The Enigma (Unlawful Men)

I let Zinnea take my hand and pull me out onto the bohemian-inspired balcony. A gigantic daybed is nestled under the canopy, the sheets adorned in elephants of every color of the rainbow, a few dozen cushions in clashing patterns scattered across it. Wind chimes ding, dreamcatchers sway, candles flicker. It really is a sweet sanctuary, but I’d enjoy it far more if I wasn’t always here under duress. “You mustn’t be late for your show,” I say, knowing I’m fighting a losing battle.

She positions me on the end of a vivid striped woven rug. “Sit.”

I do as I’m bid and rest my bum on my heels, and Zinnea mirrors me, though with more difficulty in her velvet gown. “Now,” she says, her eyes like questioning probes on me. “What’s on your mind?”

James Kelly.

“Nothing.” Damn me, I look away, breaking the ultimate rule. I hear Zinnea hum, as my mind once again tortures me with a re-run of my encounter with him on Monday. So many words dance on my lips, waiting for me to speak them, to get Zinnea’s thoughts. There’s no question, she’s liberal enough to take it. She won’t gasp in horror or judge. So why don’t I tell her? Why don’t I share?

I finally admit to myself that my reluctance is more to do with what she’ll conclude about me rather than a man she doesn’t know. Why can’t I get him off my mind? What is this curiosity? Why am I thinking about him all the damn time? He was artic cold. Unfriendly.

Spellbinding.

Darkness entices darkness.

Zinnea must see my mind reeling, because she turns her hands so her palms are facing the sky. She closes her eyes. I follow. She breathes in. So do I. She starts to talk softly, words I’ve heard time and again, words meant to soothe me, to settle me, to chase away the demons.

Is James Kelly a demon?

My eyes squeeze tighter, and Paradise Circus invades my hearing, along with grunts and moans, all mixing and blending, a montage of bodies slipping against each other, limbs entwining, hands drifting. I feel my shoulders drop. My heart slows. My breathing becomes shallow. I mustn’t think about him. I mustn’t see him again.

And then sirens screech, and I snap my eyes open, blinking into the darkness.

Fire.

Darkness.

Sirens.

Heat.

My hands start grappling at the floor beside me, searching for an anchor, anything to hold on to, anything to pull me up.

It’s too hot.

I can’t touch a thing.

It’s all too hot.

Mom!

“Oh no,” Zinnea breathes. “Dexter!”

I start to choke, the smoke overwhelming me. “I can’t breathe,” I wheeze, my mind now an abyss of unbearable memories, my throat feeling like it’s clogged with smoke.

Screams.

Cries.

Panic.

Fear.

Pain of unbearable levels.

“Beau, sweetheart, take it. Breathe into it.” I feel the crumpling of paper around my mouth, and I inhale deeply, drinking in the clean air. Clean. So clean. No smoke.

I gasp, my hand clenching the bag like the lifeline it is. My mind empties. My heart settles.

I’m alive.

But Mom is not.

I blink, finding Zinnea and Dexter before me, their faces a picture of worry. I can’t bear it. I shake my head mildly, my way of telling them not to worry, that I’m fine. They won’t buy it. I know that. “It’s been awhile,” Zinnea says, her body relaxing a smidge. “Are you still going to tell me you’re fine?”

“Lawrence,” Dexter warns gently, and this time Aunt Zinnea doesn’t fly into a hissy fit. She simply sighs, defeated.

I give Dexter an appreciative smile. “You still keep these?” I say, handing him back the paper bag once I know I’ve got a handle on my attack.

“I still pick up one or two when I’m at Trader Joes.” He shrugs. “Habit.”

Habit. I’ve heard somewhere—I can’t remember where—that you have to do something for an average of sixty-six days for it to become a habit. Dexter was collecting paper bags from Trader Joes for a lot longer than sixty-six days. And I used them all.

I look down at the decking, noticing I’ve pushed myself into a corner. I mustn’t see him again. I blow out my cheeks and get to my feet, while Zinnea and Dexter remain on the floor, looking up at me. The cop and the drag queen. The most wonderful pair.

“I’m going to Walmart,” I declare.

“How?” Zinnea asks. “Dolly’s in the repair shop.”

“I’ll walk.” Slowly.

“But it’s so late,” Dexter says, looking at his Apple Watch.

“All the better,” I reply, moving past them, wincing for speaking my thoughts. It’ll only fuel their concern. To them, my nighttime trips to Walmart are a positive step toward freedom. To me, it’s one of the only places I find comfort. The blinding lights. The calm of the few people doing late-night shopping in such a colossal space. The low buzz of noise that blankets the mild sound of people’s voices.