“Mother loves to have our photo taken.” Oliver keeps his gaze on me as I keep mine on the photographs. “She says she’ll need the photos to keep her company when we’re all gone.” He sighs. “Of course, only I’m left....”
I do know this about my father: He began losing his hair at the age of nineteen. What little he had left was a dark muddy gray. Nothing of the sort happened to me. That was my first hint that I was both immortal and ageless. I wasn’t sure in those first years after he burned the pages. I knew I felt different. Reborn. Powerful enough to make it on my own. To never see my father again. Never ask for his help. I didn’t find out Father died because I stayed in touch with anyone from home. I obtained the information when I robbed some Persian visitors. I didn’t reveal I was his child. Merely asked about him as if he were a distant acquaintance. They told me my father was taken by some plague or another. I don’t wish that on anyone. Yet it didn’t inspire any forgiveness for him. Perhaps one of the reasons I’m forgiving of the flaws of a person like Oscar Wilde is that he did more good than bad. My father did more bad than good. And that’s that.
“Stop staring at my baby pictures!” Oliver tries to pull me up the final steps.
I look at a photo of him as a baby. Then at beautifulseventeen-year-old Oliver. I sigh. I lower my voice to a whisper. “You were always magic.”
“Shh.” He looks over his shoulder with worry. Hoping his beloved mother didn’t hear me.
He pulls me up the second story. I love that each floor of a home is called a story. As if every level is an opportunity to spin a new tale. Perhaps a better one. Each story building atop the one below. Oh, Oliver. Take me high up above this. To a place in time where no one would judge our love. To a land of fairy tales and enchantment. A land where a prince can find his prince.
Oliver pulls me anxiously into his bedroom. Closes the door. I take it all in. The mattress his body lies on. The sheets that have the privilege of touching his skin. The pillow his beautiful cheeks rest atop. His scent is all over the room. I never want to leave. I could be happy spending the rest of my life here. In this one room. With him.
He turns to me. Speaks in an urgent whisper. “What are you doing? Calling us incessantly? Inviting yourself over for dinner? Are you crazy?”
I try to change the mood with humor. “My sanity is certainly in question. Love will do that to a person.”
He doesn’t laugh. “Is this a joke to you?”
I take his hands in mine gently. “Not at all. I’m sorry, I—I just needed to see you.”
“I’ve been avoiding you to protect you.”
“I don’t want to be protected. I want to be—”
He pushes my hands away. “Don’t you dare say loved.”
“I have to dare.” I smile wistfully. “And you do too. If we don’t, they’ve won.”
“We’ll win someday. Maybe not in our lifetime, but—”
“Listen to yourself!” The harshness of my tone jolts me. “You’ve already written off your whole lifetime. Accepted loneliness as your destiny.”
“What choice do I have?” His eyes well up. The fog of his sadness isolates him from me. “Do you want me to end up dead like Cyril? Or expelled like Brendan?”
“Those aren’t your only choices.”
“Yes they are!” He spits his words out bitterly. “You expect me to break Mother’s heart.” He looks down. As if he can see his mother one level below. She’s in one story. We’re in another. Oliver knows the two stories can never be a part of the same life. Not here and now.
I plead with him. “I expect you not to give up. To fight for yourself. For us.”
Oliver sighs sadly. “I always told you I was afraid. That it was the worst of my qualities. Now you understand.”
I try to soften my tone. I don’t want my passion to scare him away. “Let me be brave for you.”
“I don’twantthat. Don’t you understand that the only reason I wasn’t dragged into this is that Brendan protected me? And by extension,you.”
“I know all that. But I can’t stop loving you.” He turns away from me when he hears the wordloveagain.
I put my arms around his torso from behind. Turn him toward me. I can’t resist one more kiss here. Where we’re safe. Our breath feels heavy. I want to inhale him into my soul. So we can be one. Forever. A mockingbird chirps outside. Oblivious to how fraught this moment is. I thank God for the birdsong. For the optimistic melodies that nature can’t help but play.
His mother yells from below. “Boys!”
He pushes me away. Yells down to her. “Yes, Mother?”
“I’m going out for some S.O.S. pads to clean the pots and pans with. I’ll be right back. Oliver, offer our friend some tea.”
“I will, Mother!”
