Page 35 of Ted's Temerity
I think back to that night not so long ago where I accidentally stumbled on his one hard limit, and it makes so much sense now. Knowing that he had a son adds an element to the Daddy/boy thing that I can’t really ignore. No wonder he’s got zero interest in sexual interactions when I’m little: his being a Daddy isonlyabout nurture, possibly even a little unconscious guilt. How could I not have seen that before?
“I don’t want to go back to my place, Ted.” This time my voice is strong and definitive.
He’s quiet for a stretch longer than is comfortable, but he nods. “Okay.”
Tense silence falls over us again, broken only by the muted white noise of the tires against the road’s surface and other traffic sounds. I rack my brain for the right words for the entire drive, still not sure what, if anything, I should say to him.
Even as we make our way from the garage, through the laundry and past the kitchen, neither one of us speaks. I can feel the intermittent vibration of my phone in my pocket that I’ve come to associate with the group chat, but I don’t dare pull it out to read the chain of messages. I imagine that I already know what they’ll say: nothing but support for Ted and assurance that they’ll be there to talk to when he’s ready.
I follow Ted through the house, up the stairs and to the master bedroom. He strips down to his boxer briefs with quick, jerky movements that give away his simmering frustration and slips under the covers without a glance in my direction. I can’t deny that it stings.
I remove my own clothes with more care, folding them and setting them out of the way with purposeful movements, willing myself to remain calm. Ted’s hurting. It’s my job to take care of him right now.
I slide into bed beside him and settle in on my back, staring at the ceiling and denying the impulse to snuggle into him. It’s clear that he needs space and, though my injury and the loss of my career can’t possibly compare to the loss of a child, I remember being angry with the world once, too. Wanting distance and space and denying myself comfort or sympathy. Even if Ted’s loss is decades old, rehashing it with his friends is almost guaranteed to have brought a lot of that pain back to the surface. I’m content to wait him out.
My patience eventually pays off, though I couldn’t tell you how much time has passed when Ted’s voice finally startles me out of my thoughts.
“I’m sorry, Zeph.”
Frowning, I roll onto my side to face him. The room is dark, lit only by slivers of moonlight filtering in through the curtains, but my eyes adjusted to the darkness a while ago and I can make out the deep furrows in his brow and the tense set of his jaw without issue. “What for?”
I count it as a small victory when he turns his head to face me. “For being an ass tonight. I’m pissed with the situation, not with you.”
“I know,” I assure him, finally closing the gap between us. I slot myself against his side, nuzzling his jaw. “I get that you’re strong, Ted, and that you’ve been dealing with your grief and loss on your own for almost as long as I’ve been alive, but I’m here, okay? I’m not forcing you to talk about it,” I add quickly when I feel his muscles tighten, “but I’m here.”
It takes him a few moments to loosen up again, and his voice is strained and gruff when he says, “Thank you.”
This time, the silence between us isn’t as loaded, and I shut my eyes and allow the steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath my ear to lull me to sleep.
* * *
I wake up to a cold bed, Ted’s spot long empty. He’s got a home gym set up in his oversized garage, and I know without having to go searching that that is where I’ll find him. We have that in common: the need for physical activity to distract ourselves from our thoughts when things are too overwhelming. I prefer to dance or to run (neither of which activity my knee will thank me for if I go too hard on it) but Ted will hit the rowing machine or attack the weights with gusto. He’s even got a punching bag down there, which will also aid him to vent some of his lingering frustration.
Sure enough, when I’ve made my way down the stairs and back through the too-big space of his home, he’s landing blow after blow on the vinyl covered surface, the heavy bag swaying with the force of each hit.
I lean against his car as I watch him, enjoying the ripple of muscle and the droplets of sweat that snake their way down his shirtless form. He’s in impeccable shape for a man his age; not bulky but beautifully toned, his skin still mostly elastic and smooth, if a little weathered by time.
Ted completes his last set of swift alternating punches and breathes heavily as he holds the bag to still its movements.
“Enjoying the show?” he asks me with a hint of playfulness, wiping his dripping forehead on his forearm.
I wink at him. “You know it.” I cock my head. “You done, or are you going to cool down on the bike?”
It should be strange that I know so much of his exercise routine, but we’ve worked out here together a few times now. He probably knows mine just as well.
“I’ll skip the bike today.”
Ignoring the elephant in the room is making me feel antsy, but I promised him that I wouldn’t push, so I nod and wrinkle my nose when he steps towards me to press our lips together. “You need a shower,” I tell him with a giggle, squirming to avoid having the fresh t-shirt I only slipped on minutes ago wind up victim to the results of his vigorous exercise.
Ted grins and lunges for me, wrapping me in his arms and smothering me while I protest loudly, the effect of my complaints ruined by my ongoing giggles.
“Oh no,” he laments dramatically, smirking, “looks like you’ll have to shower with me.”
“I should punish you,” I snark back, “and shower in the guest bathroom just to spite you.”
“Now, darling, would you really do that to me?”
I laugh and shake my head at the ridiculous pout that accompanies his question. “No,” I answer on a sigh. “That would be as much a punishment to me as it is to you.”
