Love In Slow Motion, page 13
“I wasn’t expecting an afternoon date,” Fredric said after a bit.
He heard Ilan laugh quietly under his breath. “I don’t do typical dates. I don’t do dates at all, but if I did…” Fredric heard the blinker clicking, and then the car turned, “…they’d be like this.”
“What is this?” Fredric pressed, and Ilan clucked his tongue.
“I told you I’d help you feel comfortable so you can use your natural charm to woo someone, but I’m also teaching you that it’s okay to be wooed yourself. Which means being surprised—and trusting that surprise.”
And that was easy to say—hell, it was even easy to accept when it was Ilan—but he had enough experience to know that strangers rarely got it right. Still, he had promised himself he was going to try, and this was step one. “Alright,” he said, “I trust you.”
The car got quiet after that, and Fredric had a feeling they’d be driving for quite a while. He didn’t really mind the silence in Ilan’s car, though. It gave him a chance to center himself. He turned his face up toward the warmth of the sun, and he leaned his head back, and he just existed. It was soothing in all the right ways, and he never wanted it to end.
He was jolted back to the present Ilan took an abrupt right, and he sat up straight. “Sorry,” Ilan said, reaching out to touch Fredric’s arm. “Sorry, I almost missed the turn.” His voice sounded oddly hoarse, and Fredric wanted to ask if everything was okay, but he didn’t want to make him feel worse.
“It’s okay,” he assured him. “No harm done.”
Ilan hummed in disagreement, but he said nothing as they took a long, winding road that eventually led into what felt like a roundabout. Before he could ask again, Ilan’s car rolled to a stop, and then he let out a quiet sigh. “We’re here.”
Fredric’s brows dipped. “Do I finally get to know where here is?”
“Yes.” But when he didn’t elaborate, Fredric started to fidget. He was about to ask Ilan what he was doing, but something touched the side of his hand—weighted but thin, like paper. He turned his palm up, and with a single brush of fingers, he realized it was braille. “What…”
Helene Baskin Sensory Garden
Step behind ivy-covered, white stone walls and follow the two-mile path past our singing fountains, heavily scented flower gardens, butterfly displays, and thousands of plants that can be enjoyed with sight, smell, and touch. Everything in this garden is accessible for those with disabilities, and guided tours are available every Wednesday through Saturday by appointment.
Please enjoy your time and consider donating at the welcome desk.
Fredric swallowed thickly, then turned his face toward Ilan. “Is this,” he started, but his voice was rough, so he cleared his throat. “Is this really first date material?”
“It should be,” Ilan said gruffly. “You don’t spend enough time demanding things that are catered to you, Fredric. More than just a walk on the beach or drinks at some restaurant. It took me less than five minutes to find this place online when I googled date ideas for the blind.”
And Fredric knew what Ilan was saying, but it took someone like Ilan to make that effort, and he didn’t quite know how to make him understand that. So, he swallowed back all those words of protest and smiled instead. “Thank you. You’re going to make someone very happy one day.”
He let himself out of the car, and Ilan took his time, but soon enough, Fredric had his arm and they were moving from the rough asphalt to the sidewalk.
“There’s doors,” Ilan said. “And then a little welcome desk. And I think there’s a pile of maps on a table next to it. We can do the guided tour if you want, but…”
“Not quite first date material?” Fredric offered, and Ilan chuckled.
“Might be kind of a cock-block. Especially if their voice sucks.” Fredric felt the door swoosh open, and he felt for the lip with his cane before stepping in. The room clearly had vaulted ceilings by the way his feet sounded on the stone floors, and he could hear the trickle of water from a fountain nearby. The air was cool, and there was the gentle whirr of a fan above them, and his hand reached out to touch the marbled counter of the desk.
“Thank you for your donation,” a feminine voice said. “We have maps here. The print ones you can take with you, but we do ask if you take a braille map, you return it at the end of your tour.”
“The print one is fine,” Fredric said, and when Ilan made a noise to argue, he squeezed his arm. “I’d rather concentrate on the walk.”
Ilan didn’t put up a fight, and Fredric heard him take the paper, fold it, and then put it into his pocket. He grabbed Ilan’s arm again, and they took a sharp right, and then went through another set of swinging doors.
The path was shaded, though the air was warm and humid, and the ground beneath them was a shaped path just wide enough for a single arc of his cane. “How is it?” he couldn’t help but ask as they started forward.
“It’s gorgeous.” Ilan was quiet a moment, and Fredric assumed he was looking around. “The path winds around tall trees, and it looks like it veers off into different areas. There’s a massive grassy field to the left, and a couple of people are having a picnic.”
“Now that sounds like third date material,” Fredric said. “At least, according to movies.”
Ilan groaned as he led them down the path, and Fredric felt the staccato changes from shade to sun as they walked under sporadic low hanging branches. “Please don’t get your romance advice from the fucking movies.”
Fredric laughed and shook his head as they took a sharp turn. His cane met a sloping path, and suddenly, on the edge of the breeze, he caught a rich, floral scent. “Must be the fragrance part of the garden?”
“I think so,” Ilan said, and Fredric heard him taking a deep breath. “Ooh, that’s…interesting.”
And it was. It wasn’t particularly nice, but it was new, and it was different. Fredric was well aware places like this existed in more than just his little corner of the world, but he’d never allowed himself to venture out to look for them. His life had always been busy—from sun-up to sundown, and there just wasn’t time. Now he felt like he was trying to play catch-up, and he wondered if that would always stay a moving target.
“Are there a lot of people?” he asked. His voice dropped low, almost a whisper, though he wasn’t quite sure why. But as they ventured further, the moment felt…intimate.
“We’re alone,” Ilan said. There was hesitation, even tension in the silence, then he felt Ilan take a jerky step forward. “Come on there’s…some stuff.”
Fredric’s brows dipped into a frown as they walked the path, then Ilan came to a stop. “There’s these flowers—a sign right here that says to touch them. It’s in braille too.”
Fredric reached for Ilan’s arm instead and followed a line down to the soft petals, and as he ran his fingers over them, a rush of scent surrounded him. “Oh that’s…” he said, trying to find the word, but his vocabulary failed him. “What are they?”
“Geranium,” Ilan said, his voice soft. “It says they release their scent when you touch them.”
Fredric laughed at the wonder of it, letting his hands graze light and delicate over the tops, and he was falling head-first into the fragrance. “What do they look like?”
“Red,” Ilan grunted out. “Ish. Kind of pink. I don’t…I’m not good at this. Sorry.”
Fredric straightened, tucking his cane in close, and he frowned. “If this is making you uncomfortable…”
“It’s not,” Ilan tried to protest, but Fredric’d had enough of Ilan’s sudden cold and hot mood. He stepped forward, and he knew—he trusted—that Ilan would not step away. He reached out with a ginger touch and dragged his fingers up Ilan’s arm. He felt a tremble there, so he went higher until his fingers met skin, and he felt heat, and sweat, and a rapid pulse. “Something’s wrong.”
Ilan made a soft noise, then curled his hand around Fredric’s wrist and held him fast. “Nothing’s wrong. I promise.”
“Then what’s going on? You’re not yourself today.”
“I’m.” A single syllable housed an endless internal war he could hear in the waver of Ilan’s voice, and Fredric had the sudden urge to draw the younger man into his arms and just hold him. But he couldn’t—he knew that. It wasn’t his place, so he simply stood, unmoving until Ilan was ready to speak again. “I’m feeling lost, and it’s frustrating. I thought I knew what I wanted out of life, and now I don’t. I got asked out—I made a date with someone, but now I can’t stop wondering if he’s doing it because he feels sorry for me.”
Fredric understood, and he hated that he did. He hated that Ilan had never really given himself a chance to have more than his weekend lovers and shallow connections. He’d seen the insecurity in the boy when he was younger, fighting against all the students and teachers who made him feel inferior all because his parents’ bank account and jobs dictated that he didn’t belong in that world. And he’d hoped for years that Ilan would outgrow it as he discovered not only his passion, but also that he was good at what he did. But it was clear now how deep those scars ran and how much they still stung.
“Wow, I’m sorry,” Ilan said after a beat. “This is supposed to be about your date. Not my bullshit.”
“No. Don’t do that,” Fredric said, but Ilan’s touch cut him off.
“I don’t need to be taking it out on you right now. This isn’t about me,” Ilan said, and Fredric had a feeling there was something he was holding back, but he didn’t want to press. “For as long as I can remember, I used to fantasize about you leaving Jacqueline. I’d lay in my bed at night, and it would play out like a movie. You’d yell at her and make her feel like shit for all the things she said about Julian—about me. You’d pack a bag, and you’d walk out, and then Julian and I would have weekend visits at your beach house.”
Fredric felt something inside him crack. “Ilan, I…”
A squeeze on his wrist quieted him, then Ilan spoke again. “I know why you couldn’t.”
“Didn’t,” Fredric corrected, and Ilan closed his hand over the one Fredric had pressed to his neck.
“Couldn’t,” Ilan said fiercely. “I know why you couldn’t. I know what abuse does to a person. I know what she did to your head and why it took so fucking many wasted years to break free. I want you to find someone, Fredric. Someone who loves every single inch of you for exactly the man you are and will keep loving you no matter what sort of man you become. Because more than anyone I’ve ever known, you deserve it.”
Fredric couldn’t speak. His eyes were hot, and his throat was thick. He’d spent too damn many years never letting anyone get this close to his heart because he was tired of pain—even the good kind. And the kind that Ilan was using to break him down bit by bit was almost too much.
“I’m scared I’m going to fail you,” Ilan said after a moment. “That I’m poison. That I’m going to mess you up trying to help you, because no matter what you say, I am so fucking bad at this.” Ilan broke away from his grasp, and Fredric heard him take two steps back. “I don’t want to be responsible for stealing another chance at you being happy.”
Fredric collected himself, allowed himself one single moment to feel everything Ilan had dumped on him, and then he reached out again. Ilan didn’t back away, and Fredric let his cane fall against the flower bush so he could put both hands on either side of Ilan’s face. “You’re not poison, Ilan. You’re not going to ruin anything. When Julian’s life was shitty and I wasn’t strong enough to stand up for him, you did. You were the one thing that kept his head above water when he was losing strength. This is why I trust you. This is one of the reasons you’re important to me. Not,” he said when he felt Ilan stiffen, “because you helped my son, but because you’re capable of a love most people aren’t. If I wanted someone to walk me through dating bullshit one-oh-one, I would have asked Agatha and Ted. But I want something real. And that’s why I asked you.”
Ilan said nothing, so Fredric stepped in a little closer and pushed up higher and leaned in. He was never good at aim, but his lips grazed the corner of Ilan’s mouth before pressing firmly to his cheek, and he held himself there until he felt the other man relax.
“If you don’t want to do this—if this is too much for you…”
“No, I…” Ilan said, his voice ragged. “It’s not too much. You’re important to me.”
Silence settled over them, and the wind ruffled the geraniums, and they were surrounded by their scent again for a lingering moment. Then it passed, and something careful and very fragile settled between them. Fredric wanted to cup his hands around it and keep it safe and never let go.
“I hear the singing fountains,” Ilan said after a while. His large hand closed over Fredric’s, turning his palm, pressing the handle of his cane against his skin. “Do you want to go check them out?”
Fredric felt the fundamental shift, but he wanted to think it wouldn’t change either of them for the worst. But just in case, he decided to drag the day out as long as possible, so he nodded, and he smiled, and he took Ilan’s arm again. “Lead the way.”
Ilan sat on his sofa, a glass of Malbec in one hand, the roll of Tums he’d found in his pocket clutched in the other. He counted each tab through the paper with the edge of his thumbnail and tried not to feel the press of Fredric’s kiss that still burned against his skin.
He felt raw and split open from the garden because he’d been utterly unprepared for what was going to happen the moment Fredric climbed into the car. Ilan had glanced over—a thoughtless little thing. Fredric had his head back, eyes closed, his mouth curved up into a smile as the sun made him light up like he was made from all that light.
His stomach had swooped, and he’d nearly missed his turn, and he was entirely fucked, because he realized in that moment, the incident in the shower wasn’t a fluke. It was simply him tripping and falling into the world’s most inappropriate crush. And maybe worse than that, because the way Fredric had looked in the garden, bent over the bed of geraniums, looking like a gift from the gods—Ilan’s heart did something it had never, ever done before.
It skipped a beat.
He was too close to three words that he had been avoiding most of his life, and it was just his luck he’d get there with the absolutely and completely wrong man. He’d be murdered—or at the very least tortured and probably disemboweled by Corinne with Julian eating a bag of popcorn, watching the carnage.
And he wouldn’t even be able to fight it—because there were no two ways around it: he was not allowed to fall in love with Fredric Pedalino.
Closing his eyes, Ilan drank his first glass, then poured a second, and then was well into his third by the time he was buzzed enough to pick up his phone. Luckily, he was well practiced at the art of drinking, and he didn’t call Fredric to profess his undying love, but instead listened to Preston’s surprised voice on the other end.
“I really hope you’re not calling to cancel,” he said, and Ilan laughed, because god no. That would be the worst thing he could do.
“Not at all. I was hoping to catch you—if you weren’t busy.”
“Mm. Not too busy for a chat, but I’m afraid I am too busy if you were hoping to reschedule for tonight.”
Ilan hadn’t been, but he took that as a blessing anyway. “I’m halfway into a bottle of wine and feeling sorry for myself,” he admitted. He glanced at the bottle and sighed. “Two-thirds?”
“I see…”
“I’m going to have raging heartburn after this. God, I feel like such an old man.” He leaned his head back on the sofa cushion and closed his eyes. “I actually pulled my shoulder the other day rolling out of bed wrong.”
Preston chuckled softly. “Been there.”
“When did we start developing into the bodies of our patients, Jones? We practically work ourselves to death for these people—shouldn’t we be exempt?”
He leaned back just as Preston’s laugh got louder. “God, I always hated that.”
Ilan’s brow furrowed. “Hated what?” He groped for his glass, but it was too far out of his reach, and he gave up rather than sitting forward. His stomach was already starting to churn, and the promise of discomfort made him feel more lonely. He just wanted to lie with his head in someone’s lap and have them stroke his hair.
“You always called me Jones. Even when everyone started becoming friends—even when we’d all go out for drinks, you’d call me Jones.” Preston didn’t sound angry, just resigned, but that was somehow worse. “It ended up becoming a joke with some of the other residents. There was a bet going whether or not you’d hate-fuck me.”
“I never…” Ilan started, but he stopped because a small piece of him had hated Preston. When he was younger—especially when he was younger—envy was his biggest struggle. He’d been desperate to grow out of the feeling like he was just playing pretend in someone else’s world—a poor kid surrounded by the affluent who all saw right through him. And medical school wasn’t much different. Most of the kids there had trust funds and nice cars. If they lived in shitty apartments and ate packaged ramen for every meal, it was because they wanted the ‘college experience’, not because they were trying to pull in enough tips from their bartender side-jobs to keep the lights on while trying to make it to lectures and hospital shifts.
It had been hell, and he’d been held back from leaping off a bridge more times than he wanted to count.
Preston had been just like them—all cash and swagger, no substance. Except, maybe Ilan had been wrong about him. Maybe he’d just let all those ugly feelings stand in the way of something that might have been good all those years ago. “I’m a huge dick.”
“Hey,” Preston said softly, “that’s so not what I was getting at. I thought hearing you call me Jones again would suck, but it’s just kind of made me nostalgic.”
Ilan felt himself smile, then touched the corner of his mouth to confirm it. It probably didn’t reach his eyes—he wasn’t feeling anything close to joy—but he felt less terrible, and that was something. “I’m still sorry, Preston. I wasn’t really in the habit of giving most people a chance.”
