Between the Shadow and the Soul - 27. Potential Isn't Immortal

January 9, 2017

"G-Man?" he inquired, so full of surprised expectation.

That voice ... It haunts my dreams and waking hours with equal fervor. I'd call him every single day just to hear him talk.

Even if it means stagnating rather than advancing?

I'm beginning to think so.

"Yeah ... It's me, Nate. How are you?" I was breathless, wanting.

Damn it! Get a grip, Greg.

"I'm good." Hushed, a little breathy, anticipant yet nervous. "How are you?"

"Hectic with the business ramping up for opening, but otherwise I'm surviving."

"How soon will you be up and running?"

"Early February, give or take. Dad's been a blessing."

"I imagine. That's his thing."

"What about you? How's the new gym going?"

"Great! Busy, of course, but great. We should be opening the doors around the same time you do."

"Really? Wow, you work fast. I'm impressed. I can't wait to see it."

A momentary pause betrayed only by my mindfulness of such things, then he all but whispered, "You're always welcome, G-Man. You know that. Come by whenever you want."

"Maybe I will," I told him, though I questioned if that was a good idea.

"So," Nate began, "is everything okay? Are you okay?" Always that heartfelt concern for my wellbeing, always the worry that I might be in distress. Once again he touched me deeply.

"Everything's fine," I told him, albeit not too enthusiastically and not too convincingly.

"Good. I'm glad to hear that. Then to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

I miss him so much. I want him so much. How can anyone live like this?

Unrequited love sucks, doesn't it?

It fucking stinks.

"Listen, Nate, if you're not doing anything, I'm having my birthday bash on February third. Think you might be there?"

"Of course!" he declared, obviously hurt that I'd implied he might not want to attend or worse, might not want to see me. "I wouldn't miss it, G-Man," he continued. "You know I wouldn't miss it." Then quietly, meekly, he said, "I guess I'm surprised you asked. I didn't think you wanted to see me anymore."

Fuck! What have I done?

I took a deep breath, steadying my nerves. Or trying to anyway. I just didn't feel the conviction my words connoted. "Nate ... Oh Nate. I know I hurt you, and for that I'll be eternally sorry." Sorry doesn't cover it. I feel like the worst human being in the history of human beings. "There's not a moment that goes by when I don't regret it." It's the single greatest regret of my life. How can I communicate that? "But please tell me you understand why I did what I did." I don't understand it anymore. Why should he? "Please tell me you don't think I'm being a hateful prick and turning my back on the love of my life just because it seemed like a good idea." Do you even know the reason you did it? Is it still a reason or just an excuse now because you already made a bad decision and you're trying to justify it after the fact?

"No! You know I don't think that. Absolutely not." In a hushed tone he continued, "But I'm not sure of anything anymore. I don't agree with what you did or why you did it. I understand, G-Man, but I don't agree. And I think there are things we need to talk about."

I interrupted, suddenly feeling rather pushy, no doubt empowered by self-loathing and the fact that I knew I'd made a major mistake. "Things we need to talk about ... Like your feelings?" After a long, quiet pause, I chose nonlinear thinking to get away from the uncomfortable turn the conversation had taken. "Have you noticed Mom and Dad lately?"

"Yes!" he immediately replied. "Spending a lot of time together, aren't they? Like, I don't know, maybe a little something more going on there than we knew about?"

"Precisely, dude! I have a sneaky suspicion our parents are feeling a little something extra for each other again."

"Still, G-Man."

"Huh?"

"They're still feeling something extra for each other. I don't think they ever lacked for love. I just think maybe life got in the way, maybe Dad's career, maybe Mom's unwillingness to move to Seattle, maybe something else entirely."

"You're right, Little Big Man. I misspoke. They've always been close, whether married or divorced. And they always talked to each other, long calls into the night, chitchats that went on and on and on. They tried saying it was about us, staying on the same page, blah blah blah, but did anybody really buy that?"

"Do you think we should say something?"

"Good question. We've always been in their business as much as they've been in ours, so they wouldn't think twice if we asked."

"But would they admit it?"

"Funny question coming from you, Nate. Would they? Would you?"

He gasped.

Fucking hell, dude!

I slapped a hand over my face, appalled and horrified. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Nate. That was ... that was unbelievably rude. I just need to keep my mouth shut. Please forgive me." The phone offered nothing but dead air punctuated by his breathing. For several seconds I waited. Then quietly I asked, "You still there, Little Big Man?"

"Yeah. Sorry. My mind wandered for a moment."

He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. Even if I couldn't see him, the source of our seemingly psychic gift being body language and expressions and decades of experience interpreting each other, I could still get in his head by listening to what he said, what he didn't say, his tone, his breathing, even his silences.

"Greg ..."

It's in his voice. It's that need to go back to where we were, that announcement that he has something to say, that uneasy feeling he has with how I feel and what it means for him.

"Don't say it, Nate."

"But I—"

"Was Richard right or wrong, Nate? Do you have feelings for me beyond the love we share as best friends and whatever else we've been, or is that all you feel? Do you have something to tell me about that, the question you keep avoiding, or will we dance around it like we have been so I'm left lonely, hurt, wondering, and thinking we really need to stay away from each other?"

A deep hush fell over the conversation. Once again we found solace in listening to each other breathe.

There's something very wrong here. Nate's never been at a loss for words around me, never been unable to express himself.

I smell the stink of Richard all over this situation.

After perhaps a minute of that, I decided to move away from what I was only just realizing was a bigger problem than I'd at first thought.

"The birthday bash is at the Omni Hotel in Dallas. It'll be in the Trinity Ballroom. Same dress code as always."

"The usual then, like we're going clubbing."

"Yeah. The party gets started at eight that night, February third. Food, music, drinks ... everything's paid for, so just bring yourself and your plus-one—" Those words left a bad taste in my mouth. "—plan to have fun, no gifts, hotel rooms already reserved so you don't have to drive ... You know the drill."

"I'll be there," he said with hope and interest.

"Then I'll see you there, Nate."

"But—"

Don't push.

I need to push. I need to figure out where the wall is and who built it. If he's going to keep running into it and it's going to keep causing me pain and angst and stress, by golly I'm going to push until the wall topples or I see no hope.

"Nate?"

"Yeah, G-Man?"

"Potential isn't immortal."

"What do you mean?" he asked in a very quiet and very subdued tone, one replete with worry.

"Possibilities aren't forever. Not acting on them can end them."

"I ... "

"You keep saying you need to tell me something. Tell me, Nate. Right now. You have my undivided attention." Then in a near whisper I pleaded, "It's just us, Nate. Please tell me."

"But it's not ... I don't know ... "

"Is it between the shadow and the soul?"

"What?" It wasn't spoken so much as breathed, a word caught on a shocked sigh.

"Is that what you mumbled in the parking garage? It doesn't make sense to me, but I'd swear that's what you said."

"Yeah, that's ... No, I mean ... That's not what ... It's just so ... You know I'm ..." Then he expelled a breath before falling silent.

I listened to his inhales and exhales for thirty seconds or so, knowing his wheels were turning, knowing he was lost in his own head, suspecting the fog of Richard had shrouded his thoughts.

"Carpe diem, dude, quam minimum credula postero."

So quietly I thought it imagination he said, "I can't."

I told him goodbye in a voice filled with sadness and regret, after which I ended the call. Pressing my hands together against my lips and nose as though in prayer, thumbs hooked under my chin, eyes closed, I mumbled to myself, "I need to talk to Uncle Farid."

* * * * *

January 13, 2017

"You know I can't discuss—"

"Damn it to hell!" I shouted, leaning forward and grabbing the remote, pressing the button with an angry jab of my thumb. A soft, single tone sounded as the light above the door went dark. "Don't give me that doctor-patient confidentiality shit!" I growled with furious distaste. "We're off the record! I need you to stop being Doctor Farid Mansour and start being Uncle Farid!"

The rage I felt colored my expression with dark fury, my heart pounding, blood rushing loudly in my ears. With a trembling hand I tossed the remote back on the table, then I slammed back on the couch and stared daggers at my uncle.

"This isn't a professional visit anymore," I explained in a cooler tone, though cooler taking on dual meanings of less anger and more disdain. Not disdain for Uncle Farid, however, but instead disdain for the trappings of his office and why I couldn't allow professional ethics to stand in my way.

He leaned back and regarded me with with a solemn gaze, lips pursed around the cigarette that drew patterns in the air with wisps and whorls of smoke. Then he squinted, considering me, measuring my resolve.

"Please, Uncle Farid," I begged, my anger rapidly evaporating and leaving behind a painful need. "We're talking about Nate. You're his uncle as much as you are mine. I'm talking about your nephew. I don't give a flying fuck about any of this," I said with a wave around the room, "because I'm not asking you as a therapist, I'm asking you as family."

Pulling the cigarette from his mouth and holding it absentmindedly, his Lebanese features without emotion, revealing nothing, he simply stared at me, an unflinching gaze that would've made the best poker player squirm in their seat.

As the rigidity in my body vanished, I slumped, head hanging with a mournful shake. When I met his eyes again, unshed tears in my own misted my vision. "Please ... I'm talking about the other half of me. I'm talking about the part of my soul that resides in another body. Please, Uncle Farid ..."

I watched closely as he tamped the dying nicotine stick in the ashtray, bludgeoning embers repeatedly until only dead ashes remained. I watched as he settled back in his chair, his jaw muscles clenching. I watched as he took a deep breath. I watched as he slowly exhaled. I watched his eyes never leave my desperate regard.

"Fine—"

"Thank fuck!"

He grinned, pleasant and warm. "Sometimes I question the wisdom of treating family. The desire to aide and assist perhaps overshadows the complications that can arise, such as this case. The ethics and legal constraints can be intimidating when in fact they should be ignored."

All I could do was watch him as he glanced around the room, as though checking for interlopers who might eavesdrop and tattle.

Without prefacing his explanation he said, "Richard's evil was equaled only by his brilliance. If that could have been decoupled from the vile monster inhabiting his body, he would have made a brilliant psychiatrist. He demonstrated a profound understanding of the human psyche, a comprehension that made him as adept at manipulating children as he was at manipulating adults. In both cases, what he did had lasting effects, as you well know."

Brushing imaginary lint from his slacks as he glanced down, he gave a little shake of his head. Then looking at me he added, "The simplest yet most effective method of seeding thoughts in another's mind is to engender a heightened emotional state." Frowning at me with avuncular love he said, "You know quite well that a heightened emotional state subordinates the intellect. When our feelings are inflamed, we do things we wouldn't normally do had we considered such actions with the colder eye of thought."

"I know. I'm sorry. Fuck, I can't say that enough. I'm sorry. I made a—"

Holding up a hand to forestall further rambling apologies or explanations, he told me, "I'm not chastising you, Greg. Although you acted rashly and without regard for the repercussions of your actions and with no consideration whatsoever for the pain and anguish you would cause, in hindsight I'm forced to admit that your actions have brought us to this place, a place we needed to discover but might not have found had you followed my counsel."

Dumbfounded, I tried to ask "What?"or "Huh?" or "Pardon?" or something similar, but the only sound that escaped my mouth was a perplexed sigh.

"The truth is," Uncle Farid continued, "Nate has impinged against a particularly robust mental block. Not too dissimilar to your own blind spot but certainly constructed of a vastly different mechanism, what you brought to light with your jejune theatrics is a problematic legacy of Richard's loathsome tinkering in his own son's mind."

"How ..." My voice was breathless, quiet, near hopeless. After clearing my throat I asked in a slightly louder tone, "How do we fix it, Uncle Farid? Whatever it takes, tell me how to fix it?"

He shook his head then, not dismissively and not negatively, but instead in a way that looked like surrender but spoke of frustration. "I simply don't know, Greg. The more I circle us around the issue, the harder it's become to determine what the construct hides or how to help Nate overcome the impediment."

"But there has to be a way!" I declared.

"Of course there is. And in time we'll discover it. But right now I can only describe it as a rather pernicious obstacle of Nate's own making, one built in response to repeated emotional upsets coupled with timely and persistent thought seeding."

"He brainwashed him," I spat.

"No more so than he did with you, albeit Nate's experience points to a vastly different approach and result than your blind spot. And again, it demonstrates the range of Richard's abilities in that regard." With a disgusted shake of his head he mumbled, "To put that level of expertise and skill to such use is offensive beyond words."

"There has to be—"

"Of course there is, Greg, of course there's a way. Richard had no vested interest in full-scale terraforming of Nate's mental landscape. That means he elicited this mental self-defense solely on the basis of the emotional upheaval necessary to create it."

"But what does that mean?"

"We can circle around the wall but we can't see what's behind it. Not without penetrating it, that is." He pulled another cigarette out of the pack and lit it, taking a deep inhale of the smoke he drew from it, eventually letting out a plume that drifted upward. With a concerned expression he elaborated, "I can definitely say that the key to unlocking the block has to do with you."

I could only stare. He wasn't telling me anything I hadn't already discovered, yet it brought me no closer to helping Nate.

Helping Nate? You? Talk about the blind leading the blind ...

Shut up.

"What do I do?" I finally asked. "I've tried talking to him. If he has something important to tell me as he's intimated, if he feels he has something to share with me that's paramount and compelling as is the impression I keep getting, he doesn't seem able to move past this ... this wall."

"You told him not to contact you, did you not?"

"Sure. One might argue that he's held his tongue at my behest, and therefore I'm in no position to question what's happening." Giving Uncle Farid a scoffing look, I continued, "But I'm not buying that. He keeps saying he needs to tell me something. I keep giving him chance after chance. Every single time he locks up, stammers and mutters and ultimately says nothing. It's the same response I get if I ask about his feelings."

"Based on what he told you about Richard?"

"Precisely. It's not even that I'm asking him to tell me he loves me—fuck, that would be awesome. No, I just ask about his feelings. It's like his mind grinds to a halt."

"To some degree that's precisely what's happening. Based on what he told you and what he's told me, Richard's 'mental voodoo' as you called it had a specific focus with Nate: ensuring he didn't develop feelings for you or, if he did, ensuring such feelings would never see the light of day lest it destroy your existing relationship. Which means the wall is built specifically with you as the cornerstone. The fact that you played into that black purpose by doing what Richard predicted has complicated matters."

"Fuck ..." I groaned.

"Again, you needn't indulge in self-flagellation, Greg. We might never have known this problem existed had it not been for your self-indulgent yet thoughtless actions."

"Just had to get that in, didn't you?" I asked with a smirk, glad for the brief levity.

He smiled and nodded, though the expression quickly faded back to serious consideration.

"If it has to do with me, if I'm the cornerstone as you say, why can't he punch through it when I ask him? Why can't I help him overcome Richard's tinkering?"

"Because Richard was smarter than anyone believed."

"So you're telling me, with all your expertise and skill, that we can't somehow break through this, that we can't help Nate?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all. I'm simply stating a fact, Greg: Richard knew what he was doing and he was quite good at doing it, insidious and persistent and amoral. The man knew precisely how to read people and precisely how to use those observations to his advantage. Whatever he used against Nate, it's deeply personal and powerful and fundamental, so much so that months of therapy plus months of you asking have resulted in zero progress aside from identifying that there's a problem and understanding that you're in the middle of it."

I leaned my elbows on my knees and dropped my face into my hands. "I don't know what to do. I just wish ..."

"What, Greg? What do you wish?"

Shaking my head with frustration I explained, "Wish isn't even what I meant. I hope Nate feels something powerful and wonderful and, being unable to contain it in wordless purgatory, will be forced to admit it to me before his heart bursts under the terrible pressure of it. I hope all the intimacy we've already shared, in addition to that moment in the parking garage, equals promise. I hope that he holds some measure of affection for me that goes beyond the relationship we've shared for decades."

Following several moments of silence, he prompted, "And?"

"It hurts, you know, this constant worry that what he wants to say is what I don't want to hear, that there's no hope for us, that he'll never feel the way I feel. Which is what I fear most and what I suspect he wants to say. Why worry about making me happy? If that's what he was going to do, just do it, get it over with. He knows how I feel, so there's no issue with possible rejection."

"There's no indication—"

Snapping my head up to glare at him I interrupted, "There's no indication of anything because he can't say it. He said Richard made him fear his feelings for me, whatever they may be, which means he'd be just as unable to say we can never be more than we've been as he is to say he's madly in love with me. Right?" When he didn't immediately respond, I asked with a bit more bite in my words, "Right, Uncle Farid?"

With a sad nod he acquiesced. "Yes, you're right. If the mental block rests firmly on the premise of Nate's feelings for you, which is what I suspect, then it matters little what those feelings are. As you point out, he'd have as much difficulty expressing hate as he would love, let alone anything in between."

I groaned as I dropped my face back into my hands. Then I sat back in resignation.

"You sound scared." His lips pursed around his cigarette as he took a hit, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I am! I'm scared. There, I admitted it."

"Scared of what?"

"Scared of what Nate might say, scared he might have feelings for me, scared that if that's true and we try it, the fantasy might be better than the reality and we might end up ruining whatever friendship we have left. Also I'm scared of the opposite, that he'll say there can never be anything between us, that his happiness lies along a different path, that he can't give me what I need and want, though he'd like me in his life, my happiness be damned."

"He'd never say that."

"I know," I huffed. "I know, Uncle Farid. But if he has feelings and it doesn't work, I'm scared he'd hate me if everything between us crumbled down around us. I couldn't deal with Nate hating me. I can't. I really can't imagine it."

"Is that it? Is that all that scares you with this situation?"

Dropping my head and sighing, I admitted, "No. That's not all."

"What else?" he asked gently.

With profound sadness I explained, "I'm scared for Nate. I'm scared we might not find the key to unlock yet another of Richard's constructs. I'm scared he might be stuck dealing with Richard's manipulations and machinations for a long time, that he'll live under the umbrella of that madman's brainwashing."

After a deep breath I added, "He's coming to my birthday party. You probably already know that. I figure if he hasn't said what he needs to say before then, I'll corner him and push and prod and do whatever I can to force through the wall to the other side."

"Under these conditions, force may not be the right approach."

"I have to know. I have to make him admit whether or not there's something there, some small measure of hope to keep me waiting. I already know I can't walk away from him, but if there's nothing there, at least I'll know to keep my distance, to look elsewhere."

He expelled a plume of smoke before commenting, "I'm surprised you invited him to your birthday party."

I leaned my head back and stared at the ceiling, took a few deep breaths, then met his steady gaze. "I'm not." With a shrug I explained, "It's like I'm constantly jonesing for a fix. Every time I talk to him or see him, I get a fix, just a little one. It hurts, sure, because it reminds me of why I did what I did. But like all addicts—"

"This is not comparable to addiction, Greg."

"Isn't it? Because it sure feels that way to me. Every fix I get makes me jones for the next one. It's like I can't stick to my own conviction that being away from him is best for both of us. I just can't. I don't think I can survive without him in my life, even if only in a small way."

Quietly, almost too quite for him to hear, I mumbled, "I just hope by the night of February third I can have a definitive answer, even if it's the one I fear most. I just hope ... I just hope we can both finally put our feet on the path that leads to happiness, even if that means a separate path for each of us."

Uncle Farid pulled deeply on his cigarette and let out a slow, nebulous exhale. His eyes didn't waver, never left my pained gaze. Another toke on the nicotine stick and another cloud of smoke, yet he said nothing. Neither did I, in point of fact.

Dropping my head and gasping, sighing, using my lungs to speak of despair, I added, "I'm full of so much dread and hope. The only problem is hope has a shorter shelf life."

"Under the circumstances, I think it's time I talk to Gavin and Yvonne."

"What?"

"It may be time for a less therapeutic approach in favor of a more familial one."

At first I didn't understand, but then it clicked. "Are you talking about an intervention?"

"What one or two might miss, perhaps five can see. Somebody needs to identify the key to Nate's block. Five people trying to guide him to revelation and discovery might mean at least one of us stumbles upon it."

"We can only hope ..."

* * * * *

January 18, 2017

Shuffling a few papers around as though busy, I glanced at Dad. His eyes seemed to be glued to the facilities paperwork in his hands, but his gaze frequently darted toward the garage door where Mom stood pulling on a coat and collecting her purse and keys and phone.

"I'll be back in an hour or so," she reiterated, then out the door she went.

"You," I started as I swatted the papers in his hands, startling him since his eyes had still been locked on the door to the garage, "have never been able to pull off fake innocence."

"What?" he gasped. I think he tried for confusion or offense, but it came out sounding a lot like guilt.

Waving the papers in my hand toward him, I had to laugh. "Nate and I have already discussed this situation. We're fully aware of the long calls, the frequent rendezvous, the secretive looks when you think no one will notice."

My father's face turned beet red as he slowly lifted the papers in his hands in an attempt to hide behind them.

"Stop it with the papers, Dad!" I could barely talk for the endless chuckle I was fighting. "We know, okay? We already know. It's so obvious. You two act like teenagers with a secret crush. Just stop it already."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't, Dad. Just don't. Give us some credit."

The papers dropped on the table as he lowered his head, a smile spreading across his face. Then he nodded as he looked at me. "I guess we've been caught."

"Now that that's settled," I continued as I glanced at Gavin, "can we get back to work?"

"Wait. That's it?" he asked.

"What did you expect? So my mother and father are playing footsies under the table and giving each other come-hither looks and holding hands and who knows what else. We're thrilled! Nate and I are thrilled at the prospect you two might get back together. My point wasn't to throw water on the flames. All I intended was for you to know we know, so you can stop acting like it's a state secret."

"We weren't hiding it," he declared. "We just didn't want to give false hope to anyone."

"Just don't forget the rule."

"What rule?" He looked rather confused, which entertained me.

"No funny business in front of the children."

His laugh was heartfelt and comfortable. "Thank you."

"For what? Saying it's okay for my parents to be in love with each other? Don't mention it."

After ducking his head and shrugging, he asked, "Time to get back to work?"

"Yeah," I responded with a grin. Then: "How soon will we get to the punch list?"

He paused for a moment before answering, "Another week, maybe two. It'll be before the end of the month."

"So we're still on schedule?"

"Absolutely!"

"Good. That's good news. And thank you for staying on top of this stuff. If I had one more thing on my plate right now, I'd scream."

"That's it? Just scream?"

"Maybe I'd spit, too. Yeah, I'd scream and then I'd spit. How's that for living dangerously?"

All he could do was chuckle and shake his head.

"How about a beer?" I asked as I rose and headed toward the kitchen.

"You keeping your mother's refrigerator stocked now?" he asked with a pointed look.

"Of course! We're spending a lot of time here working and I'm not about to forgo chemical supplementation unless absolutely necessary."

With a grin he said, "Sure, I'd love one."

Once I'd fetched two dark ales from the fridge, I opened both, tossed the caps in the trash, then rejoined him in the dining room, the table covered with a scattering of papers and folders and pens, plus two cell phones and two tablet computers.

After handing one to him, I dropped back into my seat. I took a long pull from the beer and let out a satisfied sigh after I swallowed. "Hits the spot," I mentioned.

Setting the beer aside, I grabbed a stack of papers before realizing my father hadn't responded. I looked at him and saw a pensive, regretful man staring back at me.

"What, Dad? What's wrong?"

He gave a brief shake of his head before saying, "Nothing. Something. I'm not sure."

Turning in my chair so I could fully face him, I sipped my beer before inquiring, "Is it the work? This new business thing?"

"No," he replied without hesitation, waving away my worry. "Not that at all. In fact, that's a pretty awesome thing. I never expected I'd be working for my son, but I have to tell you, Greg, this is a fantastic opportunity for me."

"Ever been a C-something-or-other-O before?"

"Ha! No, never."

"Well, now you can add that to your resume."

He reached out and took my hand, said thoughtfully, "I'm hoping this is the last job I ever have. I'd like to retire from this job, you as my last boss."

I squeezed his hand and smiled. "I'd like that as well." Then more seriously I asked, "So if it's not this—" I waved my hand over the mess on Mom's dining table. "—what is it?"

His eyes grew distant and his expression became introspective. One thing I knew about my dad was that, unlike me, he spent little time in his own head. An extrovert by nature and very much not the kind of person who second-guessed himself, the man before me now must have something serious on his mind if he had to cast his sight inward.

He squeezed my hand before letting go so he could grab his beer and take a drink. After he swallowed he explained, "I've often wondered if things might've worked out differently had I been around more while you were growing up."

"Whoa, Dad, let's not do the hindsight thing—"

"Now wait a minute, Greg. Let me finish."

"Okay," I muttered.

"I'm not looking back with regret and wondering what if. You know those words usually cause nothing but pain."

"You got that right."

"No, the point is I look back with some regrets, and I look forward with those regrets in mind, not wanting to make the same mistakes again, instead wanting to correct them when and if possible."

"Meaning what?"

"I missed a lot of your upbringing. Not all of it. We spent plenty of time together after I moved and even more together before that."

"You were never an absentee father."

"I know," he said gratefully, lightly patting my cheek with affection. "But I started living to work instead of working to live. It took me away from you, took me away from your mother. I missed so much of what you went through back then, you and Nate in fact. I think I could've been a better pseudo-adoptive father to him had I been here instead of there. And maybe I would've seen something about Richard—"

"No. Don't do that. If there's one regret we all have that we can leave in the past, it's Richard. I'm trying to move beyond that, Dad, and Uncle Farid's helping a lot, but it's pointless and counterproductive to dig it up and rehash what might have been and what we might have done and what if and what if and what if. Please don't do that about Richard."

"Of course. You're right, of course. I'm sorry. I guess the point I was doing a piss poor job of making is that being back here now, I hope I can do a better job, be a better man, maybe a better husband ..."

"What?" I shouted.

"Don't yell. It's uncivilized."

"Don't give me that, father of mine. You're hinting at more than rekindling an old flame."

Blushing, Dad ducked his head, nodded. "Yeah. Maybe. No promises, though. But your mother and I have been talking a lot over the last few years, more than ever in fact, and we've spent a lot of time realizing what we both walked away from because of stubbornness, though at the time we used other names for it. But yeah, we're closer than we have been in years, we're both feeling like we did when we first started dating, and we're interested in seeing if we can put things back together."

I leaned forward and pulled him to me, hugging him hard. "That's awesome," I said, choking back tears. "That'd make us so happy, both Nate and I. We'd love for you two to get back together."

When I sat back, I noticed Dad appraising me, studying me.

"What? Do I have something on me?" I brushed randomly around my face hoping to snag whatever icky thing had caught my father's attention.

"No," he said with a smile, though it was a sad smile. "Nothing like that." Scooting a little closer, he took my hands and held them as he said, "Greg, your mother and I and your aunt and uncle really want to help Nate get over whatever Richard did to him."

"Dad—"

"You need to be here Friday evening."

"This Friday?" I was taken aback.

"Yes. We'll all be here, including Nate. We want to sit down and talk to him."

"Has Uncle Farid explained—"

"Of course he has. And we know we're not therapists or psychiatrists, and we know we don't know him a fraction as well as you do, but we want to help."

"If we can just find the key to unlocking what's in his mind ..."

Dad's eyes grew sadder still as he gripped my hands tightly. "Your uncle said that, if we can find a way through whatever wall he's erected in his head, you'll get the answer to your question about what Nate feels."

"I know," I sighed.

"I want to make sure you're ready for the best and worst."

"My heart's already breaking, Dad. The worst is that it breaks more."

He released my hands and sat back, wiping a stray tear from his cheek. For my part, I was fighting the moisture in my eyes, restraining the emotional wreck that wanted to escape.

Gavin nodded, thought not in agreement but instead in understanding. "I hear you. It's just that, for as long as we've known you were gay, we've always felt you and Nate were the happiest people we'd ever seen, the strongest and most loving couple we'd ever witnessed."

"But it wasn't enough, Dad. It's so close yet it's not enough."

"I understand. I just want you to be ready. You know what we hope—"

"The same thing I hope, sure, but we need to help him first. Everything else is a secondary consideration." Turning back to the messy table and the work ahead, I mumbled under my breath, "Just remember hope doesn't last forever."