the boy who loved Wicked, page 1
The Boy Who Loved Wicked
C.P. Harris
The Boy Who Loved Wicked
Copyright © 2021, by C.P. Harris
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Nastasha Snow
www.natashasnow.com
Editing by Heather Caryn
www.heathercaryn.com
Proofreading by
Jill Wexler & Lori Parks with LesCourt Author Services
Formatting by
Alt19 Creative
www.alt19creative.com
Beta readers:
Layla Ndn, Billi Riese, Irish T Hill, and Shweta Nandakumar
Contents
Dear Reader
Entry 1 - Phoenix
Chapter 1 - Phoenix
Chapter 2 - Phoenix
Chapter 3 - Sebastian
Chapter 4 - Phoenix
Chapter 5 - Phoenix
Chapter 6 - Sebastian
Chapter 7 - Phoenix
Chapter 8 - Sebastian
Chapter 9 - Phoenix
Chapter 10 - Phoenix
Chapter 11 - Sebastian
Chapter 12 - Phoenix
Chapter 13 - Sebastian
Chapter 14 - Phoenix
Chapter 15 - Sebastian
Chapter 16 - Phoenix
Chapter 17 - Phoenix
Chapter 18 - Phoenix
Chapter 19 - Sebastian
Chapter 20 - Phoenix
Chapter 21 - Sebastian
Chapter 22 - Phoenix
Chapter 23 - Phoenix
Epilogue - Phoenix
Bonus Scenes - Phoenix
Other Works
Author Links
Dear Reader
Welcome to Denwin, a small fictional town in New York. Here you’ll meet Phoenix, an eighteen-year-old high school senior forced to grow up much too early when tragedy struck his family. Phoenix seeks comfort in books and philosophy, trying to make sense of an unpredictable world. One of the biggest changes in Phoenix’s life is the appearance of Sebastian Wicked, his new philosophy teacher with sad eyes and a razor-sharp mind.
Sebastian’s marriage is on the verge of collapse as he drowns himself in guilt—both misplaced and well-earned—over his past. When their lives collide, nothing will be the same for either man. Will they survive the impact?
The Boy Who Loved Wicked is a student/teacher, age-gap romance about two men who desperately need someone in this world to call theirs. It’s full of love, secrets, heartbreak and a promised, hard-won HEA. I hope you love Phoenix and Sebastian’s story as much as I loved writing it!
-CP
Entry #1
Phoenix
“You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.”
~Plato
Dear Caleb,
What I’m about to share with you is important, so be patient and trust where I am leading you.
I promise to be candid. But I also promise this isn’t a confession or an apology, because to be sorry for what happened when I was eighteen would mean I was sorry for the life we have now, and I could never regret you.
I’ll start from my beginning in the hopes that it’ll help you to understand what was at the root of what happened next, because my beginning is what ultimately led me to one of the most important people in my life, Caleb. What ultimately led me to you.
My father died when I was ten, that age where having a father began to make its impact. At the cusp of understanding what it meant to be a man, and understanding that my dad was a great one. “We’ll figure it out one way or the other way,” he’d always say. No matter how trivial my situation, we would figure it out. Together.
When I was five, Mom got me an Empire State Building Lego set for Christmas, and Dad gave her the side-eye for it when I insisted on putting it together that same day. Left on my own with it, I grew frustrated and threw a tantrum, knocking down what I’d already completed—which wasn’t much.
“We’ll figure it out one way or the other way,” he said. We didn’t complete it until five the following morning.
My dad hated building things. He was a book guy. A man who could spend hours debating Socrates and then move on to the merits of Jane Austen. He taught philosophy at the University of Denwin, about three miles from our home in the suburbs of Denwin, New York. My love for the subject came from him. I remember as far back as age six, sitting at the breakfast nook every morning and being quizzed on the greats. “‘Wise men speak because they have something to say; Fools because they have to say something.’” From the corner of his eye he would watch me mull it over, wearing a crooked smile as he buttered my bread.
I could’ve easily replied with who said that, but this was part of our game. He found joy in sharing this important side of who he was with me, and I found joy in never making him feel as if I’d learned all he had to teach. After serious consideration, where I blew air out of my mouth and shoved my curls aside, I shouted, “Plato!”
“You got it!” he shouted back, leaning over to kiss my chubby cheek.
“Dad, you’re a wise man,” I said around a mouth full of bread.
“So are you, son. So are you.”
My lessons from him often came through play. I’d appreciate that more later on in life. At the time, it was simply some fun to pass the time and a reason to be with my dad.
My imposing but fair-haired gentle giant. He’d pretend he forgot to bend when entering a room and clonk his head on the top of the door frame just to see me laugh. It worked every time, Caleb.
My chest inflated when anyone called me his spitting image, although it appeared I would be shorter like my mother, with her small frame.
He was tactile, opposite of her in his need for touch and eye contact, and I got all his excess love since Mom would often shoo his affections away with her dish towel when it became too much.
There was a park near our house with rolling hills. We’d spend hours during warm weather months rolling down the grassy slopes, laughing hysterically and then racing back to the top. The deal was always that if I made it to the top first, I’d get a million hugs and kisses. So of course, I always won. I’d jump up and down, yelling with my arms to the heavens, “I won, I won!”
He would take advantage of my arms being raised and tickle my flank. I’d scream in delight, and he’d scoop me up into his arms, swing me through the air like a plane, then land with me on the soft crabgrass, hugging and kissing me until I couldn’t breathe. Until my love battery recharged to the point of overheating. “I love you, bud,” he’d say fondly.
He and my mother had been high school sweethearts. But where Dad was a man of soft speech and many words, my mother was a thunderbolt who had very little patience for talking when riled up. They complemented each other, I supposed. That’s what Dad said, anyway. Mom needed to win and Dad needed to keep the peace. He was the nurturer of our haven, and she was the warrior of our realm. They were in love and in like and in everything else considered good. But even at that age I wondered why she didn’t love his raspberry kisses, and his soft and squishy hugs. More for me, I’d say.
We lived on a quiet, tree-lined street in a neighborhood with homes that ranged from quaint and modest to modestly grand, surrounded by your clichéd picket fences. Our home was a replica of the Camden house on 7th Heaven. So more on the modestly grand side. Mom said they bought it with the intentions of filling it with children. But after having me, they weren’t able to conceive again. The doctors said they were both fine. Mom said it was in God’s hands. Having all of Dad’s attention was fine by me, though. We were a pair.
When I was sick, Dad would be who I sought out blindly. Climbing into his lap and resting my head over his heart until its beautiful music lulled me to sleep. And at night, when my small body would be racked with chills, he would curl his large frame around mine until my trembling limbs were at rest.
Mom’s job was to administer the correct dosage of medicine every four to six hours on the nose. To force feed me soup and take a stern tone when I refused to take in anymore. And she’d change my sweat-soaked sheets and lecture me lightly on the importance of electrolytes.
But all I wanted was a hug, Caleb.
Dad never had a problem with bending the rules, but Mom was a stickler for routine and structure. Some of my best memories were of Dad picking me up from school on Fridays and whispering, “Guess what? Mom is doing an extra shift at the hospital. You know what that means.” His dimpled smile was a treat on its own.
I’d bounce in my seat, the seatbelt the only thing keeping me from flying through the roof. “It means pizza, ice-cream, and scary movies!”
“You got it,” he’d say, ruffling my hair. We’d have all the evidence gone before Mom got home. Working with sick people made her hyperaware of the need for healthy eating habits. I suspected she knew about our nefarious Fridays because dinner the next night would always include an extra helping of something green. Dad and I would also sneak the big TV from the family room into the living room, because it wasn’t
The days Mom picked me up went more like: take your shoes off at the door, wash your hands, and do your homework. “Yes, Mom,” I’d grumble, leaving my sneakers on the mat then stomping up the stairs to my bedroom. Working as a nurse made Mom paranoid about transporting germs from your shoes into the house.
Why couldn’t she be more like Dad?
But then she’d charge through the school doors, marching to the principal’s office to give him a talking-to whenever she believed me to be treated unfairly or bullied. Everyone in the front office would grab hold of the papers on their desks to keep them from flying away as she blew in like a budding storm. Then I would think, my mom’s a badass. Embarrassing, but still a badass.
Dad rented a lake house farther upstate the summer I turned eight. We camped in the backyard, ate s’mores by the campfire at night, and went fishing everyday for a whole week. He would sing Mom out-of-tune love songs, and she’d blush and give him googly eyes, and I’d make barfing noises. I’d realize later how rare it was to still blush and swoon at your lover’s attempts at romance after so many years of being together. But that was Mom and Dad. The good shepherd and the ball-breaker. And as long as I had my good shepherd to charge me up and sustain me with the light of his love, Mom could break as many balls as she wanted.
The following summer, for my ninth birthday, Dad rented the same lake house, except this time, it was just us fellas. “Mom’s gonna sit this one out, bud.” He’d bent down in front of me. “So you know what that means, right?”
I was older and cooler now, so I’d answered with an unimpressed air, “Pizza, ice-cream, and scary movies.” I fought back a smile when he rolled his eyes at my feigned nonchalance. Hey, I was at the beginning of a phase.
For the first couple of days everything went well. We fished, we camped, we hiked, and played our little “who’s the philosopher” game. But with each day that passed, Caleb, Dad slept in later than the day before. And with each night that passed, Dad went to bed earlier than the night before. By the fifth day, Dad needed naps in the afternoon.
“I’m sorry, bud. Your old man needs a quick cat-nap.”
“But you’re not old, so why are you sleeping so much? We’re supposed to be having fun.” I heard the pout in my voice.
Something I couldn’t name at the tender age of nine, passed over his eyes. He sighed. “Will you lay with me for a little while? Let me hold you. I think my battery needs charging up today.”
“That’s because Mom doesn’t hug you enough. We need to talk to her about that,” I grumbled but got onto the bed and lay next to him, secretly loving that it was my job to make him all better. Dad had created a love monster.
“Your mom shows her love differently, but what I get from you makes up for it.” Within minutes of wrapping his arms around me, he was fast asleep. I didn’t know to be worried, Caleb.
Then it was the end of the week, and we only had one day left. I sat by the lake, sulking, tossing in rocks. “What’s the matter, bud?” he asked from behind me. “You’ve been throwing those poor rocks for an hour now.”
“We’ve only got one day left, but you’ve been sleeping most of the day. You said we’d go for a swim.” I dusted my hands off on my shorts and walked past him, heading back to the house. He followed behind me.
I sat in one of the Adirondack chairs on the wrap-around porch, and he sat adjacent to me in silence as we watched the sun make its initial descent beyond the horizon. Its rays sent a streak of fire-orange across the lake and made the tree leaves appear red. Everything was still, even though all around us nature was alive and in chorus.
“I’ve got to tell you something, Pheeny,” he said, using his other nickname for me. “Something important, and you’re not going to like it.”
Pancreatic cancer, stage 4. I sat and listened in a childish state of denial with my eyes fixed forward and my short legs swinging as he explained his grim diagnosis in words so small and careful it felt like learning the importance of brushing your teeth from an episode of Sesame Street. I wanted to keep my cool, and I wanted to cry. So many sensations churned in my small body, and I didn’t understand many of them. I felt agitated and angry, but I wasn’t sure who I should be angry with. I hadn’t fully grasped that death was on its way for him. For all of us. In my mind, he was sick and would be too tired to play, but Mom was a nurse, educated in all the best medicines and healthy foods. She had doctor friends. They would help Dad. When I eventually spoke up and told him this, he covered his mouth and looked away. Even at nine, I understood what that meant. I’d seen him do it a few years back when my sickness wouldn’t leave me alone and I had to stay at the hospital. Seeing my Dad cry stirred a sort of panic in my young body. I didn’t get why I suddenly couldn’t breathe and why my belly was doing cartwheels. “I don’t want...to...talk about this anymore,” I’d said between gasps.
He gathered himself. “Okay. It’s okay, we don’t have to.”
I don’t know what made me bolt into the woods. Looking back, I believed it was the weariness in his eyes. How tired he seemed after having just woken up from a nap. He ran after me, yelling my name. My body felt light and alive but also leadened and dead at the same time. I stopped when I could no longer hear him giving chase, and when I spun around he was leaning against the bark of a tree, and his skin had turned green. “Dad!” I raced back.
That was our first trip to the emergency room. There would be many more after.
Taking over the role of caretaker was hard on Mom. She wasn’t a coddler by nature; her language of love had always been the act of service. She made sure we ate balanced meals, she made sure Dad’s clothes made it to and from the dry cleaners, and she’d run her car over anyone that dared to raise a voice or a hand at either of us. There was nothing for her to do now, Caleb, except come to terms with the truth. We were losing him, and she needed to make the time he had left as comfortable as possible.
There were days when he was weaker than others, and she’d sometimes get upset with him on those days. She was really upset with God to be honest, because Dad’s weaker moments were reminders that he wasn’t getting better, no matter how much she wanted him to. Doors would slam, things would break, and her silent cries would slip underneath the wooden barrier of whatever room she hid in. Afterward, Dad would hold her in his arms and nurse her back to life. A never-ending cycle.
As for me, I kept Dad company as much as possible after school. Usually, by then, he’d have had so many doctor’s appointments and needles and medications, that he’d only want to sleep. Mom cared less and less about what consisted of dinner on the table. They were both exhausted. We all were.
A boy shouldn’t have to watch his father wither and die. It forced a shift in my trajectory toward manhood. I no longer saw the world as good. It didn’t treat others how it wanted to be treated. It birthed and it took away. It cleansed itself at the expense of my ignorant bliss, leaving behind a permanent misery, no matter how temporary outsiders claimed it would be. I’d always had my father’s temperament, but that year, I’d learned that with good reason, I could be as cutting as a blade. I hated the world, and it was about to feel my wrath.
I acted out in school. Refused to obey the simplest of orders and lost recess privileges on a regular basis. My teachers were aware of my situation; they understood, but I’d become an unbearable child.
My mother couldn’t handle me and my dad, so she chose to focus on him, and we kept him in the dark about my spiral. As the months passed, he’d ask for me more and more, and I’d surface from my room less and less. No one pushed me, but at the end of that school year and a few weeks before my tenth birthday, Mom had a talk with me. We were at the bitter end, she’d said plainly. And that I might not see it now, but that later, I would never forgive myself for not being there for him during that time.
I spent weeks reading to him. Shakespeare, Melville, Jane Austen. Books I didn’t understand at the time, containing words I often tripped over. He loved them, and he would lay on the back porch on what he called his sunbed—but sunbeds didn’t come with metal side railings—wrapped in blankets with his eyes closed and his gaunt face pointed to the sky and listen, helping me from memory when needed. If he had enough energy, he would egg me into debates using the Socratic Method. Purposely asking questions he had the answers to but were meant to bait and stimulate my critical thinking.
