Rising From the Dust Read online

  “Pardon me?”

  Gabriel straightened, startled to find the cop beside his window. He hadn’t expected him so quickly, and he hadn’t heard his approach over the roar in his ears. “Jesus,” he said without thinking, wincing at the sudden light in his eyes. The cop flicked the beam of his flashlight aside, making a quick sweep around the inside of the car. Gabriel squinted. The night was filled with white spots as he tried to clear the residual glare from his watering eyes.

  “Sorry about that,” the cop said, surprising him again. He sounded unperturbed, but Gabriel felt the need to explain, anyway.

  “I wasn’t talking about you,” he said. His vision had begun to clear, and he could make out the officer’s shape; saw him shrug a shoulder.

  “I’ve been called worse,” the cop said, and was he smiling? Gabriel couldn’t see well enough yet, but he would swear he could hear a smile in the other man’s voice. He thought randomly of a Stephen King book he’d read—what? Twenty years earlier? Desperation. Something about the family riding in the back of the crazy cop’s car, and wondering if it was possible to hear a smile in someone’s voice.

  Gabriel couldn’t quite latch onto the details—they were a fuzzy memory, floating untethered in his mind—and wasn’t sure why he was trying. He gave his head a little shake. “I was talking to myself. I was just…” He trailed off, looking at the embankment in his side mirror. He swallowed with effort. “Anyway, sorry. I wasn’t talking about you.”

  “Okay,” the cop said, and now there was a hint of something else in his voice. Caution, perhaps. “Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?” he asked.

  Gabriel turned his head to look out at him. “No,” he said. He was going to say more and thought better of it. There was no telling what might tumble from his mouth.

  “Everything alright?” the cop asked after a few moments of silence. Gabriel could finally see his face, now, though it was cast in shadows.

  No, Gabriel thought. “I’m fine,” he answered—an old standby, that one. He realized a second too late that the cop hadn’t asked if he was alright.

  “May I see your license and registration, please?” the officer asked, and Gabriel blinked in surprise.

  “Shit, oh, sorry,” he said, reaching quickly toward his glove box. His seatbelt locked against his chest, and he winced, silently cursing himself. He paused, then unhooked his seatbelt. He got the registration from his glovebox. The cop tracked his movements with the beam of his flashlight. Gabriel glanced sideways at him, hesitating. “Can I…get my wallet out of my back pocket?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the man answered.

  Gabriel felt like an idiot. He was inexplicably flustered, but at least it had temporarily pushed aside the darker feelings. “Sorry,” he muttered again, shifting, raising his right hip to fetch his wallet. “I’ve never been pulled over before,” he admitted.

  After a beat, the cop said, “Never?”

  Gabriel shook his head. “Thirty-five years of driving and this is a first,” he said.

  “That’s an impressive record,” the officer said, taking the license and registration from Gabriel’s shaky fingers. As the cop turned the beam of his light onto the license, Gabriel saw the glint of a wedding band on the man’s finger.

  “I’m not saying I’ve never broken a traffic law,” Gabriel heard himself say, and the policeman chuckled.

  “Happy birthday, Mr. Santiago.”

  Gabriel stared out at him, confused. He saw the cop’s teeth flash as he smiled.

  With a gesture of the license, the cop said, “It’s after midnight. According to this, today is your fiftieth birthday.”

  “Oh,” Gabriel said, unsure how to process that. Of course, he’d known it was his birthday, but the knowledge had somehow been lost beneath everything else. “Fifty,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Some days I feel eighty, but most of the time I just wonder how I got here,” he heard himself admitting.

  “You don’t look a day over forty…five,” the cop said, surprising Gabriel into a laugh; he looked out at the grinning officer. “In spite of the gray,” the man added.

  “I decided to go for the distinguished professor look,” Gabriel said.

  “It’s working,” the cop said. He held up the license. “This is one of the best license photos I’ve seen, as a matter of fact. Looks like you were posing at Sears. I always look like I was surprised walking out of a public bathroom or something. I’m very unphotogenic.”

  “I doubt that,” Gabriel said without thinking. And then, before he could stop himself: “‘The best part of beauty is that which no picture can express.’” He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling a rush of blood in his face. His cheeks were burning, and he could only hope it was unnoticeable in the dancing shadows. “Francis Bacon,” he added.

  The cop leaned down, putting his elbow on the window frame, holding Gabriel’s information loosely between his fingers. Gabriel could suddenly see the shine of his eyes and the angles of his face, and the swoop of his windswept hair, and he couldn’t breathe.

  “And ‘anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty, never grows old.’ Or something like that,” the cop said with a smile.

  “Kafka,” Gabriel said, the word barely audible.

  “So it’s not just a look,” the cop said, holding out the license and registration. Gabriel took them automatically, his fingers tingling when they brushed the other man’s. “The distinguished professor thing,” the officer clarified, smiling.

  He can’t actually be flirting with me, Gabriel thought, with his heart slamming in his chest. For a few seconds, fear swelled within him. Fear, wearing the face of how does he know? But what did it matter? There was no one here but the two of them; strangers.

  “We can’t all look good in a uniform,” he said. He held his breath, expecting the other man to pull away. Instead, the cop chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling in the flashing lights. And Gabriel felt, suddenly and unexpectedly, a surge of reckless abandon. He didn’t know where the words came from—he’d traveled from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other quickly enough to give himself whiplash—but they tumbled from his lips: “Personally, a younger man in a uniform was never really my type…before.”

  Oh, Jesus. Oh, God, he thought.

  The cop smiled. “There are just as many fantasies about middle-aged professors in cardigans,” he said, and the amusement in his voice was undeniable. His tone was not mocking, though, and his expression was nothing but kind and open. “With good reason,” he added.

  Gabriel had reached the end of his ability to speak, and he stared—feeling tingly and warm and a bit helpless—at the younger man’s face.

  “Try to stay in the right lane, Mr. Santiago,” the officer said quietly, still smiling. Then, with a quick pat on the door, he straightened away from the window. Gabriel felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. “And have a good night.”

  Gabriel suddenly realized that the cop hadn’t run his driver’s license, or given him a breathalyzer, or asked where he was heading at a quarter past midnight; he was already walking back toward his cruiser.

  “Officer,” Gabriel called out the window, startling himself. The cop hesitated and looked back. Now what? What’s your plan, genius? “Thank you for…” He cleared his throat. “Have a good night,” he said instead.

  The cop nodded once and walked the rest of the way to his cruiser. Gabriel started his own car and then hesitated. He tossed his wallet and registration onto the passenger seat and then sat, staring through the windshield, overcome by a sense of unreality.

  And rising up beneath it: panic.

  What were you thinking? he asked himself, grabbing the steering wheel to still his newly-trembling hands. “Oh my God,” he muttered. Now that the cop was no longer at the window, Gabriel was sure that he’d not only imagined the man’s flirtatiousness but made a complete and utter fool of himself. The cop had clearly felt so sorry for him that he hadn’t even considered writing a ticket.<
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  I must seem so pathetic, Gabriel thought. He hated the tightness in his chest and the churning in his stomach. He hated the unsteadiness in his hands.

  ***

  Jack Windsor flicked off his strobe lights and sat in his cruiser, watching the silhouette of Gabriel Santiago. The man had started his car but was just sitting there, with his hands on the steering wheel, and Jack debated getting out and returning to the window.

  “What’s going on, Mr. Santiago?” he muttered. He was concerned. For a few seconds, the man’s unhappiness had seemed to slide away. For a few seconds, they’d had a moment of something—an easy banter, a shared laugh and, yes, a spark of mutual interest—but it had been short-lived. That was alright, it wasn’t as though anything was going to happen, anyway.

  But Jack couldn’t stop thinking about the way the car had drifted over the centerline, how it had—for just a heartbeat or two—picked up speed as its nose pointed toward the concrete ramp beneath the overpass. He couldn’t stop thinking about Santiago’s eyes, shimmering with tears that weren’t caused by the brief, blinding assault of Jack’s flashlight.

  Who are you kidding? he thought. It wasn’t his own voice in his head, though, and Jack swallowed, absently twisting the ring on his finger. Oh, how he missed that voice. It came to him less and less frequently these days, and Jack longed for nothing more than to hear it ringing through the house. You might be concerned but you also felt something else.

  Jack shook his head in a futile attempt to dislodge the voice. He’s just some guy, he thought. Sure, he’s cute, but… His thoughts tapered off as Santiago’s brake lights winked and, finally, the man pulled his car onto the road.

  He’s cute, but what?

  Jack sighed and ran a hand over his face. “But he’s not you,” he mumbled into the night.

  No one is, Jackie boy, Jeff’s voice answered softly. Jack pulled his cruiser onto the road, following slowly behind Santiago’s car.

  Besides, even if he weren’t wearing a ring, which he is, he’s clearly uncomfortable flirting. Or flirting with me, anyway. Men? He surprised himself but there was fear there, too. I’m too old and tired to work through the issues of some middle-aged, closeted—

  You’re too young to waste your life away mourning me.

  The words hurt, and Jack didn’t want to acknowledge them. He didn’t want to believe they were coming from his own head, because that felt like a betrayal. Jeff was gone, though. All that Jack had left was the voice in his head, the pictures of their life together, the memories of the love they’d shared.

  But if Jeff could actually speak to him now, Jack knew what he would say.

  I did say it, Jack. I told you. Remember? You promised. You promised me you would move on from this, from us. That you would be okay.

  I lied.

  No, baby.

  Okay, but…I’m not ready, then.

  That little flutter you felt in your stomach when he told you he liked the way you look in your uniform?

  That’s not what he said.

  That little flutter isn’t a lie, honey, and it’s not a betrayal.

  Jack watched the brake lights flare, watched the car turn into the parking lot of Casey’s Bar. “Go home, Mr. Santiago,” he murmured, slowing down as he approached the driveway. He almost pulled in after him, if only to draw up beside the other car and ask—again—if everything was alright.

  Jack let off the brakes, though. There was no law stopping a man from going to a bar at 12:30, so long as he didn’t get wasted and try to drive home. And while it was impossible to know for certain, Santiago didn’t seem the type. In fact, he didn’t seem like the type to do anything reckless or irresponsible, ever.

  Jack thought again of the car, drifting over the centerline, as his own car slipped past the entrance to the parking lot. He looked back; Santiago hadn’t gotten out of his vehicle, yet, but had once more shut off his engine. Jack sighed, resisted the urge to flip a U-turn, and took the next corner. The bar, the parking lot, and Santiago’s car disappeared from his mirrors.

  You felt something, Jeff’s voice whispered, and there was no sense trying to deny that. And so did he, even for a few seconds.

  Yes, so maybe it was time to start considering…the possibility. The idea was painful, but it had been almost a year. He could set up an online account, test the waters…But no, his mind recoiled from the very thought. He could go to a bar; he and Jeff had met in a club, but that had been in a different lifetime. Jack had been twenty-one and full of the self-confidence of youth, and Jeff—only twenty-four himself but full of worldly wisdom—had promptly swept him off his feet: first literally, when he’d thrown him—both of them laughing—onto the bed after taking him home, and then spiritually, when he’d showed Jack exactly how it felt to be really and truly loved.

  The streetlights blurred, and Jack shook his head, blinking the moisture from his eyes. He straightened in his seat, gripping the wheel. Online dating or frequenting clubs might be outside his comfort zone now that he was pushing forty. But hitting on some random professor-type during a traffic stop was certainly not a normal occurrence, either. Jack had never flirted with anyone after pulling them over, before tonight. So, Jeff was right. It was time to start figuring it out.

  ***

  Jack pulled into the parking lot and sat there, looking at Gabriel’s car. It was drawing close to 2am, and the bar would soon be closing. After hours of overtime, Jack was finally off duty, and he was exhausted. He should go home and collapse into bed. Instead, here he was, wondering if he should go inside and check on Gabriel Santiago.

  Or he could simply wait in his cruiser, to make sure the man didn’t try getting behind the wheel if he’d been drinking for the past hour.

  Jack had already changed into jeans and a black t-shirt before leaving the precinct, though, and he would’ve sworn he could hear Jeff’s knowing chuckle as he’d bent to tie his sneakers. So, with a sigh and an uncharacteristic flutter of nervousness, Jack unfolded himself from the car and stepped out into the parking lot.

  He looked into Gabriel’s car as he passed. The man’s registration was still on the front seat, but his license was nowhere in sight. He must’ve returned it to his wallet. The inside of the car was clean and tidy.

  Jack walked into the bar before he could talk himself out of it. The place was nearly empty, but he’d expected that by the sight of the parking lot. It was almost last call, anyway. Jack’s gaze skimmed over the tables and the bar, taking in the bartender, the scattered handful of patrons, and—

  He stopped, stunned. Jack was rarely surprised by people, anymore. Of all the scenes he’d considered stumbling into, however, this possibility had not crossed his mind. Gabriel was at the piano in the back of the bar. He’d taken off his sweater and laid it over the bench beside his hip, and his white shirt was wrinkled, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His graying hair was messy, as though he’d been running his fingers through it.

  He was playing a Billy Joel song—“And So It Goes.” And the man could sing. His voice cut right into Jack, pinning his feet to the floor and adding a heaviness to the beats of his heart. He couldn’t deny the stirrings of desire, long dormant. Gabriel Santiago was beautiful, sitting at the piano in the low light, all of his attention focused on some imaginary point in the air. His voice was beautiful, too, and full of a raw, unfiltered emotion that was heartbreaking.

  Jack couldn’t say he’d ever given much thought to the song before, although it was familiar. Now, however, the lyrics that he’d probably heard many times without ever hearing them—“and I would choose to be with you, that’s if the choice were mine to make”—were like a punch to his chest. He stood, letting the piano chords flow through him, letting the words bury themselves into his flesh.

  He slowly came to realize that the sensations assaulting him were not entirely unpleasant. Beneath the pain, there was a sense of life, a feeling from which he’d been hiding for a long time. A sense of exhilaration and the excitemen
t of some new spark of interest in another person; Jack hadn’t felt this spark in eighteen years, not since meeting Jeff. He’d fallen quickly and hopelessly in love, and while it had certainly not been all sunshine and roses during their time together, Jack’s eyes had never strayed. He’d loved Jeff with every bit of himself, and he’d been wholly loved in return. For that, he was grateful. He was lucky.

  His interest in Gabriel was real, and it was exciting in its newness, and Jack decided that he wouldn’t try to fight it. He would embrace whatever came, because he owed it to Jeff to keep living.

  The pain in Gabriel’s voice was real, too, though. And so was the ring on his finger.

  Jack found himself crossing the room, his feet moving of their own accord. He sank into a chair at a small table near the stage, watching the emotions play over Gabriel’s face.

  Gabriel held out the last note on the piano, seeming surprised to find himself at the end of the song. He blinked and dropped his hands to his thighs. Jack found himself wishing he’d arrived earlier, in time to hear whatever else the man might’ve been singing. Now, he watched as Gabriel rubbed his palms on his pants and looked around as though coming out of a daze.

  When their eyes met, Jack’s breath caught. A small frown of confusion dipped between Gabriel’s brows. Jack wasn’t sure he’d recognize him, but he saw the recognition dawn quickly in Gabriel’s face. Jack felt a ripple of pleasure when he saw the other man’s expression soften, when he saw the spark of light in Gabriel’s eyes.

  The fear was there, too, though.

  Gabriel swung his leg over the bench and stood, picking up his sweater. He walked toward the edge of the small platform—it could hardly be called a stage—and stepped down. His legs seemed unsteady, but Jack knew immediately that Gabriel was sober. He might’ve had a drink or two, but not enough to dull his thoughts or pains or fears.

  “Hello again, Mr. Santiago,” Jack said with a smile as the other man approached his table. Gabriel looked unsure, self-conscious, but he approached anyway. Jack respected him for that.