The Red Thread (16 page)

“You came in with a smile on your face, and you looked like you were happy to be alive.”

“Well, I guess at this moment in time, I am happy to be alive.”

“That is wonderful. I want this feeling to continue, then. I’ll see you next week.”

I give her the check, and I enter the waiting room to see that Adam isn’t there. I wonder why he’s not here for his session. I wish I could ask Dr. Wheeler, but I know she cannot speak of other patients. Instead while I’m in the car riding home with my father, I’m left to thoughts of all the terrible things that could have happened to him. A long laundry list of bad things runs through my mind:

1. He could have been badly injured by a gang of thugs.

2. He could have been kidnapped by a gang of thugs.

3. He could have been
murdered
by a gang of thugs.

Okay, maybe none of those. Wilshire isn’t exactly a town known for gang violence, unless you count the ridiculous gang of sixth graders from many years back. But what if Adam isn’t okay? What if something is wrong, and I don’t even know it? I’m his boyfriend, so should I have known? Or maybe this is too early in the relationship for me to be at that stage where I blame myself. Why must relationships be so difficult? Couldn’t someone just write a damn handbook on how these things work?

“Hey, Dad, could you do me a favor?”

“Sure, kiddo. What’s up?”

“Could you drop me off at Adam’s apartment? He wasn’t at therapy tonight.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Dad, I’m nineteen years old. I just want to see if he’s okay. I would still walk to his place tonight, but at least if you drive me, you save me one trip. It’s freezing out. Do you want me to freeze to death outside? I could die, and it would be on you.”

“Well, I certainly like how this boy makes you more talkative lately.”

I smile and thank him as he changes direction. I tell him how to get there, and I let him know I’ll be home later tonight. I walk up the stairs of the complex. At his door, I knock, but no one answers.

“Adam, are you home?” I ask through the thin wood.

I hear shuffling from inside, so I know someone is in there. The door opens, and I look up to see Adam. He is dressed in only a pair of gray lounge pants, and I can’t stop from gaping at his torso and chest. His muscles are quite defined, and I am overcome by the urge to run my hands over his abs. I turn my eyes up to his face; his are sunken in, and he looks paler than usual. He holds a crumpled white tissue in his hand. He honestly looks like death, but he still manages to smile down at me.

“Jess, hi. I d-d-d-didn’t kno-know you, you were c-coming to-to-tonight,” he greets, his voice sounding stuffy.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I, I just f-f-f-feel like c-crap.”

He steps aside to let me in, and as I go to kiss him, he backs away.

“Jess, I’m s-s-s-s-s-s-sick.”

“Whatever.”

I stand on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his neck, and I pull his face down to me so I can place my lips on top of his. Even sick, his kiss tastes wonderful. He backs away and gives me a large lopsided smile.

“N-now that i-is good m-m-m-m-m-m-medicine,” he says with a laugh.

“Did you go to the doctor?”

He shakes his head. “Just a c-c-cold.”

“Do you have any tea?”

He shakes his head and asks, “Wh-what do, do you have p-p-planned?”

“First, I’m gonna get you into bed, and then I’m going to make you tea, and we’re going to cuddle.” I pull out a couple of tea bags from my jeans pocket and packets of sugar from the other side.

His smile seems to grow, and he closes his eyes.

“That sounds wonderful.”

I hear him enter his bedroom, and I stride over to his kitchen, setting the small black kettle on his gas stove. I grab a match and light the burner. I sit at the kitchen table, after pulling two mugs out of the cabinet above me. I wait for the sounding whistle, and when the kettle starts to screech, I jump at the ferocious sound. I pour the water into two mugs and grab two tea bags. I make the teas my way—English breakfast tea with two lumps of sugar, some milk, and a dash of honey—because I’m going to show this coffee drinker some good tea. Some people convert their boyfriends into watching their favorite shows. Not me. I want to convert mine into drinking tea. I think it’s a pretty reasonable request.

I bring the mugs into the bedroom and see him cuddled up under the quilt. His head rests on the pillow, but I see his muscular chest poking out from the top. He smiles, and I swear he almost drools at the scent of the drinks when I ask him to take a whiff. Even when he is ill, he still manages to be incredibly adorable.

I kick off my shoes and curl up under the blanket with him, handing him his tea. He takes a sip.

“Well?”

“For t-t-tea, I g-g-g-guess i-it’s good.”

I’ll take that. I’ll consider that a win for me. I take a sip of the tea, and I must admit I make some pretty damn good tea.

He places his mug on the nightstand and opens up his arm. I cuddle up into the crook of his arm, and he wraps his bicep around me, and I lay my head on his chest.

“Th-th-thank you for, for c-c-c-coming.”

“Of course. What are
boyfriends
for.” I must admit; I really love calling him my boyfriend. “I have to say, though, that I’m incredibly stupid.”

“Why?”

“When I didn’t see you in the waiting room, I instantly thought something awful happened.”

“Like wh-what?”

I blush, not wanting to tell him the overdramatic thoughts that rushed through my head earlier this evening.

“Tell m-me. P-p-p-p-please.” He looks down at me with a smile, and once I look into his eyes, I cannot turn down his request.

“I thought that you were kidnapped by a gang of thugs or something.”

“A, a gang of th-th-th-thugs? Do we, we ha-have that in W-Wilshire?”

Adam breaks out into a crazy giggle, and I can’t stop the blush that rises to my cheeks.

“Shut up. Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not. Y-you’re s-s-s-s-s-s-s-so a-a-adorable.”

He kisses my forehead, and I tell him that won’t work every time he laughs at me. He laughs once more, and I forgive him—this time. Next time, he’ll have to work for my forgiveness.

We lie there in silence, my head on his shirtless chest, as he strokes my hair. I close my eyes and just allow myself to be happy.

“I, I r-r-r-really like you, J-J-Jess.”

“I like you too, Adam.”

“I t-t-told my u-uncle about y-you.”

“I hope you lied,” I joke.

“I, I told him how aw-aw-awful and m-m-mean you are. I t-t-t-told him you, you, um, beat me and tha-that you take m-m-my money fr-from me.”

“Oh, I thought I said to lie.”

“N-n-no. I t-t-told him that you’re s-s-s-so s-s-s-s-sweet and cute and that I, I really like you. He w-w-wants you to, um, come over for d-dinner. Would that b-be okay?”

“Yeah, it could be fun,” I respond, with a slight hostility in my voice.

“Is, is that n-n-not okay?” he asks. I silently curse myself for not hiding my fear any better. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that it is kind of a big step. Meeting the family… he might as well give me the engagement ring now. But then again, I told him I was in a mental asylum on our first date, so what do I know about dating formalities?

“It’s fine. I want to meet him.”

“Yay. Uncle Martin w-w-will be, be s-s-s-s-s-s-so glad. Uncle M-M-M-Max t-t-too!”

I smile, and I just continue to lie there in silence, happy to know that I made him euphoric, which also happens to be today’s magical word.

Euphoric; adj.

Elated, happy, joyful, delighted, gleeful; excited, exhilarated, jubilant, exultant; ecstatic, blissful, rapturous, transported.

I hear him yawn, and gosh, even his yawn is adorable. It sounds like a baby kitten that is ready to fall asleep. His breathing becomes rhythmic, and I feel his chest rise up and down with each small breath he takes. I close my eyes, just wanting to savor this tranquil moment. Peace never seems to last long for me, so I want to soak up every serene moment I can. I just want to fall asleep as his strong arm still curves around my thin waist, holding me close to his body. I bend my neck up so I can place a kiss on his cheek, and I watch his smile grow in his sleep. I want to think that he is dreaming of me. Of us. Of this.

I close my eyes and let out a sigh of contentment. I’m content with being with Adam. With this moment right now. And most of all, I’m happy with my own life at this moment.

I WAKE
up to the bright sunlight shining through the window. I let out a yawn, and I grow confused when I realize my pillow is strangely harder than usual. My mind is full of groggy thoughts, like a jigsaw puzzle. The thoughts are there, but they’re scattered, and I can’t piece any of them together. Finally each piece comes together, and I remember where I am. I jump up with a start to see a still-shirtless Adam sleeping. His mouth is slightly open, and a little bit of drool seems to be running down the side of his cheek. Where’s my camera when I need it?

Wait… it’s light out. Shit. I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep here last night. I grab my phone off the nightstand to see three missed calls and eleven unanswered text messages from my mom. Fuck.

I maneuver out of his arm, and I watch as he clings to a pillow. I already miss my spot in his arms. I grab my phone, and I walk into the living room, slowly closing his door, careful not to wake him up.

I dial my home number, and my mom picks up on the first ring.

“Where are you?” There is a mixture of anger and worry in her voice, making me instantly regret falling asleep last night.

“I’m still where Dad left me, at Adam’s.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. He was sick, so I stayed here. I didn’t mean to, but I accidentally fell asleep.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“You didn’t do
anything
right?”

Most parents, when they ask this, mean: “Are you having sex?” But not mine. My mom means if I cut myself or if I tried to slash my wrists open again. She wants to make sure I really am at Adam’s house and I didn’t run off to be alone to kill myself.

“No. I’m still alive. I didn’t stick my head into an oven or anything. I’m fine. I told you the medication is helping. I’ve been totally fine since I started my pill-popping ways.”

“Don’t make fun of me. You know how much I worry about you.”

“Sorry, Mom,” I say, sounding like a small child in trouble after drawing on the walls.

“It’s okay. Will you be home soon?”

“Yeah, I have work this afternoon. I’ll be home to shower and change. See you soon.”

“I love you, sweetie.”

“You too.”

And I’m not totally lying. The medication has helped me so much. My mood swings are crazy, but the suicidal thoughts have declined, but it’s Adam who has probably helped me the most. He’s bringing out something in me that hasn’t seen the light of day in years.

I hang up, and I make my way back to Adam’s room.

“G-good morning, b-b-beautiful,” he says in his groggy sleeplike state. He opens his arms wide, and I pretty much fling myself onto the bed and roll into his arms. I feel like a spy in an action movie.

My name: Jess Holbrooke.

My mission: get into Adam’s arms.

Okay, there is really no cool fighting and no villains, but the end goal is still satisfying. Although if there were some ninjas or pirates to fight, that’d be pretty nifty too. And I thought I’d be a terrible boyfriend. How many guys would fight ninjas and pirates to be with their boyfriends? Not many, I’m sure.

“How d-d-d-id you, you s-s-s-s-sleep?” he whispers into my ear.

“Quite well. You’re a
very
comfortable pillow.”

“Are, are, are you c-calling me fat?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Adam.”

He grabs a pillow and holds it over my head, and even with the fabric over my face, I can’t stop the laughs. His giggles are infectious, and even our laughs seem to blend together to create a perfect orchestra of harmony.

“I-I’m s-s-s-s-s-s-so not f-fat.”

I run my fingers lightly over his stomach, tracing the contours of his muscular torso, and I hear his breath stop short at the touch of my cold fingers. He removes the pillow from my face, and I stare right into his eyes. His mouth is slightly agape, and his hair is a mess. I run my other hand through his hair, and I watch as he closes his eyes. The small smile on his face lets me know it feels good.

“Yeah, you’re definitely not fat.”

He bends down and kisses me. As he pulls away, I’m the one with the dopey smile on my face this time. If it wasn’t for work, I could stay like this all day. Or forever even. A lifetime of this wouldn’t be bad.

A lifetime of Adam would be quite exquisite indeed.

I hear the grumbling of his stomach, and a redness takes over his cheeks. He rolls over, and I miss the feeling of his body hovering over mine. He laces his fingers through mine.

“I g-guess I’m hun-hungry.”

“I can’t cook,” I tell him, with a small pathetic smile.

He gives me a large triumphant grin, as if he is the winner of some game going on between the two of us. “I c-can.”

“You can cook?”

He nods with a cute lopsided smirk on his face. My boyfriend wants to cook me breakfast. Boyfriend. My boyfriend. I still haven’t totally gotten used to calling him my boyfriend. Adam Foster is my boyfriend, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

He gets out of bed, and with our fingers still laced, he pulls me along into the kitchen. I won’t lie, a part of me is dancing on the inside with the fact that he still hasn’t put a shirt on. I never thought I was one of those guys who freaked out over something silly like this, but now I see why so many people do. If it were up to me, he’d always be shirtless… well, with just me. I almost feel as if this is some treasure I have just unearthed, and just like any man’s gold, this is one I do not want to share.

“D-d-do you like f-french toast?”

I nod. I actually do. It’s my favorite of the breakfast foods out there. Most people will say pancakes, and to that I say whatever. Pancakes are overrated. French toast is where it’s at.