Between the Shadow and the Soul - 16. Reflections

October 28, 2016

While I sat at the butterfly machine, my chest burning with each rep, sweat climbing down my body and rappelling from my hair, Kyle stood to the side and slightly behind my position. Using that particular machine didn't require a spotter, so it left Basketball Boy loitering nearby waiting for me to finish.

Working toward the end of the last set, the sensation of being watched settled over me.

It's a gym, dude. You can't help but do a little people watching.

Of course. I do the same thing. But I also like to know who's looking.

Without missing a beat of my workout, my eyes lazily wandered the vast room, glancing hither and yon, touching briefly on each face—and not a few bodies—as I searched for my observer. Without finding one directly, I set my eyes to meander about the wall of mirrors opposite my position, again a leisure perusal of the faces—and again several bodies—reflected there.

And then I nearly choked.

Fuck me running! Look at his eyes. They're full of hunger and desire. He looks like a tiger ready to pounce.

Kyle was locked on my reflection, oblivious to everything else. The well-ventilated white tee I wore was soaked, translucent and clinging to my skin, and I could see his gaze devouring every inch of what it showed.

Fat lot of good wearing a shirt did... I thought when I realized the motions of the machine had bunched the flimsy covering in the center of my torso, leaving most of me exposed from shoulders to waistband.

Even as I watched, his eyes darted to the side, directly at me, where he could see my bare muscles straining and sweating, pumped with effort and twitching like a coked-up gogo boy.

Just as quickly his regard jumped back to the mirror, enjoying a salacious and slow perusal up my bare calves and over my knees and along my thighs until they vanished into the shadows of my shorts, up to my waist where sweat trickled into the damp waistband, then to my abs flexing with each breath, up to my chest where my nipples stood out like two sweaty glass cutters and my pecs swelled and rippled with each rep, then up to my shoulders stretched taught in the machine's embrace.

Everywhere his eyes moved I felt the caress of want, the tingle of lust. My body shivered as I realized how brazenly he let his eyes consume me.

Then the climb of his stare reached my eyes. The flush of embarrassment exploded all over his face and set his ears alight when he realized I was watching him watch me.

Grabbing his water bottle and taking a swig, he tossed his towel over his shoulder and muttered something about heading to the showers as he stumbled by me.

When at last my routine ended, I slumped on the machine's bench, head down, breathing deeply but not heavily. And then I mumbled, "It's time."

* * * * *

"A while back you said somebody came along and made you question things, made you reevaluate your life as you knew it. You said they even made you reconsider your relationship with Traci. You were talking about me, weren't you?"

Kyle's mouth worked for a moment before he nodded, then aloud he said, "Uh, yeah. You know, successful gay man with a nice house and nice car who isn't a freak. I guess I just meant I finally had an example that showed me I was okay, I was normal."

I gave a considering nod before I told him, "It's a survival trait, you know."

The joint was halfway to his mouth when it froze. "Huh?"

"Whether gay or straight or other, learning to function normally around someone you're attracted to is a survival trait." With a gesture to the joint, still frozen in place, I added, "You gonna do something with that?"

Shaken loose from his mental logjam, he murmured a quick "Uh-huh" before taking a deep hit. His eyes never left mine.

As he handed the weed back to me, that marvelous decoy slipped into place, a blank expression devoid of emotion and thought.

He's thinking hard, dude. Now that I know the tell, it's as blatant as a two-bit whore at Sunday church.

Finally, as though he'd just remembered I'd spoken, he gave a quick shake of his head and told me, "I guess I'm not following you, man."

His face puts the lie to that statement. One thing Basketball Boy hasn't mastered is deception.

Yeah, he needs to hone his skills in that area.

He's young. He has time.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke as I tamped the roach in the ashtray I said, "Discussing this before you came out to me would've pushed you to admit something you clearly weren't ready to admit. So I've let it slide. But today at the gym, dude, you were over the top."

Defensive and flustered, he pushed himself against the sofa's armrest, away from me, and tried to dodge the bullet. "What are you talking about?" False bravado and false denial competed in his voice.

"Calm down, dude," I said, waving with surrender. "It's not a big deal. You're not offending me. But you have to learn to dampen your enthusiasm when you flirt because it's really obvious."

"Who's flirting?" he nearly shouted.

This isn't going like I'd hoped.

"Listen, Kyle," I offered in a light, jovial tone with nothing but friendship behind it, "you've been flirting with me for two months. It's flattering. It really is. But you have to know we're friends, you and I, and right now there's no chance of anything more."

He jerked as if to get up, his blush radioactive and spreading down his chest like a nuclear mudslide. I caught his arm halfway to standing and pulled him back down, gently of course, and settled him beside me where I could wrap an arm around his shoulders. Not only did I want him to feel my comfort with his feelings, but I also wanted him to feel my love for him, my desire to grow our friendship, my intention to help him learn how to function without getting killed.

I also want to keep a hold on him so he doesn't run away. Because, damn it, this conversation has to happen.

For all his squirming, he's not really trying very hard to get away from me.

Uh, you think the goosebumps and shivers indicate anything?

Oh. Um... Yeah, I suppose his involuntary reactions are saying something loud and clear.

Even though he made a show of trying to pull away, Kyle still managed to settle himself tighter against me, maneuvering himself so more of his bare torso rested against mine.

Don't get any bright ideas, kiddo!

Leaning toward him and speaking in a conspiratorial tone I asked, "Do you like me, Kyle?"

He huffed before replying, "Well duh! Yeah, I like you."

"You know what I'm asking."

"You're my friend." He was almost whining with discomfort. I felt bad for him.

"But there's more, isn't there?"

"What're you talking about?"

"The way you look at me and my body, the way you look at me when you think I don't notice, the way you touch me, the way you draw attention to yourself—especially your body—when you're around me. I'm not new to the game, Kyle, and I'm not angry or upset either."

He writhed a bit, trying to lean away, then settled against me again, his ears suddenly aflame like his face and neck and chest.

I wonder if blushing too hard is a health risk. If so, I need to call 911 right now.

"You're just coming to terms with your real self, your real feelings," I told him, "and I'm sort of your mentor and guide and example. Which is awesome!" I gave him a friendly shake. "In the process, though, maybe you've found a target for the feelings you've been hiding, the feelings that are just now seeing the light. Which is perfectly natural. There's nothing wrong with what you're feeling, I promise you that. And you're not hurting my feelings or offending me or anything bad like that. But you have to know, Kyle, we're just friends."

With a sudden burst of energy he snapped around and glowered. "Because I'm a kid?" he shouted.

"Because I'm not," I said soothingly. His anger deflated as I continued, "You're an attractive young man, Kyle, with a sexy body and a great personality and a lot to offer a guy. But you're fifteen going on sixteen in the next few weeks while I'm thirty going on thirty-one in a few months. We're worlds apart when it comes to romance, the biggest reason being my history and issues.

"But," I quickly added as he began to speak, no doubt to dismiss the idea that my past was a reason not to pursue something, "it's more than that. The age difference is meaningless. It's the age that matters. If I met someone in their seventies and was attracted to them, I'd have no problem with it. I don't care how many years there are separating two people as long as the feelings are real and mutual.

"You're still a kid, though, with plenty of time to figure out who you are and what you like and what you want. You're probably attracted to me because you're already emotionally attached to me through our friendship. Plus I'm the first openly gay guy you've spent much time around, one who's accepting and honest and willing to help you find your lot in life."

"Yeah, it can't have anything to do with the fact that you're hot as fuck and nice as hell and the kindest, warmest, smartest, most understanding man on the planet."

As soon as he realized what he'd said, his mouth slammed shut with an audible clack that was loud enough to make me worry he might've broken a few teeth. Flustered and frustrated and dying under the onslaught of his raging blush and embarrassment, Kyle turned aware from me and expelled an overly dramatic sigh.

"Thank you. That was a generous compliment. But it's also beside the point.

"Though you're very mature for your age, you're not completely mature no matter how you feel. That means you're being unduly influenced by me simply because I'm older and available and we have an emotional connection and you spend a great deal of time with me and you've put me on this pedestal as an example of what you can be."

His face swung back in my direction, staring, that blank expression on his face, so I knew he was weighing my words. There was something else, some fleeting impression I knew I should grasp and weigh, but instead I kept talking.

"More important than any of that is that you're only fifteen. No, let me finish. When I was your age, somebody a little older than I am now took advantage of me, used my emotions against me, used his experience and maturity and intellect to manipulate me, and when it was all said and done he'd put me in the hospital for months."

"Phoenix..." he muttered.

"Yeah, the phoenix tattoo. Which at some point, as long as you still want me as a friend, I'll tell you about so you understand what happened and why my relationship with you has been up and down sometimes. But that's a story for another time.

"What I'm telling you is that I've been in your shoes, been the young kid who thinks an older man is attractive. The result was a stellar catastrophe at best. So even if nothing else I said mattered, the fact is I could never take advantage of you like that. It's wrong—it was wrong when it was done to me and it's wrong now if I do it to you.

"So hopefully you understand why this can't be," I continued with a gesture between us. "And, while flattering, it'd probably be best if the flirting stopped, too." Then I smirked. "Or at least toned down a notch or three."

"But... Well... I think I'm... Well, I'm pretty sure..." Then his mouth slammed shut. Again.

Basketball Boy stared, placid and emotionless, a stoic boy of fifteen years who was good looking and sexy and coming into his sexuality and clearly attracted to me, and suddenly I knew what I'd missed before. His emotional investment in me ran deeper than I'd realized, deeper than I'd expected. Hidden behind my blind spot until recently, what Kyle was feeling had only become apparent to me in the last few weeks. Unfortunately I hadn't understood until that moment.

Pain and disappointment flashed across his visage so quickly that most others would've missed it, but I studied him and watched him and never let the smallest thing about him go unnoticed. Including the shocking sight of unshed tears in his eyes.

I feel like I just kicked his puppy. No, worse than that. Much worse.

I hurt him.

He stood abruptly, brushing off my hand as I tried to slow him, then he headed toward the kitchen. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on, not realizing he had it on backward. Grabbing his coat and slamming his arms through the sleeves, he reached the door to the garage and I hoped he'd turn and look at me, say something to me, give some indication that things would eventually be okay.

Without a glance or a word Basketball Boy stormed out of the house. I was worried he'd maybe stormed out of my life as well, something I didn't think I could handle.

Leaning back on the couch I let out a forceful sigh, wiping one hand over my face, only then realizing I had tears in my eyes.

So this is what it feels like when you rip out the heart of someone you care about, when you spit on the fact that you're their first love.

Can I ever look at myself in the mirror again without seeing a monster?

"I should've handled that differently." After another deep breath I added, "Fuck..."

* * * * *

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Going out with Rita."

"Rita? Again? Did she slip you a mickey? Maybe more than one?"

Nate scowled from his bedroom. I stood in the doorway watching him try on clothes. Various clothes. Various clothes in various combinations. A pile of rejected options on the bed kept growing closer to the ceiling.

"She didn't slip me a mickey, you douche!"

More clothes tossed on the bed, more hangers cleared so he could consider more options. Each time he stepped out of the walk-in closet, he had something different in his hands or on his body, whether shirt or pants, or both, and each time he'd huff in frustration before pitching the offending fashion across the room onto the bed. Where, by the size of the pile, I'd guess the majority of his closet had already been discarded.

"So she's not drugging you. Odd. Are you Nate Sawyer or a pod person who took his place?"

A plaid flannel shirt flew across the room and hit me in the face. I could've intercepted it had I not been so utterly enthralled with this person before me.

He looks like my best friend and he sounds like him, and clearly he has a key to the house and knows which room to ransack, but the Nate I know doesn't see the same woman twice. Never. Never ever.

You know what that means.

But I'm not ready for that. Not at all.

I pulled the shirt from my face and found him rummaging through his closet again—or still—with yet more clothes on the bed.

"Have you really gone through all the women in the DFW metroplex? Is that why you have to see the same one again?"

Another shirt, this one intercepted before it hit me.

"Asshole," he muttered.

He must really be distracted if I can't goad him into lively banter.

Distracted? Or stressed?

"As the resident gay man, do you think you could help me find something to wear instead of standing there berating me?"

Hands propped on his hips, wearing nothing but white Garofali briefs, he glowered with a mix of frustration and panic. Mostly panic.

Still, given how hot Nate was, seeing him that way was like seeing a wet dream made flesh. The briefs hugged every contour of his body, leaving nothing to the imagination, and the white fabric appeared almost translucent over his brown skin.

If I didn't already know I have to give him up, I'd be all over him, his intolerable straightness be damned.

"Uh-oh. I can see it in your face, Nate. You want to impress this woman with more than your lackluster personality and narcissism."

He deflated. Nate Sawyer, a god amongst men, actually deflated before my eyes. His shoulders slumped, he sighed, then his head dropped to stare at the floor.

"Please, Greg."

Oh no... I'm not ready for this, especially if he's this stressed about a fourth date.

"Oh bloody hell," I mumbled. "Time to earn the best friend label."

"And the gay one," he mumbled with a vague gesture toward the pile of clothes on the bed.

"My little boy's all grown up," I joked as I walked to him. "You're actually smitten. I didn't think it was possible."

I didn't think it'd hurt this much either.

He huffed again. Or perhaps it was a vigorous sigh. It can be difficult to tell them apart.

"Not smitten," he mumbled, "just fond of her. And hopeful."

I put my hands on his shoulders and said, "Look at me." He did. I continued, "Well, I bet she's something special. Of course I'll help. I'm your best friend and I won't let you down."

With that I pushed him back so he stood in front of the window and out of the way. I then browsed the meager remains of the closet. It looked like he'd nearly emptied it in his desperation.

"First, change your underwear," I mentioned distractedly without looking at him.

"Why?"

Over my shoulder I explained, "Though the stark white looks divine against your dark skin and the cut makes you more of a sex god than you already are—something I didn't think possible, by the way—you should know there's a wee tear in the left leg of what you're wearing."

He glanced down, located the tear, stuck his finger through it, then looked back to me with unmitigated terror in his eyes.

"I'm gonna fuck this up, Greg."

Fucking hell... This is worse than I thought.

If I'd had any doubts before, I lost them then. Nate always demonstrated confidence and surety. Especially when it came to women, though perhaps that stemmed from knowing he'd never see the same one twice.

He's already been on three dates with the woman. That's a record.

No shit. His longest relationship was eight hours long, and all of that happened in one night.

So the dozen or so hours he's spent with Rita spread over three days across two weeks is a record for him.

Yeah, and he's already admitted they haven't had sex yet. Which, for Nate, is like not breathing, especially considering he hasn't seen anyone else since he met her.

I'm really not ready for this.

Suck it up, Greg. Do your duty.

"The day you fuck something up with a woman is the day I go straight. Look, you might've torn those just pulling them out of the drawer, so don't freak out."

I walked over to the dresser, pushed around the mess he'd made in his underwear drawer, and found what I wanted.

Tossing him a pair of black Gregg Homme Menz boxer briefs I ordered, "Put those on."

He pushed the others off and slipped on the pair I'd found, arranging himself appropriately before holding his arms out and looking at me expectantly.

"Turn around." So he did. "Ok." He turned back toward me.

I gave the front the same once-over I gave the back. Nodding approvingly I said, "Those look really hot on you. They show off your assets, meager though they are."

He's anything but!

Finally he smirked. With real humor. His body relaxed a bit as well.

"Fuck you," he teased with a grin.

"Not now, sweetcheeks, I'm trying to get my homeboy ready for a date."

I'd rather be doing anything else, like getting a root canal maybe.

He snickered.

"Now..." I turned back to the closet disaster he'd created. "Where are the new jeans you just— Ah, never mind. I found them." I tossed them to him over my shoulder. "Put them on."

He slipped into the jeans and fastened them. The faded blue complemented his chocolate skin and they hugged his muscular physique without being gaudily erogenous.

Giving him a questioning look I asked, "Trying to say 'I want you to ride me cowgirl style' or 'I want to see what we can be'?"

There was a momentary flash of something across his face, an expression that flew by too quickly to recognize. Before I could consider what I might have seen he was back to worried, stressed, grateful, obnoxious. Okay, I just added the last one but Nate would appreciate the sentiment.

"I want to see what we can be." He couldn't hide that megawatt smile and the twinkle in his eyes.

If I needed any more evidence that my life is over, that digging up the past has done nothing but set me up for a broken heart, this is it.

"Oh my heavens! Someone's tamed the beast. I never thought I'd see the day." My tone sounded fake and my smile felt like plastic. But like the thoughts running through my head, Nate was completely out of touch. Which just made the situation worse.

"Shut up." But there was no venom, only a profound hope and happiness that came through loud and clear. And gratitude.

"Right. Back to business. Where is... Never mind."

I walked to him holding a long-sleeve V-neck pullover marbled in grays. It would hug his torso without looking too showy. The mostly dark colors would absorb more light and make it seem less revealing.

"Put that on."

He did. And looked heavenly. Hot enough to eat.

I stepped behind him and turned him toward the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door.

"Look at the man in the mirror. He's not just phenomenally hot and unquestionably handsome and dashingly dressed thanks to his best friend—" He smirked, then smiled. "—but he's also the best man the world has ever seen. He's more than his packaging, though that's pretty damn fine. If she's at all smart, she'll recognize it doesn't get better than this."

Realizing I was on the verge of tears, I let my hands drop and turned away from the mirror, away from Nate, away from the pain I was feeling.

I stepped to the side as I said, "Black socks and the black Kenneth Cole ankle boots and a black belt. Then you're all set."

He spun, grabbed me and pulled me into an affectionate hug.

And that's when it hit me, something I'd been around for more than two decades but that I'd denied until the blind spot came tumbling down.

There was a smell. It was him, Nate, his individual and unique smell. And smells, more than anything else, represented my greatest weakness when it came to men. Without hesitation I took an unnecessarily appreciative and long inhale through my nose.

It intoxicated me, flowing directly to the most primal parts of my brain and body, lighting a fire in my chest and filling my thoughts with nothing but him.

More.

My eyes closed involuntarily. Nothing could've stopped me when I lowered my head and turned so that my lips and nose rested against his neck. Then I inhaled a second time, slower and deeper, a shuddering breath drawing his essence into me as much as my lungs would allow.

He smells like Nate, like Man, like Sex, like Lo—

Stow that shit!

Yessir.

Fuck me running, though, it's all man and musk and a hint of nervous sweat and the faintest whiff of soap and gallons of pheromones that pour out of him. I've never smelled his smell like this before, never let myself smell it, never let it register. It's inebriating, a distinctive scent that's wonderful and frustrating and overpowering and subtle and divine and devilish and pure carnal lust and a million other things I can't describe.

When his hands settled against my bare shoulders, my brain snapped to attention. I jerked upright and stepped back quickly enough to cause a stumble. Eyes wide and cheeks flush with horror at what I'd done, body trembling with the deepest desire I'd ever felt and heart hammering with emotions so strong I thought they'd split me apart, I whispered, "I'm sorry."

When I looked up, he had his head cocked slightly to the side, his face communicating something akin to confusion.

Is he confused by my apology or by what I did?

Still holding me at arm's length, his fingers moving every so slightly against my skin, he huffed out a brief sigh before saying, "Don't be sorry. That was... Well, that was sexy as fuck and totally flattering." The blush on his face said even more.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he pulled me back into his arms and whispered into my neck, "Thank you, G-Man. I really like this girl. I want to do things right and I totally lost my mind with this getting dressed thing. Thank you."

You're not the only one who lost his mind. What was I thinking?

I squeezed him and held him while he drew strength from the embrace. With a deep breath and a brief tightening of his arms around me, he exhaled slowly and confidently before letting me go.

With a nod and smile, he grabbed the right socks and boots, then sat in his desk chair to put them on. While he did that I headed out of the room.

"Wear the knee-length leather coat. It'll work best with the overall theme of the evening." I stopped midway down the hall and spun around. He was standing in the middle of his room staring at me. From that distance he couldn't see the unshed tears in my eyes.

In the worst country-bumpkin accent I could muster, I added, "Be sure you tell her if she intends to court my boy, she'll have to come meet daddy soon. Them's the rules."

His relaxed, heartfelt laughter was music to my ears.

I turned and headed to my room, wiping away tears as I went.

* * * * *

"Thank you for letting me move your session to this evening, Greg," Uncle Farid said.

"You're welcome. Hey, I completely understand about attending professional seminars and what that can do to your schedule. But are you sure you don't want to postpone? You're probably tired."

"A little," he agreed, but waving away my concern he continued, "but not enough to cancel on you. I'll be in bed early this evening and that will fix me up nicely."

I gave a small shrug. Have it your way.

After lighting a cigarette he explained, "I want to enlighten you about some of the coping mechanisms people use following a traumatic event, especially children. Assuming no cerebral damage, people implement their own solutions, whether consciously or unconsciously, and they can include amnesia, split personalities—I hate that term but use it because people understand it—various personality and psychological disorders, forgetting, and so on. Psychiatrists use various treatments to address and overcome these mechanisms, including regression therapy and hypnosis, standard counseling, and pharmaceuticals.

"Another coping mechanism that trauma sufferers sometimes use is denial. More specifically in your case, they use self-deception to deny the things they don't want to face. This isn't the same as forgetting since the memories and knowledge still exist in their original form and can be accessed if sought. Instead, the patient builds a process by which they deny the validity of what they want to avoid, deny its existence or deny its nature or deny some other facet of it. The appropriate response to this coping mechanism is general counseling, helping the patient work through the cause of their denial, face the reality of what they're denying and then dealing with its impact, and readjusting their world view and approach to life such that they begin dealing with reality as it exists instead of as they wish it to be."

Leaning forward a bit through the cloud of smoke he exhaled he added, "Working through the trauma and memories and repercussions is significant, but so is dismantling the denial mechanism until the person is back to normal. Without doing so, they wind up with a resonant form of cognitive dissonance—"

"What's that?"

"Essentially, cognitive dissonance is when a person holds two opposing views. Since the views are mutually exclusive, the person either has to modify a view so it can coexist with the other, drop one of the views, or strive to keep both views valid and active without breaking beneath the inherent conflict that exists between them.

"In your case, the harmful resonance finally surfaced when you met Kyle. You began projecting, you began suffering beneath the weight of reality from which you'd hidden for so long, and you began to see what you'd been hiding behind your blind spot since you were fifteen."

"Thirteen," I unconsciously interjected.

Uncle Farid cocked his head and gave me a curious stare. "I beg your pardon?"

"I started building it when I was thirteen, not too long after I came out to everybody."

The look of undeniable realization spread across his features as he nodded sagely, scribbling on his notepad.

"Mmmm..." he mumbled, still writing, before refocusing on me. "That's a very important bit of information, Greg."

"I figured as much."

Standing, he walked to the corner and dragged a full-length mirror from behind a large plant, some kind of miniature palm or something. He wheeled the mirror over to the coffee table and aligned it just opposite from where I was sitting. Suddenly I was looking at myself sitting there. And suddenly I felt silly for it.

"Another approach we sometimes use in cases such as this is called third-person objective reflection introspection therapy. That's a rather pretentious description for a simple concept, so I call it—in this case, anyway, since you're male—the man in the mirror."

"I'm guessing it's sometimes the woman in the mirror?"

"Of course," he smirked, "and sometimes it's even the unaware or the undeclared in the mirror, for those not certain of their gender or uncomfortable with the binary gender system. All of which is beside the point."

He slipped back into his chair, just to the side of the mirror, pulled his pen and paper back into his lap, then tamped his withering cigarette in the ashtray until it died. Back to me he said, "The purpose of this kind of therapy is to urge you to be objective about what is by nature a very subjective discussion. That's impossible, of course, but the exercise does in fact produce some useful results for both the therapist and the patient."

Rubbing my palms on my jeans I asked, "So, uh, how does this work?"

"Quite simple really. I want you to sit right where you are and face the mirror. Look at your reflection and only your reflection. Once you begin talking, keep everything you say in reference to the man in the mirror. Don't tell me about you, just tell me about him." He gestured to the mirror for emphasis.

It felt a bit silly, the whole idea, but I'd play along. "Okay. I get it, I suppose."

"Good. Remember only to tell me about the man in the mirror, not you."

"Right."

"Because this is the first time we've tried this exercise, I'll jump around a little, help you get comfortable with this approach. If either of us feels something warrants further scrutiny, we'll dig deeper as needed. Understand?"

"Yeah."

"Very well then." After clearing his throat he asked, "Does the man in the mirror remember Richard's trial?"

Damn it to hell...

"Outside voice, please."

"Oops. Right. Sorry about that. I—Sorry! He thought 'damn it to hell.'"

"I'll speak to him later about his language during therapy. But does he remember Richard's trial?"

"Yes. Definitely. Both of them, though the D.C. trial he remembers only from news stories."

"What does he remember most about them?"

I was shaking and I was nervous and my palms were clammy, but I had no desire to touch the phoenix tattoo or its hidden scar.

"He thinks for a very long time Richard showed that he thought only of himself, taking savage satisfaction in the harm he did to his prey, often leaving teenage boys psychologically crippled and emotionally vacuous. He thinks seeing him on trial was the least satisfaction he could get out of the whole mess."

"What else does he remember from the trials?"

"He's not proud of it, but he found out he was the first to walk away from Richard with physical scars in addition to the injuries he inflicted to my—his, sorry—his psyche. Out of nearly twenty boys, being the only one with that claim to fame didn't make him feel special.

"He never met the other victims, those from the trial in D.C., but he read enough and heard enough that he made some assumptions, drew some conclusions, whatever..." I ducked my head and blushed before looking back at the mirror. "At the time he pompously decided that those who would obviously never recover were pitiful creatures, not strong enough to pick themselves up, brush themselves off, move forward with their lives. Of course, at the time the man in the mirror was fueled almost entirely by rage, and rage is more useful than despair. But it's also not as long lived."

Frowning at my reflection, giving a small shake of my head, I added, "He's embarrassed about that, about thinking some of the other survivors were pathetic. The worst ones were the straight boys—mostly young men by that point. They'd had the most taken from them, had the most damage done to who they were meant to be. He looks back now and sees them with sympathy. Despite what Richard did to me—him, rather, at least he's gay and didn't walk away with his sense of self broken in two. Close to it, sure, but not broken."

"Before he started therapy again, the man in the mirror, how did he feel? After he met Kyle?"

Without hesitation I answered, "Inside where no one could see he was a writhing mass of fear and doubt, afraid his world was crumbling because it all started to come back, he could see it every time he looked at Kyle and at himself in the mirror. He felt like he was breaking but he felt like he could push it all behind his blind spot and make it better.

"But meeting Kyle somehow pointed a brief light right into the middle of the blind spot. Just for a second, mind you, but it was there. And he saw some of what huddled in the darkness, some of what he'd pushed into the shadows. It contradicted his view of life but it was there."

"Is that what made him decide to come back to therapy?"

"No. That was a part of it but that wasn't all of it."

"What else was there?"

"His mother's tough love showed him he'd been living in denial and abject fear for fifteen years, projecting his horror and trepidation onto every aspect of his life. Kyle's persistent presence, which dragged things out of his mental blind spot that he'd thought long buried. His growing realization that he refused to see or deal with what happened and what followed. His worries about where his life might lead if he finally shed all the pain he wore cloaked around him. His years of lonely misery and the possibility that it might shift to profound satisfaction and happiness if he could ultimately get past the biggest obstacle—himself. His heartfelt desire to live a fulfilled and loving life in a meaningful relationship, which he couldn't do with the way he was living. His worries about the shadows of the past and the light they diminish in the present."

"Why does he think his years have been lonely misery?"

"He realized his life, as he was living it, would lead him to a lonely death, an end shared only with what remaining family and friends he had. Other than that, though, there wouldn't be anyone who'd spent years by his side, who would know his thoughts as easily as he himself would, who would understand his longing and sorrow as they did their own, who would weep at his passing because he'd been their other half and they his.

"Well, there'd be nobody for me except Nate, but he's not mine to keep."

"Do you want to keep Nate?"

I didn't even realize we'd moved from the man in the mirror to me. I didn't even realize what I was admitting.

"Yes. Absolutely. But I can't have him."

"He'll always be your best friend. I can't imagine anything could change that. Are you afraid you'll lose that?"

"I want more."

"With Nate?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I love him more than I did back then."

"Look at me, Greg."

I turned slowly, away from the mirror, toward Uncle Farid. Concern was written all over his face, his usual mask of remote objectiveness torn asunder by realization. But just as quickly the look vanished, replaced once again by the clinician, the warm, gentle, loving uncle who also happened to be a renowned psychiatrist and widely respected therapist.

"You're making progress, Greg, sometimes in small steps and sometimes in giant leaps, but what you've just said... I mean, you're intimating... Well, let's be clear: You've made further inroads into your blind spot than you've previously told me, haven't you?"

I dropped my face, looking for anything of interest on the coffee table, the carpeted floor, my writhing and twisting hands in my lap, my shoes, anywhere other than Uncle Farid's direct, penetrating gaze.

"Look at me, Greg." When I didn't meet his eyes he added, "Please." So I did. Then he asked, "You've made further inroads into your blind spot than you've revealed, haven't you?"

Shaken by the need to be honest, knowing this man couldn't help me if I lied, realizing what I'd been discovering over the past months played a significant role in my present and future, I nodded, quick and simple.

"You remember why you built your blind spot." It wasn't a question. "It would seem now we can discuss your fifth romantic interest. Or more accurately, your first."

Dumbstruck, all I could do was stare at my uncle. Somehow he knew my secret, somehow he knew what had caused me to create the blind spot so many years before.

Finally willing my voice into action I asked in a whisper, "How did you know?"

Uncle Farid gave me a compassionate, loving gaze. "Your mother told me shortly after you told her. When you were thirteen."

"Shit..."

"While we're discussing it, shall we also discuss the conversation you had with Richard that caused you to start building the blind spot?"

"You can't know that! I've never told anybody."

"In a way you did, though. Actually, you and Nate told me together. All I had to do was piece together what he said in your shared session and what you've said before and after that. Together you both provided the pieces that put the puzzle together.

"So tell me, Greg, what did you discuss with Richard that night when Nate heard you crying? Why did that conversation cause you to start building your blind spot two years before Richard assaulted you? And why was your first love—your love for Nate—the first thing you hid with the blind spot?"