Page 18 of Spread Your Wings

CHAPTER TEN

The next morning after breakfast at Cozy’s, they walked back to the Hyde Park tube station. “Let’s go see Freddie,” Sammy said. He’d always wanted to see Garden Lodge. Now, it seemed imperative, especially after the magical concert.

They walked north and east of the Earl’s Court station, following directions Sammy had gotten from the hotel’s front desk.

He’d chatted up a bellboy while Mustafa had signed for his legal documents, delivered by courier.

The bellboy was also a Queen fan and questioned him endlessly about the concert.

Once Sammy had started talking, he couldn’t stop.

The set list. The guest artists. The celebratory atmosphere.

Each memory had spawned a new one until Mustafa had to drag him away with an apology.

As they strolled through Kensington, though, a heavy silence settled over them. Freddie had walked these streets, too, after all. Freddie may have even taken a stroll on a Tuesday morning, much like this one. Sammy imagined crossing his path.

When they arrived at 1 Logan Place, the six-and-a-half-foot brick garden wall overflowed with pictures, postcards, and letters.

So many had come before them to pay tribute to Freddie.

The wall was spray-painted with messages to Freddie in rainbow colors.

The sight reminded Sammy of the Berlin Wall.

The wall was topped with a four-foot metal grating for privacy.

The smell of fresh-cut grass wafted to them on the street.

Life went on beyond the garden wall, even though Freddie was no longer there.

The thought stung his eyes and had him gripping for the letter in his coat pocket.

Sammy didn’t have a way to attach the letter to the wall. He tucked it under the corner of another letter already pinned there. He’d penned it before dawn, while Mustafa was still asleep.

Dear Freddie,

Your tribute concert was amazing, but it wasn’t the same without you.

He’d said more, but he couldn’t remember it now.

It had seemed important to share his story with Freddie.

Here, among the letters from so many other fans, his letter seemed insignificant.

He’d ended with: The world misses and mourns you still.

You are an inspiration to men who love men everywhere. Thank you. SC.

Sammy couldn’t bring himself to sign his name. He was glad he’d left it folded up, so Mustafa wouldn’t read it.

He stepped back, and Mustafa smoothed his letter against the wall, pen in hand. “Do you mind?”

“No. Go for it.”

Mustafa wrote on the back of Sammy’s folded letter, still attached to the wall. He used Latin script, but Sammy didn’t understand the words.

“What does it say?” he asked when Mustafa finished.

“Goodbye and thank you for making the world a better place.”

Sammy nodded. His throat ached and his eyes blurred with unshed tears.

As much as Sammy wanted to stay and read the open letters, his eyes wouldn’t focus. This place, this wall, seemed too much like a tomb. They returned to Hyde park, instead. They walked shoulder-to-shoulder through the green lawns and budding trees until ten.

Then, it was time to check out of the hotel and grab a quick bite to eat from a deli near the tube entrance. From there, they headed to the airport.

Sammy felt weird to be going home. His entire world had changed in the past three months, and he’d learned a lot about what he didn’t want to do with his life. He still didn’t feel adult enough to return home and face his mother.

They had the left side of the economy row to themselves. Sammy had the window, and Mustafa had the aisle. The five women in the middle row were drunk and loud. The one on the aisle gave them a cursory once-over when she first took her seat and then ignored them.

Once they were in the air, Sammy pressed the button on the armrest between them and pushed it up, out of the way. He took Mustafa’s hand, tucking them out of sight beneath the corner of Mustafa’s flannel shirt. Sammy wasn’t ready to let go.

When they arrived in Atlanta, Sammy stopped for coffee on the way to baggage claim.

He paid for a cup for Mustafa, too. They’d been in the air for almost nine hours.

It was just before five in the afternoon in Atlanta, thanks to the time difference.

Sammy rarely drank caffeine in the afternoon, but he needed the energy to speak with his mom.

Mustafa ordered an iced tea and dabbed at his forehead with a napkin. He stripped out of his flannel shirt as they stood waiting for the baggage carousel to start.

“It’s warm,” he said.

“It’s always warm.”

Mustafa grinned. “I already love it here.”

“Give it a month. In June, it’ll be hotter than the devil’s sweaty balls.” Sammy hated the humidity. It made his hair curl, and not like Jason Newsted’s pretty spirals. When his hair curled, it looked more like an atom bomb went off.

Mustafa laughed and pulled him into a hug. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Wait. What?”

“I have your address.” Mustafa waved the hotel stationery on which Sammy had scribbled his address and phone number that morning. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I get settled.”

“You’re not…”

“I will find you when I’m settled, when I know how to make a living here. Until then, I need you to make room for me in your life.”

“So, I should clean my apartment?”

“You should find what makes you happy.”

“You make me happy,” Sammy said.

“You didn’t know me when you left. Maybe I won’t fit with your old life.”

“You will.”

Mustafa nodded. “I hope so. Until then, I will give you space while I work my shit out.”

Sammy knew Mustafa was right. Mustafa had to follow Vasily’s leads for housing, school, and work. Sammy also had soul-searching to do at work. They were great together in London, but that was a vacation. Now, they needed to get back to real life.

They took their bags off the carousel and marched shoulder to shoulder toward the exit. Sammy’s heart ached. He wanted to tell Mustafa how he felt, but the words didn’t seem right. It would seem forced and fake if he said them now, as they parted.

Worse, they couldn’t do more than hug at the exit doors.

Vasily’s cousin held a sign emblazoned with Mustafa’s full Cyrillic name and called out to him when she saw him.

“Mustafa! Kako si? Kakav ti je bio let? ” With a square face made even more boxy with her haircut, bangs across her forehead and an undercut to her ears, she looked a lot like Vasily.

“D obro sam ,” Mustafa responded. “This is my friend, Sammy Connelly.”

“Hi,” she said, tucking the sign under her arm and offering a hand.

Sammy shook her damp hand. “Hot out there?”

“Eighty. Not bad.”

Sammy nodded. It could be worse.

“We need to go. I don’t want to pay for parking.” She picked up Mustafa’s suitcase for emphasis.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Same,” she said as Mustafa picked Sammy off the ground in a bone-crushing hug.

“I’m going to miss you.” Mustafa’s breath tickled Sammy’s ear.

“I already miss you.” Sammy’s chest hurt, and he barely had the breath to say, “Hurry back to me?”

“I will do my best.” Mustafa pressed his lips against Sammy’s temple.

Neither of them spoke the words. Sammy could see it in Mustafa’s eyes as he followed Vasily’s cousin to the parking lot. So much love in his eyes. He would be back. Sammy had to believe it. He swiveled and saw his mother coming toward him from the opposite doorway.

“Welcome home,” she said, holding out her arms for a hug.

Sammy embraced her, immediately missing the heft of Mustafa’s hugs. Despite the heat near the doors, he felt cold in her intense blue gaze. She’d swept her graying blond hair into a bun at her nape, making her face appear tight and ageless.

“Who was that young man? Someone you met on the plane?” Her words were innocuous enough. Her sharp tone activated every defense mechanism Sammy had developed to deal with her over the years.

He took a deep breath to calm his nerves. “That was Mustafa. My boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” She took it in stride, not missing a beat. “How long have you known this boyfriend?”

“I met him when I landed in Sarajevo.”

“He works for CNN?” She sounded doubtful.

“He worked for the Holiday Inn where we stayed. When the war broke out, his uncle arranged for him to come to the United States. He joined me in London for the concert.”

“Concert,” she huffed. “You know Sunday was Easter? If you had to be in London for a concert, you could have at least called me on Easter.”

“Sorry, Mom.” Easter Sunday. Shit. His promise to call her on Easter had completely slipped his mind. Maybe he’d been reading her signals all wrong. Maybe she wasn’t mad about seeing him with Mustafa. Maybe she was hurt because her son had forgotten about her. “I’ll make it up to you over dinner.”

She took his offered arm, and they walked out into the stifling humidity, suitcase in tow.

“Tell me about this boyfriend,” she said on the way to her car. “He’s very handsome.”