Double Blind (35 page)

“I don’t know. It was in the ER, so I doubt it was a psychiatrist. He gave me Ativan.” Sam gave her a frustrated look. “But I know that stuff can be addictive, so I try not to use it.”

The flicker went a little deeper, and Randy had to hide a smile, because he knew Laura was not liking this drive-by diagnosis in Vail.

Sam, however, was too focused on trying to regain his composure and brush this all aside. “I know I overreacted, and I’m sorry I upset Mitch. Really sorry, because now I have to come here.”

This comment snagged the therapist’s attention. “So you are here not at your will, but your husband’s?”

Sam blushed slightly. “Okay—yes, but he’s right. So I guess it’s my will too.” He pursed his lips a moment before continuing. “I just—I’m embarrassed. I’m a lot younger than Mitch, and I always feel like he treats me like a kid. And I’m mad because now he
really
treats me like it. And I guess I deserve it, because I acted like one.”

“Hey,” Randy said, taking offense. “Sam, you’ve had a lot going on in your life. It’s okay to lean on your husband. And me too.”

That weird look crossed Sam’s face again. “And what do I do if he has”—his voice hitched, but this time he pressed on—“an accident? What happens when he leaves and doesn’t come back?”

Randy shook his head. “He’s not—”

“
You don’t know!
” Sam shouted.

Randy drew back, surprised by the intensity he saw on Sam’s face. He’d never seen him like this, ever, and he had no idea what to do with it.

Sam wasn’t done, either. He let go of Randy’s hand so he could wave both his hands around, at Randy, at Laura, and at the world in general.

“How the
fuck
do you know he’s coming back? Huh? How do you know he’s not going to die
right now
on the way home from the distribution center? How do you know he won’t have a heart attack or lung cancer because he smokes so damn much? He might die, Randy,
because you don’t know.
” And like a spent balloon, the anger blew out of him, and he sank into a slouch and began to cry silently as he finished. “And I just can’t take it anymore. I just can’t. I can’t do it again.
I can’t.
”

Randy’s heart ached for Sam, and he stroked his back, knowing where the conversation was headed even before the therapist asked the question. “What do you mean, again?”

Randy listened as Sam haltingly told the story.

“My mom died of cancer when I was seventeen,” he began, calmer now. He’d told this story a lot. “She had multiple sclerosis, too, but that wasn’t what killed her. She was doing really well with that, in fact. And then, boom.” He leaned on Randy a little and smiled sadly as he stared down at the coffee table full of stones and bowls and other oddly soothing objects. “She fought so hard, on both counts. Nobody fought like my mom. And she was great. She was so great. It was just the two of us, see, ever since I was born. My dad was a deadbeat, and I don’t even know who he is. Some dick who knocked up my mom and left her alone. But it didn’t matter, because we were great. We lived in a shitty trailer, and I had one pair of shoes and three outfits and slept in my underwear, but I didn’t care. She was great. It was great with my mom.” He looked up at the therapist, jaw set. “Yeah, I helped her, but I didn’t mind. She was tired, but it was okay. We still did stuff. And she was
totally
great about my being gay. I wish she could have met Mitch. I wish she could have”—the shadow passed over his face, and he looked down again—“seen me get married. She would have loved that.”

There was a sad, heavy pause, and then Laura said, in a voice that was oddly full of empathy and honor all at once, “She sounds like she was a wonderful woman. You must miss her a great deal.”

And Sam nodded, and began to cry more, quietly, gently, a man visiting the grave—

—and then suddenly Randy was rising to his feet, his throat full, his vision blurring, his stomach turning, too. Because just like that, with no warning at all, he was at a grave too.

Cold, windy day, the whole world gray inside and out, a weird sucking sound in his ears as he watched them lower the casket into the ground, and it was real, he knew it then, Uncle Gary wasn’t coming back, not ever—Oh God, it hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt, and he couldn’t take it anymore
—

And then a hand, small and slight and familiar, was pressing on his shoulder, drawing him back, drawing him down to the couch again. Randy blinked, almost surprised to find where he was. And then he was embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he murmured, gruffly. But the thickness was still tight in his throat as he sat down. He shifted uncomfortably and tried to rise again. “Sam, sorry, but I really got to get out of here.”

But Sam held him fast and with surprising strength. “Randy—what just happened to you?”

Randy glanced at the therapist and saw the patient smile was now aimed at him. And the panic rushed him.
Jesus fuck, get me fucking out of here.

But he couldn’t leave Sam. So he did the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

He told the truth.

He sat back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling as he spoke, keeping it casual and monotone as best he could. “I just remembered something is all. It’s not a big deal. You talking about your mom just made me think of my uncle. That’s it.” But because they were going to ask, he finished it. “He died when I was ten. But it’s fine.”

Sam’s hand stroked his. “I didn’t know you had an uncle.”

“I had six uncles, and five aunts.” Randy pushed out a breath. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling. “This was Uncle Gary. He was different.” He shut his eyes, then sat up and forced a laugh. “Seriously, Sam, we’ll talk about this later. It’s no big deal. This is your time, not mine.”
And I do not ever want a time for talking about this.

But when he looked at Sam, he realized he was screwed even before Sam spoke. Peaches had an iron look about him.

“I want to hear about your uncle,” he said.

Randy turned to Laura for help. She just smiled at him.

Randy got pissed.

“Listen,” he said sharply, “this is
no big deal.
”

Sam closed his other hand over their joined ones. “Please—Randy—would you tell me? Right now? Please?”

Randy looked at Sam’s face, tried to find the strength to shut him down, and found he couldn’t do it, not to Sam, not even for this.

Fuck.

He sighed and settled back into the couch, working hard to keep this casual. “He was just my uncle.” Okay, except that wasn’t fair. He forced himself to elaborate. “All right, he was my favorite uncle. So it was a little rough to lose him.”

And that was the fucking understatement of the year.

He shifted again and crossed his legs, resting his ankle on his knee, but didn’t take his hand from Sam’s. “He’s the uncle who taught me poker. And he was gay, which I didn’t fully figure out until later, but it meant a lot to me, because I was starting to think I was too. So it was like somebody understood.” He let out a breath which was not altogether steady. “There. That’s Uncle Gary. Now why don’t you talk about yourself, Peaches?”

But Sam went right for the jugular. “How did he die?”

Why the ceiling was so fucking safe Randy didn’t know, but he didn’t question it, just accepted its solace as he stared at it again. “He was killed.”

There. He’d said it. Wasn’t so bad.

And then Sam’s hand squeezed on his, and fucking hell if Randy didn’t start talking again.

“He was murdered. Knife in an alley, and it was not pretty. They never found out who, but you know, they didn’t really look. Just some gay guy killed down by the tracks. Nobody cared.” And then he had to stop, because his throat was full.

I cared.

He swore under his breath and lowered his head, glaring at both Sam and the therapist. “Look, why the hell are we talking about me? I did not come here to get fucking therapy.”

But Sam was just looking at him, full of empathy and Sam. “Randy, I had no idea,” he said, whispering. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well.” Randy wiped his hand over his mouth and swallowed several times. “Me too.”

He stared down at the carpet, not sure what the fuck he was going to do if they kept pressing on him, but fucking hell, he’d be ready.

They didn’t, though. Laura gently led the conversation back to Sam, who seemed calmer now—sad, but less jagged. Which was funny because Randy felt like he had six-foot spikes coming out of him in all directions and several poking backward pretty deep into himself as well. Fuck, but he didn’t know the last time he’d been this rattled.

Goddamn Tedsoe and his goddamned fucking bailing on them.

He had no idea what the hell Sam and Laura were talking about. He just knew that they didn’t try to talk to him anymore, and thank fuck for that. When it was finally over, he stood and waited over by the door, ready to run.

“I think we might meet again later this week,” Laura was saying to Sam. “Would you rather tomorrow, or the day after?”

“Tomorrow Mitch leaves.” Sam shut his eyes a minute, then pushed on. “So maybe not then. But—” He opened his eyes again and looked at Laura, worried. “I don’t know that I can afford to come a whole lot of times.”

“Your bill has been paid for already,” Laura told him, gently. “There’s no worry on that account.”

Sam blinked in surprise, then sighed. “Oh. Crabtree.”

Laura smiled another one of her smiles and patted him on the back. “Go ahead and make an appointment out front, and I’ll see you on Wednesday. It’s been good to meet you, Sam, and I look forward to working with you.” She turned to Randy. “It was good to meet you, too, Randy.”

Randy grunted and herded Sam through the door.

But his agitation didn’t leave him even when they got out of the building. It followed him onto the bike as well, and not in a way that he cared to drive with. So he turned left instead of right, and went like a homing beacon to the Stratosphere Hotel and to the parking garage.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he said to Sam, working to keep himself level so Sam wouldn’t realize how raw he was feeling. “Can you just wait in the bar?”

“I’ll go with you,” Sam said, taking his hand.

“I’m going
up,
Sam,” Randy told him. “I just need some head space.” He glanced at his watch. “Maybe Mitch is free and can come meet you.”

Sam shook his head and laced his fingers through Randy’s. “No. I’m going up with you.”

Randy frowned, but he didn’t have it in him to argue. He just headed toward the hotel, back around through the very familiar hallways to the ticket counter for the tower, paid for two, and got into the elevator. He felt better with every foot they went up, welcomed the rush of the high-speed lift and the popping in his ears, and his heart was pounding in excitement as he stepped out and saw the sun glaring in through the round windows of the observation room. He turned to Sam, wanting to dash out but knowing he needed to reassure Sam-I-hate-heights-Keller, then found to his surprise that Sam, white-faced, was shaking his head.