Toronto Tales 1 - Cop Out (20 page)

“You were bordering on brutality, and that little shit would have squealed about it the second he stepped into processing. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me! Who are you, my mother?” Kurt clenched his teeth, his fists, rocking on the balls of his feet. Adrenalin surged, and he was going to have to decide—soon—if it was worth throwing a punch at his partner.

“Jesus Christ, Kurt. Get in the fucking car.”

Simon didn’t exactly give him a choice, and muscled him into the passenger seat with his bigger bulk. Since Kurt didn’t particularly want to be stranded, or be forced to use public transit, he buckled his belt and crossed his arms.

“What about Wally?” Kurt asked as soon as Simon got in the car. “He’s still a suspect, and you let him go.” The accusation made a muscle leap in Simon’s jaw.

“He’s not a good lead and you know it.” Simon started the car and drove away.
They rode in silence, the radio crackling loudly and intrusively between them. Pulling up in front of Kurt’s apartment building smoothed out some of his simmering fury.

“What are we doing here?”

 

“Get out of the car.” Simon didn’t wait for him, but strode to the entrance and waited.

The red haze of anger faded, and Kurt had to admit he’d maybe been a bit out of line. But it wasn’t Simon’s place to coddle him, or protect him from his own actions. Simon was his partner, not his parent.

“Get in,” Simon said, voice still tight.

Kurt opened the door to his apartment, took off his coat, and threw himself on the couch like a sulky teenager. Simon wandered into the kitchen… and came right back out holding an empty vodka bottle.

He sat on the coffee table facing Kurt and set the vodka bottle—one of several Kurt was sure he hadn’t thrown out yet—beside him.

“Jesus, Kurt.” The anger was gone, replaced by something else. Pity, maybe. Kurt didn’t want to hear it… or see it, so he averted his eyes. He didn’t think Simon would go away if he locked himself in the bathroom, though.

“How much are you drinking? What the fuck is going on?” This time, though, there was no aggressive thrust to the words to send Kurt’s hackles rising. “I’ve been watching you unravel for months, but I didn’t know it was this bad.”

Simon waved a hand toward the kitchen. Kurt dared a quick glance up, care and concern etched on Simon’s face, but he could barely look his friend in the eye.

“Kurt, c’mon. Talk to me. I’m your partner. I’m your friend. Please let me help you, because you can’t keep going on like this.”

Kurt opened his mouth intending to say, “Everything’s fine,” like he’d been saying over and over for the past few months.
Instead, he hiccupped, his eyes filled and burned, and every single sordid, awful detail surrounding Davy spewed out. Every dark secret, his fears, his indecision, his gut-wrenching loss.

Simon got up only to retrieve a roll of toilet paper for Kurt to blow his nose. Otherwise he did nothing to stem the flood of words Kurt had bottled up since Ben died. Like any other flood, once the dam was broken, there was no stopping it until it was over, ripping out shreds of his soul for Simon’s delectation.

At the end, Kurt stared down at his hands, damp toilet paper twisting through his fingers. His throat was raw from talking, like he’d swallowed forty-grade sandpaper, and the skin on his face was stretched tight and painful like a plum about to burst. But Simon hadn’t left. Or thrown a punch. Or laughed. He also hadn’t said a word since Kurt stopped talking, and the silence hung thick and heavy over his cheap-ass couch. Had Kurt destroyed another friendship? Was he well on the way to destroying every relationship in his life? What the fuck would he live for then?

Simon dragged in a deep breath and let it out, setting the toilet paper tatters to fluttering.

“Whew. I get it now. And I’m just going to say one thing right now. I can’t answer for you whether you’re gay or not, although I think if you’re honest with yourself, you already know the answer to that. Whether you decide you are, whether you decide to be open… I am your friend. I will always be your friend. And it hurts the people who care about you to see you tearing yourself to pieces.”

His brow lifted. “Now, I don’t think you need any more booze, eh?”

 

A half smile stretched Kurt’s face. Relief had never been sweeter.

“And I’ve watched you drink your weight in coffee every day for weeks. Do you have any tea, perhaps? Or I can call Jen to bring some over.”

Precisely what his mother would have prescribed. “My parents are Irish. I have tea, somewhere,” he croaked out.

Simon slapped his hands on his thighs and stood, towering over Kurt. “Sit. Think. Mull, even. But don’t worry, okay?”
Against his will, that half smile returned, and he leaned his head back against the couch cushions, letting the domestic clatter of teafixing soothe and settle him like nothing had in months.

Kurt must have dozed for a bit, because Simon sat in front of him again, steaming mug in hand. His mother might have convinced him to keep tea in the apartment, but she’d never get him to have teacups. He took the proffered mug, letting the warmth seep into his cool hands, the heated vapor easing his swollen membranes.

He waited until he’d had a couple of sips before he spoke. “You really don’t care?”
“I really don’t. I know some guys will be jerks about it. I hear that Ivan guy in the drug squad gets a lot of shit… but I’ve never seen him twisted up like you. That kind of secret messes with your head. I also know that Ivan’s got as many friends as detractors.”

“I have to tell my parents, don’t I? I don’t know if Davy will ever speak to me again, but….”

“But to even have a chance with him? Then yes, I think you need to tell people. And remember, it hasn’t even been a year since Ben died. You both need a chance to regroup. Recover.”

It didn’t slip past Kurt’s notice that they were talking as though Kurt was definitely gay. But then, as Simon said, if he was honest with himself, he already knew.

“But what if he never—”

Simon slashed his hand through the air. “You may have to let him go. Move on. But that worry is down the road. You need to fix
you
first. Then worry about any potential relationships, okay?”

The thought of letting Davy go made something ache with emptiness, deep inside. But Simon was right, again. Once he was back to himself, then he could pursue Davy. If not romantically, then at least repair their friendship, somehow.

“One last thing,” Simon said. “The drinking?”

 

“I’ll get rid of the booze. I promise. I’m not an alcoholic, I don’t think.”

 

“I don’t think so either. But if you have any troubles letting it go, you tell me. Got it?”

 

“Got it. Thanks, Simon.”

 

Simon squeezed his shoulder. “Get some sleep. I bet it’s been awhile since you’ve done that.”

In an almost zombie-like trance, Kurt followed Simon’s suggestion and went to bed. As he fell on to the mattress, the sounds of bottles falling into the trash and dishes rattling as they were placed in the dishwasher floated to him. Maybe having someone take care of him wasn’t all bad… some of the time. Didn’t change the fact that he wanted to be the one looking out for Davy, though that might never be. A single tear slipped from his eye and down his cheek as he faded into sleep.

W
ITH
the announcement of a new, interdepartmental task force, Kurt was busy enough at work to avoid having any serious discussions—that weren’t work-related—with anyone. Which meant he was able to avoid telling anyone about the revelation he’d had the day he’d almost beat up Wally. Simon never spoke of it again, except to tell him Jen knew, and Kurt was able to settle back into his weekly dinners at their place. She was still chomping at the bit to set him up, this time with some guys she worked with, and he was thankful for her restraint.

He still texted Davy weekly, but each week without a response killed another smidgeon of hope. At least Davy hadn’t requested a restraining order against him. He hadn’t had a single drink since his confession to Simon almost three months ago, and thankfully, had no cravings.

He was able to look at himself in the mirror and say, “I’m gay,” without cringing or blushing. Imagining saying it to his family still gave him the shudders.

So, he’d done the only thing he could. Dodged them. Fortunately, Caitlyn and Colleen had recently announced that they were both pregnant, again at the same time. It was enough to keep attention off him for a bit.

Tonight, his dodging was done. Tonight, he had no excuse his mother would accept for missing his own birthday party. He wasn’t going to ruin the party by telling anyone, but soon. It was going to have to be soon. He was ready.

Maybe.

He had the cab drop him off a few blocks away, hoping a walk in the cool spring night would help calm him.
It didn’t work. Every touch, every hug he flinched from. Every word was laced with imagined innuendo. Every glance was sly and knowing.

His parents hugged him, but there was a strange look in his mom’s eyes. Haunted, maybe. Whatever it was, he’d need to do some explaining to her, and soon.

After several minutes of greeting guests, feeling like a big phony, he grabbed a beer and settled in a corner, hoping the night would pass quickly.

Would his life be different now if he’d just invited Davy to the last birthday party? Would they be friends? Lovers? Maybe they’d have attended Kurt’s party as an openly acknowledged couple. He’d never know now.

“Hey there, bro.” Ian’s voice startled him, and he spilled his beer. “Oh, uh, hey.” So far, he was doing a complete shit job of acting normal. If this were an undercover job, he’d be dead.

“Oh, uh, hey.” Ian mocked. “Is that all you got? I haven’t seen you in months. Not since you ditched me at the bar on Valentine’s. Been holed up with some hottie?” At least Ian didn’t sound too pissed about it. Ian didn’t usually hold grudges.

“No, just busy at work.” Which wasn’t a lie, at least.

“Excellent! As soon as we can blow this place, I got us VIP passes to that upscale nudie bar down on Queen Street. The women are fucking hot. Perfect place to celebrate you birthday, and hey, you’re the only single brother I got left. We gotta make the most of it now that Stephanie seems to have landed Dylan.”

Like that day with Simon, Kurt had had enough. No more lies. “Where’s Mom?”

 

“What?”

“Never mind. I….” Pretending was too hard. “I’ve got to find Mom.” He left Ian gaping, but that was the least of his concerns.
He peered over heads, searching for his mother. He spotted her setting up the cake by the bar.

“Mom, I need to talk to you.”
She glanced at the cake, and the crowd. “Now?”
“Please.” He might not have the courage later.
“The break room?” she asked.
The break room was small, but private, and it had a door. “Yes.”

She pursed her lips, looking both sad and resigned. “What about your dad?”
The little boy inside quailed. “No. Not right now. Just you, please.” If she hated him, there’d be no need to risk his father’s disappointment as well. He’d just leave, make a clean break. His mom did pass a silent communication to his father, something he’d only started noticing between couples since he met Davy—and started wanting that kind of connection for himself.
As his mom walked toward the break room, Kurt glanced over his shoulder. Simon, looking right at him, nodded his support. Jen was there, too, even though he couldn’t see her. He had at least two supporters, and that would have to be enough for now.

They settled into chairs, and his mom squeezed her hands together. Kurt wanted to as well, but he was afraid of breaking the beer bottle. He drank a little, stalling, but it didn’t sit right on top of the ninja kickboxing butterflies that had taken up residence in his stomach.

“Please, baby. Talk to me.” His mom’s eyes filled with tears, and he realized his pain had been shared, even though he’d been unaware. If she hated him… no. He had to say it, give her a chance to be the loving mom he’d always known.

“I’m gay,” he whispered, but somewhere he found the courage to keep looking in her eyes. Because he had to know what she thought, how she felt.

The welling tears fell, but she smiled through them. She was relieved?
She threw herself at him, hugging him, and he hugged her back, a bit of his defensive shell melting away. He hoped saying this would never be so scary again.

Drawing back, she kissed his forehead, then settled back in her chair, retaining one of his hands in hers.
“Oh, baby. I was afraid you were going to tell me you were sick or something awful.”

“This isn’t awful?” Kurt couldn’t stop whispering.

“No, honey, no. I love you. I want you to be happy, and you haven’t been. Not for a long time.”
Her eyes flared, and she stared intently at him. “Baby. I was right, though, wasn’t I? You were in love.” She pushed his shirtsleeve up and touched his scar. “What happened?”

Oh, God. His eyes were burning. He devoutly hoped it was the emotional turmoil of coming out putting tears so close to the surface and not some sort of requirement for being gay. Because this was horrible.

“I was—am—in love. But he doesn’t want me.” He’d told the whole story once, and he didn’t want to do it again. But even when he’d told Simon, he never actually said… hadn’t admitted to himself… he’d fallen in love. He knew why so many people both lamented and praised their first love. It was more beautiful than a sunrise, and more painful than being consumed by the fires of hell.

He got another hug.

“Well, if he can’t see what he’s passing up, he’s not good enough for you. Unless he’s married. Then he should be shot.” His mother was truly indignant on his behalf, and his heart lightened somewhat.

“No, he’s not married. It was mostly my fault. I wasn’t honest with myself or him. I was trying to hide.”

 

“And now that you’ve decided not to hide?”

“I don’t know. It’s complicated.” The anniversary of Ben’s death was a mere two weeks away. He hoped Jon, or even Andrew, would be there for Davy, because he didn’t want Davy to go through that alone. Even though he wanted to be there, wanted to tell Davy he was opening up to people, he also knew he couldn’t let himself tie his coming out to his need for Davy. Coming out had to be for him, not Davy. Davy— and Simon—had made him see he had to be true to himself first or he could never be true to a lover.