but Michael didn't set him straight.

“Okay, it's fine.” He started putting his carnitas tacos together, adding salsa, making them just the way he liked. “You haven't called me boy for years.”

Ron looked down at his food. “Is it a problem?”

“It feels good.” Michael took that first satisfying bite, juicy and meaty, with the crunch of cabbage instead of lettuce snapping like a sharp peppery snap next to the pork.

“Missed you,” said Ron.

“Me too.”

“Want you happy.”

“Thanks.”

“It's not happening though, is it?” Ron hefted his embarrassingly large burrito and took a bite.

Michael looked at his food, putting his taco down. “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.”

“Sparky loves you,” said Ron. “I see it; hell, everyone sees it. Have some faith.”

“He's not ready, Ron. He's too young.”

“Déjà vu all over again.”

Michael closed his eyes against the pain of that.

“It's not the same,” Ron murmured, putting a hand on his. “You were young, sure, but we didn't fit. Sparky…well, he fits, right? He knows that. He'll come around. But maybe you ought to be a little more patient.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with Ron?”

“Eat,” said Ron. Michael picked his taco up again. “Time you started working out… Sparky is going to notice every ounce of muscle you lose and blame it on the people trying to take care of you.”

“If he comes back.” Michael took a bite and then a sip of water. He had to admit he was feeling a little better.

“Like you actually believe he's gone for good.” Ron's eyes narrowed at him. “If you think like that, it's all just drama. Give him time. He's a rational guy who loves you. Give him a chance to work it out.”

“You know how weird it is to hear you give me romantic advice, don't you? Aren't you the guy who doesn't do romance?”

Ron grinned. “Doesn't mean I don't know it when I see it. But you're right; give me a convenient alley and a guy who doesn't fight back any day.”

“You're hopeless,” said Michael, snatching Ron's beer and finishing it. Okay, he really didn't want to get back on the bike, but he felt better.

“No, Michael, I'm really full of hope where you're concerned, actually,” Ron admitted. “And you owe me a damned beer.”

Michael didn't know what woke him. The faint scratching sound, the beep of the alarm whistling and then being reset, the thunk on the kitchen floor like a bag being dropped, or the sound of the kitchen cabinet where he kept his liquor squeaking. He made his way cautiously to the kitchen, quietly, in case it wasn't Tristan, although he could think of no one else who had a key and his alarm codes. No one who would sneak in at two in the morning to drink his Bushmills. The sight that met his eyes in the dim light coming in from the porch lantern would have been funny if it weren't so sad.

Tristan stood with a crystal glass in his hand, drinking three fingers of whiskey, neat. His hair was tied up in a ponytail, and his face seemed painfully thin, drawn somehow, as if he'd aged. A plain-as-day mask of white skin stretched from ear to ear across his eyes, and the rest of his face was deeply sunburned, even starting to peel. His lips were so chapped, they'd cracked and bled.

“Sparky, I think you've got the whole mask thing wrong. You're supposed to wear it over your skin,” said Michael. “Not on it.”

Tristan looked over. “Hey, Michael.”

Michael came further into the kitchen cautiously, as if he were trying to decide what to do with an unfamiliar dog. “Hey, Tristan.”

“I went boarding at Snow Summit.” Tristan wrapped both hands around his glass.

“When did you start drinking?”

“I haven't, really; I've just been cold for four days.”

“I see. Did it snow while you were there? It rained here.”

“Yeah, it was great, fresh powder. Crowded, though.”

“I'll bet. You stayed up there?”

“Yeah.”

A silence descended on the room, and Michael shook himself out of it. “Hey, where are my manners? Come into the living room.”

“Michael—” began Tristan.

“No.” Michael cut him off. He stepped forward. “No. Don't say anything yet, okay?” He was such a coward. “Let me get a drink, and you can get comfortable. You can get comfortable here still, right?”

“Sure. What do you want to drink?”

“I'll get it,” said Michael. “Just go have a seat before you fall down.”

“Yeah. I am tired, I guess.” Tristan left his bag where it was and went to the living room, kicking off his boots and stretching his hands toward the fire.

Michael watched as Tristan sank into the couch tiredly, and he hoped in his heart that his boy felt glad to be home. “Should you call your family and let them know you're back in town?” asked Michael, carrying his own drink and a bag of chips with a bowl of salsa into the room.

“Nah, I called Mom earlier and told her…I said I would come straight here.”

“Oh.” Michael was surprised. He no longer had any idea what to expect. He pulled a small table up and set down the drink and chips, then found a comfortable spot on the opposite end of the sofa from Tristan and just waited. He hated that he grabbed a throw pillow and covered his abdomen with it like armor.

“I tried to find it,” murmured Tristan, so softly Michael could barely hear.

“What?”

“What you saw. You said you looked it in the face, and it changed you. Something…I don't know. Am I crazy?” Tristan raked his hand through his hair, forgetting he'd tied it. He yanked the elastic out and shook his head. He looked so tired.

“Tristan, I don't understand,” said Michael, worried a little. Tristan clearly hadn't taken very good care of himself; he had dark, smudgy shadows under his eyes, and he looked ill.

“I rode that mountain like a maniac, Michael. I exhausted myself. I took stupid chances. I kept thinking that if I could face what you faced, then I could find you where you are.”

“
Tristan
,” breathed Michael, afraid he'd throw up.

“I wanted to know what it was like.” He was quiet for a long time. “Anyway, I never found it.”

“What could you possibly learn from putting yourself in danger?” Michael tried to hide his anxiety.

Tristan tensed. “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea,” he said, putting his drink on the table. Michael noticed he'd sipped it very slowly; half of it was still there.

Michael wiped his tired eyes with the heels of his hands. “Look, no. I'm sorry. Relax. I'm trying to understand.”

Tristan sank back into the couch. “The only thing I realized is, it was a hell of a lot easier to give my body to the mountain, with no expectation that the mountain would be gentle, than it is to give my heart to you.”

Michael didn't breathe. The only sound was the pop and crackle of the wood in the fire.

Tristan went on. “I wanted to look losing everything in the face so I could stop being so damned afraid of losing
you
.”