Adermoor Cove Part 2: Love Hurts - 3. Chapter 3

Charlie collapsed into the empty spot of the bed next to Lane. His chest heaved up and down as he fought to catch his breath. Dan McCafferty of Nazareth sang about how love hurts on the old vinyl record player. “Goddamn,” Charlie said, “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to keep my hands off you for a whole weekend.”

Lane grinned from over his shoulder. He laid on his side with his head propped up on his knuckles, so the Grim Reaper was flipping Charlie the bird. “It’s just for two days - not even that. We can behave ourselves for two days.” He took a long drag from the joint he held between his thumb and index finger. The walls around them danced from the flickering light thrown by the multiple candles Lane had lit.

“How did I get so lucky to bump into you?” Charlie said, taking the joint from Lane. In the beginning, when they’d first met, Charlie had been completely against the use of recreational marijuana; it hadn’t taken long for Lane to corrupt him. Now smoking pot together was one of the favorite pass times they did as a couple, sex being the other.

“Well some would say it’s fate, others would say it’s God or some higher power. Me being an agnostic I’m willing to accept either… but if we’re being practical then it was your typical connection of kindred spirits. My car broke down on the side of the road one rainy afternoon - because it always rains in this fucking State - and you were the only one kind enough to give me a boost. There was an undeniable attraction. I bumped into you again a few days later at the gay bar not far from the apartment where I was staying. I’ll admit I was surprised you were gay. Sometimes my gaydar gets mixed up with my please-be-gaydar. Anyway we had a few drinks, went back to your place, this cabin, and had amazing sex in this bed. The rest, they say, is history.”

Charlie chuckled, pinching Lane’s bony ass. “So how many more times should I meet your mother before I propose?”

Lane rolled over on his side so his nose was just inches from Charlie. His face was warm and relaxed. He felt as if he was floating. He reached out, running his hands, through Charlie’s thick, red beard; more and more of that beard was turning grey. “You want to marry me?”

“I do, assuming you don’t mind marrying an old geezer.”

Lane giggled. “Forty-two isn’t old.”

“It may not seem like it when you’re only twenty-three... you’ll feel differently when you get to be my age.”

Lane kissed him on the lips and whispered, “I’d marry you in a heartbeat. No hesitation, no regrets. I’d spend the rest of your life with you.”

“The rest of my life?”

“Yeah, and then when you die maybe I’ll still be young and desirable enough to get married a second time.”

Charlie let out a roar of laughter. “You’re awful.”

“I know.” Lane yawned. “It’s one of the reasons why you love me though, right?”

He woke up sometime in the middle of the night, gulping for air, covered in a fresh membrane of sweat. His first thought was of Charlie: What if he was in trouble or hurt? How would he forgive himself if anything happened to Charlie?

His lover's name clung to the tip of his tongue. He tried to say it but the sound came out as a garbled croak. Lane rolled over and saw a dark shape laying next to him; the shape was immediately familiar to him: it was Charlie. Charlie was sound asleep, safe, unaware of the suffocating terror that gripped Lane like a murderous hand around his throat.

Safe. We’re safe. There's no one here trying to hurt us.

Only they weren’t safe and Lane knew it. He could sense it. He had felt it this morning and he had felt it again at the general store. And there were the things he’d been seeing when he looked into the mirror with his eyes, and the recurring dream about his father.

But you keep ignoring it, as if by not acknowledging it, it is going to go away. But it’s not going to go away and you know this.

But how?

Because it’s happened before.

He tried to let the familiar sound of Charlie’s snoring lull him to sleep but nothing could console him. Lane climbed out of bed and padded out of the bedroom, into the hallway. He passed through the living room into the kitchen, navigating the dark easily. Rain tapped against the outside of the roof and a damp chill filled the cabin.

Lane turned the light on above the kitchen stove so he had just enough light to see - he didn’t want to wake up Charlie and have to answer questions about what he was doing up at three o’clock in the morning.

With a saucepan of milk to heat on the stove, Lane got a fire going. He sat in one of the comfy armchairs on top of a blue-and-orange afghan, and let the flames absorb his attention. For Lane, hot chocolate was just as therapeutic as marajuana. He recalled that as a child his parents used to fix it for him on the nights when he woke up screaming in terror. The start of a memory passed through his mind: his father’s dark outline standing in the doorway of his bedroom. As if he had an eraser, Lane tried to make the darkness go away so he could see his father's face... and couldn't.

You don’t remember what he looks like, do you? There's a lot of things you don’t remember... but you need to remember before it's too late.

Barely holding back a scream, Lane jumped out of the chair, sloshing hot chocolate all over the carpet. He swore the voice he’d heard had come from over by the door - he knew he’d heard a voice - but there was no one in the living room but himself.

“Lane, what the hell are you doing?”

This time Lane really did scream. The cup fell from his hand, turning end over end before hitting the floor. He felt moisture splatter his foot. He stared wide-eyed at Charlie, who stood in the hallway, naked. He was squinting at Lane, his hair mussed up.

“I-” was all Lane could manage to say. He felt guilty and embarrassed. It seemed this night would never end. For a moment he found himself wishing his mother wasn’t staying for the weekend; the thought of her seeing him like this, let alone Charlie, was terrifying. And why did he feel guilty? What was there to feel guilty about? “Sorry I woke you, I couldn’t sleep.”

The flames of the fire reflected in Charlie’s hazel eyes. “It’s okay - I can’t sleep either. I woke up and saw you weren’t in bed and got worried. I don’t know why I got worried. I guess I’m just anxious about your mother coming.”

Lane chuckled, rubbing at the back of his head. “You and me both. There’s still some hot chocolate on the stove, I think, if you want some.”

While Charlie grabbed a mug from the cabinet over the sink, Lane soaked up as much of the cocoa as he could, and threw the towel in the washer with a cupful of laundry detergent. Afterwards he joined Charlie at the small kitchen table.

“What woke you up?” Charlie asked.

“A nightmare.”

“What happened?”

Lane shook his head. “It was terrible.”

“Am I not supposed to ask?”

“I dreamed my father was drowning me in the bathtub.”

Charlie winced. “Oh. Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t you say he broke his neck falling down the stairs of the apartment you lived in?”

“Yep. That’s where Mom said she found him one day. He’d been on the way to the grocery store and I guess he just lost his footing and fell down a whole flight of stairs - personally I think it would have been better, more noble or some shit, if he got mugged on the way to the grocery store but we don’t get to choose how we die.” Lane bit his lower lip. There was so much he couldn’t remember about his childhood and even more he hadn’t told Charlie. The past wasn’t something he liked to think or talk about. Looking down at his hands, he said, “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but my Mom and Dad aren’t my real parents. I mean they’re my parents, they raised me, but they aren’t my biological parents.”

Charlie’s eyebrows creased. “You’re adopted?”

Lane nodded. “My parents found me at an orphanage. I guess my real parents didn’t want me.”

“Wow, you never told me. Did they tell you anything about them?”

“No, I never asked. And it never really mattered to me. Like I said they were the ones who raised me, and loved me like I was their own. That was enough for me.” Lane looked down at his hands. “I hope this doesn’t change...”

“Anything between us?” Charlie finished for him. He lifted Lane’s hands and kissed his knuckles gently. Lane could feel the bristles of his lover’s beard brushing against his flesh like tiny pine needles. “No, not a damn thing. I love you Lane Hardy and there’s not a damned thing you could tell me that would make me stop loving you.”

The younger man smirked. “That’s relieving to know.” The smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “There’s just one more thing. Ever since I got up this morning I’ve had this overwhelming sense something bad’s going to happen. I don’t know what or when, but I know it’s coming.”

“Is it anxiety about your mom? If it was my parents I’d be nervous as hell too.”

Charlie’s father was a preacher at a Pentecostal church near Tennesee and didn’t agree with homosexuality; Charlie’s mother was one of those women who followed their husbands devoutly, no matter what - even in the matter of their children. Like Lane not wanting to talk about the past, Charlie did not like talking about his parents. Lane was glad he’d never met them.

“Mom can be cringey sometimes, don’t get me wrong, but she’s nothing like what you told me about your parents. You’ll dig her, I promise. I’m talking about something else. It’s just this really strong feeling, almost like a premonition.”

Charlie reached across the table and took Lane’s hand, interlacing their fingers together. His eyes capture Lane’s, dark blue to hazel. “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to downplay how you feel but who would hurt us out here: We’re miles away from Denver, in the middle of nowhere and our closest neighbor is a mile away.”

“You know, that doesn’t make me feel better. In the city we wouldn’t have to scream very loud for someone to hear us. Out here no one would hear us scream.”

Charlie sighed. “Just roll with it, okay? You know I would never let anyone hurt you, right? I would jump in front of a bullet for you.”

“I know - and I would do the same for you.”

“And you know I would never hurt you. I would kill myself before I ever laied a hand on you. Do you know that?”

Images of his nightmare flashed through his mind: Strong hands, his father’s hands, hands that were supposed to love and protect him holding his head under water. Suffocating. Fear. Thinking his lungs were going to explode.

You’re loved ones always say they’d never hurt you - but they’re the ones that always end up hurting you the worst.

“I know,” Lane lied.