The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(126)

It was the only way you knew.

“Daisy hurt you,” Miles said. “And you never let her explain. Or apologize.”

“She cheated on me,” Erik said, his voice hollow and petulant.

“Oh, stop clutching your pearls. She cheated but you never dealt with it. Instead you amputated her like a diseased limb, shut your heart down and never looked back. You may think it’s closure but it isn’t. You may think the Janeys and Daisys of the world come along twice in a lifetime but they don’t. C’mon, move, my legs are going to cramp up.”

They ran down Market Street in silence, turned left and headed for the Fayette Street Bridge, crossing the canal again. Their strides ate the asphalt in rhythmic gulps. Their open-mouthed breathing matched. The charms on Erik’s necklace jingled as they bounced around his collarbones.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, as they jogged down the ramp back onto the bike path.

“It was Janey’s theory,” Miles said. “She’s the shrink.”

“You’re just the henchman.”

Still running, Miles reached into his pocket then held out his empty hand to Erik.

“What?” Erik said.

“It’s a f*ck. I give it.” He laughed and punched Erik’s shoulder. “God, I love that line. One of Mel’s greatest.”

“I know,” Erik muttered. “Thanks, Miles.”

“It’s what we father figures are supposed to do. Slap you upside the head to point out the not-so-obvious.”

A babble of laughter behind them. A couple on rollerblades glided by, letting go hands to divert around Erik and Miles, then join again. Their legs planed side to side in perfect unison. Partners on the path.

Erik watched the lovers until they disappeared around a bend.





You Still Haven’t Kissed a Man


At some point you just gotta start living the truth.

In his heart Erik knew it was time. He didn’t ask why, he didn’t think it to death. He just got in his car and drove to Lancaster.

It was Monday of Thanksgiving week. The campus seemed subdued. Erik parked in the visitor lot and heeded the posted sign: All visitors must report to the Security Office in the Wayne Administration Building.

The office was a tiny nook in the lobby of Wayne, manned by a young man with a black watch cap and a soul patch. His nametag read Charlie. “Help you?”

“I was a student here,” Erik said. “I was just in the area. Would it be all right if I walked around?”

“Sure,” Charlie said, scooting his chair over to a computer console. “What’s your name?”

Erik gave it and spelled it, handed over his driver’s license. Charlie tapped a few keys, made a few mouse clicks.

“What class?”

“1993, but I didn’t graduate.”

Charlie grunted, typed, and then, thankfully, he smiled. “Well, you’re right here, class of ‘93. Fill this out and I’ll print you up a badge.” He passed a form on a clipboard over the counter and Erik began filling it out. As he did, another security guard came in through a back door. He was a much older guy, silver hair and mustache, an impressive beer belly. Erik glanced at his nametag, Stan.

“Whaddya got, Charlie,” Stan mumbled, dropping his walkie-talkie into a charger.

“Just an alumni visitor pass.”

Stan glanced over Charlie’s shoulder at the computer screen, then stooped and looked again, putting his hands on the back of Charlie’s chair. “Erik Fiskare,” he said. “I remember you.”

Erik looked up, startled. “I’m sorry?” His mind raced through a gallery of his not-so-finest collegiate moments. He couldn’t remember an offense so notorious, it would stay planted in a security guard’s memory for over a decade.

Stan straightened up, adjusting the belt holding up his considerable girth. “Well, you might not remember,” he said. “It was in Mallory Hall right after the shooting.”

“Holy shit.” Charlie swiveled around to look at Erik. “Class of ‘93. You were there?”

“I was,” Erik said to him. Then to Stan, “You were?”

“Sure was. You were in a bit of a tug-o-war. Police wanted to question you but your girlfriend was being wheeled out on a gurney. I talked you into staying.”

“Wow.” Erik blinked. He tried hard, but could only summon the general recollection of security’s presence in the theater. No faces. He recalled the agony of letting them take Daisy without him, but nobody named Stan who had acted as a voice of reason and helped him make the decision. “I don’t remember a whole lot from that day,” he said.

“Well I can’t blame you,” Stan said. “You were one scared kid. I tell you, Charlie, this poor guy was covered in blood and had a look in his eye I hadn’t seen since I was in Vietnam.”

“No kidding,” Charlie said. His tone was amused tolerance but his eyes on Erik were awed and respectful.

“A real thousand-yard stare. His whole heart was heading out in the ambulance. He wouldn’t let go of her. I told him to stay and talk to police first. Otherwise they’d only come looking for him later, wondering why he was reluctant to talk.”

Erik’s eyes drifted up and to his left, to the place of memory. “You know,” he said. “Hearing you talk right now, it starts to… I remember your voice.”