Roswell Fanatics

I think only two more parts after this.


Part Twenty

I can’t stop hugging him. Hugging, squeezing, squealing, kissing his cheek. When he starts to fidget uncomfortably and turn a light pink, I release him and turn to Max instead. Then I commence the hugging and squeezing and squealing all over again.

“You’re not going to do that in the restaurant, are you?” Michael asks dryly as he struggles with his necktie. He lifts his hips and stuffs the tie into his pocket.

“I can’t help it,” I say, my smile spreading across my face. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been happier.”

The cab driver glances in his rearview mirror, studies us for a moment, then gives a shake of his head. He thinks we’re crazy.

“I mean, aren’t you happy?” I ask Michael. Surely he must be overjoyed that he’s out of that jail.

“Sure,” he says quietly and turns his eyes to the side window of the cab.

Something inside of me deflates slightly. I recall Michael’s demeanor the day I visited him at the jail – he believed he deserved his fate. I guess being sprung hasn’t diluted that belief any.

I can’t let this bring me down. I can’t let his self-esteem issues ruin this day. It’s a day for celebrating, a day of victory. So I leave him to his brooding and turn a smile to Max instead.

“And you,” I begin. “Mr. Big Time Lawyer! You just tried your first case!”

Max chuckles bashfully as I plant a kiss on his cheek. “Well, not really. It was Mr. Marley’s case…”

“Oh, bullshit, Max! I know you contributed a lot to the case. I know that it was a success because you helped.” My eyes soften. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Max’s cheeks redden slightly. My humble brother. “You don’t have to thank me, Isabel.” He looks past me, at Michael, then a small frown tugs at the corners of his lips. “I’d do anything for you guys. You know that.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Michael turn to look at Max. “Thanks, man,” he says, his voice sincere.

Max smiles back lightly. “Anytime.”

The ride to the restaurant is short and I manage to keep my squeezing and kissing to a minimum. When we enter the building, Jacob and Bob are already there, victory drinks in their hands as they await our table. Congratulations are shared all around – Bob won his case, too – and then we’re seated. Being a gentleman, Bob pulls out my chair and Michael looks stricken, but not in a jealous way – more like he should have remembered to do that.

It dawns on me then that Michael isn’t the kind of guy to open doors and pull out chairs. He’s not overly chivalrous nor is he overly romantic. Michael is rough around the edges. And I wouldn’t want him any other way.

“I have to tell you that that felt good,” Jacob says as he takes a bite of his salad.

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Surely he’s won cases before and I’m not sure why this one would be so special.

“You see, those Merrills have been trying to take over this city forever,” he explains, pointing his fork in my direction to emphasize his point. “It gets so tiresome to see those boys running around like hoodlums, doing whatever they want and getting away with a slap on the wrist.”

I think about the woman Robert allegedly attacked in a nightclub last summer and though I don’t want to ruin the mood, I feel like I need to ask anyway. “Mr. Marley, can you tell me about that girl Robert attacked?”

Michael’s eyes shift to me, silent sympathy in his expression.

Jacob cuts into his salad again, takes a bite and nods his agreement. After he swallows, he tells us the tale. “Last summer, around July I think, our boy Robert was at one of the clubs down by the wharf. Chinese girl bumps into him, spills her drink on him, and apparently wasn’t apologetic enough. So, he followed her into the ladies room and wailed on her butt-good.”

I shiver at the thought and feel Michael’s warm hand on my leg, comforting. Without looking that way, I place my hand over his and he twines our fingers together.

“What happened to her?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice steady.

“She lived. From what I understand, it took some plastic surgery to reconstruct her nose and reduce the scarring to one of her cheeks.”

My stomach lurches and I remember the deep slice that had been etched in my own cheek.

“Those boys are bad news,” Jacob continues, undaunted. “That slimy bastard got away with hurting that poor girl over a spilled drink and where I come from, that ain’t right.” He pauses a moment, his eyes shifting to Michael. “I don’t care if you beat the crap out of him or not. If you’re guilty, then he had it coming. If you’re not, then it still gave me the opportunity to knock that family down a peg.”

“It won’t faze them,” Bob adds, wiping the corners of his mouth on his linen napkin. “If anything, it will piss them off more.”

I feel a sense of foreboding, a cloud over our table. “What do you mean?”

Jacob gives his son a tip of the head. “Bob’s right. We won today, but that might not keep them from coming after you again.”

Foreboding turns to panic. I see Robert waiting in alleys to cut me to pieces or rape me or both. I see Michael being ganged up on and beaten in retaliation. I feel utterly helpless.

“I hate to say it, but you’ll want to keep your guard up for awhile, especially if Mr. Robert comes out of that coma.” Jacob’s voice is serious but not overly concerned, like it’s a matter he’s confident we’ll be able to handle.

I’m not so sure. I look at Michael, who is frowning deeply. Under the table, I give his hand a reassuring squeeze. We’ll get out of this. Again.

The conversation over dinner shifts to matters less depressing and before I know it, it’s time to say goodbye to the Marleys. Outside of the restaurant, while we wait for separate cabs, Michael shakes Jacob’s hand.

“Thank you,” he says. “For all of your help.” He shifts uncomfortably. “We never talked about your fee…”

Jacob laughs and claps him on the back. “There is no fee, son.”

Michael’s jaw tightens. “No, sir, that won’t do. I believe in paying for –”

The attorney gives him a fatherly smile. “Shit, kid, I did that for fun. I haven’t had so much fun in I can’t remember when.” He winks, then turns to shake Max’s hand. “You’ll be a fine litigator some day, Max. Say hello to Phil for me.”

With that, we get into our cabs and head to different destinations. Our ride is quiet and when we get back to the apartment, Michael stands silently in our living room for a long moment. I wish I could read his mind, could tell what he’s thinking. I wonder if it feels strange for him to be back here, in a home he hasn’t seen in two weeks.

Finally, he turns to me and Max. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes quietly. “But I’m really tired and I’d just like to go to bed.”

We tell him that’s fine, then watch as he disappears down the hallway. I turn troubled eyes to Max, who sighs and gives me a hug. We’re going to have to wait for Michael to come out of it on his own.

The next day, there is a picture of Robert Merrill on the front page of the newspaper. I avoid reading the story because I don’t want to read about the press throwing stones at Michael. Instead, I take the paper to my room and stuff it under a stack of magazines. I’m going to need it later.

Michael and I spend the day showing Max around the city, a quick, one-day tourist trip just so that his trip to the west coast wasn’t all business. We hit every sight-seeing spot there is, including Michael’s favorite – Alcatraz. I’ve never been here before and now I see what appealed to him. There is so much drama here, so much history, so much pain and death. I sit on the rocks for a long time and look toward San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge, so close and yet so far. In my head, I see prisoners separated from the real world, looking longingly toward the bustle of the city. I imagine those men who tried to escape, succumbing to the current and the frigid water, swept out to sea. Being here is haunting.

Max leaves tomorrow. When we return to the apartment after an exhaustingly long day of playing tourist, we eat a simple meal at home and watch a movie. I give him gifts I bought while we were out to give to the kids, plus a present for the new baby as well. He beams appreciatively – he’s so proud of his babies and that really warms my heart.

Everyone heads to their respective sleeping places and tonight I close my bedroom door, something I never usually do. But tonight I don’t want any uninvited guests, not that Michael would slip into my bed with my brother in the next room. It’s just that tonight I don’t want to be interrupted.

Once I hear movement in the other rooms quiet down, I reach beneath the stack of magazines and pull out the newspaper. I don’t really look at the picture because the very sight of that man infuriates me; the photo is but a necessary evil. I haven’t done this for a while, simply because there hasn’t been a need. But tonight there definitely is a need.

Lying back on the bed, I put my index finger on the photo and close my eyes. Within seconds, I’m asleep, a sleep that is associated with my power and not necessarily a bodily need. I dream of an appearance for myself that he wouldn’t expect – a black leather jacket, black jeans, black boots, a black tank shirt. I imagine my hair pulled back into a tight knot at the base of my neck. I want to appear no-nonsense, not the sweet girl he met dishing out soup at the shelter.

Within moments, I see him on the dream plane, his image fuzzy due to one of two things – his brain injury or the medication they’re feeding him. No matter, I think I can get through to him anyway. He’s lifting weights, admiring the bulk of his biceps.

“Robert,” I call, my voice neutral.

He looks up, then breaks into a wide grin. “Ooo, hot stuff! Come here and sit on my lap, baby.”

Even in his dreams he’s a pig. But I decide to play along. I walk over to him confidently, then slip onto his lap, wrap my arm around his shoulders. His eyes graze over my breasts and he all but drools. I remind myself to keep my resolve in place.

“You want me, don’t you, hot stuff?” he leers, eyes at nipple level.

“I do want you,” I confirm sans any tone of flirtation. “I want you to leave me alone.”

He laughs bitterly. “Not a chance, you fucking whore.”

I smile condescendingly, then slide my arm away from his shoulders. Before I withdraw entirely, however, I hesitate when my hand reaches the back of his neck. I look him straight in the eye, then wrap my hand around his throat. In a dream, I can give myself as much strength as I want, so I let him believe I have cut off his airway. His eyes bulge in surprise.

“Listen to me very carefully,” I say, leaning close to his face, my voice like ice. “I can and will kill you if you come anywhere near me or Michael or anyone else I care about. I will squeeze the life out of you quicker than you can pull out that knife you’re so fond of.”

His face starts to turn red, his eyes desperate.

“And I will enjoy it, Robert. I will love every minute of watching you suffer. I will bleed you like a stuck pig, you miserable fuck. Do I in anyway make myself unclear?”

He tries to shake his head and I can feel his fear. I’ve felt this before, when I’ve been in other peoples’ heads while they’re having a nightmare. I imagine a call nurse at San Fran General running down a hallway, alarmed at the fact that Robert’s heart rate and respirations have sky-rocketed. I only have a few moments before they tranquilize him and my opportunity is lost.

I release my grip and he chokes, his hand going to his throat. Before he can dump me from his lap, I stand and give him one last, hard look.

“One more thing and then I’ll leave you to live with your miserable self,” I tell him. “When you recover, you’re going to feel an uncontrollable need to help out the Asian community in this city. You’re going to volunteer to every relief organization that centers around Chinatown. You will be kind and gracious and will give generously to their needs. You will respect their culture and you will not make a pass at any of the women.” I pause for a moment, remembering that woman who was beaten in the night club. “And you will find that woman you harmed and pay for all of her medical bills, after you beg for her forgiveness.”

I start to walk away as I feel his coherence wavering, but I stop and give him a look of pity. “Enjoy the life you’ve made for yourself, asshole.”

tbc

FYI, for those who may have missed it - I posted part 20 yesterday, it's on page 3. Hopefully I will be able to answer fb later today.


*I borrowed some lines from "Max to the Max"

Part Twenty One

I can’t forget that dream, can you? You were so happy Michael. I’ve never seen you that happy.

Well, I’ve never been that happy before.

Max has been gone for two days, safely returned to his wife and children in the central time zone. I’ve waited as long as I can, wanting to give Michael a chance to settle back in, and yet still needing to voice my feelings.

As I stand in his doorway, my heart flutters in my chest as I watch him folding his laundry. For being a guy, for being a bachelor, for being raised by someone with questionable parenting skills, Michael is still a neat person. He matches pairs of socks, rolls them up neatly and puts them into a stack. His actions are methodical and I muse that maybe routine is all that is keeping him sane at this moment.

Halfway through his basket of clothes, he stops, hands grasping a T-shirt, and turns to look at me. “Is this the part where kick my ass for doing something so stupid?” he asks.

I give him a small smile. “No, that’s not why I’m here.”

He looks at the shirt, toys with it absently and it occurs to me that he and I haven’t talked about the attack on Robert and maybe he needs to. Entering without invitation, I sit down beside him, study him carefully.

“Do you want me to yell at you?” I ask without joking.

He shrugs, finds the shoulders of the shirt and starts to fold it. “You have a right to. What I did was really dumb and really bad. We can’t risk that kind of exposure. I know that.”

I take the shirt out of his hands and finish folding it for him. “I’m not going to yell at you, Michael.” I feel like the subject hasn’t been dropped, however, so I wait patiently.

He sighs, plants his forearms on his thighs. “I just snapped,” he explains. “I saw that bastard with his hands on you, hurting you, and I just snapped.”

“Not really,” I argue lightly. “You got me home first, Michael. You made sure I was safe.” I give him a smile of gratitude.

“No, trust me – I was snapped at that point. The time delay just gave me time to get angrier. I hated leaving you here hurt, but I didn’t have any control over myself.” He sets his jaw and looks into space, at nothing. “I started hitting the bars, figuring the bastard needed a victory drink, seeing as how he hurt you and sent me running for cover – or so he thought. Finally I found him, drunk, hitting on some woman who wanted nothing to do with him. Then I followed him home.”

I swallow hard, knowing what happened next. Michael looks down at his hands.

“I couldn’t quit hitting him,” he says, bitterness in his tone. “I totally lost it. I wanted him dead, Isabel.”

“Michael,” I say gently. “You didn’t kill him.”

“But I could have.”

“Yes, you could have – easily. But you didn’t. You showed restraint. You did know you had a limit and you stopped before you crossed that line.” He doesn’t look convinced. “I choose to look at it differently.”

He eyes me curiously.

“If you hadn’t done what you did, he was never going to learn his lesson. He would still be on the street, assaulting people and getting away with it.”

“He might still get away with it,” Michael points out.

I shake my head, can’t help the smirk that comes to my lips. “I don’t think so. I think he definitely understands what will happen if he misbehaves again.”

Michael raises an eyebrow but I just smile and give him a pat on the leg.

“I want to thank you,” I tell him. “For defending me the way you did. If you hadn’t come along when you did…”

We look at each other for a moment, then Michael looks away.

“Yeah,” he finishes. Neither of us wants to think about that.

He reaches into the basket and pulls out a pair of boxer shorts, folds them neatly and adds them to the stack. I pick up a shirt and fold it and we’re doing menial work while I avoid bringing up the subject that has my insides doing cartwheels. But I have to do this. It’s now or never.

“I…um, I wanted to talk to you about something else,” I announce, my cheeks flushing immediately. There’s no turning back now.

“Shoot,” he says, folding more socks.

“I wanted to talk about the dreams.”

He stops, blinks, lets the socks drop back into the basket. “I’m sorry. I forgot you were having nightmares, Iz.”

I give a quick shake of my head. “Not those dreams, Michael. The other dreams.”

He looks puzzled.

“The ones we had when we were in high school,” I add tentatively. “When Tess first came to town.”

The puzzled expression is gone and now he’s looking at me with piqued interest.

“I lied to you,” I confess, looking away briefly.

“You did?” he manages. “About what?”

I pick up another T-shirt, start to fold it, then let it drop to my lap. “Back in Roswell, right after you wrecked your bike. We had a discussion about what the dreams meant and if we felt anything toward one another. I lied.”

He works his mouth, then falls into silence, his dark eyes wide.

I fiddle with the shirt, my heart beating so quickly I’m afraid I’ll pass out. I distract myself from the panic by stating my case. “I had a lot of time to think while you were away, Michael. And I realized that I do feel something for you, more than just sibling affection. I didn’t want to believe it was true when we were in Roswell and I think the reason I didn’t want to believe it was because it would have been too easy. I feel safe with you, I feel comfortable with you, you and I are the same.” I frown slightly. “And I think the real reason that I couldn’t stay with Stephan was because I love you, Michael.”

His eyes widen even more and then he looks at the floor.

“I think I’ve always loved you,” I say quietly, give up on the shirt and toss it back into the basket. “I had to tell you this, Michael. I couldn’t keep lying to you. It’s not fair to either of us. I don’t want you to answer me right now, I don’t expect that. If you feel the same way, then great. If you don’t…” Then what? Then I’ll curl into a ball of embarrassment and die.

I rise, allow myself to touch his hair. “I’m sorry if this has taken you off guard. I know things are upset right now, but I had to be honest.”

I leave him behind, wondering if he watches me go. I go to my room on trembling legs, plop down at my vanity. In the mirror, my eyes look wild, stricken. What have I done? If Michael doesn’t feel the same way I do, then I may have damaged our friendship beyond repair.

I pick up my brush and pull it through my hair until it shines. Then I put it into a braid so that it won’t fall into my face when I go to bed. I can hear Michael thumping around in his room, putting away his laundry; his movements aren’t sharp, not like he’s angry and I wonder what’s going on in his head. I frown, then get up to change clothes.

I put on a nightshirt and climb beneath my covers, my back to the door. Inside, I feel a sense of remorse. If he had just reacted in some way, any way at all, I’d feel so much better. But he didn’t react at all and that breaks my heart.

Clicking my fingers, I deaden my bedroom light, then I lay staring out the window for a long time.

As I’m about to give up and go to sleep, I hear footsteps on my hardwood floor, the covers lift and Michael climbs in. I’m about to tell him that the nightmares have left me, that I don’t need someone to protect me from myself anymore, when his leg hooks over mine. This is not a visit to quell the demons. His arm loops over my body and he pulls me back against him tightly, so tightly that I can barely budge.

“I need to know something,” he says against my ear, his low voice sending a tremor through me. “All of those things you said – did you say them just because of what I did? Did you say them just because I almost went away and you might never see me again?”

I shake my head. No, my confession was not a product of stress.

Michael sighs and his grasp loosens slightly. I start to roll over, but he holds steadfast.

“No, not yet,” he says, his breath blowing across my cheek. My insides do another jump. “I need to say something to you, too.”

I swallow with difficulty, but give in to his request. I stay with my back to him, try to listen to his words instead of being distracted by the heat of his body.

“I’m tired, Isabel,” he begins, a weary tone to his voice that I’ve never before heard. “I’m tired of hiding what I am, who I am. I’m tired of running from what I feel. I’m tired of hiding what I feel…for you.”

I close my eyes, my heart breaking for him, and lay my hand on his arm.

“I’m tired of wanting something I didn’t think I could have,” he continues. There’s a pause and the next time he speaks, there is remorse in his tone. “I’ve been with so many women, Iz. Nameless, faceless women. Looking for someone to make me complete. And none of them have been able to.”

His hand moves to my hair, his touch an exquisite agony. He caresses my hair a couple of times and on his last pass, he tugs the rubber band securing my braid free. The next time, he slides his fingers through the braid, letting my hair fall loose. I shiver as he nuzzles my neck.

“I think they couldn’t make me whole…because I was waiting for you.”

I can’t take it anymore, so I wriggle around so that I’m on my back. Michael’s leg stays over my body, over my thighs. In the pale moonlight, his eyes search mine as I reach up to touch his cheek.

“Was it destiny after all?” I whisper.

He gives a small smile, then leans over me. When our lips meet, the air rushes out of my lungs, my whole body coming alive. Though we are the same people, this kiss is unlike the one that Michael stole from me in his apartment in Roswell. It even feels different, like somewhere on this planet, the continents have shifted, time has stopped and two halves have been reunited.

When he pulls back, he’s starting to breathe heavily and with a pang in my midsection, I realize there is a tear streaking down his face. Reaching up, I wipe it away.

“I’m just a kid from a trailer park,” he says without self-pity. “I can offer you nothing.”

I give a shake of my head. “I don’t need anything. Except for you.”

With that, I pull him back down to me, forgetting about everything that has come before. Clothes are shed, words are whispered and somewhere in the night, a destiny is fulfilled.

tbc

Part Twenty Two

Michael got my name tattooed on his arm. It’s not a trick of alien powers, oh no. His skin is red and puffy and definitely traumatized by hundreds of punctures. He didn’t tell me he was going to do it, he didn’t ask my permission and I only notice it at breakfast the following day. When I question him about it, he shrugs and acts like it’s nothing more than a bruise. A permanent one.

I think it’s his way of saying he loves me. It’s not easy for Michael to be open with his emotions, a result of his affectionless upbringing, I’m willing to believe. Deep down, I think he wants to be open, but it’s not a comfortable place for him. I get that he’s wounded, I get that he’s gun shy. I get that I need to be patient with him and let him come into his own.

While the outside world might assume Michael would be less than romantic and less than giving in bed, I’ve found that he’s quite the opposite. Sure, he’s not the kind to bring home flowers and light candles in the bedroom, but he is more considerate than I think most people would imagine. My needs always come first, even when I don’t want them to. He tries so hard to please, so hard to prove himself. Sometimes it breaks my heart.

I remember not so long ago, I called him a man whore. I complained about the many women and girls who had passed through his bed, but I’ve now come to realize something – they were all teaching him a lot of things. And he learned. Oh, yes. He learned very well. And in the end, I’m the benefactor of his promiscuous days. You see, Michael is good at a lot of things and he will never need to try too hard to prove himself to me.

Of course, our relationship hasn’t reformed him entirely. I was afraid that he’d become self-conscious around me and try to perfect his manners or something, but no need to worry there. He still belches and scratches himself, the same Michael I fell in love with.

I suppose someday we’ll have to tell my family about us, if they don’t suspect already. It’s not that we’re keeping secrets from them, but right now I want our relationship to be ours and ours alone. I want to be selfish. I want to have Michael to myself. The rest of the world can find out eventually.

The end of the semester comes and I take my finals. I score well, but I can’t say as my heart is in going to college anymore. I don’t really care about how muscles work, or why people shrink as they age. In truth, the thought of working in a hospital kind of puts me off. I don’t know if I want to deal in grief, blood and sorrow anymore. Michael suggests that I could work with babies, in the maternity ward, but sometimes there’s grief and sorrow there, too. I think I’m done dealing with sickness. I think I’m done being sick myself. I want to be healthy and do things that are healthy for me. I just don’t know what that is yet.

At one time, I thought maybe I wasn’t cut out for this time period. Maybe that’s not it. Maybe I’m not cut out for this city, this profession. Maybe the reason I feel that part of my life is wrong is because it is. Maybe I’m not supposed to be here in this place.

The problem is, I’m not sure where I should be.

I return from doing a little holiday shopping, toss the mail into a pile on the kitchen table. I hang up my jacket, stow the presents in the room that used to be Michael’s (it’s become one big closet) and sit down at the table.

The first few letters are bills – cable, gas, electric. There are a few Christmas cards – one from Mae-Ling, drawn by hand and very beautiful, and one from that strange little Bethany girl. I give a humored snort as I open the card. I barely knew that girl and in truth had forgotten about her until just now. Her handwriting is neat and familiar-looking, but a lot of girls have similar script. I set the cards aside, to be hung with the rest.

The return address of the last letter catches my eye – it’s from Roswell. My brow furrows as I slide my finger under the flap, pull out the single sheet of paper, a letterhead I’m very familiar with. I read the letter twice, then sit in disbelief for a long time.

A few hours later, Michael returns from the latest job he’s working on, covered in drywall dust. He gives me a quick, chalky kiss, then disappears into the shower. I finish up dinner, glance at the letter a couple of times as I listen to the water running in the bathroom. We’ll have dinner, then I’ll talk to him about what the mailman brought. I’m not sure how he’ll feel about it, but from now on all decisions are our decisions, not just mine.

Over stuffed chicken breasts, Michael tells me about his day, about the flamboyant female impersonator who is paying them to remodel his apartment into an Old Hollywood-style love den. Definitely the most colorful client he’s ever had. I love sitting down to dinner with him, catching up on how his day went, listening to his stories. While Michael is stilted in some ways, he is very gregarious in others.

As I’m washing the dishes from dinner, he sneaks up behind me and kisses my neck, brushing my hair out of the way. I tell him I’m thinking about cutting it and he says okay. That surprises me, since most guys that I’ve known seem to think that I’ll turn into Witch Hazel if I cut even an inch off my hair. When I question him, he just shrugs and says he wants me to be happy and if that’s what it takes to make me happy then it’s okay.

Shortly after that, he lifts my skirt, drops to his knees and makes me very happy indeed.

Later, after things have quieted down and Michael slouches on the couch to watch the end of a hockey game, I get the letter and go to sit by him. He sips his soda and eyes the envelope curiously.

“What do you have there?” he asks, wiping his mouth on the cuff of his sweatshirt.

“I got this in the mail today,” I say, looking down at the letter. Wordless, I pull the paper out of the envelope and hand it to him.

He purses his lips, then unfolds the letter and skims over it quickly. His eyebrows rise into an inverted V and he looks at me in surprise.

“It doesn’t pay much,” I say, uncertain what he’s feeling.

He lifts one corner of his mouth in consideration. “It pays more than I made last year.”

It does? I take the letter back from him, skim the words again. It says the same thing it did this afternoon – the director of the community center in Roswell is retiring. They need a replacement and want to offer the job to me. They can’t pay much - only around forty thousand dollars a year - because they’re a charitable organization, but they’d like me to consider their offer seriously anyway. I have until the new year to answer.

“What do you want to do?” Michael asks, his tone neutral.

“I don’t know,” I say, sliding the letter back into the envelope. I sigh and stare at the floor.

“You do know,” he counters and I look up at him. “You know in your heart what you want to do.”

I look at the carpet again. He’s right. I want to go back to Roswell, I want to take that job. I miss the people there, I miss feeling like I’ve accomplished something. True, I’ve spent many hours at the soup kitchen here, but the problem is so large that I feel I can’t make much of a difference. I know that every little bit helps, but I can’t ever see the change. In Roswell, I knew I could make a change. I was happy there.

But was Michael happy there?

I frown, work the letter between my hands. Michael left Roswell because he had nothing there. He followed me here to start a new life. In a sense, I’ve started a new life, too, but if I want to leave and he wants to stay will I have to leave that new life behind?

Michael’s arm slides around my shoulders and he gives me a squeeze. “What’s troubling you?”

I vowed I would be honest with him and I will. I look directly into his dark eyes. “You.”

Again he looks surprised. “Me? I’m troubling you?”

I nod slowly.

“What did I do?” I can almost read his thoughts, his list of acts that will get him into trouble – did he leave the cap off the toothpaste again? Forget to put the toilet seat down? Leave razor stubble in the sink?

“You haven’t done anything,” I say. “It’s just that…I want you to come back with me. And maybe you don’t want to go back there.”

He blinks. “Oh. Why wouldn’t I want to go back there?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, Michael. You wanted to leave, maybe you don’t want to return.”

“Yeah, well, you left and I know you want to go back. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I can’t answer that. I don’t know why you left in the first place.”

His eyes soften and he puts both arms around me. “I left because I couldn’t stand to see you go,” he says against my ear. “I saw you taking down those curtains in your apartment and the sun blinded me so that I couldn’t see you. In that moment, I knew that if I let you leave without me, I might never see you again.”

His words are touching but I can’t help giving a laugh over his shoulder. “That’s a little melodramatic for you, Michael Guerin.”

He pulls back, a grin on his lips as he takes my face between his hands. “I’ve been working for a drama queen – can you blame me?”

I laugh as he pushes me back on the couch. “That’s a drag queen, Michael, not a drama queen.”

“Trust me, he’s both,” he answers before covering my mouth with his.

My insides jump, the rollercoaster ride beginning again as he starts working the buttons on my sweater. I hook a leg over his knee, quivering in anticipation at what I know is coming.

As Michael’s hand slides inside of my sweater, he kisses my throat, works his way over to my ear. His breath is warm against my cheek when he speaks.

“Let’s go back to Roswell,” he whispers. “Let’s go home.”

I’m already caught up in the moment and can only sigh in response.

Two weeks later, three days before Christmas, I watch as Michael finishes securing our belongings in the back of the U-Haul. Heidi, the suddenly-friendly neighbor, stopped by earlier to snoop around to find out what was going on. I laughed inside when Michael didn’t even really look her way twice. She had plenty of chances and never took one of them. Her loss.

Michael slams the door of the moving van and latches it tightly. Then he grins at me and motions for the cab of the truck.

“We’re ready,” he calls.

I return his smile, then climb into the front of the truck. He gets behind the wheel and adjusts the mirrors. The truck starts with a rumble, then begins to roll with a jerk. Michael winces, then compensates with the clutch to help the poor beast out. In no time, we’re moving out of the city, leaving California behind us.

I don’t even look back. Instead, I scoot over in the seat and Michael puts his arm around me out of reflex and I look ahead. I like the way it feels, snuggled against him, moving east. I miss my parents. I miss my little red convertible. I miss the desert and the sand and the gorgeous sunsets. I miss my home.

And when we get back there, Michael and I will make our own home, together. I look into his face as he drives and I see some solace there. We’ve got a long way to go, both of us, but we’re going to be okay. We can heal, we can be whole, together.

We put many miles behind us and as the sun begins to set, it occurs to me that not long ago, Michael and I both fled Roswell looking for something, not knowing what. A new way of life, a new career, a new lover. In the end, we realized that what we needed was right under our noses the whole time.

And then we found each other.

THE END