Page 1 of Beneath the Surface

September 1960

“True love cannot be found where it does not exist,

Nor can it be denied where it does.”

—Torquato Tasso

1

Quinn paused at the edge of his little campsite—a rough circle of flattened grass in a dense stand of pines whose needles crackled underfoot. Morning light filtered through moss-laden branches, painting dapples of gold on his canvas tarp and battered cooking pot. He moved deliberately, stowing his snacks and jerky in an airtight sack, the faint hiss of the zipper echoing in the hush. He didn’t want to lure curious raccoons or anything larger. Shoulders squared, he slung his worn backpack on, its straps soft from countless hikes, and stepped onto the narrow dirt trail winding north through the forest.

As he walked at a casual, unhurried pace, he scribbled on a notepad with a short pencil he’d sharpened with his pocketknife. Teeth marks indented the wood where he’d chewed thoughtfully while pondering the semantics of his developing story late into the previous night. With the morning sun streaking his face through the boughs above, Quinn Michaels thought about the pretty boy in the magazine—his muse for his main character, a lovely young gay man who meets the love of his life in the most peculiar of places. Quinn hadn’t yet decidedwherethat place was, or even who the love interest would be, but trusted it would come to him when the time was right. He found it more interesting and exciting to allow a story to present itself to him, rather than “digging” for it.

“Watching the handsome man and the pretty young woman embrace and kiss in the street, unmindful of the passersby,” Quinn quietly read his most recent lines aloud, “Thomas, a simple country boy with longings not to be mentioned, wondered if there would come a day when someone like him could kiss his sweetheart before the eyes of the world, invoking the same indifference as this lovely young couple.” Quinn paused in the middle of the path, staring at the notepad, then scribbled the next few lines. “The brief hope that flared in his heart quickly died away as he recalled the malicious words of the farmhands his father had hired for harvest. Their stories of deplorable men who sinfully lusted for other men reminded Thomas that the world wasn’t a safe place for boys like him, and would probably never be safe.”

Quinn mentally reread the lines, feeling Thomas’ plight deep in his own heart. Thomas’ story was set in the early nineteen hundreds, but even in nineteen sixty, little had changed. Quinn often dreamed of openly loving another man, but he understood the perils of revealing his true self. The world still wasn’t ready to accept his kind of love as genuine, viewing it instead as an unforgivable abomination. Even if he found another lonely soul craving love and acceptance, they would have to keep their love hidden.

I don’t care,Quinn thought as a soft ache spread through him.It would still be worth it to find love, to feel a connection with another being… to justhavesomeone.

Quietly clearing his throat, Quinn tucked the pencil into his shirt pocket, let the story rest, and took in the nature around him. This was where he felt most at peace, out in God’s country, away from the harsh judgment of the world.

Quinn looked at his wrists and the small scars that served as a constant reminder of howunbearablelife could become at times, how trauma could wound a soul so deeply that itwished to disappear into the eternal ether. He had almost gone into that void,wouldhave if not for Emily, his best friend since elementary school. She had pulled him back, applied emotionalbalmfor his fractured mind, and arms that gave the best hugs for his broken body.

After the incident, after he had tried to escape the pain in the only way he knew... Emily had held him; held him while he cried, while he screamed, and while he begged her to just let him go. She didn’t let go—refusedto let go. Because that’s what love does… it holds on andnever gives up.

Quinn realized he was standing still again, eyes damp. If not for Emily, he wouldn’t be here now. He owed her his life, literally and otherwise. She had encouraged him to pursue his passion for writing, even if it was just for himself. She sobbed over every short story he shared, deeply moved by his ability to bare his soul on the page. Emily made him believe that someday, not only would his beautiful words of love be accepted and cherished by thousands, maybe millions, but he would also be allowed to fall in love and marry the boy of his dreams.

Emily was the only one who understood his heart, who truly knewhim. She kept his secret, honored to be the one he trusted with his true self. Quinn couldn’t imagine trusting anyone else as much as he trusted Emily. Sometimes, he wished he liked girls so he could fall in love with her and get married. They loved each other as much as two people could without actuallybeingin love. He often felt as though it was a cruel twist of fate that the best person for him was someone he could never fully give his heart to.

Despite the joke of the fates, Quinn smiled as he thought of Emily. He wondered how long he would have her to himself before some lucky man came along, someone she deemed worthy of her heart. He would have to be incredibly specialto deserve Emily’s love. Although Quinn wished her a full life with a wonderful husband and a family, he dreaded losing his spot as the special man in her life. She was all he had; he didn’t share the same hope as Emily that he would one day meet his soulmate and live happily ever after. Such fairytales were for princes andprincesses…not twoprinces.

Quinn shrugged off the forlorn emotion, refusing to let it ruin what promised to be a wonderful day of writing and enjoying nature, his final day in the woods, and continued his hike.

The path curved between trunks mottled with lichen; no birdsong stirred, only an occasional rustle as chipmunks skittered for cover. Quinn’s boots sank slightly into damp needle litter, leaving a neat trail behind him. After twenty minutes, the trees thinned, and he broke into a sunlit clearing. A small lake lay before him, its surface smooth as glass, reflecting the sky’s pale blue and the ragged line of evergreens beyond the far bank.

“This is cool,” he murmured, setting down his pack with a soft thud. As he circled the water’s edge, his gaze fell on unsightly debris—empty pull-tab beer cans glinting dully in the light, discarded condoms, candy wrappers rattling in the slight breeze, and a scattering of cigarette butts half-buried in mud. Quinn’s shoulders tensed, and he emitted a disgusted grunt. “What is wrong with people?” he muttered, stepping forward to pluck the cans from the shore. “No respect for nature.”

Beneath Quinn's fingers, the water stirred, sending faint ripples outward like delicate threads of silk unfurling across the lake’s surface, as if the water itself were shivering with anticipation. Further out, a lonely paper bag caught among the slender reeds breaking the lake's surface, swaying gently in the breeze. Quinn sighed, shaking his head in mildexasperation. “Is it really so difficult to take your trash with you when you leave?” he muttered under his breath.

Quinn squatted down, unlacing his well-worn boots before peeling off his socks. Layer by layer, he removed his clothes—first his rugged pants, then his flannel shirt, and finally his undershirt—until he was only in his thin white boxer shorts, ready to enter the water. As he stepped in, the cold water seeped around his ankles, lapping against his skin with a chilly caress that sent goosebumps rushing up his legs. Despite the frigid sensation, he welcomed the shock, like a burst of adrenaline waking him up —a quick jolt to start his morning.

Quinn ventured deeper into the lake, taking slow, deliberate steps as his feet felt their way over the unseen lakebed beneath the murky water. Goosebumps spread across his body as the icy water rose higher, engulfing his knees and then his thighs, its touch both invigorating and numbing. He was nearly at the reeds now, the cool water sending shivers through him, the sensation resonating across the lake’s surface in rhythmic echoes.

“Hoo, this is cold,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of the water. He held his arms up, shivering as the icy liquid crept higher, soaking through his boxers with an unforgiving chill. A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped his lips, and he quickly thrust a hand down to shield his sensitive parts from the numbing embrace. “Fuck,” he gasped again, hesitating briefly before steeling himself to venture further. His other hand skimmed the water's surface, fingertips trailing delicately over the rippling expanse. Another shiver pulsed across the lake, sending tremors through Quinn's body as his toes curled against the soft, silty lakebed.

He took another tentative step, and something brushed against his shin, slick and cold as it slithered past.It's nothing. Just a weed, he reassured himself. Yet, the “weed” wound sinuously between his toes, prompting him to jerk his foot back instinctively.Probably just a baby eel. It's harmless.But the “eel” persisted, spiraling around his ankle, then coiling further up his shin, an unsettling sensation running up his leg.Baby eels aren’t that long. Quinn shook his leg vigorously, desperate to dislodge the creeping tendril, until it finally released its grip.

Exhaling a short, relieved breath, he finally reached the dense patch of reeds. He stretched out a hand, fingers probing through the tangled stalks until they closed around the soggy paper bag hidden within. The slimy mess resisted, and his face contorted with disgust as he yanked it free, the bag emerging as a sloppy, dripping mass. “Seriously, people,” he muttered under his breath, frustration edging his words. “Most children know how to clean up after themselves. Take some fucking responsibility.”

“Hey, what the fuck ya doing?” A voice sharp as a snapping twig made his stomach jolt. Quinn turned, water lapping his lower stomach, and saw two young men standing on the bank—a tall, lean figure with a crooked grin and a second, broader fellow whose sneer was full of challenge.

“Just, uh…” Quinn held up the soggy bag. “Cleaning up some trash.”

The taller one smirked, crossing his arms. He looked a few years older than Quinn, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, with close-cropped hair and eyes that gleamed with dark amusement. “What, you some kind of nature nut? Tree hugger?”

Quinn’s brows knit. “No, I just don’t think we should pollute nature.”

The broader guy snorted, stepping forward so his boots crunched on the small rocks near the shore’s edge. “Sounds kinda… faggy to me.”

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