Lion's Lair - 19. What Have I Done?

Although I’d made the decision to share my story with Ryan and committed on Wednesday night to tell him my story on Friday, self-doubt took over on Thursday. By Friday I was almost in full-blown panic attack mode.

What if he hates me for my deception? What if he can’t trust me anymore?

The feeling wasn’t helped when he said he needed to stay at his place Thursday night to do laundry, and be ready for his early morning workout before his afternoon physical therapy session. My sleep that night was far from restful.

Finally, Friday arrived. I was nervous enough that I called him mid-morning just to confirm he’d be coming over. Of course, that was still his plan. Of course, it only momentarily calmed my nerves to hear it. Of course, I was a wreck by the end of the day.

I decided to go make groceries and fix an easy but nice meal of broiled flounder, steamed asparagus, rice pilaf. Dessert would be a French vanilla custard, picked up from a local deli.

It’ll give me something to do until he arrives.

I was cooking in the kitchen when I heard the garage door open and Ryan yell out, “Honey, I’m home.” It sounded different somehow from when he’s said that before, but I still love the way it sounds.

With a gin and tonic in hand, I was focused on finishing the rice, stirring in the remaining ingredients before transferring it to a dish to bake, when he asked, “When’s dinner gonna be ready?” I turned to respond to him—and promptly dropped my drink.

Ryan is standing in the doorway. With crutches, but standing.

I'm frozen in place for a second, tears running down my face before I race over to him, my flip-flops protecting my feet from the broken glass on the floor.

He’s got the biggest grin on his face. I’ve never seen him this happy.

I grab him in an energetic bear hug, lean back and look him in the eye, then kiss him. “When did you get your legs? Why ….?” He’s now about my height, so it’s totally natural the way our bodies fit for the embrace and kiss.

Ryan giggles with the nervous energy of a child excited with a new toy. “These are just ‘demo’ legs; they’re the ones I’ve been practicing on. Talked the doc into letting me get in some extended wear time over the weekend. It’ll help when they fit me for my real legs which are a little taller.”

“Ok, promise you won’t overdo it on them.” The caregiver in me pops out, and it’s still surprising how much I want to take care of Ryan. “I’ll try not to mother you too much, but if there’s something I can do to help, I will”.

“Thanks. But I’ll be honest—this is the best feeling. Watch.” And with that, Ryan leans his crutches against the wall, walks over to the kitchen, opens one of the overhead cabinets, and gets out a glass. “See?” He is beaming as though he’d won the Iron Man Triathlon—and in a way, I guess he has.

“Or this.” He puts the glass down, walks around the kitchen’s island, pulls out a barstool, and sits, then turns to look at me. Again that ear-to-ear smile. “Just like anyone else!”

His excitement is contagious. And totally charming.

“Ok, ok…I get it. Just don’t overdo it, and don’t be running through the house, breaking things—or more importantly—you.”

“Gotcha. I’ll try to be good, but I’ll tell ya, it’s gonna be a challenge.” There’s that grin of his again. And I’m not saying anything more; he’s worked hard to get to this point, he deserves to enjoy it.

Dinner is done quickly, and we do the small talk over the meal by the pool that couples do—catching each other up on the day’s events. One bright spot was a text we both got from Dave; Barry had his facial surgery done and was released mid-afternoon to go home. And, grand re-opening of the bar will be a week from Saturday.

With the meal done, we head back inside for a drink after dinner. There’s an air of expectancy as we move to the screened breezeway—we can no longer stay outside, since the approaching dusk brought out mosquitoes in their own search for dinner.

Ryan lights a cigarette, and gets a sip of his Jack and Coke. “Okay, what’s this secret you want to tell me?” He’s got a twinkle in his eyes as he says it, and it’s clear he’s not viewing it as a big deal.

“First of all, before going any further, I want you to move in with me. I love you, and I know you love me, and it’s just the right thing to do for both of us right now. I know you have issues with forfeiting the deposit and paying out the remainder of your lease prematurely, but it’s worth it—to both of us. And the money isn’t an issue—I’ll pay for it. I would just rather have you here.”

A cloud crosses Ryan’s face, and I can tell it’s something he’s thought about. “I’d love to move in with you, Clayton. But it’s crazy to spend that kind of money; it’ll be several thousand dollars. That’s fuckin’ nuts to give that up. I know you do well and all, but still, that doesn’t make sense. And besides, I’ve always been one to pay my own way—and I’m not gonna let you do that. And I can’t afford it. It’s only for another four or five months, so let’s hold off on that.”

Did I misjudge? Is he ready to take this all to the next level? Or is he hiding behind the money issue?

“Damnit, Ryan, the money isn’t the issue for me at all—trust me. I just want you here; that is, if you want to be here.”

“Of course I want to be here! It’s just a financial issue. Period.”

“Ok, just promise you’ll think about it.”

“I promise. So that’s the secret you wanted to tell me?”

It’s now or never.

“No. You know me as Clayton Jameson. My real name is Virgil Clayton Earl.”

Ryan’s face is quizzical—and surprised. “Your real name? I don’t understand….”

“I changed my name when I was in college, using my maternal grandmother’s maiden name as my last name. I was adopted at age four after Mom and Dad tried for years to have a child. They’d settled into one of the Tudor mansions in Grosse Point, Michigan, that luxury neighborhood of wealthy industrial barons of Detroit, and, as is fairly common, Mom became pregnant in the final stages of my adoption, with my twin sisters being born six months after I'd joined the family.

“Unfortunately, Mom suffered with postpartum depression, and treatment options were limited. She kept things together enough to be publicly social, but otherwise was withdrawn, preferring to spend time at our smaller summer home in Palm Springs, California. I was far more comfortable there, so basically adopted that as my home.

“My sisters were always the family favorites, and I was the shy, quiet kid. When I was in fifth grade, the house captain, who ran the home, along with my mother and dad, decided that a boarding school would be the ideal solution to bring a shy child out of his shell, so I was sent away to the East Coast for school.

“It was a major mistake.

“Everyone there either came from old, old money or were all ‘old money wanna-be’s’. The old money people ignored me, and the wanna-be’s tried everything in the book to use my family’s name or the comfortable allowance I was on to be better than they were. It was horrible. I had no friends, and found it was far easier to retreat into the consistent behavior of math and science rather than trust those around me. And I’d never had the chance to develop any street smarts to be able to identify the frauds and users. So I developed a shell of a public personality just to survive.

“That continued on when I went to college in car-crazy California. Everyone knew my dad’s name, and they were all determined to use me to get ahead, especially if they needed a social boost or wanted to pursue something automotive.”

“Your dad must be someone big to have that kind of name—and he must have done well to be able to afford a private school like that.” Ryan’s leaning forward on his seat, following the story. “And it must have been a helluva house if you had a house captain. By the way, what is a house captain? He runs the house?”

“Oh it was a big house, all right, very formal, very lonely for a kid like me, with no friends at school, and there were no kids my age in the neighborhood. The house captain was the guy responsible for the operation of the house and grounds, managing the grounds staff, the maids, the cook, the drivers.”

Ryan leans back in his chair, shaking his head, seemingly somewhat overwhelmed by the concept of a residence having that kind of operation. He finally looks at me. “Go on….there’s more to this story, isn’t there?”

“Yes, there is. In fact, you know of my dad. You’re into cars, right?”

“Sure. That’s why I’m having so much fun at the Cadillac store.”

“Well, you already know some of the work of my father’s. Are you familiar with the original Continental? The Buick Y-Job? The Chrysler “Forward Look”? The Turbine Car. The 1961 Lincoln Continental? The 1963 Buick Riviera and Pontiac Grand Prix? The ’64 Mustang? The mid-60’s and early ‘70’s Corvettes? The 1975 Cadillac Seville?”

“Yeah, I know ‘em all. They were all icons, changing automotive direction in their fields for years.”

“Well, they were all designed by Dad.”

Ryan still looks questioning, but in a moment you could see the lightbulb go on over his head. “So your dad was….”

“Virgil Earl.”

“The man is a legend! He was a big proponent of clean, athletic designs. He had his hand on most of the car designs of that era. Wow!”

“And before. He originally served under the first design chief of any major U.S. automotive firm, and then later became the head after the original guy retired. Even on cars that he wasn’t given major credit for designing, he still had a hand in their creation.”

“Ok, so your dad was a big-deal car designer, and had done really well for himself. So his success is the reason for the different name?” Ryan’s inquisitive nature is back.

“The other part of the reason for the name change is because of my mother and her family. Dad met Mom while she was in college in Chicago, and he was already working in the design house at the first job he had before going to the auto manufacturer. They married just a few months after they met. She was from Ohio….”

“So why is your mom the cause of the name change?” Ryan’s impatience is showing; he’s a “bottom line” kind of guy.

“Hang on, Ryan, I’m getting there. Mom’s dad, my grandfather, developed and patented the process for bonding fabric plies to rubber, and developed the systems for molding rubber into tires. When Dad and Mom married, because of Dad’s connections in the auto business, and Mom’s family business, it was a natural fit. The automaker and Mom’s family made a deal, and Mom’s family became the exclusive provider of tires for all the cars and trucks produced by that firm. And that deal lasted up until 1969, and even after that, they were the primary, but not exclusive, tire provider for the manufacturer.”

“Wait, your mom owns a tire company?” Ryan’s getting into the story now.

“Yes. My mom’s maiden name was Goodstone.”

“What? Like the blimp? Like the world-wide tire and auto repair chain?”

“Yes.”

“So your dad’s a hot-shot car designer, and your mom’s family made some money from selling tires. So, you changed your name because of that?”

“They weren’t just notables, Ryan. They were famous and uber-rich. My dad and mom died years ago, as did my sisters. I am the last of the line, and I didn’t have any interest in running Mom’s company, so I sold it to another manufacturing conglomerate. I now serve on their board with a substantive but not controlling interest in their company. So I’m ‘well-fixed’, as they say here in the South.”

“Ok, so you’re worth millions.”

“Not millions, Ryan. Well over a billion. I also ended up with Alex’s partnership interest in what is now a global architectural firm. I’m now a silent partner in it—just collecting my share of the profits each year. And, I own the consulting firm that’s doing lead project management for NASA’s Mars landing.”

“Wow,” Ryan softly mutters. He’s quiet for a long while. I can see the gears turning as he absorbs all of this. “So you changed your name to avoid all the hassles that go with being rich?” He’s got a strange look on his face; he’s still thinking through it all.

“Yes, that’s part of it. But, I’m like you; I wanted to make it on my own. And even without the luck-of-a-draw inheritance, or my dad’s fame, I’ve done that. I’d be in good shape simply because of Alex’s career and my own.”

“So why are you telling me all of this now, Clayton?” He’s looking at me with both curiosity and something else: suspicion?

“Because I love you. Because it’s been eating me up inside—I didn’t feel we could progress any further in the relationship unless I could be open and honest with you. Because I was insecure about where I thought I was in the relationship, and I didn’t want all of my baggage—my family history and finances--to affect you getting to know me…the real me.”

Another long lull in the conversation—and it’s not comfortable.

“Look, you want to make it on your own, right? The whole ‘self-made-man’ attitude, right? Well, I wanted the same thing; to make a good life for myself without relying on Dad’s name or Mom and Dad’s money. And Alex had that same attitude, too. So after I’d told him my history, he understood, and we kept my secret. I never had to divulge that information to anyone. I never had to deal with those issues after we were together and Alex knew everything. Alex understood; I thought you’d see the logic in it all, too.”

“Wait…wait. You’re comparing me to Alex?” Ryan gave me a hard stare. “I don’t know much about Alex, but I don’t care how ‘logical’ you thought he was about all of this--I’m my own man; it’s gotta all make sense to me. And I’m not fuckin’ competing with a ghost, so stop with any comparison of me to him!”

What? He thinks I’m comparing him to Alex?

“No, no, Ryan, I didn’t mean that you….” Before I can finish Ryan interrupts me.

“I’m trying to understand, Clayton, I really am. Maybe I need to get used to the idea of that much money.” And with some sarcasm, “And I really do kinda sorta see the logic of keeping your secret; I don’t think I’m rolling on just an emotional response. But was all this a test, Clayton? I had to somehow ‘prove’ that I didn’t want your money or connections before you could trust me?” The glare he’s giving me is steel strong.

Uh oh. He’s really angry, maybe more….

“No, no, no….not at all, Ryan! I told you I love you, I thought you’d understand all of this, and I want to take us to the next level. I want you here full time. Like I’d said originally, this isn’t about you, not really, it’s about me and my own issues.”

“Fuckin’ bullshit.” Ryan’s eyes have narrowed, and the volume of his voice has clicked up several notches. “You didn’t fuckin’ trust me enough to know I don’t care about all that shit. I’d hoped the man I am had come through loud and clear—and I guess it didn’t. I’m hurt more than I can say, and I’m mad as hell you couldn’t or wouldn’t trust me.”

Ryan stands, somewhat shakily from the low-slung chair, then turns to look at me. “Have I ever asked you even once for money? I’ve paid for our meals, our drinks, I’ve tried to do my fair share. I don’t have the kind of money to cover everything that comes up; hell, I’m just a Marine car salesman from Nebraska. You know I’m on a budget, like everyone else. I’m not a fuckin’ user or social climber. And I’m definitely not like any of the men in your past. He moves toward the door going back into the house. “I need to get outta here….I gotta think.”

I’ve never seen him this angry before.

“Wait, wait….Ryan, don’t go. Stay here, let’s talk this through…please. I love you…if we can just talk this through, I know it’ll be all right.” I’ve started to cry, just because of the frustration of the situation. “Please…stay.” I’m following him into the house as he heads across the room.

This isn’t at all the way this should have gone. What did I do wrong?

“I gotta clear my head.” He’s striding toward the garage, stopping only to pick up the crutches he’s left leaned against the wall. “I can’t think here.”

Another stop at the door opening to the garage as he turns to look at me. “I guess I’ll see you later, Clayton.” And then he’s out the door; I hear his car start and back out of the garage.

This should have been a night of triumph, celebrating Ryan’s new independence with his “loaner” legs, and maybe even his commitment to move in.

Fuck…what have I done?