Page 46 of Ted's Temerity
Six months ago, I would have been too proud to admit that. I was, as Ash likes to tease me, the Daddy of our whole group. Daddy of Daddies. Strong. Stalwart. Stable. I wasn’t supposed to show weakness or need help. Yeah, I’m aware of the hypocrisy there, the advice I’ve given Charlie (or, to a lesser degree, Spence and Chance) over the years somehow never applicable to me personally.
But now? With therapy and multiple deep and meaningful discussions with my friends (which turned out to be far easier to face than I’d imagined they would be), I can admit when I’m struggling.
I still find it difficult to do; don’t get me wrong. But Icando it, and the end result of asking for help is usually worth having to bite back my pride and ignore my hang-ups.
Case in point: Zephyr offers me a smile full of empathy and understanding as he nods and opens his car door. I meet him on the grassy verge next to the curb where I parked, and he holds out his hand for me to take. My grip tightens almost imperceptibly as we walk across the immaculate lawn to our destination.
It’s been years since I’ve been here. Too long, really.
In my other hand, I clutch a small bouquet of flowers and my chest aches when I finally place them down on the smooth marble headstone engraved with my son’s name and dates of birth and death.
In my head, I make my apologies: for never visiting his resting place, for having missed his thirtieth birthday, for essentially having kept him a secret for my entire adult life. But I don’t say anything aloud. Big, impassioned speeches to invisible audiences have never really been my style, and I’m not deluded enough to think that, even if he could hear me, this would be my only chance to tell him any of this.
Zephyr doesn’t push me, either. He just holds my hand and lets me breathe and think whatever I need to.
Some part of me was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to handle this moment. That facing Aiden’s headstone would trigger another meltdown or something similar. But, though I feel the pang of loss again, and my chest aches, I don’t feel any worse for having finally visited for the first time in years.
If anything, guilt begins to lift from my shoulders.
When all is said and done, this is just another location. Visiting (or not visiting) doesn’t change my past or absolve me of my perceived sins or shortcomings. The only person judging me for how and when I choose to remember my son is me, and I’ve been too hard on myself for too long.
It’s funny that doing the one thing I told myself I never would turned out to be the thing I needed to do in order to truly start to process and heal. Well, as much as anyone who has lost a loved one can.
(I still refuse to tell Charlie he was right, even if we both know that he was.)
“Thank you for coming with me,” I say later, when Zephyr and I are on the drive back to our hotel. It’s the first I’ve spoken since we approached Aiden’s grave, and I’m beyond grateful that Zephyr understood what I needed.
He always seems to just know.
In fact, the evening proves to be another example of just that. When we’re safely ensconced in the lavish suite I insisted on paying for, Zephyr sits on the edge of the bed and pats his lap.
“I think you need this,” he says softly when my heart leaps into my throat and tears of gratitude prick at my eyes.
I swallow roughly and nod.
Neither one of us question how or why this works for us anymore. Perhaps it’s something I’ve always needed and never knew it? Or maybe it’s just Zephyr’s attention and love that makes it feel so right. Either way, I trust him in a way I’ve never trusted anyone, and it allows me to let go completely.
In turn, the next night we’re back to being Daddy and Little Zeph, and I watch how free he is with me.
I marvel over how much he has grown as a person since we met, too. He was anxious when I first met him, though he had been doing his best to hide it. He’d been learning to re-embrace his kinks and his identity in little space, and his bravery to try it all with a complete stranger -with me- was astounding even then. Now he is brazen and dominating when he’s big, and bright, bubbly and confident when he’s little. It’s an intoxicating mix, but not one I’d ever have labeled my ‘type’ before now.
Honestly, Zephyr is everything I never knew I needed.
“Whatcha thinking about, Daddy?” he asks, having just spent the last ten minutes dancing across the large, open space of the hotel room. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are shining, and I am struck yet again by how insanely beautiful he is.
I stand up from my seat in the ‘audience’ (on the bed) and walk towards him. He squeaks when I pull him in for a hug.
“Just thinking about how lucky I am to have found you when I did, tiny dancer.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs against my chest, sounding less childlike now as he comes back out of his little head space. “I’m lucky too.”
I pull backwards and tilt his head up to meet mine, bringing our lips together in a gentle kiss that says more than I can properly put into words. I love him. I’m grateful for him. I’m amazed by him. I trust him.
I need him.
Even though the kiss was sweet, we’re both breathing heavily as we part. “Zeph,” I whisper his name into the small pocket of air between us, my voice thin with a desperation that seems to have sneaked up on me, “Baby, I want you to fuck me.”
We talked about it once months ago, and then in the ensuing drama of my meltdown, we never brought it up again. It wasn’t until this moment that I realized how badly I want to do this: to share something with him that I’ve never had with anyone else. It seems only fitting that we do this here, on neutral ground, taking advantage of a moment already so fully imbued with emotion.
