Page 13 of Pages of My Heart

Charlie

When Charlie wakes the following morning, the first thing he becomes aware of is the freckled hand clamped over his own.

The second is that he desperately needs to bathe.

He’s sore and tender, and he can feel the evidence of last night’s lovemaking on his stomach and between his legs.

They’ve moved during the night, Thomas now pressed to his back, arms caged protectively around him.

Thomas’s steady breaths are the only sound to fill the room, every warm exhale like a delicate caress on the back of Charlie’s neck.

It’s Charlie’s first time sleeping next to someone, and it calms him in a way he’s never experienced before—at least not since he was a very young boy enveloped in his ma’s embrace.

Despite all the time he’s spent thinking about it, Charlie doesn’t know what he expected sex to feel like, and in the aftermath he has mixed emotions.

Part of him feels shame, especially for being the one to take the dame’s position.

But the truth is, his desire to be fucked was—is—stronger than anything else.

Does that mean he’s less of a man? That he’s a sissy, just like his pops has always said?

Because after the initial burn and sting, it felt good to have Thomas inside him, to give himself up to the boy.

Thomas’s body, heavy on top of his, had been a revelation.

He hadn’t even realized they could have sex facing each other like men and women do.

Charlie always assumed that if he ever got the chance to sleep with a man, he’d have to be taken from behind, like an animal.

What they had shared was more than just sinful fornication, wasn’t it?

When Thomas was inside him, kissing him, holding him, Charlie had felt deeply connected to him.

It’s not like he’s got anything to compare it to, but he imagines it might be what love feels like between two people.

Charlie barely knows Thomas, but somehow last night he felt closer to him than he ever has to any other person in his life.

How can he walk away tomorrow and never see him again? He can’t bring himself to think on it.

Charlie squeezes his eyes shut, knowing he is mere weeks away from marrying Ruthie.

The church is booked and the invitations have been sent.

His heart pounds as guilt pushes greedily into his thoughts.

But then Thomas stirs behind him, and just as quickly the guilt and shame melt away like ice on a hot summer’s day.

He reaches back, running his fingers through Thomas’s soft hair.

“Mornin’, Red.”

Thomas hums happily, trailing kisses down the curve of Charlie’s neck. “Good morning. How do you feel?”

“Sore. And needing a wash.”

“Mmm, not ready to let you out of this bed yet,” Thomas says, arms tightening around Charlie’s chest and stomach.

Charlie laughs and tilts his head for a kiss, the heat building anew.

His whole life he’s felt like a mistake, never believing that anyone could love or want him—the real him. But with Thomas, as implausible as it seems, it feels . . . possible.

Saturday morning is filled with many firsts for Charlie, starting with the revelation that the O’Reilly house has a shower, where Thomas insists on scrubbing Charlie’s back and tenderly washing his hair.

Then there is the pain of taking his morning constitutional and the humiliation of discovering the remains of last night expelled at the same time.

He doesn’t share any of this with Thomas, but his face is surely as red as a beet when he walks out of the bathroom.

The two make breakfast together and sit at the homey kitchen table, eating until they can eat no more.

Between bites of toast Charlie tells Thomas about his job and all the other boys that work at the garage, and he sips his black coffee and listens to Thomas talk about what he studies at college, even if most of it makes little sense to him.

Thomas is funny, even downright goofy at times, and he’s stupidly sentimental.

Charlie teases him for it, but the truth is it makes him all the more fond of the boy.

And there is an easiness between them now that they’ve laid bare the most intimate parts of themselves.

Late morning they walk to the drugstore, Charlie puffing on a cigarette around the corner while Thomas goes inside to buy a new jar of Vaseline.

And after lunch they play a few games of eight-ball down at the local pool hall—something Thomas has done little of, so Charlie teaches him some tricks.

Several times throughout the day Charlie is stricken with the fear that everyone they encounter knows what they’ve been doing and what they are.

Homosexuals.

Deviants.

Sinners.

But then Thomas will smile at him, and the fear will fall away, creating a dangerous illusion that they are safe and separate from the rest of the world.

In the evening, Charlie helps Thomas cook a simple meal for them to share.

They set the dining room table, and Thomas lights a candle he’s produced from somewhere.

In some other world, it could almost be a romantic dinner date.

They certainly act like it is, making eyes at each other and giggling like love-struck schoolgirls.

It should be embarrassing, but they’re alone, with no one to bear witness, and so Charlie allows himself to enjoy it.

After dinner, Thomas persuades him to go to the pictures.

Charlie’s not sure that two men should be seen together on a Saturday night without dates, but he finds it impossible to say no to Thomas’s pleading puppy dog eyes and infectious energy.

They arrive just before the lights go down and slip into the front row, as far from the other patrons as possible.

Halfway through the film, just when Charlie’s finally convinced himself that no one is paying them any mind, he feels Thomas’s pinky finger brush his on the armrest. Charlie freezes, then slyly looks to his right and then his left, checking that they can’t be seen.

“It’s okay,” Thomas whispers, keeping his eyes locked on the screen. He moves his hand down under the armrest, where the seats meet. “Please, Charlie.”

It’s stupid and risky, but Charlie does it because he wants to make Thomas happy.

And he wants it for himself, too. He moves his arm painstakingly slow, his hand finally coming to rest in Thomas’s, their fingers slotting together in the dark.

For the rest of the film, Thomas’s thumb strokes delicately over his skin, stealing Charlie’s capacity for thought.

It’s the simplest of touches, and yet it keeps him suspended on the edge of arousal.

They chance a few glances at each other, and Charlie believes that Thomas is just as lost to lustful thoughts as he is.

Later, back in Thomas’s bedroom, they take turns bringing each other to completion with their mouths, swallowing greedily.

Charlie cannot deny that he loves Thomas’s taste on his tongue and how it feels to make him shake with bliss.

Then deep in the night, when his body no longer aches every time he moves, they have sex again.

Charlie knows the pain will return, but he cannot stop the need burning inside him. He must have Thomas one more time.

They take it slow, and he finds it easier the second time, his body already learning what it likes.

Thomas thrusts slow and deep, then, upon changing his position, touches that place inside him.

Again. And again. It feels as if the room is tilting, and he tumbles uncontrollably into a euphoric state, warmth spreading out from where they are connected until it reaches the tips of his fingers and toes.

If he could choose to live in this moment for all eternity, he would.

He whimpers and groans, eyes rolling back as the world falls away.

Only he and Thomas remain. Then Thomas chants, “Charlie, Charlie, oh God, oh Charlie,” and his heart is full.

On Sunday morning, they head out to a small diner to have breakfast. Charlie has spent more money this weekend than is wise, what with the pool hall, the pictures, and now breakfast, but he doesn’t care about blowing a five spot. Because this is a onetime deal.

This is a onetime deal, he reminds himself for the hundredth time.

It’s like watching the sand run out in an hourglass with no chance of resetting it. What’s worse, time now seems to be speeding up, accelerating exponentially. Charlie almost feels like he’s disconnected from his body, watching himself at a distance as time disappears like a shadow into the night.

When they return to the O’Reilly house, Charlie confesses all, knowing this is likely the only chance he’ll ever have to share the truth of his life.

Knowing Thomas is the only person who won’t judge him for it.

Sitting in the living room, his hands finding Thomas’s, he speaks of his father, Robert, who has beaten him his whole life.

Who calls him a sissy, a pansy, a fairy, as if he somehow knows.

He tells Thomas that if Robert were ever to discover the truth, the coppers would be pulling Charlie’s beaten corpse from a ditch.

Thomas holds his hand and listens and doesn’t look upon him with pity, but with a kind of knowing.

Then Thomas tells Charlie more about his sick mother and his drunk father and how he and his siblings grew up hungry and cold until Bridget saved them.

Charlie wants so badly to tell Thomas that he’ll look after him and protect him.

But he can’t. Not in this world. Not in this life.

The large grandfather clock in the sitting room sounds twelve times, signaling noon.

They don’t want to leave it too late and risk being caught, so with lead limbs and heavy heart, Charlie leaves Thomas to tidy up downstairs and returns to the bedroom to pack up his things and erase any evidence of his ever being there at all.

As he shoves his clothes back into his overnight bag and retrieves his toothbrush from the bathroom, he tries to remind himself that what they’ve done is the result of some sort of sickness, or a deficiency that renders them unable to resist temptation.

He reminds himself that they should be ashamed of how they’ve acted.

He puts all those thoughts on repeat, because otherwise he will never be able to leave, never be able to walk away from this sweet, beautiful, red-haired boy that makes him feel.

Just before he fastens up his bag, he grabs the shirt Thomas wore to the pictures and buries it among his things.

At quarter after one he is standing in front of Thomas, hand on the front doorknob, ready to go.

Thomas has been silent for the last fifteen minutes and Charlie can see him breaking apart, left mute by the pain of their impending separation.

Charlie’s rib cage seems to constrict around his heart and the lump in his throat just grows and grows.

He wants to kiss Thomas one last time but knows it will shatter his resolve.

So instead, he gives him a solemn nod and pulls open the door.

Immediately, Thomas’s hand darts out and slams it shut.

He grabs Charlie by the shoulders and spins him around, crowding him against the door.

Charlie’s eyes connect with Thomas’s for a second before he looks away, staring at the stair banister.

“Please, Charlie . . .” Thomas’s voice is raw, pleading. “You can’t marry her. You just can’t.”

Before Charlie can think of anything to say, Thomas grasps his face and kisses him hard.

Too hard. But Charlie pulls at Thomas’s hair, then attacks back, plunging his tongue in as he fights back tears.

The kiss is brutal and heartbreaking, and when he wrenches himself away, he has to hurriedly dab at the single tear that has betrayed him.

Charlie must be strong for them both. Thomas has a chance at a great life, and Charlie will not be the one to take it from him.

“Thomas, we should be ashamed of what we’ve done,” he says with a bitterness in his mouth that only cruel lies can conjure. “It’s—it’s sick. And it’s wrong. And you fuckin’ promised me. This was a onetime deal. I’m gonna marry Ruthie. You need to let me go.”

Thomas’s face looks like the broken fragments of a shattered mirror, and Charlie can see his own jagged emotions reflected in it.

“No, Charlie, we can find a way!” Thomas begs, clinging onto Charlie’s shoulders. “And it’s not wrong! This feels right, you feel right. How—how can loving someone be wrong?”

This stops Charlie cold. “You—you . . . love me?” he asks, denying it and knowing it to be true all at once.

“Yes! And if that means I’m going to hell, then I don’t fucking care!” Thomas is shouting now, tears streaming down his freckled cheeks.

Charlie’s focus blurs, world tipping sideways. Thomas loves him? What can he possibly do with that? What the fuck can he do? Charlie takes a deep breath and tries to pull himself together.

“There’s no other way, Red. My pops would kill me.

He’d kill you too. I don’t regret a single second of being with you.

Not a single fuckin’ second. But this is how it’s gotta be.

Go and become a teacher. Or a—a damn proper professor.

Get yourself a nice family and . . .” Charlie looks down at the floor, drowning in his own disappointment. “And think of me sometimes.”

Without further delay, he swings the door open and hurries down the steps and onto the path. He can barely see where he’s going as his eyes fill with tears.

“Charlie, please don’t! Charlie!” Thomas keeps screaming, his voice breaking with the pain of it. “Please, Charlie!”

Then something inside Charlie breaks, too, and he runs. And runs.

And runs.