For the last ten years, I’ve gone back to that night many times. Not because I had any regrets about changing my life for the absolute worst by doing what I did, but because it was the last time I saw Adrian in flesh and blood. And there was blood, a lot of it. Only not his. Thankfully, not his, as I learned later.
I made a pact with God that night. There’s a big different between faith and religion, and it took that to happen for me to understand it. Faith is only between you and God, and it is you who chooses what your God is like. Mine was a merciful one that night, because he allowed Adrian to survive in exchange for my absolute faith.
Religion has nothing to do with it. It’s all bullshit. But once you’re back to being that savage, the precursor of man, scared shitless by lightning, you understand what true faith is.
Adrian tried to see me. He came to the prison many times, but I refused until he gave up. Because I was educated, my daily job involved mostly clerical work, which meant that I had access to a computer. That was how I kept in touch with what he was doing, out there in the world, without me.
Without his knowing, I continued to be with him. I watched him grow into the big artist he was meant to be. I was with him when he received the first accolades for his work.
I stopped being with him when he got married. At least he chose a husband, not a wife. I don’t know why that made it better – maybe I did make him completely gay, after all – but it did.
Today is the day I’m walking back into the world as a free man. I have no idea what to do with my life. I have no place to call home. And there’s no one to care about me, but I’m fine with that, too. I paid my dues, so my life is my own now.
I do know one thing, though. I know where I’m going to go first.
***
The gallery isn’t crowded at this time of the day. I spent most of the money I had to get here, but I have zero regrets. I’m walking slowly, admiring each piece, perusing it and learning more about Adrian and how he’s lived for the past ten years than if I talked to him directly.
That growth, that solidification of his talent is apparent in each of his paintings. He’s painting men, most of the time, so others are posing for him now the way I used to, back when we were in college. Is his husband among them? I can’t tell. Despite my inclination to indulge in self-flagellation, once I learned the news that he got married, I didn’t torture myself by watching pictures of him with his new love.
At least, I know for a fact that not one single man in these paintings is his muse. Not because they aren’t gorgeous, but because they always have someone else in them. Yes, it should be little satisfaction that I wasn’t replaced entirely, but for me, it is the best feeling I’ve known in a long time.
I come to the end of the gallery, and I stop, dead in my tracks. Because I’m now facing myself.
Not myself-myself, obviously. It is the painting Adrian showed me on his laptop those many years ago, only augmented, improved, with many additions. It takes up the entire wall from the ceiling to the floor. I walked around, looking at every painting, without looking in its direction once, so that’s how I missed it.
But once I see it, I can’t look at anything else. It takes my breath away. That’s me alright. The dark eyes, the corners of my mouth tugging downward. I can see why Adrian used to call me pretty. Are there any signs of that person in the man I am today, a specimen with corded muscles, buzz cut hair, and much rougher skin?
I don’t know why, but I love watching this more than anything. Call me vain, but it means a lot that I’m still here, in the shape of Adrian’s masterpiece. I call it love, the best kind there is. In this painting, I’ll always be forever young and the version Adrian liked so much back then.
“Sir,” a voice called from behind, anxious and authoritarian. “You can’t be this close to the exhibits.”
It must be the gallery custodian, a young woman by the sound of her voice.
“I’m only looking,” I reply. I know how I must look to her, a ruffian in bad clothes. Most likely, someone who is here to steal something. “How much for this?” I ask, just to rub her the wrong way.
“That is not for sale,” she announces in an icy tone. “Please, sir, step back. Or I will have to call security.”
The security is an old man with a sizeable paunch for a belly. I can take him with my eyes closed. Prison made me mean and fast. Meaner than I was, though that should’ve been a tall order.
“No need,” I said, moving slowly.
I stare at her, and I can tell how nervous I make her. Well, I’m not here to bully her – I don’t care about strangers now any more than I used to care in the past.
“I will see you out,” she says, just to show me that I don’t scare her, which, obviously, is a lie.
I take another look around, as I follow her. Adrian is the artist he’s always dreamed of becoming. And I am a part of it.
“How is that not for sale? Everything else comes with a price tag,” I tell the custodian, who is walking briskly in front. I slow down, not to annoy her, but because these are the last moments I’d ever spend in the company of Adrian’s work, and I want to make them last.
“It is personal for the artist,” she answers, as clipped as she can be.
“If it’s so personal, why doesn’t he hang it at home so only he can stare at it?”
A soft laugh, coming from my left, stops both me and the custodian.
“That’s actually a smart idea.”
I stare at Adrian, because he’s here. He’s the one who’s talking and laughed earlier at my jab. He looks better than ever. He wears glasses now, and hip clothes that are a far cry from his black tees and ripped jeans. But it’s still him, from his green like sin eyes to the way his lips curl so playfully, so knowingly, so able to go straight to my heart.
Does he recognize me? Our eyes meet, and I dare to hope for the first time in ten years.
“How are you, brother?” he asks me. He tells the custodian something, who immediately changes her tune and disappears. I don’t pay much attention.
“Good,” I answer.
“Still a man of few words, aren’t you?” he says. He places a hand on my shoulder. “You got out today.”
“How do you know?”
“I memorized the date,” he replies.
I’m so caught up in looking at him. I have no business walking back into his life now, but I can’t move, either. And if I wasn’t hoping to see him, why did I come here? Let’s not be a total hypocrite, Jordan.
“Now that you expressed your opinion on my invaluable piece,” he continued, saying nothing about my obvious awkwardness, “how about you put your money where your mouth is?”
He’s being funny. I think I’m down to my last five dollars, so it mean nothing if I throw all of my impressive wealth in the game.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
We talk like two people who last saw each other yesterday.
“It means,” he says while guiding me back to the end of the gallery, “that you will have to help me take it down and then prepare it for transportation. You’re right. I should have it at home since it’s so personal.”
I don’t ask a thing. I’ll always do whatever he wants me to do. Except see me in prison. Or consider himself indebted to me. You saved my fucking life, Jo! Those angry words written in the only letter I received from him.
***
“Now you’ll have to come with me,” Adrian says after our hard work is done. We don’t talk much, but it looks like it doesn’t bother him at all. He’s not asking questions, and he doesn’t make me feel bad about my choices. Yes, he’s grown up a lot.
“To your house?” I ask.
“Yes, there,” he replies promptly, giving me a side glance that makes my heart go faster.
“What about your husband? Will he be okay with having people over all of a sudden?”
Adrian quirks an eyebrow in surprise, but it fades quickly. “I’m sure he’ll be fine with it once I have a talk with him.”
It sounds a bit aggressive, the way he says it, but I’m no judge of marriages and whatnot. After today, I will be out of Adrian’s life for good, so why not indulge him in whatever thanks he most likely has in store for me?
***
His house is as artsy as he is, with many pieces on the walls, everywhere you look, and modern furniture that’s surprisingly comfortable.
“If you want to wash your hands, use the bathroom upstairs,” Adrian says. “I bet you’re hungry, so I’ll have something ready in a bit.”
Does he intend to cook? For me?
“You don’t have to go out of your way for my sake,” I say.
He’s at the fridge and takes out casseroles with already cooked food. I suppose his husband likes to have something ready to eat when he comes home from work. As far as I recall, he works for a big company or something like that. Quite a mundane choice for Adrian, if you’re asking me. But no one is asking me, and it should stay that way.
I spend some time in the bathroom, staring at my face in the mirror. I look so out of place in this white place, surrounded by beautiful things – because I bet even the toilet bowl was chosen to fit a design established by Adrian. And everything is in perfect condition. I’m the only broken thing in here.
The scar under my left eye will always be there. My lips are dry and thin now. Many other places on my body carry marks and fading scars. This is me, so different from the Jordan that will live forever in Adrian’s painting. And this version, the flesh and blood one, has no business being here. If Adrian’s husband sees me, he’s going to think that his better half has gone mad.
The door opens and Adrian stares at me for a moment before walking in. He comes behind me and wraps his arms around my shoulders. A soft sigh follows and then he kisses the side of my neck.
“Are you crazy?” I ask.
We look at each other in the mirror. It pains me to see us like this, so close. But it is the kind of pain that does me in, so I accept it.
“About you, maybe,” he says, smiling and running his hand over my head.
My skin prickles, but in a pleasant way.
“Where is your husband? What is he going to think--”
His cool hand comes over my mouth, shutting me up. Then, he slowly raises a hand, pointing at my reflection in the mirror.
“This is my husband. You’re looking at him right now.”
I am stuck in place. It’s numbness, I can tell, but one that comes not from a terrible shock, but the opposite of it, which I have no idea how to describe. I grab Adrian’s hand and pull it downwards, away from my mouth.
This time, I look at him, not at his reflection in the mirror. “What are you saying?”
His green eyes are everything I see. In a moment, we are back to the time we first met. There’s nothing else between him and me, only this look he gives me that goes straight to my heart.
“Do I really have to explain everything to you, dummy?” he scolds me, but his voice is filled with tenderness, not annoyance.
“Yeah, you better,” I say.
“I’m not married,” he says, as he continued to caress my head. “No longer married.”
“What happened?” Has Adrian lost more than I know?
He shrugs. There’s no sadness in his eyes. “You ruined me, Jo,” he says, this time more seriously. “I did try to be normal, since you were so stubborn and didn’t let me back into your life. Everyone insisted I should move on… but I couldn’t.”
“Adrian,” I whisper, “for my sake? Really?”
“Shut up, you narcissist,” he says with the hint of a smile. “It was all for the sake of my art,” he adds, but I know he’s only half-lying. “Once I decided to be whatever others wanted me to be, I turned into an absolute dullard. And I started creating some really shitty art.”
“You’re just saying. You’re an amazing artist. I just visited your exposition.”
“Exhibition, you mean.”
“Sorry, I didn’t go to school much,” I quip.
He laughs and I relax. Because he holds me so tightly, I’m at no risk at falling.
“I became amazing only after I got a divorce,” Adrian says. “No one can feed my darkness the way you can, Jo.”
“I am a criminal,” I remind him.
“One by necessity,” he shoots back.
“According to the prosecutor, necessity wasn’t behind what made me bash that guy’s head in.”
“I’m not the prosecutor,” Adrian reminds me. He kisses my neck again. I can tell he’s breathing me in, as if he could take the whole of me and make me his own through this act of inhalation alone.
He doesn’t have to do that, because I already belong to him, body and soul.
“Adrian,” I call out for him, so softly that I don’t know if he heard me.
“Not another word, Jo. There are no bars keeping me out of your life now. So don’t give me shit. I’ll keep you hostage if that’s what will take. Let them send the fucking SWAT to pull you out. I won’t give up on you. Yes, I’ll be that artist who’s gone mad because of love. Will you stay without making me lose my fucking shit?”
I tremble slightly, even though his body is warm and he holds me so close to him.
“I’ll stay,” I promise.
That was the deal after all, the one I made with God. Ten years of my life and all my misery forever. But I told you already that my God is merciful. He just threw happiness on the table as a bonus, and I’m not about to walk out without it.
tbc
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