Page 47 of Pages of My Heart

“Are you holding my friendship with your sister against me right now? I would never, ever suggest I was interested in your sister, even as a lie to deter someone. Christ!” He tugs angrily at his hair.

“I’m so fucking sick of living like this!

I hate that people don’t know you’re mine.

Because you fucking are mine, Charlie.” Thomas stops pacing and their eyes lock. “You belong to me.”

Charlie doesn’t hesitate. He sheds his clothes with a frenzied determination, Thomas only seconds behind him. Thomas pushes him back against the wall and kisses him roughly. He wants Thomas inside him, wants to give him everything he needs.

Thomas spits into his hand and strokes it over his already hard cock, and Charlie’s skin flushes white hot with the realization that Thomas plans to take him right here where they stand.

Thomas scoops him up under the thighs, biceps bulging, and Charlie wraps his legs around Thomas’s waist and his arms around his neck.

Thomas bites into Charlie’s shoulder as he pushes his cock inside him, pulling a guttural moan from deep within Charlie’s chest. Without any preparation or proper lubrication, it burns.

But he wants it, he needs it, and he wills himself to relax and open up.

Thomas thrusts hard and deep, Charlie’s back repeatedly slamming into the wall with the force of it.

Within minutes, Thomas spills inside him with mournful cries that are only part pleasure.

To live and love as they do—in the shadows, outside the conventions of society—will always bear with it some measure of pain.

Thomas lowers Charlie down to the floor and then sinks to his knees, taking Charlie into his mouth. “Only for you, sweetheart,” Charlie moans, stroking his fingers through Thomas’s hair. “Only you.”

He comes hard into Thomas’s mouth, relief washing over him as he feels Thomas’s anger finally dissolve—his muscles unknotting, his face softening, his touch turning gentle and tender. He peppers delicate kisses up Charlie’s body as he stands until their lips meet, soft and sincere once again.

They wind up back in bed as they talk things through.

Charlie apologizes, and Thomas tells him it’s not warranted.

Neither of them wanted to waste a second of this precious time fighting, but Charlie understands why it happened.

They’re living through something untenable—time at first chasing them, now beside them, and soon outrunning them altogether.

And yet they fight and thrash against it, mere fools in Fate’s powerful embrace.

Charlie doubts that God watches over men of their kind.

“I got somethin’ for ya,” he says, slipping out of bed and retrieving the present from the pocket of his uniform still lying discarded on the floor. Climbing back in, he gives it to Thomas, who turns it over in his hands a few times.

“You didn’t have to buy me anything. You’re all I ever need.”

“It’s for your birthday. Bad enough I wasn’t there to celebrate with you.” He bumps him with his knee. “Open it.”

Thomas pulls on the bow, then sets the twine aside before unwrapping the paper and inhaling sharply. “Oh, Charlie, I love it! I’ll read every poem in it,” he says, flicking through the pages excitedly.

“I wrote somethin’ in the front,” he tells him, feeling a bit bashful now. “I didn’t have much time, but I hope ya like it. I ain’t good with words like you.”

“You’re plenty good with words.” Thomas turns to the front page and reads the inscription, eyes growing damp.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful, just like you, my darling. Now . . .” Thomas places the book carefully on the nightstand before turning back to him, eyes alight. “How about I write poetry all over your body with my fingers and my lips?”

Charlie barely has time to smile before Thomas devours him with a kiss.

That night they go to the local cinema, choosing the least popular film on offer. They sit in the front row, away from prying eyes, and hold hands underneath the popcorn box. And for a little while, it feels like a regular Saturday night.

Thomas

After another passionate night, alternating between sleeping and making love, they wake late and head to the diner for a large breakfast. The hours are ticking down, and Thomas is acutely aware that their time is almost up, struggling to stay present and not project forward to the gut-wrenching pain to come.

He has berated himself repeatedly—he must not fall apart as he did last time.

This time, he must be strong. He must make Charlie believe, with all his heart, that they will be reunited when all this is over.

When they arrive back at their room, they sit at the little table tucked next to the bed and get down to the practicalities. Thomas doesn’t want to, but it helps Charlie settle and gain some control. Even if, in fact, control is but an illusion.

“Okay, first off.” Charlie takes Thomas’s hands. “If you start feeling low, do you promise to stay with Bridget ’til you’re better?”

“Yes, I will. I promise.”

“Has Evie been bringing you the money for my share of the rent and utilities?”

“Of course. Except I pick it up because I don’t want her under any stress with the baby coming.”

Charlie pauses, face growing stern. “In the next draft, if your number is called, what will you do?”

“Charlie, we’ve been over this a thousand times.

” He pulls his hands free. “I’ll ask for an exemption based on my new job as headmaster.

If that doesn’t work, I’ll fail the medical—pretend I can’t see or hear properly.

” He pauses, then adds pointedly, “Or I can just tell them I’m in love with a man. ”

Charlie glares at him. “Thomas, you will do no such fuckin’ thing. Since you never listen or do anything you’re told, perhaps faking deafness is the way to go.”

Thomas ignores him because he’s had enough of this conversation and promptly changes course. “I have an idea about the letters, because I can’t keep writing these buddy notes to you where I don’t get to say how I feel.”

“Yeah, I hate it too. It’s like writing to a fuckin’ pen pal. What’s your idea then?”

“You address your envelopes to Maggie O’Reilly, and in the letters, you only use Red, or sweetheart—never Tommy. I’ll write back using your name, signing as Red and putting Maggie as the return sender.”

Charlie grins and slaps the table. “Tommy, you’re a goddamn genius. It’ll just sound like two young lovers.”

“Darling, we are two young lovers.”

Charlie rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling.

“You know what I mean. We’ll still need to be careful not to say anything that might give us away.

Some of the boys are sayin’ Uncle Sam monitors our letters in case they’re intercepted by the Krauts.

They wanna make sure we’re not revealing secret information or some shit. ”

Thomas nods his understanding as he removes his wallet from his jacket and slides out the photo of Maggie he brought for this purpose, placing it face up on the table.

“What’s this?” Charlie asks, face perplexed.

“It’s a photo of Maggie. A color one, so everyone can see she has red hair. You can show it to the other men and say she’s your girl. Tell them you call her Red. That way you can talk about me, call me Red, and they’ll think you’re talking about her.”

Charlie’s expression turns to understanding. “This why you got so mad yesterday?”

Thomas can do nothing but nod. This is the smart choice, but it still pains him to know that Charlie will need to pretend he’s in love with his sister. That Charlie will need to pretend to write Maggie letters. He should have told Charlie straight away why he lost his temper.

“Sweetheart, it’s a good plan. I wanna be able to write to you and tell ya how I feel. And I won’t survive without all that romantic stuff you’re always sayin’. I tease you sometimes, but you know I secretly love it.” The blush that blooms across Charlie’s cheeks soothes Thomas instantly.

“That’s settled then.” He reaches across the table and joins their hands together once more. “If there’s anything else you need to tell me, now’s the time.”

Charlie exhales loudly, like breathing is an effort. “No, not really. Are you enjoying your new position yet?”

“Not much. I miss the students. I miss teaching. Mostly I sit in my office and do my work—it’s all a bit isolating. I think in the future I’d like to gain a professorship at a college so I can be back in the classroom. But to do that I might need to return to study . . . after the war, of course.”

Charlie squeezes his hands. “That sounds like a great idea, and we’ll figure out how to make it happen. But for now, try to settle into it. Maybe you can be like . . . a real modern headmaster. Visit the classrooms more often.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Thomas places a kiss on each of Charlie’s hands. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Tommy . . .” Charlie begins, but then looks away.

“What is it?” he asks, his mind instantly assuming the worst.

“Look, I don’t want an argument, but I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I don’t even know if I’ll make it home. And if I do, it might not be all in one piece.”

“Stop it! Don’t—don’t fucking speak like that.” Thomas pulls his hands away, his temper flaring.

“Tommy, please. I want to know . . . I need to know if—”

Thomas stands abruptly, the chair tumbling over with the force of it. “No!” He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He won’t fucking have it. Not when they have less than four hours remaining. “You know the answer already, anyway. It’s yes and forever. Now come and lie down with me.”

Thomas undresses Charlie in silence, their eyes never disconnecting.

He removes his own clothes next and leads Charlie to the bed.

They spend their remaining time gazing upon each other, exchanging gentle touches and tender kisses.

Thomas presses his ear to Charlie’s chest, directly over the tattoo, and listens to his steady heartbeat.

Charlie asks Thomas to turn over and then draws patterns with a finger on his back.

He makes Thomas guess what they are—a heart shape, the infinity sign, then the words “CHARLIE LOVES THOMAS” written in all capital letters.

It almost breaks him, his voice cracking when he answers, “I love you too.”

They hold onto each other desperately, their bodies as fragile as their hearts. “I’ll think of you every day,” he whispers, his lips brushing against Charlie’s ear.

“I will come home to you, sweetheart.”

The walk to the bus stop is the greatest battle Thomas has ever fought.

It may as well be World War III for all the brutality being thrown against the fortifications he’s uselessly placed around his heart.

But he must not cry this time. He must not let Charlie leave with the burden of worrying about him.

Even though they have shared their last goodbye kiss in the privacy of their motel room, Thomas still wishes he could have another. Or that he could at least wrap Charlie up in his arms and breathe him in. But it doesn’t matter how many hugs and kisses he gets, he will always, always, want more.

Standing together across the road from the bus station, their eyes meet one last time.

Thomas nods his encouragement, eyes blinking back tears as his heart pounds so loudly it drowns out the rest of the world.

Charlie visibly swallows hard. There is no way they can utter another word to each other without breaking down in the middle of the street.

Charlie takes one step back, smiles and salutes, then turns and strides across the road.

It’s two o’clock on the dot when Charlie climbs up the steps of the bus.

Thomas tracks him as he walks halfway down to where there is a vacant seat and slides over to the window, eyes instantly connecting with his own.

As the bus starts to pull away, Thomas puts his hand to his heart and forces himself to smile.

Charlie nods in return, hand lifting and pressing to the glass. And then he’s gone.

Thomas tilts his hat down, not wanting anyone to see the heartbreak plain on his face.

He checks his watch—the next train to Chicago doesn’t depart for another hour.

Lighting a cigarette, he picks up his bag and heads toward the station anyway, choosing a seat at the very end of the platform once he arrives.

He pulls out the book Charlie gave him and opens it to the first page, rereading the inscription a few times.

An image of Charlie writing it in front of the bookstore assistant brings a soft smile to his face.

As he reads the first sonnet, Thomas realizes it’s true—their love is a poem, epic and beautiful and triumphant.

But only the first stanza has been written.

If God is willing, then surely there are still many more verses to come.

Closing his eyes, he whispers, “We still have the rest of the poem to write, Charlie Miller.”