Olive Juice

David didn’t think he’d ever felt so relieved about anything in his life.

I’m sorry, sweetheart, he thought to himself. I’m just not ready.

Instead, Phillip led them to his (their) bedroom.

He flipped the switch on the wall, and the light from the ceiling fan above came on, that damn ceiling fan that’d given them so much trouble when they’d installed it on their own. The wiring hadn’t been right, and they’d gotten a little snappy with each other, but they’d figured it out in the end, Alice sitting on their bed, reading off the instructions, giggling at the plaster stuck in their hair, the dust on their faces.

Phillip pulled David into the room, closing the door behind them. There was no one in the house, so David didn’t know what Phillip was hoping to keep out, but he didn’t ask. He allowed Phillip to lead him over to the bed. The comforter was different, forest green instead of sky blue, and there were new lamps on both nightstands, but other than that, everything looked to be the same. David had left most everything for Phillip when he’d moved out. He’d been unwilling to leave Phillip wanting for something that he could just as easily buy secondhand and cheap. His bed in the apartment was a futon, his dresser worn and chipped. It was a half life, he knew, but he’d rather have Phillip keep all their possessions than take away from him.

He remembered the look on Phillip’s face that day when he’d said that. He’d been standing by the door, suitcases packed, struggling to keep himself in check. Phillip had been breathing heavily, eyes stormy, and then David had opened his mouth and he thought Phillip would crack right down the middle. He’d fled rather quickly after that. He felt like he’d been running for a very long time.

They stood near the bed, side by side, ha

nds clasped, both of them still wet despite the heater in the SUV. David had so many things to say (why and how and what do you want from me and I love you, I miss you, I need you, please don’t let me go), but he said none of them, his equilibrium still off, grappling with the fight-or-flight urge heavy in his chest.

Phillip (wonderful Phillip, sweet Phillip, knowing Phillip) said, “I’m going to go get us some towels. I want you to stay right here.”

David nodded dumbly, trying not to flinch when Phillip pulled his hand away. He clenched his jaw to keep from saying something stupid like, “Can I please go with you?” He gripped one of the bedposts so that he couldn’t head for the door, down the stairs, and out of the house back into the rain. He had a thought (when was the last time you drove around DC, just looking for Alice? She could be out there right now and you’re not doing anything about it, my God, what kind of a father are you?) but he pushed it away. That was the guilt talking, he knew. The psychiatrist had told him during one of their very first meetings that guilt had a voice, and it would speak louder than all his other thoughts. It was okay, she’d said, to listen to it sometimes, but he could not let himself be swallowed by it because he might not ever come back.

Phillip backed away from David slowly, never taking his eyes off him, as if he thought the moment he looked away, David would disappear as if he’d never been here at all. He stumbled a little when he reached the bathroom door, and he had to look away, fumbling with the light switch. He was out of sight for only a few moments.

David looked away, toward the bed.

The lamps were lit.

David had always slept on the left side of the bed, Phillip on the right. They had never even really discussed it back when they’d first started. That first night they’d met, that was just how they’d been, curled up in Phillip’s apartment in Silver Spring, the mattress lumpy, the thumpthumpthump of music from a neighbor’s apartment through the thin walls. David had been on the left, Phillip on the right, and it’d been weird just how weird it wasn’t. They hadn’t kissed, though David had been thinking about it for the last hour. They’d just taken off their pants, leaving on their shirts and underwear, and they’d lain on the bed, facing each other, knees drawn up and bumping as they asked all the important questions they could think of (what’s your favorite color? and do you believe in aliens? and in the morning, will you make breakfast with me? I’m warning you right now, I’m kinda stuck on that band Snap! and their song “Rhythm is a Dancer.” You have to sing with me while we make waffles). They’d fallen asleep that way. The next night, it was the same thing. And the night after that.

And every single night they spent together, it was David on the left, Phillip on the right.

Sometimes, Alice had been in the middle.

She had nightmares.

Or she was sad.

Or she just didn’t want to be alone.

The door would creak open at one in the morning and she’d whisper, “Daddy? Papa? Can I stay here with you? I think there’s a gremlin under my bed.”

David would groan, and Phillip would mutter that David should have never let her watch those movies, but they’d always make room because there’d always been room for her. There’d always been—

“David?”

He looked up from the bed. Phillip was standing a little bit away, looking unsure. He held a couple of towels in his hands. He’d taken off his coat and scarf, and he looked drier than David felt.

“Hi,” David croaked out, unsure if Phillip had asked him a question that he’d missed.

Phillip frowned. “You’re shivering.”

And oh, he hadn’t even realized that, but yes, yes he was. In fact, he was shaking, and he realized just how cold he really was, how heavy his wet clothes felt on his shoulders and back and thighs. His socks were wet, something he’d always hated almost more than anything else, and he couldn’t stop his teeth from starting to chatter. He thought maybe he would shake apart right here, right in the middle of the room he’d shared with the love of his life, just down the hall from the other love of his life. He’d break down into tiny little shards right in front of Phillip, and there’d be nothing left of David Greengrass but bits and pieces and the knowledge that he’d let down the two people who mattered the most to him.

“Cold,” he managed to say. “I’m cold.”

“You idiot,” Phillip said. “You stupid, silly man.” He rushed forward, dropping the towels on the bed next to David. “Arms up.”

David didn’t understand.

“Arms up.”