Page 105 of Him

Mark Killfeather, Jr.

I read the email twice. And then I read it one more time. It doesn’t say a thing about Wes and me, and there aren’t any slurs. Just a kid who wants to play hockey, and knows enough to say thank you to the people who’ve tried to help him.

Damn, I’m proud of this email. And I feel just a little more optimistic about life than I did five minutes ago.

I tap out a quick response, because I sure don’t want to forget.

Killfeather—you are an amazing goalie and it was my pleasure to work with you this summer. Of course I’ll check out your stats as the winter progresses. You’re going to rock this season.

Sincerely, Jamie Canning

Then I go back to pacing and worrying about Wes. What if they show him the door, and I’m not even there for him?

And where in Lake Placid can I get a blood test, like, tomorrow?

When my phone rings, I jump about a foot, then hurriedly swipe to answer. “Hey babe! You okay? What happened?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” His husky voice slides into my ear and wraps around my heart. I can hear that he’s out on the street somewhere, and I wonder what he’ll be able to tell me. “Damn, I wish you were here right now,” he says.

I brace myself.

“I’d take you out to this Italian restaurant on Queen Street that the guys love. I’m starving and I want to tell you every word of the trippy conversation I just had.”

I’m practically dizzy with stress right now. “What kind of conversation?”

“The good kind,” he assures me.

My heart rate drops one notch, but I’m still afraid to be hopeful. Because it seems impossible to believe a high-profile NHL team would shrug off Wes’s confession. None of this computes.

“But… wouldn’t weavoidthe places where your team likes to eat?” I ask slowly. “You know that means people will see us, right?”

“Yeah, but some day soon that’s not going to matter.”

“Really?” I want a guarantee. I want a notarized document.

I want a Valium. Or a blowjob. Or both.

“I’m having a really good day,” Wes whispers.

My blood pressure drops again. “I’m glad,” I whisper back.

“I love you,” he adds.

“I know.”

Wes laughs in my ear, and the happy sound of it is what convinces me we might be okay.

FORTY

JAMIE

On a Friday in mid-August I move in to our apartment. Though “moving in” requires air quotes, because we don’t own much of anything.

Earlier in the week Wes ordered a couch—a macho leather thing, if I’ve understood the description correctly. It seems his taste runs to “early man cave,” and I can’t say I mind. He also picked up three bar stools for the kitchen island, which means we can put off worrying about an actual table.

Last night, after round one of our I-missed-you-so-much sexual marathon, Wes made a show of going to the grocery store, but he only came back with chips, dip and beer, which means I need to go back again and buy actual food. I may not have mentioned to him yet that I’m a pretty good cook. Wes seems prepared to survive on take-out, and in Toronto that’s easily done. I’m going to have to acquire some pots and pans and blow his mind one of these days. That sounds like a whole lot of fun, actually.

Meanwhile, we blew each other’s minds (and other parts) in our new bedroom last night. Then we passed out and slept for nine hours in our brand new king-sized bed.