Enough

 
"Mr. Taylor?"

"Mr. Taylor?"

"Mr. Taylor?"

"…I'm sorry, were you speaking to me?"

"Mr. Taylor. You are with us this afternoon, are you not? I'm not interrupting something more important on your schedule, am I?"

Justin turned his attention from the window back to his easel and the life drawing he was supposed to be working on. It was a nude, it was charcoal, it was a fat woman with greasy hair and bad skin and he hated everything about her. He could smell her from where he was sitting and was starting to get nauseous. Twenty more minutes and he could leave without pissing the professor off more than he already was.

He was hungry, too. He'd been rushed and had to skip lunch, not that what they had in the school cafeteria was worth getting excited about, but it filled the hole.

Satisfied that he had sufficiently humiliated his student enough for one day Dr. Libby moved onto his next victim leaving Justin to look back out the window to where Ethan was lip locked with that flute student he seemed to have developed the hots for. God knew they were always glued to one another. It was embarrassing just to watch them—talk about get a room.

He started wondering if he had been that pathetic when he had been with Ethan and realized that he probably had been. God, there were students here who probably thought that he was pathetic, too. God.

Fifteen minutes crawled by and Justin started packing up. He had his supply box ready to go when Sten glanced out the window past Justin's shoulder. "Jesus, will you look at that? I mean, if you've got to advertise it you can't have much going on, y'think?"

"I guess."

"Like you and Ethan broke up, right? You two were just fuck buddies, right? You think that guy with him has a clue?"

Justin gave a non-committal half smile, picked up his stuff and left. So that was what the others thought. Well, great—fuck them and the horse they rode in on. He could imagine what they probably thought about him and Brian.

When he got out to the front door he saw that the evening's predicted rain had started about three hours early. In fact it wasn't just rain, it was a downpour, a cloudburst, teeming. There was no choice. He walked out into it, knowing that he'd be soaked in seconds.

He was right.

The bus was late and when it arrived it was packed, standing room only with wet, tired, annoyed people. He stood the entire way home.

He had just put his bag and jacket down in the loft and was starting up to the bathroom to get a towel when the phone rang over the growling of his stomach. Justin picked up. "Mom?"

"Sweetie? Could you just pick up Molly for me? She's at soccer practice, you know, over at the junior high field. I've just found out that I have to show the old Roberts place in half an hour and I just know it's going to take forever."

"But I promised Brian I'd cook dinner tonight and…"

"Justin, please. I know you're busy, but if I can sell this house—three percent of a million dollars would be a Godsend."

"I know, but it's already five thirty and the traffic will be—can't one of the other parents give her a ride?"

"I tried. Please, Justin? Just this once? Tell you what, you pick up your sister, call Brian to meet you at the condo and I'll take everyone out to dinner when I get there, OK?"

Oh, Christ, just what Brian would want. "You don't have to do that. Alright, tell her that—I guess I'll get her at the field at six–thirty."

"Of, sweetie, thank you, you're a life saver."

Resignedly he pulled on his jacket. Damn it, he'd been looking forward to cooking a nice dinner—cooking relaxed him, he liked to cook—and then having some time with Brian to just hang out, kick back, have some quiet time.

Shit.

By the time he got to the field it was almost seven. There had been road construction and then an accident, then he noticed that the damn gas light was flashing and the needle was pinned on empty. Shit. Then his sister announced that she had to stop at the stationary store to get some poster board for a project that she had due the next day and she also needed an ink cartridge for her printer which could be had at another store three miles in the opposite direction.

Shit.

He dropped her off, declined his mother's dinner offer and made it back to the dark loft at slightly after eight. The lights were off and there was no sign of Brian. Either he was late himself or he had come and gone already.

Shit.

If he were late he'd be tired and pissed. If he'd been back there, he'd know that Justin was late and he'd be pissed that he hadn't called and would have gone on to Woody's or someplace to spite him. He didn't feel like dinner anymore, either

Shit.

Sighing, he booted up his computer to start on that concepts project they'd just gotten.

It actually seemed like a pretty interesting assignment, they had to redraw some famous painting using a style from some completely different artist and Justin's idea was to use Picasso's blue period style to try to redraw Christina's World, it should be fun.

He was working on that, losing track of the time when the phone rang, Brian's line and he heard the machine pick up. Michael.

"Brian? Pick up. If you're there, pick up the damn phone. Where are you, asshole? I've been here for like an hour waiting for you…call me when you get in, will you? No, scratch that. I'll call you tomorrow. Asshole."

That was odd.

He turned his attention back to his assignment, the thing was due the day after tomorrow and he really had to crank it if he was going to have any hope of getting it done.

Another couple of hours passed, it was getting late and he had to get up for the early shift at the diner, that meant rolling out of bed no later than six if he skipped a shower and ran the entire way there. Then he had a full day of classes after that.  Shutting down the computer, he turned off almost all of the lights, brushed his teeth, stripped and crawled into his side of the bed.

Before he could fall asleep he heard the door sliding open and looked over to the clock. Midnight.

Brian hung his coat over the backs of one of the bar chairs killed the last lights and made his way up to the bedroom and removed his clothes, hanging up the suit, but letting the rest hit the floor, every movement of his body showing his exhaustion.

"Where have you been?"

"…There was a last minute dinner meeting with some clients then Gardner wanted to go over the account after they left."

Justin could smell the alcohol. Brian never drank at business meetings, he was too professional. Besides, he put too much importance on his job to jeopardize it by getting drunk at a meeting. "What did you do afterwards?"

"None of your fucking business."

Great. Nodding to himself, Justin lay back down, turned away from Brian. Fine, business as usual. Back to square one. Whatever. In seconds Brian was in beside him, his hand on Justin's hip, the intent clear.

"I'm tired."

"I'm not."

"No."

Brian's hand was moving, massaging larger and larger circles on Justin's hip and flank, despite himself, he was becoming aroused. "You seem to be waking up." He tried to move away. "Brian, stop. I don't want to."

There was a short moment before Brian answered, angry. "You're not my mother. You're  not my nanny and I don't answer to you. Accept that or get the fuck out."

Justin looked over at him in the dark room. Fine. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood, pulled on the jeans he'd left there when he'd gone to bed, pulled on a tee, slid his feet into a pair of sneakers and walked out of the bedroom. In less than a minute Brian heard the door slide open then close. Shit.

Twenty minutes later he was knocking at Daphne's door. After a wait of at least ten minutes with calls of "coming" through the wood the door opened partway to a disheveled friend in a bathrobe. The lights were low, the music romantic.

"Justin…um, did you want something?"

He gave a half of half a smile. "…No, I'll call you tomorrow. Sorry, Daph." The door closed.

Now where? Deb's? She'd ask questions and probably already know the answers. Besides, she'd blame Brian, call him an asshole again and he just didn't want to deal with that right now.

His mother's? No, same story, though she wouldn't use the actual word `asshole', it would be clear that was what she was thinking.

Ethan? Yeah—right.

He was at the bus stop; a big Grumman headed his way. Oh, what the Hell, it was headed to McKeesport; he might as well get on. The worst that could happen is that he'd be thrown out again.

He walked the last six blocks only because it was late and the driver actually felt sorry for him. The man took an unscheduled detour, which dropped him about a mile closer than the closest bus stop would have. It was around one thirty in the morning when he walked up the condo steps but there were still a couple of lights on. He rang the bell and waited.

"Yes?…Justin…What are, are you alright? Did you two have a fight or something? Is something wrong?"

"May I come in?"

Craig stepped aside then led his son to the living room, the same chair he had sat in when his father had refused to help him with his tuition, explaining that things were tight, and besides, Brian was still a pervert.

"I needed, I guess, I wanted to—Brian and I had a—I had a shitty day." He knew he sounded lame, but screw it; the day had been as crappy as he'd said.

Without asking his father poured and handed him a couple of fingers of Johnny Walker, adding another glass for himself.

"…So what did you and Brian fight about?"

"It was stupid. He said he was working late at some dinner meeting with clients then didn't get home til like eleven. He came to bed smelling like a damn bar and he was…" He paused, glancing at his father. "He was horny and when I told him I was tired we had a fight and I left."

Craig could have written the dialogue himself. He and Jenn had played the same scene at least a dozen times over the years. God, he was so like his mother. Before the kids Jenn would escape to her sister's place, after the kids she'd either go down to the study couch or make him sleep there.

"For good?" That seemed to startle Justin, like he hadn't thought of it.

"I, probably not, but …shit. I was tired and he wasn't at any meeting that late."

"Do you think he was screwing around?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Justin sipped his scotch, thinking. It went down smooth. His father was just saying what he was thinking himself.

"You have to decide if it matters to you. If he was cheating on you"…. God, he couldn't believe that he was telling his son this… "You have to decide if that's enough for you to leave. If he wasn't, if he really was at some meeting, you need to apologize."

Justin was quiet for a minute, then, "Did you ever apologize to Mom?"

"Lot's of times, but she got tired of hearing it."

Justin had suspected as much when he was a kid. He had heard the arguments. "Did you screw around on her a lot?"

"That's none of your business."

Justin gave him an appraising look but decided not to pursue it. They both knew what the outcome had been. He settled back against the chair, his head back, looking up at the ceiling. "I love him." It was a quiet statement of fact.

"Justin…I love your mother, but that doesn't mean that we can live together."

"But…"

"If he makes you this unhappy you should leave."

He was right, his father had a point. If he wasn't happy, he should find someone or someplace where he was happy—or at least less unhappy than he was. But—he wasn't really all that unhappy, not most of the time, anyway. Most of the time he and Brian got along pretty well. They would have dinner and talk about their days and they would joke around, maybe see the boys or have dinner at Deb's with the family. They would make love—OK, fuck to use Brian's word, even though that wasn't really what they did anymore—and they would go to sleep and wake up in the morning and start all over again. They cared about one another and they took care of each other. They worried about one another and they laughed together.

Yes, sometimes they fought, but usually they worked it out.

But Brian still screwed around and he couldn't accept that. He knew that as far as Brian was concerned t didn't mea anything, but it did. It meant a lot to Justin and it hurt him. They had talked about it, they had argued and they had endured long silent nights and weekends about it. It came down to a stalemate. Justin beloved that if Brian cared about him, if he loved him, he wouldn't do something that Brian knew upset and hurt him. Brian took the position that Justin knew that it meant nothing, that Brian enjoyed and needed the release and the confirmation of his own powers and if Justin cared about him and understood him as well as he insisted he did, he would drop it.

"Usually he doesn't make me unhappy. Usually he lets me know how much he loves me." He was still staring at the ceiling but straightened up enough to sip another quarter inch of his drink. He looked over at his father who was toying with a small picture fame. Inside was an old snap of Justin and his sister taken on a family trip to Disney world about ten years before. It was a sunny day and they were both laughing. Molly was wearing her favorite Minnie Mouse Tee shirt. "Do you still hate him? It's been almost three years. Do you?"

Craig just shrugged. "I know he helped when you hurt. I know your mother has more or less accepted him and relies on him now and then. I know your sister likes him and that he's successful in his work."

"No shit. Do you still hate him? I mean, you tried to kill him twice and called him a pervert and a pedophile."

"Justin—he, he's too old for you and the way he lives, even if neither of you were gay, even if you were just friends—I couldn't be happy with it. No parent could."

Justin took in what his father said, he'd heard it before and knew, on some level, that his opinion would never change. Fine. Whatever. It was probably a mistake to come here anyway. His father seemed to pick up on his thoughts.

"What made you come here tonight? You must have other friends you see, what made you come here?"

Instead of a snarky answer, Justin just shrugged. "I don't know. I thought about the others but they, I don't know, I just wanted—I guess they weren't who I wanted."

"What did you fight about?"

Shit, what was it they had argued about? In fact they hadn't really fought, not really. Brian had come home late and tired and horny. And he was a little drunk. That wasn't that big a deal, not when you thought about all the crap he was capable of.

"It was, I guess we just both had shitty days." He drank some more of the scotch. "How did you know that you and Mom couldn't live together anymore? Was it when she started to accept that I'm a fag or was it before that?"

"Justin, that's between your mother and…"

"I really want to know. For a long time I blamed myself for the divorce. Was it my fault?"

Craig seemed to consider whether or not to answer. He made a decision. "We'd been having problems for a while, nothing specific, just two people who were growing apart. We were good at pretending that everything was alright, especially in front of other people but I think we both knew that was a breaking point that we'd get to sooner or later."

"Because I'm a fag?"

Craig inhaled sharply, stalling for time, just a few seconds of it. "That isn't what caused the divorce. Alright, it might have speeded it up, but it didn't cause it."

"Do you miss Mom?"

"Of course I do, and you and Molly—of course."

"But then why did you…"

"Look, Justin. I don't know what happened between you and Brian, but from what I've seen you seem to love him, no matter what your mother or I may think. All I'm saying is that if you think you're in love with him, if he makes you happy, if your life is better when you're with him then take care of whatever problems you may be having and be with him. Go to sleep with him at night and wake up beside him and eat dinner with him and talk about your days together and make love whenever you can because if you don't then you're an asshole and you'll wake up some day and you'll find that you're forty years old and you'll wonder what the Hell happened."

"…Dad?"

"Just believe me on this, Justin."

"But I thought that you…"

"If you've found someone who makes you happy, then don't fuck it up."

"Even if we're a couple of queers?"

"Even if you're a couple of queers."

He finished what was left in his glass; the mantle clock read twenty to three. "I'm going to be late getting back." He saw his father's unspoken question. "We have an agreement to be home by three, no matter what."

"I'll drive you, if you want."

"…Why the fuck would you do that?"

"Because you're my son and I want you to be happy."

Justin almost smiled at him. "Even with Brian?"

"With whoever it takes." He picked up his keys from the tray on the table next to the door. "Come on."  They were about halfway back to the loft when Craig asked. "Do you think this—whatever this was—this argument or fight or whatever it was—do you think it will blow over?"

"I think we both had a bad day, that's all."

"Your mother used to do that, at first, when we were first married. When we'd have a fight she'd go home to her mother. It used to piss me off. The problem—whatever the problem was that day, anyway—was between us. I resented that she would bring someone else into it. Don't make the same mistake. Work out your own problems, understand? Unless it involves violence or something, keep it between the two of you of you'll lose his trust."

He just sat on his side of the front seat. "There's something weird about the whole thing, though. I mean, with Brian and me. It's like everyone seems to have cast us as some perfect couple, like fucking Romeo and Juliet overcoming adversity or something. Or like he's some prince rescuing me or vice versa. It's almost like we have this image to uphold and if we argue or break up it like we'd be disappointing everyone." He looked over. "Does that make any sense?"

In fact, it did. "Are you saying that you two are together because you're afraid of gossip or that your reputation will suffer if you break up?" He and Jenn had almost stayed together for the sake of their perfect image.

"No, I love him and I think—OK, I know that he loves me—but it's almost like people are watching us and we can't screw it up because we're these—shit—role models for gay life or something. It's like there's this aura following us. People watch us when we're just walking down the street. It's weird."

They were pulled over at the curb by Brian's building. There were still a couple of lights on up in the loft. "Justin, you just said that you love him, you've been telling me that for months—years—now. You believe that he loves you; you say that he makes you happy and that you want to be with him. You just told me that tonight's problems likely happened because you both had a bad day. Now if all that's true get out of the car, go upstairs and talk to him. Ask him what happened to him today, tell him what made your day stink. Listen to what he tells you and think before you answer him…Tell him that you love him."

That stopped Justin. God, his father telling him to go tell Brian that he loves him, tell him how his day had gone and have a heart to heart with him. Jesus. Whoever thought that he'd hear that from Craig Taylor in this damn lifetime?

But he was right.

Shit, he was.

Screw everyone else, screw bad moods and bad days and pissy tantrums and drama queen moments. Screw then all.

"And the Hell with what anyone else thinks."

Justin nodded at what his father had just said. "I'll call you, OK? Maybe we can get together sometime."

"I'd like that."

Getting out, closing the door behind him, he noticed that his father was waiting to see that he got safely inside the building, just like he would when he was ten years old and going to spend the night at a friend's house. He punched the access code into the door pad, letting himself inside.

He knew that Brian was waiting up for him, that he was likely worried and wondering where he had been. He might even have made some calls to try to locate him, make sure that he was alright. He would do that sometimes, thinking that Justin didn't know that he was checking up on him. Certainly neither of them would ever discuss it.

He took the stairs two at a time—the advantage of youth and young legs and knees. The sliding door was open a crack, a sliver of light spilling out to the hallway.

He let himself in.


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