Page 10 of Pages of My Heart
Charlie
It’s nearly dusk when Charlie walks up the front path of the O’Reilly house, overwhelmed by all the evidence that Thomas is way too good for him. Even though he knows Thomas’s family was poor before his older sister married into a wealthy one, the difference in their neighborhoods is stark. The two-story house is impressive—painted crisp white with pretty lace curtains visible through the front windows and an immaculate front lawn landscaped with colorful flowers. Added to that, Thomas is a college man while Charlie is nothing but a lowly grease monkey with rough, calloused hands and no knowledge of fancy books or history.
And Thomas is beautiful and courageous in a way Charlie knows he could never be.
He had earnestly tried to make it to the club last Saturday, but there was just no sneaking away. Sitting on the couch under his father’s watchful eye, arm slung around Ruthie’s narrow shoulders, it had seemed for the best, anyway. Why continue something that could never be? Something that would only cause heartache and shame. Only now he’s recklessly standing at Thomas’s front door, fist suspended in mid-air. But he doesn’t knock. Part of him—the part that speaks with his father’s voice—wants to turn tail and run, and part of him wants to embrace the boy on the other side of the door with every ounce of his being. But if he does this, he’ll be crossing a line—a line he can never come back from. This will not just be stealing a brief moment of pleasure in an alleyway. No, this will be laying himself bare, whispered truths, exposed skin, and an intimacy that scares him beyond comprehension. It will be deluding himself that this is normal when it is anything but. Two men are not supposed to act as man and woman.
The wordsodomyloops inside his head, making his face burn with shame. He chews hard on his lip as the heat creeps up his neck to his scalp. Dropping his hand to his side, he takes a step back from the door, his head falling forward under the weight of it all.
Charlie has touched himselfthereonce before. The desire to penetrate himself had been strong. He’d wanted to know what it would feel like, if he would even like it, but somehow he’d found restraint, instead choosing to simply caress himself, knees falling open like a loose woman.
Closing his eyes, he imagines Thomas touching him there, breaching him and pushing inside. Charlie starts to harden despite all his efforts not to. A onetime deal, he reminds himself. Then he can walk away. A gift to himself. His secret to carryclose to his chest. Something to comfort him in his darkest moments, as surely they will come.
“I’m sorry, Ruthie,” he whispers.
Charlie steps forward and knocks.
When the door swings open, Thomas greets him with a beaming smile, his excitement and happiness plain. Charlie wonders how he can seem so devoid of fear or shame. But then again, Thomas isn’t like anyone he’s ever met. No other person has looked at Charlie like he’s actually worth something except maybe his ma, and that doesn’t count.
“Charlie, welcome. Come on in.”
He steps inside and Thomas closes the door behind him. They go on a quick tour of the house, each room immaculate and elegant, and eventually end up in Thomas’s room.
“Should I leave this here?” Charlie asks, holding up his overnight bag.
“Yes, of course. My bed is small,” Thomas rushes to say, as if embarrassed, “but maybe we can sleep in Bridget and Eddie’s room. They have a double bed.”
Frankly, Charlie isn’t sure he’ll be able to sleep at all, given the circumstances, but he keeps that to himself. “Won’t they wonder why you slept in there?”
“I can change the linens and then change them back, so they never know.” Thomas must pick up on Charlie’s anxiety, because he’s quick to let it go. “Anyway, we can decide later. I cooked us dinner. Are you hungry?”
Charlie lets go of the breath he’s been holding. “Yeah, I’m starved.”
They head back downstairs where Thomas has set the dining room table for two. He motions for Charlie to take a seat and comes back a minute later with a steaming pot of something that smells delicious.
“So you can cook, can you?” Charlie asks. “Hope ya didn’t go to too much trouble.”
“It’s nothing fancy, but I can cook all right.”
They tuck into the food Thomas has prepared—ham and pea soup, complete with fresh bread to mop their bowls clean—and for the next several minutes the house is quiet save for the clink of their spoons. Charlie gulps down the meal as fast as Thomas does. He wants to get to the next part of the evening and doesn’t want to, all at once. Charlie is somewhat relieved to notice that underneath his excitement, Thomas seems as nervous as he is, but he wishes he hadn’t led Thomas to believe he has more experience than he does. It would have been far wiser to be honest from the beginning, but it’s too late now.
After dinner, they clean up the kitchen and settle in the sitting room, but things feel awkward and stilted. All the confidence Charlie had that first night they met at the club is gone, and he isn’t sure how to make a move.
Thomas is the one to finally break the silence. “So did your folks believe you when you said you were helping a friend move?”
“I think so. My pops was out, so I just told my ma. Just hope he doesn’t snap his cap and take it out on her when he gets home—he’s a real son of a bitch. Drinks like a fish and loses his temper.”
Thomas nods. “My dad drinks too much, too. We would all be living on the streets if it weren’t for Bridget and Eddie.”
Charlie is sorry to hear that Thomas’s father is no good, but it makes him feel a bit better knowing that Thomas understands. “How’s your old man treat your ma when he’s drunk?” he asks carefully.
A shadow seems to fall across Thomas’s face, his eyes growing almost cold. When he answers his tone is expressionless. “My mom . . . she isn’t here.”
Charlie thinks that can mean only one thing. “Shit, Tommy”—the nickname easily slips out without a thought—“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . Has she passed?”
Thomas looks down at his lap. “It would be better if she had. A few years after she had Maggie, she went crazy. They say she had always been crazy, but it got a lot worse, and she tried to . . .” Thomas stands and walks over to the window, staring out into the night.
“Hey, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. I understand. My pops is a no-good bastard. The stories I could tell you . . .” Charlie clears his throat, unused to talking so earnestly. “What I mean is, nothing you say will shock me or make me think differently about you, Red.”
