Something Like Winter (48 page)

Tim’s frustration grew as
the play went on with no sign of Ben. So far the story was about a
duchess who had fled England for America, and who despite being
beautiful and rich, was inexplicably single. Tim supposed he could
relate. When Ben strolled on stage, he sat upright in his seat. The
historical clothing and fake beard made Ben almost unrecognizable
at first, but his voice was the same. Part of Tim felt like hiding.
The other part wanted to leap on stage and make himself
known.

He barely paid attention to
the plot, instead staring at Ben no matter which characters were
speaking, but he picked up on the basics. Ben, aka Bo Williams, was
a con man after the duchess’s money. Naturally, Bo ends up falling
in love with her, but just before the wedding, a person from Bo’s
past exposes his history. This sets off a series of
misunderstandings that end in heartbreak, just as the website
promised.

Tim didn’t care much for
theater, and if he was being honest, Ben wasn’t an exceptional
actor. But the play featured musical numbers, and when Ben sang,
Tim became enraptured. Sparing a glance for the audience, he could
tell everybody else was equally impressed. At the story’s end, the
duchess tosses Bo out of her life, much to Tim’s dismay. Not
because he really cared about the characters, but because it meant
Ben left the stage.

When the play was over, all
the lights came on at once, and the cast walked out on stage in one
big line, bowing and grinning at the applause. Tim felt exposed,
but Ben was on the opposite side of the stage and didn’t notice
him. Still, the distance between them was relatively small. They
were ridiculously close, and Ben would never know.

Tim hastily made his way
out of the theater after that, feeling heady at having seen Ben
again, even if Bo and his fake beard were in the way. He’d like to
see Ben as he really was. Maybe Tim could write the theater and ask
for an autographed headshot or something nutty like
that.

Stopping outside his car,
Tim turned on his cell phone. Three new messages, which was
unusual.
Any
message was unexpected. Barely remembering how to access his
voicemail, Tim listened, feeling a chill despite the summer evening
when he heard the key words. St. David’s Hospital. Ryan. Emergency
room.

Tim was in his car and
gunning it across town in seconds, ignoring the speed limit and
quite a few red lights. If a cop wanted to pull him over, he would
have to chase him all the way to the hospital. By some miracle he
made it there unhindered and ran across the parking lot, panting by
the time he reached the nurses’ station. God damn, he was out of
shape!

“
Ryan Hamilton,” he
said.

The nurse calmly typed the
name in the computer, one of her coworkers speaking up. “He’s the
overdose.”

Fuck!

“
Oh, right.” The nurse
looked him over. “Are you family?”

“
I’m all he’s got,” Tim
said. “Is he okay? Can I see him?”

“
Just a moment.” The nurse
who knew about Ryan disappeared down a hallway. When she returned,
she brought a doctor with her. Tim knew she was a doctor because
she had that frazzled “way too much too do” air about
her.

“
Dr. Phillips,” she said,
not offering a hand. “We think Ryan overdosed. Do you know if he’s
a regular drug user?”

“
Yeah, he is.” Tim’s throat
felt tight. “Is he okay?”

“
He was barely coherent
when his friends brought him in. Since they’ve gone he’s lost
consciousness. Do you know what he took?”

“
Could have been anything,”
Tim said. “Probably a mix.”

“
Okay. Well, if you’ll wait
here, we’ll start the gastric lavage and see how he
does.”

“
What?”

“
We need to pump his
stomach. Please have a seat.”

“
I want to be there with
him.”

Dr. Phillips sighed
testily. “It’s better if you wait. It isn’t a pleasant
process.”

“
I’m his boyfriend. I have
a right to be there.” Tim doubted that was true, but Dr. Phillips
gave in.

He followed her to a small
room. Ryan lay motionless on his back, the color drained from his
face, reminding Tim of Eric’s death. For a moment he was sure
Ryan
was
dead,
that his conversation with Dr. Phillips had cost them precious
time, but the doctor didn’t seem overly concerned when she checked
on Ryan. Soon a nurse entered, rolling equipment behind
her.

“
You can sit next to the
bed if you want,” Dr. Phillips said.

“
Can I hold his
hand?”

“
Of course.”

The doctor took a clear
tube from the tangle of machinery and inserted it into Ryan’s nose,
slowly feeding more and more in through the nostril. That was all
Tim could take. Gripping Ryan’s clammy hand, he looked away,
sometimes even closing his eyes to pray. Where were those friends
of his now? How long had Ryan been messed up before they decided to
bring him in? If Ryan died, Tim would never forgive himself. He
should have been there with him, keeping him safe, even if Ryan was
a selfish brat.

Once the process had begun,
the doctor left them in the nurse’s care. After what felt like an
eternity, the tubes were pulled out of Ryan’s nose and the nurse
took away the horrible machine. The room smelled like bile. Tim
found traces around Ryan’s nostril and wiped it clean with a
tissue. Then he kissed Ryan’s forehead, whispering to him that
everything was going to be okay, that all was forgiven.

Hours passed before Ryan
awoke, but when he did, Tim was still at his side, holding his
hand.

“
I don’t feel good,” Ryan
rasped. “Where am I?”

“
The emergency
room.”

Ryan’s eyes found him and
his face grew pained. “What are you doing here?”

“
You gave the nurses my
number.”

Ryan tried to pull his hand
away but Tim wouldn’t let go.

“
You don’t have to stay
here,” Ryan said. “I know you don’t want to. I don’t blame you for
hating me.”

“
I don’t hate you, but you
can’t keep doing this. You overdosed. Do you realize that? You
almost died.”

“
I don’t care.” Ryan’s face
crumpled. “I’m such a fuck-up. I ruined everything!”

“
You didn’t ruin anything.”
Tim stood. “I’m going to get the doctor and tell her you’re awake.
We’re going to get you better, and then you’re coming home with me.
Okay?”

Ryan wiped away the tears
and nodded, Tim stooping to hug him. They could make this right. If
Ryan was willing to try, they could fix this.

* * * * *

Three days of sweet Ryan
holding his hand, cuddling against him on the couch, listening to
his stories and laughing at his jokes. For seventy-two hours,
everything was back to normal. At the end of the third day, they
tried having sex, Tim telling Ryan he needed to be tested in
between kisses. But then Ryan’s dark side revealed itself, and Tim
couldn’t continue. Hitting, biting, spanking, choking—Tim was
literally sick of it. The idea of returning to that made him
nauseous, and he couldn’t stop thinking about where Stephen had
been and what they had done together.

“
I’m tired,” Tim said,
shifting away from Ryan and pulling up the covers.

“
I’m not! What the hell?”
Ryan tugged at him and fumed, eventually stomping out of the room.
Tim let him go.

The next morning he found
Ryan passed out on the couch, an empty bottle of champagne on the
coffee table. Tim had thrown out all the alcohol before bringing
Ryan home from the hospital, but hadn’t thought of the bottle he
kept chilled for Marcello. When Ryan woke up that afternoon, he was
all piss and vinegar, every word venomous and calculated to
infuriate Tim. Maybe he was expected to get angry and take it out
on Ryan sexually, but Tim couldn’t play that game anymore. Instead
he went upstairs to his office, whiling away the hours on the
Internet. Naturally he kept returning to the website for the
Twilight Theater. Ben was performing again tonight.

Would Ryan be up for a
show? He knew all about Ben, of course, but unless Ryan carefully
read the playbill, he would never suspect a thing. It could be
good, the two of them getting out. Maybe they could talk over the
whole sex thing afterwards.

When Tim went back
downstairs, he noticed a pungent smell in the air, like burning
plastic. And Ryan wasn’t alone. Stephen wasn’t with him, thank god,
but another of his friends was. He and Ryan were giggling
incessantly, even when Tim walked in the room.

“
What?” Ryan
challenged.

“
What are you doing?” This
caused a fit of laughter. “Seriously, what are you
smoking?”

“
Pot,” Ryan
said.

Tim had smoked enough to
know what marijuana smelled like. He marched over to the coffee
table where a glass pipe leaned on its side.

“
Are you fucking kidding
me? What is this, crack?”

Tim grabbed the pipe and
headed for the kitchen. Ryan chased him, pulling on his arm. “Give
it back! It’s not yours!”

Tim threw the pipe in the
trashcan with enough force that it shattered against the champagne
bottle. When Ryan saw this, he started screaming shrilly, like a
child throwing a tantrum. Tim wanted to backhand him, but instead
he grabbed him by the arms and started shaking him.

“
What the hell is wrong
with you? Are you trying to kill yourself? Huh? Fucking answer
me!”

Tim let go of him in
disgust. Ryan slumped to the floor in a sobbing heap. This was too
much! He had to get out of here. Now.

“
I’m leaving,” Tim said.
“When I get back, your friend better be gone and you better be
sober.”

Ryan glared at him. “Where
are you going?”

“
Out. Alone.”

Tim whistled for
Chinchilla—not wanting to leave her alone with someone on crack—and
loaded her into the car. Then he went back in for a blanket and one
of her favorite bones. She would need to crash in the backseat for
an hour, if tickets were still available at the Twilight Theater
box office. Tim had his own dragon to chase, and right now he
needed a fix.

* * * * *

Busted. So very busted. Tim
was at his third showing of
Con Man’s
Heart.
During the previous show, the night
he had fought with Ryan, he was sure Ben had noticed him. He
certainly kept looking in his direction, but by the time the lights
went up, Tim was already gone, not wanting to leave Chinchilla
alone so long.

During tonight’s show, Ben
was staring in his direction so intently that one of the other
actors had to prompt him. Tim couldn’t help grinning. Nothing like
a ghost from the past to make you miss a line. The smile was his
first in days. Nothing Tim said or did made a difference anymore.
Ryan kept partying, seemingly set on self-destruction. All Tim
could do was steer clear.

After losing himself in the
show as much as possible, Tim left the theater when Ben’s last
scene was over. He checked his phone once he was on the street,
always expecting the worst. This time it came in the form of text
messages.

i know were u r

From Ryan, of course. But
he couldn’t really know, could he?

con mans hart? how
appropriate

Tim glanced around,
expecting to see Ryan’s accusing glare. The play was over now,
people leaving the theater, but he didn’t see Ryan. When were these
messages sent? He checked the last one and sighed.

hows benjamin?

Tim dialed Ryan’s phone,
disconnecting when he got his voicemail and trying a few more times
before giving up. This relationship was a nightmare, a mess he
couldn’t crawl free from without Ryan doing something stupid. Ben
was Ryan’s opposite. Giving instead of selfish, reliable and
steadfast instead of unpredictable and insane.

Tim could use his help now,
ask Ben what he would do if he were foolish enough to get in such a
situation. He realized after a second that he could. Ben was just
yards away, probably in a dressing room ungluing his beard this
very moment. Tim could pop in, say hello, and ask for some quick
advice. Chances were, Ben wouldn’t even speak to him. But Tim
wanted to try.

He turned around and made
his way to the back of the theater, where he imagined a metal door
guarded by bouncers, a flock of fans desperate for a glimpse of the
star. The door was there, but Tim was alone. Feeling like an idiot,
he pounded on the door a few times until a man with thinning hair
and trimmed beard—this one real—opened it.

“
Yes? Can I help
you?”

“
I’m here to see Ben. I’m
an old friend of his.”

“
Oh.” The man looked taken
aback. “Well, he’s already in reception talking to someone. If you
go around front again—” He checked his watch. “Actually, the doors
might be locked by now. Um. Follow me.”

The man led Tim through the
theater, a strange world full of hallways, scenery pieces, and
props, but he barely paid any attention. This was a terrible idea.
He knew he looked horrible. Not only was he out of shape, but he
hadn’t bothered to shave this morning, and lord knew he hadn’t
slept much recently. He could at least chew some gum to hide the
smell of beer on his breath. But it was too late. The man opened a
door to the familiar reception room and bar.