the minute Micah opens the door,

  wearing nothing but a pair of blue

  silk boxers. It’s been a few days

  since we’ve seen each other, and lust

  attacks fiercely, at least for me. Micah,

  however, jerks backward as if looking

  at a monster. Jesus. What happened

  to you? My face. Forgot about that.

  I set down my luggage, close the door.

  “Is that any way to talk to a superhero?”

  I repeat the grisly details, hoping

  my manliness will impress him.

  Unfortunately, it seems to have

  the opposite effect. Seriously, Seth.

  You should have called 911, then run.

  Those guys might have killed you.

  “You sound like David. I couldn’t

  let them annihilate Pippa, could I?”

  His shoulders relax. I guess not.

  So, you really are a superhero.

  “Nah. Just a regular hero. Now,

  where’s my reward?” I push him into

  the bedroom, kiss him hard as I lay

  him down, all the right muscles tensing

  between us. He looks up at me with

  those amber eyes, and a confession

  spills from my lips. “I love you, and

  I want you.” I show him how much,

  and what we share isn’t sex, it’s making

  love. Micah becomes my community.

  Somewhere Mid-Event

  My cell phone rings. I ignore it, though

  the thought briefly crosses my mind

  that it could be important. No way

  as important as this, though, and

  when we finish I’m in no hurry to get

  up. We lie tangled together in mute

  satisfaction. Finally, I ask, “What do

  you think about me moving in here?”

  It’s the first time I mention leaving David.

  Micah’s muscles (all the wrong ones) tense.

  You can stay for a while, of course.

  My main concern is David. If he finds

  out, what would that mean for me?

  Sucker punch. I’d hike hot coals for Micah.

  I roll out of bed, go to find my clothes

  and check to see if that call was critical.

  There’s a voice mail from Aunt Kate.

  Thank God I found you, Seth. You have

  to come home right now. Your father’s

  in the hospital. He doesn’t have much time.

  A Poem by James Buckman

  Coming Home

  To judgment is a concept

  I’m familiar with—

  being that person

  everyone’s

  analyzing, without

  ever once asking straight

  up where you’ve been

  or why you were gone.

  I understand self-medicating,

  playing hide-and-seek with

  a

  personal monster. In my case

  (not to mention my sister’s),

  our father, who returned

  from the Middle East

  conflicts tweaked. So, yeah,

  I indulged in more than a

  little

  booze and pills and powders.

  Anything to shut out

  the noise of his waking

  nightmares. Until I, too,

  went most of the way

  crazy.

  It was a long, hard

  journey back, but if I

  could do it, Whitney can, too.

  Whitney

  Getting Used To

  Flipping out at random

  intervals, for reasons sometimes

  obvious, and other times

  anyone’s guess. I knew

  laser tag was a poor choice,

  all that neon cutting through

  the darkness too reminiscent

  of my time with Bryn and the Lady.

  If not for James, don’t know

  how deep into memory-

  driven insanity I might’ve sunk,

  clutching shallow breath

  as I went under. He saved me

  that night, and I still can’t figure

  out why, let alone the reason

  he wants to see me again.

  Today, I was scratching for a way

  out of the house to escape

  the dual energy of my mom

  and Kyra, who’s home on winter

  break. So when James called

  and asked if I wanted to see

  a movie, I jumped at the chance.

  He’s picking me up at one.

  As long as I can talk Mom into

  letting me out of the house.

  Mom’s in Her Office

  With Kyra, looking at plum

  pudding recipes online.

  They’re planning to cook

  Christmas dinner, too.

  But seriously. Plum pudding?

  Better play nice.

  “What’s wrong with gingerbread,

  or maybe chocolate cream pie?”

  Kyra cocks her head, points

  her chin in my direction.

  I happen to like plum pudding.

  You got a problem with that?

  “Nope. Whatever you want

  is fine by me. But can we please

  have gingerbread, too? Maybe

  Dad can pick it up from the bakery

  if you don’t want to make it.”

  Why should I make it? You can

  follow a recipe, can’t you?

  Why is she always such a bitch?

  Back away, Whitney, back

  away. “I’m happy to give it a try,

  but it probably won’t turn out

  very well. Baking is not my thing.”

  Change the subject . . . now.

  “Hey, Mom. Can I go to the movies?”

  Well, we’re kind of busy here,

  and I thought we might go out

  to dinner later. Finally, she pulls

  her eyes away from the computer

  long enough to notice I’m dressed

  to go somewhere. Oh. Did you

  already make plans with someone?

  “Well, yeah. See, I met this kind

  of amazing guy at the arcade

  the other night.” I never told her

  about the incident. No need to

  mention it now. “You’ll like him.

  He’ll be here any second.”

  You told him you’d go without

  asking Mom first? blasts Kyra.

  “I know I shouldn’t have,

  but I really like him a lot,

  and when he called I was so

  surprised, I just blurted out okay.”

  Okay, Whitney, make it good,

  or Mom will never say you can go.

  “Is it okay, Mom? He’ll come

  in and you can meet him.

  You don’t have to worry,

  by the way. He’s straight edge.”

  I won’t mention it’s because his

  sister OD’d. Mom might worry

  about the genetic factor.

  When the Doorbell Rings

  Mom’s still considering. I let

  James in. “Come meet my mother.

  She’s all worried about me going

  out with you, so put on your best

  perfect gentleman disguise.”

  He grins. What disguise? Mom

  says I was the perfect gentleman

  at conception. No morning sickness,

  short labor. And I’ve only gotten

  better with practice. Sweet. Yep.

  Sweet enough, that in less

  than five minutes, he’s got Mom

  wrapped around his little finger.

  Kyra is tougher, but even she mellows

  and I’m allowed freedom.

  James drives a new-model

  Camaro, burnt orange and spotless.

  He opens the passenger door

  for me, and as I slide into the seat,

  I wonder again what he’s hiding.

  No guy is quite this perfect.

  He’s probably a serial killer

  or something. Wonder if he’s ever

  raped someone. Wonder if

  he’s ever hired a whore.

  Wonder if I’ll ever quit

  thinking like a whore.

  He Takes Me

  To the Del Mar, an amazing

  old Art Deco–style theater

  downtown that plays a lot of

  off-the-wall indie films.

  The one today isn’t new,

  but it is really good. It follows

  a boy from kindergarten

  through high school, and is

  really about relationships—

  how they change with time.

  I don’t freak out when the lights

  go down, so that’s good.

  I like sitting next to sweet James,

  who totally acts the gentleman

  role quite naturally. I’m surprised

  he doesn’t come on to me—don’t

  all guys use a dark theater as

  an excuse to run a hand along

  your thigh? James doesn’t,

  sensing, I guess, my need

  for trust. Is it that obvious?

  After the credits, there’s still

  light left outside. “Want to take

  a walk? I’m not ready to go home

  yet. My sister’s making me crazy.”

  The words are barely out of my

  mouth. Wish my sister was still

  around making me crazy.

  “Jeez, man, I’m sorry. I’m an

  idiot.” Without even thinking,

  I reach for his hand and our

  fingers lace. It’s the first skin-

  on-skin contact I’ve had with

  a man in months, and my initial

  instinct is to pull away. Instead,

  I force myself to hold on, even

  when he takes my other hand,

  too, and coaxes me nearer. It’s

  okay. No need to apologize.

  It was an observation, nothing

  more. Besides . . . He smiles.

  It brought us closer together.

  I didn’t want to rush you.

  I study his eyes, seeking hints

  of serial killer, but find none.

  “Why did you call me? I mean,

  after what happened the other

  night, most guys would run

  screaming in the other direction.”

  Let’s take that walk. He lets go

  of one hand, keeps hold of the other.

  After a few steps, he says, This will

  sound weird, but from the moment

  we started talking, I wanted to reach

  inside you, grab hold of whatever

  is haunting you and smash it to pieces.

  Haunting

  Funny verb to use in that

  sentence, but accurate enough.

  “Is it because of your sister?

  Do I remind you of her?”

  To a point. You’re tough like

  her, on the outside. But she turned

  tough inside, too. There’s more

  vulnerability in you, despite

  what you show the world. Besides . . .

  He stops, turns to face me again.

  I never wanted to do this to my sister.

  He leans toward me, but stops,

  and his eyes ask permission,

  which my eyes grant. His lips

  are soft for a guy, and this kiss

  is gentle, as if he’s afraid to chase

  me away. His instinct is good.

  As nice as the kiss is, it’s all

  I can do not to yank back and run.

  This he senses, too. It isn’t me,

  though, is it? What happened

  to you in Vegas, Whitney?

  Before I can manufacture a word,

  at the end of the block, a pickup

  screeches around the corner. I cower

  at the noise, and that’s when the man

  riding shotgun sticks his head

  out the window. Hey, lovebirds.

  Want a beer? A bottle comes flying,

  smashes into the building beside me,

  as the truck vanishes down the street.

  It all happens so fast, I don’t feel

  myself go down until I land, hard,

  in a pile of brown glass. I do hear

  myself scream. The sound echoes

  along the walls of an invisible tunnel.

  Whitney. The voice finds me

  in the tunnel. Let me help you up.

  James reaches out, and the hand

  that finds mine is familiar. I was

  just . . . holding it? Yes, that’s right.

  He pulls me up and into his arms,

  and I let myself stay there until

  the trembling stops. “I’m sorry.

  I’m a fucking freak.” Passersby

  stop to see what’s going on, and

  someone comes out of the store

  we’re in front of to investigate

  the crashing noise. James handles

  everything, but refuses to let go

  of me. Eventually, explanations

  made, we walk back to his car.

  Again, James opens the door

  for me and I fold into the soft

  leather seat. He comes around,

  settles in beneath the steering

  wheel, where he rests his hands.

  I have to tell him something.

  Just not the whole truth.

  “I . . . I . . . what happened

  in Vegas is that I was sexually

  assaulted, and more than once.

  You can take me home now.”

  He doesn’t move. Thank you

  for telling me. I know that’s hard

  to admit. It wasn’t your fault,

  Whitney. Stop blaming yourself.

  And you’re not a fucking freak.

  If I were to guess, I’d say you

  have PTSD—post-traumatic

  stress disorder. My dad has it,

  too, though it was war-induced,

  and it manifests differently.

  Dad’s disorder-fueled rages

  drove my sister to the boyfriend

  who destroyed her, and pushed

  me toward self-medication. Yeah,

  I get addiction because I was right

  there, too. I fought my way through

  rehab two years ago. It does get

  easier, but only with support.

  I Thank Him

  For understanding. For offering

  his support. Still, the fact remains

  that, PTSD or whatever you call

  it, I’m abnormal. Freakish. Crazy.

  He drives me home, walks me to

  the door. It’s comforting to know

  he does these things, despite

  understanding enough of what

  I experienced to drive most guys

  far, far away. I could never tell

  him the rest. Never admit it to

  anyone, ever. Not even my parents.

  Under the yellowish porch light,

  we say goodbye, and I accept

  his kiss, knowing in my heart

  he’ll never call again. Why would

  he? Why would anyone as sweet

  as James want to spend a single

  second more with disgusting me?

  I go inside to find everyone gone.

  A note informs me they went out

  to dinner and will be home by nine.

  That gives me two hours alone

  to find a way to fill the hollow space

  inside my shell. Music, yes, but

  I don’t want to think. I want to fly,

  and I find my magic carpet inside

  a bottle in Dad’s medicine cabinet.

  Ambien

  As if someone taking it needs

  to know, the label says to take

  one tablet immediately before

  bed, but only if you have a firm

  seven to eight hours to sleep,

  and to expect dizziness in

  the morning. It comes with

  a stiff warning: Do not exceed

  recommended dose. I’ve never

  been real good at following

  directions. Let’s see. I have no-

  where to be tomorrow but here.

  It will be eight o’clock before it

  kicks in, and I can sleep till noon

  if I want to. That gives me sixteen

  hours. So yeah, I’ll take two. I do,

  then replace the bottle exactly

  where I found it before going

  to my room. Screw it. What good

  is staying clean? Your brain has

  too much time to work. Mine

  needs a vacation, especially from

  these lilac walls. What was Mom

  thinking? I strip off my clothes,

  and the air hits my skin, cool.

  I dig through my drawers for

  some warm, comfy clothes,

  choose some soft PJ pants and

  an old favorite sweatshirt.

  About the time I slip beneath

  the covers, plug headphones

  into my phone and turn on

  my music, the Ambien kicks

  in, and hard. My head spins,

  hopefully quickly toward sleep

  because I’m also feeling a bit

  nauseous. Don’t want to throw

  them back up. I close my eyes,

  lie back, thinking about many

  trips to the bathroom in that

  stinking Vegas apartment,

  happily puking and crapping

  right before crawling back

  to the other room to nod off

  into the land of oblivion. Talk

  about a love/hate relationship.

  As I turn onto my side, there’s

  a crinkling noise. Something in

  my sweatshirt pocket. I reach

  in and my hand closes around

  a small piece of heavy paper.

  A business card? Through thick,

  drooping eyes, I read: Perfect

  Poses Photography. Bryn.

  Remembering the day he gave

  me this makes me smile. How

  quickly I fell in love with him.

  He was the only one who ever

  made me feel beautiful. Those

  days, shooting gorgeous photos

  on the beach. Photos of me. Me!