The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(104)

Erik whistled as he showered and shaved. It wasn’t until he was tucking in his shirt tails that he realized today was the nineteenth of April. Seven years since the shootings. Where would he have been at this time of the night? Probably in the waiting room of the hospital. Asleep.

He pondered that as he buckled his belt and filled his pockets: cash, wallet, keys. He paused, the flattened penny in the palm of his hand. Troubled, he sighed and jiggled it in his loose fist.

“You know, James,” he said. “I think I’m gonna fly solo tonight.”

He went to his bedside table drawer and took out the blue leather case that held Joe Bianco’s purple heart. He flipped open the cover and lifted out the inset.

“This is the most symbolically wrong place I can think to put you,” he said, laughing as he placed the penny in the bottom of the case. “So do me a favor and keep it entre nous. All right?”

He replaced the inset, covering the penny with the medal. Then he shut the case and left.





Ten After One


He slept well and woke up smiling and stretching the next morning. Lazy and smug, he combed through last night’s images. It had been, in his opinion, a spectacular first date. A crazy good, touchy-feely time, culminating in ice cream and a walk along the canal.

Kissing Melanie on the Main Street Bridge, their mouths sweet with chocolate and butterscotch, Erik had felt flammable. It had been a long time since he had kissed like that: slow and soft, letting it unfold of its own accord, following where her embrace led him. Feeling her kiss go from sweet cold to even sweeter warmth. The way his mouth felt in hers. He was dialed into her, and it had been an eternity time since his sexuality had extended feelers beyond his own selfish needs and into a woman’s experience. An immeasurable age since he’d been caught up in a woman like that, caught up tight with her, engaged mind and body to the point of wanting to be inside of it all. Feeling young. Feeling great. Great to be alive with nowhere else to rather be.

Nowhere else to rather be?

Erik bolted up from the pillows, noticing his bedroom was suspiciously bright with sunlight. He seized the clock: it was ten after one.

Ten after one?

He checked his watch. It was right.

“Shit,” he muttered, falling back.

He considered screwing it. He’d already come this far. He could call in, claim a debilitating stomach bug and go back to sleep. But his conscience wouldn’t let him do it. He got up, dressed and drove to campus.

It was April 20, 1999.

The theater was quiet and eerie. Hurrying down to his office, Erik passed the student lounge where a crowd had gathered, students and faculty huddled together on couches, standing in close groups. People were holding each other. Some were crying. Everyone was focused on the television.

Erik moved into the lounge, cautious. Like a hunter approaching a kill he wasn’t sure was quite dead. Something was going on. Something big. He gazed at the anchorman on the screen, began assembling a picture from the fragments.

Some of the students released from the high school have been reunited with their parents. Now let’s take a look at the live coverage from Littleton where an arrest has been made.

Officials are preparing a briefing there for parents.

I wish I could give you more information but we don’t know. It’s extremely chaotic out there.

A graphic flashed up, the state of Colorado. A dot for Denver. Across the top of the screen: School Shooting.

No confirmed fatalities as of yet as police have not completely secured the building.

Continuing to find victims throughout the school.

We have to point out the gunmen have not yet been found.

These gunmen, wearing black trench coats.

Columbine.

A hand in his, cold fingers and rough, dry skin. He turned his head. It was Melanie, her eyes enormous, her lips pressed into a tight line.

On the screen, groups of students being shepherded by police across a parking lot, their hands on their heads.

Helicopters. SWAT teams. Dogs. Ambulances.

You may have noticed the word on your screen “Lockdown.”

SWAT teams in position.

Students still trapped inside.

“Unbelievable,” Melanie whispered. She moved closer into him, seeking comfort. He stayed motionless. A small trickle of sweat dripped down his back.

Conflicting stories.

Calls from within the building.

The gunmen have not yet been found.

His legs were prickling now. Maybe he should sit down.

Students inside.

Sound of gunfire.

The edges of his vision began to fade out. He was looking at the TV through a pinhole.

911 call from the library.

Still trapped inside.

The gunmen.

Erik opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor in a forest of legs, Melanie kneeling beside him. “Get back,” she said. “Get back, give him some air.”

Her fingers unzipped his jacket and undid some of the buttons on his flannel shirt. She laid her hand flat on his chest. His heart pounded against it. He was on fire. His blood had turned to electric, molten lava, crackling along his limbs.

I’m dying, he thought.

“Erik.” Melanie’s hands on his face now, smoothing his forehead. “Talk to me. Are you having chest pains?”

It wasn’t pain, exactly. More a slow, ripping sensation. Something had a hold of his heart and was pulling it through his ribcage. But he wasn’t in pain. He was just quite exquisitely terrified.