Copyright © 2026 J.P. Russell. The author asserts the application of all U.S. and associated international copyright protections and all rights to this original work of fiction. Do not reproduce without explicit written permission, etc.
Blue Moon with Heartache
It was a while before my folks came in with my food, and they only had to take one look at me to know what happened; I had no doubt that Grady had already broached the topic with them when I was sedated. Mom came over and put a comforting hand on my right shoulder before fluffing my pillow and helping me sit up to eat. Dad put down the tray and said, “I’m going to give Mark a call and let him know we should be home in a couple of days.”
He stepped out, and Mom said, “You want to talk about it?” I shook my head. “Okay. Later then. Better eat something if you want to get out of here.”
The last thing I wanted to do was eat, but she was right. They’d brought me cottage cheese with peaches, some orange Jell-O, and a banana. I ate it all without tasting, and then Nick came in to help me to the bathroom to get the catheter out and try to go to the bathroom on my own. My legs were shaky, but we managed without too much difficulty, and for all that he was gorgeous he was also completely professional and skilled at his job, which I appreciated, especially when he addressed the excruciating but blessedly brief catheter removal.
Between the pain in my arm and the ache in my heart, I didn’t get the best sleep, but I was doing well enough—at least physically—for Dr. Ayoub to sign my release the next afternoon. The plan was to stay that night at Cousin Judy’s place, then to head home early the next morning. As my folks got my stuff together, Nick disconnected me from the various monitors and helped me get dressed and into the wheelchair. When I protested that I could walk, he said, “No can do, buckaroo—it’s hospital policy. The concussion was minor, but we don’t need you getting dizzy and ending up back here with acute head trauma when you’re so close to freedom. Believe me, it’s happened.”
I relented, and Nick bent down close. “Don’t give up on love, kiddo,” he said quietly, giving me a knowing look. “We’ve survived by fighting to be who we are and to love how we want to. But we’ve got to do more than just survive—we’re here to thrive, too. When it’s real, hold onto it. And what I saw when that gorgeous man was looking after you was real. Sometimes it just takes a little while for love to get the better of fear. He'll come around.”
My lips quivered. “I hope so. Thanks for everything, Nick.”
“Hey, what’s a fabulous auntie for if not to dispense unsolicited queer wisdom of the ages?” he grinned, shooing me and my parents down the hall to the elevators. “Okay, kiddo, get out of here and don’t come back unless it’s to hand-deliver my invitation to your wedding.”
Dad wheeled me down to the main floor, where we had to check out and arrange a payment plan for my treatment. My folks were uncharacteristically quiet, and we were all hyper-aware that this was going to be rough. We knew a few families who had to declare bankruptcy because of a short, uninsured hospital stay. And given that snakebite treatment wasn’t a common procedure and that I'd had complications I had no doubt it also wouldn’t be cheap. But my parents didn’t complain. It’s what we did for our loved ones. More reasons I was grateful to them.
I could tell Mom was incredibly nervous by the way she got very businesslike and almost haughty with the woman at the check-out desk, as if armoring herself for bloody battle. But the woman had a confused expression when she typed my name. “Says here there’s nothing owing.”
Mom leaned forward. “That can’t be right. He was here for three days; ambulance from….”
The woman typed again, and she nodded. “I can see the procedures list, but there’s nothing owing. It’s fully paid, Mrs. McBride. A Mr. Kinsley came in early this morning and settled the account. You’re free to go.”
I couldn’t stop the sob from bubbling up, but I bit my hand and tried my best to suppress it: I knew exactly where that money came from and what it had been meant for. Mom looked like she was going to start crying too, and even Dad offered a quiet, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Mom thanked the woman and we made our way to the waiting area in stunned silence. Dad handed the truck ticket to the valet, they helped me into the front passenger seat, and we drove to Cousin Judy’s old Craftsman bungalow in the Old Colorado City neighborhood.
I didn’t know Judy too well, but in appearance and attitude she was Mom’s exact opposite: where Mom was short, Judy was tall; where Mom was solid, Judy was lanky. Mom still kept a short ‘70s housewife bouffant, but Judy kept her long salt-and-pepper hair in a thin braid that reached almost to her waist in continuing tribute to her hippie past. Judy jabbered like a magpie, a constant stream of observation that left little room for silence or reflection. But she was lovely, and she fussed over me and wanted all the details of the incident as we sat down to a fried chicken dinner. When she drifted into the topic of Grady I excused myself from the table—I just couldn’t bear small talk right now. Fortunately, she took it as an effect of the hospital visit, so she just yammered on to Mom while Dad helped me down the hallway to the room I’d be staying in.
“I swear that woman would talk a stone deaf,” Dad grumbled. He was a quiet man and didn’t care for unnecessary chatter, and Judy agitated him.
“I don’t think she’s taken a breath the whole time we’ve been here,” I agreed. Dad chuckled and helped me sit on the bed. My shoulder was pulsing again; my meds were wearing off. But I didn’t want to take them yet. I just wanted to be alone in the quiet.
Dad seemed to understand. “Need anything?” he asked.
I shook my head wearily. “Nothing you can give me.”
“Give it time, son.” He squeezed my good shoulder with a gnarled, sun-browned hand and left the room. I sat watching the last of the daylight stream through the open blinds until Mom came with my meds and helped put me to bed.
We left early the next morning and the ride back was pleasant. My folks were in a good mood, and I’d come to accept where things were with Grady, at least somewhat. We weren’t in any hurry, so we stopped for lunch and a few pee and snack breaks on the way. I was still weak and sore, but we managed okay at a leisurely pace. The weather was nice, and we listened to the classic country station and even sang a few song together, which we hadn’t done since I was a kid. Mom and I did great harmonies with Patsy and Loretta and anything before 1990, but we struggled when Garth and Shania came on.
The only time I got emotional was when we were close to town and I saw the turnoff for County Road 12 and Saddle Mountain Ranch. I turned to the window and stared sniffling into the distance until we got to the house, where Mark came bounding to the truck to help me in. Uncle Dennis nodded warmly, and even Mom’s ratty terrier mix Princess seemed happy I was home.
Mark could tell I was sore, so he went slowly. I knew him well enough to know that he was just dying to know about the accident, but I wasn’t in a talking mood after a long day in the truck, and he didn’t press it. He opened the door for me, but I stopped when I saw the four boxes stacked on my bed.
He smiled apologetically. “Grady dropped these off earlier.”
I glared at the boxes with growing anger. “Didn’t even do me the courtesy of waiting until I was home. Didn’t know he was that eager to get rid of me.”
Mark held his hands up, “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, Ben. Besides, he looked pretty rough. I don’t think he brought them by because he wanted to.”
I wasn’t in the mood to be generous. “Sure. Whatever. Could you just help me get them off the bed? I want to lay down.”
“Okay,” he said with a shrug. He didn’t bristle at my tone; it was almost impossible to offend Mark, who had a healthy sense of self and didn’t readily take on other peoples’ emotions. He shifted the boxes around while I unpacked my hospital bag. After a few minutes he asked, “What do you want me to do with this?”
“What?” I grunted, not looking, trying unsuccessfully to open my dresser with one hand.
“This painting?”
My heart caught in my throat. I spun around to see Mark examining a familiar canvas with an appraising eye. “Hey, this is really good. Did Grady paint this?”
I nodded, trembling.
“Daaaaang—I should get him to do one for me. Does he do animals? I’d like a bull elk, maybe, or a bighorn sheep.” He set the canvas on the windowsill facing my bed. I could only stare at the picture. “You good in here?”
“Yeah,” I said, barely able to speak. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Okay. I’m going to grab something to eat. Picked up a couple of pizzas if you want any.” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled the door shut behind him, leaving me alone with Grady’s painting. It was the one of his younger self standing in the canyon, the one I’d admired so much before we made love that first time, before he’d been woven so fully into my body and my heart that I didn’t know how I’d ever untangle myself from him, or if I even wanted to.
I trembled as I drew my finger along the edge of the picture frame, trying to take in every brush stroke, every changing hue, every textured shadow, as if I could use them to summon a version of Grady that would stay. I stared at the hopeful boy he’d once been, thought of the wounded man he’d become, fell into memories of what we’d had and the broken dreams of what we might have been together.
It was all too much. I laid down on the bed, curled onto my right side, and cried myself to sleep.
----------
Between physical therapy, doctor appointments, and getting ready for the fall semester, the next few weeks kept me busy, which was good, because otherwise I was pretty certain I’d lose my mind thinking about Grady. My recovery was proceeding well enough. Mom, Dad, and Mark all helped out with wound care—Uncle Dennis steadfastly refused to have anything to do with it—and with regular exercises I was staring to have more mobility in the arm. But it was slow going, and painful, and I accepted that I’d have to get accessibility accommodations for the semester, if not the full academic year. I was just glad it wasn’t my dominant writing arm. Mom convinced me that a full load for the fall wasn’t realistic right now, so although I’d wanted to graduate in the spring I reconciled myself to summer classes, though I had no idea how I was going to pay for those now.
We were all looking forward to me going to school. Mom and Dad thought it would do me good, as I’d gotten pretty mopey and surly being home all the time. Dennis snapped at me once or twice—he had little time for people “feeling sorry for themselves all the damn time”—and even Mark seemed frustrated that I wasn’t suddenly back to my old happy self.
Truthfully, so was I. I didn’t like me any more than they did. And it didn’t help that everything reminded me of Grady, especially at night, when I missed him most of all. It wasn’t just the sex—although that was certainly part of it—it was the cuddling, the sharing, the kissing, the tender looks and the secret little jokes. It was like the better half of my personality had been suddenly ripped away, leaving the sad, lonely, resentful part behind.
But I never turned the painting around or put it away in a closet. I couldn’t. I stared at it until I fell asleep each night, willing Grady to feel my love and pain and hunger. And it was the first thing I looked at when I woke up, hoping that he might drive past, our eyes would meet, and he’d come back into my life.
But that didn’t happen. I couldn’t drive now, so someone else had to chauffeur me around. My new license had been in one of the boxes that Grady dropped off, but it didn’t do me any good, and I didn’t even use it for buying alcohol—I knew that was a dangerous direction, and as much as I missed him the idea of drinking the pain away seemed a lot worse in the long run.
We saw Grady’s truck from a distance a few times, but it was like he was a ghost—he’d appear and then vanish, and we never got close enough for him to see me. Mom said he almost completely stopped coming to the Honeybee, except for one time, when he dropped off an envelope for her to give to me. I tore it open when she handed it over, but it wasn’t a long love letter or plea for reconciliation—it was a check, with a note at the bottom that said, “final pay.” It was for a wildly generous amount—way too generous for the work I’d done at the end. But it also felt like such a cold, almost cutting goodbye.
I couldn’t decide whether I was devastated or furious, but I settled on furious. It was one thing to end our relationship like he did, but to just cut me a big check and not even say goodbye, or fuck off, or go to hell? I didn’t think he could be so cruel, but I was going to let him know just what I thought of it, and him.
I asked Mark to drive me to the ranch. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Ben,” he said hesitantly. “I mean, you’re pretty pissed off. You’re probably going to say something you’ll regret.”
“Oh, I’ll say something, all right,” I fumed. “But I guarantee I won’t regret it. Please? I just want to be done with this once and for all.”
He reluctantly agreed. Mom didn’t say anything. I could see in her expression that she thought this was a mistake, but I didn’t care. Grady had taken the choice away from me once already—he wouldn’t do it again.
So Mark and I got in his Bronco and headed up the valley. I spent most of the drive thinking of all the cutting things I was going to say, preparing for any response: tears, rage, denial. But as we got closer and the fence we’d worked so hard to fix finally came into view, my anger started to melt away, replaced by something messier, harder to hold. Waves of grief started lapping at my heart, getting stronger as we drove closer and happier memories crowded in.
Mark pulled onto the Saddle Mountain Ranch driveway. “Stop,” I said. “Please.” He put on the brakes and let the Bronco idle. A big black sign with orange letters had been nailed to the fencepost. FOR SALE BY OWNER. Grady’s phone number was just below it.
I looked toward the house. In the distance ahead I could see my sanctuary, my happy place, the place where love found me unexpectedly. A place I’d once called home because he belonged to it. Soon the ranch would be gone, and with it everything I’d imagined we might have been.
My breath hitched. Grady stood beside his truck looking out at the road, looking out at us. He knew what Mark’s Bronco looked like. He knew who was sitting outside looking in.
It was too much. I didn’t have any anger left, just sadness and exhaustion.
Mark shot me a glance. “What do you want to do, Ben? Your choice.”
I took off my glasses and wiped my eyes. Without my prescription lenses I couldn’t see Grady standing there, watching us, waiting. Everything was now a welcome blur. “Let’s just go home.”
“Home it is,” Mark sighed, pulled back into the road, and drove us back to town.
