Dinnertime.  More dark skies, wet streets, and a blustery cold front settling.

At Mel and Linz’s house…

Linz, in casual home-wear, cordless phone to her ear, scowled at the half-burned candles on a posh dining room table and slammed the phone down beside a plate.  She heard the front door open, marched into the living room and stood cross-armed furious at Mel drifting in.

“Gus is at Dusty’s, I took off early, and this was supposed to be our one night alone. Where have YOU been?”

“Driving,” Mel dropped her briefcase against the wall, toed off her flat shoes.

“You could’ve called me.  I must’ve tried your cell twenty times.”

“I turned it off,” Mel floated past Linz and sank into a corner of the couch, hand covering her eyes.

Very not Mel.  Linz’s anger changed to worry.  “What’s wrong?” she edged to the couch and sat beside her.

“That I D S I.”

Linz’s brows knit.  “Mel, we agreed you could keep that one only if -”

“He dropped the charges,” Mel flared, rolled the back of her head against the couch and stared at the ceiling.  “Fucking weasel Defense Attorney,” she laughed, threw her hands up, “But then we’re ALL fucking weasels!” laughing harder like it was so goddamned funny.  Until she choked off, eyes misty, “I let him down, Linz.”

“You’re not a weasel,” Linz touched her arm.  “You’re an excellent lawyer.  Because you care.”

“Right.  If I cared that damned much, I should’ve turned it over to someone else a lot sooner.  Now all that’s left is another asshole free to be…and a damaged man whose only crime was to be a lonely gay kid who got online…and thought he found someone who could understand.”

Linz brushed a hand along Mel’s arm, rested her head beside Mel’s.  “What happened?”

“Things aren’t going like I thought they would.”  Mel’s eyes dropped to her bulging belly, one hand sliding to rest over it, face cold as regret.

At Rheinholdt’s office…

Brian stood in the open doorway, knocked on the frame to get Rheinholdt’s attention off a pack of marketing stats.

“Brian,” he looked up with flat interest.  “What did you need to see me about?”

Brian pulled up a chair, sank into it.  “RegionAir and the mixup between Ruder and Taylor.  You handled it very well.”

“I’m sure you’re here after hours for more than that.”

“Taylor let me know he may be leaving.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Rheinholdt frowned at his desktop.  Not good news.  “Another offer?”

“The level of work he’s doing is well beyond that of a clerk.  If we need to replace him, we can’t expect much talent to respond to a clerk opening.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Brian leaned back, hands folded in his lap, “Post the job as Art Director and offer it to anyone at WaveLight who’s willing to apply.  That should satisfy your senior artists who think Lightwave is passing them over.”

Rheinholdt shook his head.  “My budget won’t allow for another inflated salary.”

“Lightwave is unique,” Brian continued, “Its own operation, its own salary structure.”

Rheinholdt stared back a moment, understood the implication.  “Write up the required-”

“It would be better if YOU made the offer,” Brian lowered his chin, eyes up.  “You know what’s expected, and how much you’re willing to pay for it based on what Taylor’s already established.  The only thing I’ll suggest…to avoid any future conflict…is that Lightwave’s Art Director have complete creative control over any work produced for its clients.”

Rheinholdt bowed to the sense of it, finally smiled.  “And if we get no response?”

The insinuation was that Lightwave could die before it was even born.  “There’s an excellent art school right downtown.  Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts,” Brian’s jaw twitched.  “Next month the seniors graduate.  I’m sure any one of them would be eager to take the position on its title alone. You can choose the talent that best fits the need.  That’s it,” Brian slapped his hands on his thighs and stood up.

“All right.  I’ll handle it,” Rheinholdt watched Brian move the chair back into place.  “And remind Mr. Taylor to see me before he leaves.  I’d like to thank him for his fine work.”

Brian edged a dim smile.  “I’ll do that.”  No need for goodbye.  Rheinholdt was already back to his stats.

Brian walked a funeral pace down the hall.  It’s done, Justin.  You’re on your own.

One more stop to make.  He’d planned on it earlier, but decided to leave the best for last.

At Craig Taylor’s… 

Craig, sweater sleeves bunched at his elbows, hurried to answer his doorbell without realizing he was still drying his hands on a dishtowel.  He opened the door to Justin and they stood silently staring with scant warmth that fizzled to uncertainty and the dull pain of old wounds.

“Hi, Dad,” Justin edged a smile.

“Come in,” Craig closed the door as Justin swept past him, caught his glance at the towel.  “I was…uh…wasn’t sure what to make, so I got a late start on dinner.”  You look older.  When did THAT happen.

“Oh?  What’re we having?”  Justin removed his jacket, draped it over the couch back.  Easier to grab and run if needed.  He would’ve said – what do you want? – but Craig hardly seemed battle-clad with rolled-up sleeves and a dishrag.

Before Craig could answer, the hiss of an overflowing pot made him dash to the kitchen with Justin close behind.

Justin stopped in the doorway, fondly smiled at a Dad he hadn’t seen before – adjusting a pot lid and turning the burner off.  Raw chicken breast on a cutting board surrounded by fresh green beans, an onion and celery, box of Minute Rice. “Let me help you with that.  What do you want me to do?” he walked in with a strange sense of relaxation, stopped at the sink to wash his hands.

“It’s just a stir fry.  Only take a few minutes,” Craig moved to the cutting board, grabbed the knife and started slicing.  “One of my new skills…” since Jen and I gave up.

Standing beside Craig, Justin watched him go quiet then diverted to the chicken.  “If you slice it thinner, it’ll cook faster.  Here.” Justin held his hand out.

Craig passed him the knife, stood aside and watched Justin carefully chip slices.  “Did your Mother teach you that?”

You don’t want to go there so don’t, Justin smiled up, “Dad, I used to work in a Diner.”

Work.  Craig had an in.  He turned and scarfed another cutting board, another knife from the block. “Your Mother tells me you’re working for a company called Lightwave now.” Tension rising, he chose the onion for an outlet, sawed it in half.

“It doesn’t pay much but I’m doing…okay.”  Justin gripped the knife harder, cut wider.

“She said you signed some kind of contract.”

Justin halted, eyes cornered on Craig hacking the onion.  “That’s really MY business.”

“Justin,” Craig turned, knife tight in his fist belying the composure in his tone, “Contracts can be tricky and dangerous.  And you’re legal age.  Are you absolutely sure-”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Justin mumbled to the chicken.  Slicing erratic now.

Craig took a couple breaths.  “If you have a copy, I’d like to take a look at it just to -”

“Dad, drop it.”

“- make sure your interests are -”

“I said DROP it!” Justin spun with the knife at his hip and forward.

Triggered, Craig blew unintentionally. “Did YOU suggest that contract, or Brian Kinney?”

Justin burned under his skin, held his voice low.  “Is THAT what this is all about?  Your personal bone with Brian?”

“I can have my lawyers look at it, maybe find some way…” Craig watched Justin shake his head.  Stab the knife into the lettuce head and walk out.  “Justin,” Craig winced, “God...” flung his knife on the counter and followed to the living room in time to see Justin grab his jacket and head for the door.  “If you’re man enough, you’ll hear me out!”

Justin stopped.  Thought a moment.  And turned back, jacket draped on tightly crossed arms.  “Then tell me the truth.”  He could see Craig’s guard lower although he kept his distance.

“Okay!  So it IS about Brian,” Craig admitted, “But not for the reason you think.  And it has nothing to do with being…gay,” he cringed inside just saying the word.

“Are you finally accepting that about me?”

“The truth?” Craig sank, “Accepting?” he shook his head, met Justin’s stare,  “I don’t know.  I don’t know if I can ever…really…accept it.  But it’s not my life.  It’s yours.  Funny thing about being a father…as much as I wanted you with me, doing things with me, going places…I had to teach you how to LEAVE…and stand up on your own.  It may not be the way I wanted, but I see you doing just that.  And THAT’S what I’ll accept.  Proudly.”

Justin swallowed.  His arms loosened, jacket barely hanging on.  “What about Brian?”

Craig struggled to stay calm. “I can’t tell you who or who NOT to see.  But you’re still…my…Son,” Craig affirmed to himself more than Justin, “And I’m not telling you…but ASKING you to take some time to really think before you get into something, or sign something that’ll hurt you in the long run.  So I’d like to offer you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Justin asked, drawn by Craig’s sincerity.

“I’ll pay your full tuition at Pittsburgh Fine Arts so you can finish what you started.”

“What?” Justin’s mouth dropped.  Like a buried desire resurrected within his reach.  The chance to create free.  Unrestricted by client need and office politics.

“But not if you’re legally committed in any other way.”

Justin’s eyes narrowed from the left-hand slap.  “Blackmail?”

“Don’t twist it,” Craig’s hand clenched uneasy. “I’m offering you a chance to finish your education with time to really think about what you want.  If you accept my terms, the deal’s complete, and you don’t owe me anything else.  A fair deal.”  He looked off,  “Blackmail is based on the assumption that there’s something to hide,” then zipped eyes to Justin’s.  “IS there?”

I’m not hiding anything.  I just know now, you can’t take the truth about Brian and me.  So telling it would serve only one purpose – to hurt you.  I won’t do that.  And you’re too concerned about nothing.  “I can get out of that contract any time I want.”

“Then I have your word we’ve got a deal?”

Justin faltered, toughened to answer.  “I’ll think about it, and let you know.”  Justin turned, opened the door, looked back with a serious “Thanks” and walked out.

He left without a goodbye, thoughts whirling incoherently.  Dad.  Brian.  Just a piece of paper.  I made a commitment.  Sex machines.  Linz’s Gallery.  Ruder…SUV’s…

Lightwave, WaveLight…for each pro, a con left him feeling trapped.  Hair blowing in chill wind, Justin took a breath, looked at the dark sky and wished it would rain.  Just to feel something else.  Until he could think things clear.

Alone in her living room, Joan sat with a drink on the end table, open Bible in her lap.  Her comfort.  Escaping into stories of disgrace and redemption.  Three knocks pounded her front door, shaking it and her.  She jumped and ran to answer.  Claire or one of the boys hurt?

“Brian,” she almost smiled but caught herself and stayed rigid.  Brian’s face was hard, eyes searing like someone out for blood.

“Claire and the brats around?” he panned past her.

“They’re visiting friends.”

“Until they get to know her better,” he barged past Joan, “Since we’re starting an unannounced family visit tradition, I thought I’d do my part,” saw the Bible and Beam, turned with arms flared.  “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?  Or are you saving it all for yourself?”

“What do you want?” she stepped slowly.

“Not what I want.  What YOU want,” he smiled sweet evil, waved a hand toward her chair.  “Have a seat.  This may take awhile.”

“I don’t want…OR need…anything from you,” she bit, sat with all the lying calm she could.

“That’s right.  How ignorant of me,” Brian feigned a remorseful hand to his forehead, “You happened to just drop by my place, and for some deep motherly reason-” he pulled the card from his jacket pocket and flung it into her lap, “- leave THIS.”

Joan sucked a breath when she saw it.  Didn’t move to touch it.  Fought to show nothing though her eyes stayed on it.  She didn’t know where she’d lost it.  Now the truth stung with Brian’s rant.

“I can’t believe you THOUGHT of me that much…to hang onto that fucking thing all these years just to thrill me with the nostalgia.”

“That’s not true,” she looked up with stoic hidden hurt.

“Then what IS?” Brian towered over her unflinching stare.  “That I’d actually enjoy remembering how Pop beat the SHIT out of me for drawing a fucking FLOWER?”  Brian paced, eyes wandering white hot.

“I…tried to stop him,” Joan’s lip quivered once on her stone face.

“Yeah,” Brian froze, eyes blasting her.  “I remember.  You got him a beer and told me to go to my room,” he slinked closer, voice breaking once, “And you came up later…to say, don’t EVER do that again.  Don’t EVER…” Brian turned away and ran a hand through his hair.  “A fucking Mothers Day Card,” he recovered, turned with a dull smile, “Well…I never DID.  You should be proud as hell.  Oh.  So sorry.  Heaven.”

“I had to protect you.”

“And why WAS that?” Brian refired, fingered a temple in serious conclusion.  “Why did he hate me so much?”

Joan swallowed, eyes hard, “Your Father could be a very brutal, uncaring -”

“No, no, no,” Brian shook his head, snorted a laugh, “I don’t buy that bullshit anymore.” Straight at her, “You don’t know, but I WORKED in his world.  It’s Blue Collar Breeder Mantra – my son this…my son that…my son, my son, my son,” Brian tensed, speared a look, “I was his ONLY son.  Why?”

“He was a cold-”

“WHY?”

“Your Father would get drunk and-”

“WHY didn’t he think I was HIS?” Brian erupted with a shockwave that triggered instant defense.

“JUST ONE TIME,” she shouted with righteous conviction.  “Just one time…” she massed control, “…I wanted him to know how it felt to be left alone while he had a good time…with someone else.”  She watched Brian’s eyes widen in thin-lipped shock, body rigid.  “The bitter joke was…I enjoyed it.  The compliments,” she spoke as if justifying a past dream, “The conversation, the caring…like I was somebody smart.  And special.”

Brian cleared his throat and spoke low, looked off, eyes glazing, “So who WAS it?”

“A friend of your Father’s.  An architect.”

Brian shook his head, pale grin, “The only architect I remember Pop ever -” Brian tensed with a flood of images.  Fucking at the Baths.  At the Ranch.  Gut-churning thoughts crossing lines even HE refused to cross.  Stabbing his brain until he spewed his contempt with laser sharpness.  “Is Matt Turner my Father?” and saw the first open expression of guilt.  Fucking FUCKING BITCH!  “ANSWER me!”

“No,” she stared, chest heaving.

Brian grabbed the Bible off the end table and threw it into her lap.  “I have a right to KNOW.”

Joan’s hands gripped the heavy book, drawing strength from it.  “We danced.  And had dinner.  And talked.  Then he went home to his wife…and I went home to your Father.”

Brian twisted, paced.  Relief?  Hate?  What the FUCK was he feeling.  “And you told him.”

“Yes.”

“So you eased your Christian conscience.  And I got to live hell.”

Joan used toughness to squelch the rising pain. “I tried everything I could to convince him.  EVERYTHING.”

“Even THAT?” Brian jabbed a finger her Bible.

Pain was ripping at her stony pretense.  “I swore to God, in front of him,” she barely whispered, shook her head at the irony, “But no one in either of our families…could draw as much as a straight line,” she slid the Bible off her lap, touched the drawing.  “When I saw this, I thought it had to be a gift from God.  But that’s not what Jack saw…with his stubborn, narrow...” she shook her head, tightened her failing composure.  “I kept this -” she spread her open hand on the drawing, “-to remind myself that I had to tell you.”

Brian watched the widening cracks in her armor, moved closer and spoke with weakened acid.  “Well you fucking TOOK long enough.”

She raised her head, tried to disguise a sniffle with a deep breath, “Because I can’t change what happened.  And the more time that passed, the best thing seemed to be…to forget.  But I know now…that was wrong.  Brian…” she looked down, bit her lip, struggled for words that wouldn’t draw tears.  The only ones she could think, and barely whisper.  “I’m sorry.”  A mile of silence.  Then she saw his large hand settle on hers and the words broke free.  “I am so sorry.”

Just a meeting of hands.  But so foreign and strange, they were stiff as two ends of a drawbridge meeting together.  Without the emotional warmth or history to seal an unbreakable bond.  Yet a leap across an ocean.  Only to land on slipping sand.

“For all the mistakes I made,” Joan looked away, “What you’ve become…your heathen lifestyle…”

Brian tensed with a fiery stare, withdrew his hand and controlled his voice through a grim smile.  “So I’m your punishment for your sins.”

Joan’s hand gripped the Bible as she stared at him, voice firm.  “God is paying me back for what I did to you.”

“I hate to tell you,” Brian raised his brows, “But God’s probably sitting back laughing his ASS off at what you’re doing to YOURSELF.”

Brian turned abruptly away, left the house without looking back.  She had the right words.  Bare and so deeply open, he thought he was touching someone from long ago who had finally come out of hiding.  Fucking blindsided.  By reasons that turned the words harsh and superficial.  She’ll never change.  She’ll fucking never change.

Once outside, Brian expected the cool air to lift the pall.  He’d seen enough of her nailing herself to the cross.  Made his dick way too soft.  But he stalled at the car for a moment to picture Joan’s pain and wonder…what HE would have done.  Had he been HER.  She didn’t have to tell him anything.  Not a word.  And he would forever have been missing a piece of the puzzle that had always haunted him – why Jack hated him.  Why Jack came to the Loft before he died.

Inside the silence of her home, Joan held her position like a soldier watching the closed door.  Brian didn’t trod like a bull or slam the door.  Just left.  A heat-of-anger moment would have saved hope for resolve.  But this…was…so…final.

Eyes still on the door, Joan again spread her hand over the card, heart pounding against her inaction.  And tears she’d been hell-bent to hide filtered down her face.

Truth told, door closed, Joan slowly crushes the card.

Song: “After All (Svenson and Gielen Remix)” by Delerium and Jael

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