Between These Walls (26 page)

“Asshole,” Christopher mumbled as he rushed past Tom.

“You’re more familiar with ‘em than I am!” Tom shouted back at Christopher, at which Hunter winced. One final twist of the knife. Tom never let the last word go to waste. By that point, however, a few seconds had passed. Christopher had managed to put fifty feet of distance between them already and hadn’t heard the insult.

Hunter could only imagine how hurt Christopher must have felt. The physical contact from Tom must have left him feeling dehumanized. The humiliation of public ridicule, where the perpetrator had surrounded himself with supporters as pillars to hold him up, while the victim had nobody.

Hunter recoiled not only at what he’d witnessed, but at the awareness that he’d allowed it to continue. Moreover, he found another aspect of Tom’s actions—and the support he’d received from his cohorts—disturbing: Their ridicule seemed effortless. The activity had proven genuine fun for his friends, who had no idea what it was like to deal with the thing they mocked. Meanwhile, little did they know Hunter, who sat in their midst and tried his best to ride out their laughter, was scared to death—scared they would figure out that another Christopher Patton sat in their midst, and his name was Hunter Carlisle.

Self-conscious at that concept, Hunter avoided any glances from his tablemates. Too afraid to utter a word, he hoped to fade into the background for the next few minutes. He angled his body forward, hid his quivering arms and hands beneath the table the best he could. He had lost his appetite; the sight of his greasy, breaded chicken patty sandwich made him queasy.

In that hour, Hunter learned a lesson he would carry with him from that February day forward.

He could never confide in his friends about his secret.

Trust no one.

Hunter would need to bury his secret deep inside his soul. And he’d better take
even further
precautions to hide any shred of its evidence from his life.

That day, surrounded by his social crowd, Hunter felt utterly alone.

Today, arriving home from his job interview, Hunter pulled into his garage and turned off the car engine. He didn’t move. Instead, he stared at the steering wheel as the memory of Christopher Patton consumed him.

Hunter had never forgotten that guy. Oftentimes, as the years passed, he had wondered what happened to Christopher. Did he suffer permanent emotional scars from that lunch incident or that school year? Once he reached adulthood, did he go on to live in happiness, or had life gotten worse and left him wounded?

The moment someone discovered him in the dressing room, Christopher’s life changed forever. And it all happened in an instant, without warning. That’s what alarmed Hunter most, that he could take a wrong step and wind up an outcast and abandoned. All for a reason he couldn’t seem to shake from his life.

To this day, Hunter wished he could apologize to Christopher Patton, not simply out of decency, but as someone who understood the fight and fear. As it turned out, Hunter’s inaction that day in the Commons had ended up one of his biggest regrets in life. Hunter would give anything to retrieve that moment from the grip of the past and have another shot at protecting Christopher.

Hunter tapped the steering wheel and sighed, then whispered a prayer.

“God, please let him be okay. Let him know he’s not alone, that somebody cares.”

Dismayed, Hunter shook his head.

Christopher Patton dealt openly with his issue—albeit against his will—and paid a hefty price for it, while Hunter hid in the shadows with the benefit of a social buffer. It didn’t seem fair.

And while he reconsidered Christopher Patton’s interests and mannerisms, a new realization hit him.

As an adult, Christopher might have grown up to become an equivalent of Gabe Hellman.

Suddenly, Hunter’s regret grew more personal. He wondered what aches might lie in Gabe’s past, the unspoken hurts he might hide.

The light of the garage door opener flicked off. Hunter didn’t move a muscle.

CHAPTER 23

The first thing Hunter noticed in the dining room was the restaurant’s expansive view of Lake Erie, courtesy of windows that lined three of the room’s walls. Around six o’clock in the evening in mid November, twilight had set in, but he could picture the gentle lapping of water beneath an afternoon sun.

As the hostess led them to their table, Hunter scanned the dining room, on the lookout for second glances or signs that anyone might wonder why two young men had shown up together for dinner at a nice restaurant. From what he could tell, nobody had noticed yet. In fact, most patrons appeared too engrossed in their own conversations to observe who entered and who left the dining room.

The hostess placed two menus on a small table for four, a square table with one chair on each side, a table angled beside a window. Before Hunter could say a word, the hostess gathered the two unneeded sets of tableware and glasses, leaving Hunter and Gabe catty-cornered and, in effect, sitting next to each other. As she gathered the items, the glasses clinked and tableware clanged at a volume that made a self-conscious Hunter uncomfortable, not wanting to attract any more attention than he envisioned might occur. Rather than shift his place setting to an alternate position, Hunter decided to act as though all was normal and take his seat. Gabe was inches away, close enough for Hunter to feel his warm breath settle onto his arm.

Hunter wondered about the arrangement the hostess had maneuvered. Had she seated them so close to each other as part of the restaurant’s standard procedure, to facilitate easier conversation between two patrons? Or had she assumed he and Gabe were in a relationship and wanted a romantic setup? Hunter tried to gauge her facial expression, but she remained neutral, wished them a nice dinner, and departed. He could drive himself to the brink of insanity worrying about what people thought of him. Hunter realized such concerns were childish, but by the time you’re twenty-six years old, long-ingrained habits can prove hard to break, especially when rooted in insecurity.

He and Gabe perused their menus, which featured a wide selection of seafood dishes.

They had picked a restaurant in the suburb of Lakewood, west of Cleveland and far northwest of Hudson, where they were confident they wouldn’t cross paths with anyone they knew.

Their goal was to dip their toes in the water, to discover how an actual first date in a normal restaurant might feel. Hunter had proposed going on a weekday evening, when restaurants were less busy, with fewer people around to take note of them. Gabe had countered that idea, suggesting that fewer patrons meant less opportunity to blend in, which might render them
more
noticeable. So they compromised on a Friday evening far from home. And to play it safe, Hunter and Gabe each brought a portfolio to set beside himself on the table so it would look like a dinner meeting to end a workweek that had gone too late. For extra coverage, they had decided to request separate checks.

Their alibi didn’t do much to ease Hunter’s nervousness. Tonight was a new experience for him. Yet Hunter wasn’t uncomfortable because he didn’t
want
this experience; rather, it was akin to the jitters he felt his first day on the job after graduating college: an apprehension that accompanies the unknown. The kind you feel when you try to appear collected and hope no one else can tell the difference.

But regardless of alibis, regardless of how well Hunter could succeed in looking confident to the patrons in this restaurant,
he and Gabe
both knew this was the first same-sex date either had experienced. Judging from Gabe’s sideways glances and the way he kept rubbing his fingertips together, Gabe felt as nervous as Hunter.

They placed their napkins on their laps and continued to examine entrées—in part, to keep themselves occupied. Gabe cleared his throat.

At least Hunter knew the person whose company he kept this evening. He found comfort in that familiarity. This wasn’t a blind date. And he had to admit, Gabe looked handsome in his chocolate-brown sport shirt, which brought out a richness in his eyes that Hunter hadn’t noticed prior to tonight. Peeking over the top of his menu, Hunter appraised Gabe’s eyes, which Gabe had trained on his own menu. Searching for the perpetual compassion in those eyes, Hunter caught a trace of it, which steadied him as he resumed perusing entrées.

He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. Gabe set his menu down and looked up.

“Nervous?” asked Gabe, his voice subdued.

“Yeah. You?”

“Somewhat.”

Hunter paused, debating whether he should be honest and admit what was on his mind. He decided to go ahead and say it so Gabe wouldn’t take his reserved manner personally.

“It’s not you,” Hunter said at last. “I
want
to be here. I guess it’s ... maybe I care too much about what anyone thinks.”

Gabe offered no response except a nod to let Hunter know he had his attention.

Hunter grunted, then set his menu down. “It’s stupid, I know. But I’ve always cared what people think of me. I’ve always tried so hard
not
to stand out—at least, not unless I control
how
I stand out.”

“Why’s that?”

“Less attention means maybe people wouldn’t suspect anything about me.” Hunter gave Gabe a tentative stare, then added, “I’d feel better if I knew you understood.”

Velvet warmth filled Gabe’s countenance. With a gentle laugh, he leaned forward an inch and looked at Hunter with affection, the tenderness a father would offer a child who had come to him for reassurance.

“I understand. I’m a bit uneasy about that, too,” Gabe said. “It’s probably less bothersome to me, though: I’m used to not fitting in too well to begin with.”

At that, Hunter realized much of their interaction had focused on Hunter—his back pain, his job loss, his attempt to make sense of his relationship with Kara. Gabe had spoken little about himself. Hunter wanted to know more about the individual who sat beside him.

Their server, a man in his late twenties with ash-blond hair bound in a short, metro-stylish ponytail, stopped by to take their orders. Although Hunter’s stomach felt fine, he opted for grilled tilapia, figuring its delicate flavor wouldn’t unsettle him if his nervousness increased. Gabe ordered shrimp scampi. They had discussed wine earlier, but had figured glasses of wine might reveal this date for what it was, and splitting a bottle would have looked even more obvious. In the end, each stuck with water for his beverage, and the server departed.

With another glimpse around the restaurant, Hunter confirmed no other patrons sat close enough in proximity to overhear their conversation. Gabe’s last comment had renewed his interest in getting to know more about him.

“A few minutes ago, you said you’re used to not fitting in. What did you mean by that?”

Gabe opened his mouth halfway, then stopped, as if Hunter had caught him off guard in mid-sentence. One more glance toward Hunter, in which Hunter thought he caught a plea for reassurance.

Finally, Gabe shrugged, regained his confidence, and replied, “I never fit in well with other guys my age.”

“I hate to hear that. You have a great personality.”

Gabe furrowed his eyebrows. “The personality didn’t really
match,
though. The way I relate to people seems different from the way other guys do. I think guys detect it early on, and before long, that’s how others know you. They identify you that way.”

“I think we have that in common, the not-relating thing. Somewhere along the way, I found a way to downplay it and act like my peers, but I always sensed the disparity.”

Gabe grinned. “So we’re similar, only different.”

“Looks that way,” Hunter chuckled.

“Of course, the fact that my interests were different from other guys didn’t help my cause, either. A lot of guys aren’t interested in drama or aren’t comfortable with it.”

Hunter thought for a moment. “When did you sense you were different from other guys? What made you feel like you didn’t fit into everyone’s normal box?”

“I discovered early on that I had no interest in sports. That was key for me. That’s when I realized I had no chance of fitting in, at least not completely.”

“What didn’t you like about sports? Not that it matters today, but I’m curious.”

“Some of the sports that guys play are physically rough—football, hockey. The idea of getting battered around or knocked in the teeth didn’t appeal to me. And when it came to the other sports like baseball or basketball—well, no offense, but I didn’t see it as a game. I saw it as throwing a ball back and forth. That didn’t fascinate me at all. So, since I didn’t have an interest in those activities, I never practiced or became good at them. That exacerbated the problem, because all it did was make the difference more obvious.

“I enjoyed the idea of
life,
the things that make people who they are, and wanted to explore
those
things instead. When you’re a young kid in elementary school or middle school, and all the guys you know take off to play ball every chance they get, that leaves you with female company most of the time. Eventually, the other guys don’t know how to relate to you, and it leaves you isolated. So in the end, you just want to be accepted. Between that and a dad who died in combat before you got a chance to know him, you just want someone—someone who knows what it’s like to be you—to wrap his arm around you and let you know you’re ... well, that you’re loved. That you’re wanted.”

“And you never felt wanted?”

Gabe thought for a moment. “Every time you overhear someone use a slur like ‘faggot’ or ‘homo’ or whatever, even if it’s in jest and they don’t mean it, even if they’re talking about someone else, it reminds you that you don’t fit in. It reminds you of how solitary you feel inside. It reminds you that you’ll
never
fully relate to your peers; you’ll
never
be cared about first, then talked to later. So you get used to being alone.”

Hunter recalled the slurs he’d heard on countless occasions. To escape all risk of suspicion from his peers,
Hunter himself
had uttered those slurs in jest. Yet each time, regardless of who spoke, the words had cut through his flesh and reopened the wounds in his heart. Those words and the motives behind them had pushed him farther into his corner of fear.