away to very quietly Google “Occupational Therapy +
Shoulder Injuries” on his computer and search for an hour.
The next day, he stopped by one of the little art galleries that
lined R Street, one of the ones with the pottery on display and a kiln
in the back.
When he came home, he took the small plastic-wrapped
package he‟d bought for eight dollars of hard-earned tip money and
some guest labor and set it down quietly in front of Brian as he
worked hard to clean the kitchen with one fully functioning hand
and some recently healed ribs.
Brian had looked at him, his head cocked, and Tate found that
for the first time in their relationship, he had trouble speaking. He
started to unwrap the plastic and expose the polymer clay.
“You can cook it in the oven, but I understand it smells like
ass,” he said, and then, with a self-conscious look up at Brian, he
pulled the black half-glove from his own crippled hand and nodded
at Brian‟s arm. Brian swung his arm gingerly forward and Tate said,
“C‟mere.”
Brian‟s lips tilted—and they did that so rarely these days.
When they‟d first met, Brian had been all eyes and quiet peace, but
the corners of his mouth had tilted up more often than not. Since
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
5
he‟d been beaten almost to death by the same guy who‟d raped
Talker six months earlier, his smile—or even that little lip tilt that
said everything was okay—had been rare. But not now.
Tate positioned Brian in front of the clay and stood behind him,
pressing his chest firmly against Brian‟s back and taking Brian‟s
injured arm in his own crippled hand. Still without speaking, he slid
his hand to Brian‟s and then placed it on the clay.
Brian said, “I‟m not that stupid, Talker….”
“Shhh,” Tate whispered, placing a delicate, pained kiss on
Brian‟s injured shoulder. “Shhh. Just try it. It‟s supposed to be good
for your fine motor skills. I don‟t care what you make. Just make
something. Just watch it get better. You‟re mad now, okay? You‟re
mad because your body won‟t do what it should, and because it
hurts, and because you can‟t work, and… and it hurts worse when
you‟re mad, okay?”
“I‟m not mad at you,” Brian said roughly, spreading his fingers
with effort. Tate took the gesture for what it was meant to be and
laced his own fingers—scarred and crippled from the childhood fire
that had scarred his face and his body—in with Brian‟s sound, if
battered, ones.
“I know. But it hurts me watching you, okay? Just try this. Try
this. If it doesn‟t work, we‟ll try something else. Lyndie can teach
you to crochet. The Doc can teach you to knit. Something. But try
this. It‟s not like you to just work out for vanity; I know it. You think
that‟s a waste of time. This is making something. It‟ll be good.”
He felt the iron in Brian‟s back soften, bend, become pliable.
Brian‟s hand began to work the clay. It was cold and unyielding at
first, but Tate braced Brian‟s shoulder with his own and used the
little force his own hand could exert and together they warmed it up,
kneaded it, made it soft and warm and as sweet as Brian‟s heart.
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
6
After a few minutes, Brian kept working and Tate slowly
backed away. He walked quietly to the bathroom and washed his
hands, humming “Defying Gravity” from Wicked.
TALKER thought for a moment about sleeping in, but he couldn’t.
High tide was in half an hour, and, well, since they’d moved out to
Petaluma, his heart had beat to the tides.
He tried to slide out of bed unnoticed—Brian had been up late
the night before, working, and he needed his sleep for the day and
evening to come—but it was no use. He walked to the window in
sleep-shorts and a T-shirt, both of them worn soft and thin, and
stood for a minute at the window. God, the sea hadn’t gotten any
less pretty, for all they’d been there
Shoulder Injuries” on his computer and search for an hour.
The next day, he stopped by one of the little art galleries that
lined R Street, one of the ones with the pottery on display and a kiln
in the back.
When he came home, he took the small plastic-wrapped
package he‟d bought for eight dollars of hard-earned tip money and
some guest labor and set it down quietly in front of Brian as he
worked hard to clean the kitchen with one fully functioning hand
and some recently healed ribs.
Brian had looked at him, his head cocked, and Tate found that
for the first time in their relationship, he had trouble speaking. He
started to unwrap the plastic and expose the polymer clay.
“You can cook it in the oven, but I understand it smells like
ass,” he said, and then, with a self-conscious look up at Brian, he
pulled the black half-glove from his own crippled hand and nodded
at Brian‟s arm. Brian swung his arm gingerly forward and Tate said,
“C‟mere.”
Brian‟s lips tilted—and they did that so rarely these days.
When they‟d first met, Brian had been all eyes and quiet peace, but
the corners of his mouth had tilted up more often than not. Since
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
5
he‟d been beaten almost to death by the same guy who‟d raped
Talker six months earlier, his smile—or even that little lip tilt that
said everything was okay—had been rare. But not now.
Tate positioned Brian in front of the clay and stood behind him,
pressing his chest firmly against Brian‟s back and taking Brian‟s
injured arm in his own crippled hand. Still without speaking, he slid
his hand to Brian‟s and then placed it on the clay.
Brian said, “I‟m not that stupid, Talker….”
“Shhh,” Tate whispered, placing a delicate, pained kiss on
Brian‟s injured shoulder. “Shhh. Just try it. It‟s supposed to be good
for your fine motor skills. I don‟t care what you make. Just make
something. Just watch it get better. You‟re mad now, okay? You‟re
mad because your body won‟t do what it should, and because it
hurts, and because you can‟t work, and… and it hurts worse when
you‟re mad, okay?”
“I‟m not mad at you,” Brian said roughly, spreading his fingers
with effort. Tate took the gesture for what it was meant to be and
laced his own fingers—scarred and crippled from the childhood fire
that had scarred his face and his body—in with Brian‟s sound, if
battered, ones.
“I know. But it hurts me watching you, okay? Just try this. Try
this. If it doesn‟t work, we‟ll try something else. Lyndie can teach
you to crochet. The Doc can teach you to knit. Something. But try
this. It‟s not like you to just work out for vanity; I know it. You think
that‟s a waste of time. This is making something. It‟ll be good.”
He felt the iron in Brian‟s back soften, bend, become pliable.
Brian‟s hand began to work the clay. It was cold and unyielding at
first, but Tate braced Brian‟s shoulder with his own and used the
little force his own hand could exert and together they warmed it up,
kneaded it, made it soft and warm and as sweet as Brian‟s heart.
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
6
After a few minutes, Brian kept working and Tate slowly
backed away. He walked quietly to the bathroom and washed his
hands, humming “Defying Gravity” from Wicked.
TALKER thought for a moment about sleeping in, but he couldn’t.
High tide was in half an hour, and, well, since they’d moved out to
Petaluma, his heart had beat to the tides.
He tried to slide out of bed unnoticed—Brian had been up late
the night before, working, and he needed his sleep for the day and
evening to come—but it was no use. He walked to the window in
sleep-shorts and a T-shirt, both of them worn soft and thin, and
stood for a minute at the window. God, the sea hadn’t gotten any
less pretty, for all they’d been there
Similar Books
