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“I love it here,” Shane said, swinging his legs that dangled over the edge of the wharf.

Damien smiled. “Me, too.”

Six months after his suicide attempt, Shane was getting his life back on track. He and Damien had sold their homes and together bought a house in Muskoka Lakes. A talented abstract painter often compared to Jackson Pollock and Piet Mondrian, he was painting again and preparing for an exhibit in the fall. He’d never expected to fall in love, to find someone who’d love him just as he was. But Damien appeared and, most of all, stayed. His best friend. His rock. His protector.

Shane’s gaze locked onto those deep-set azure blue eyes that made him forget about the past and begin to imagine living a truly happy life. God, why did he stay? He reached for Damien’s hand. “Thank you.”

Damien shook his head. “Stop thanking me.”

“You saved my life,” Shane said with emphasis. “You saved me.”

That was true. Shane knew he wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Damien. And while he felt better, it felt like he was always being tested. Especially on the nights he couldn’t sleep. Or the days he didn’t feel like talking to anyone, not even Damien. Or when he cried without really knowing why. But every day he took his meds, determined to conquer the dark knight of misery vying for his soul.

That dark knight had almost won. Shane didn’t remember much about the day he’d overdosed, but he could still hear the doctor’s flat voice explaining how his heart had stopped. The paramedic’s vigorous CPR revived him … and broke a few of his ribs. He’d been unconscious, too, for three days. But when he opened his eyes, Damien was there.

“Hasn’t left your side,” the nurse had said with admiration. “Not even to take a shower, despite our encouragement.” She chuckled. “He’s a keeper.”

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Shane said, his voice hoarse and unsteady. “I’m sorry.” Then, when he felt Damien’s strong arms around him, tears streaked down his face. He cried for his long-dead mother, cried for this love he didn’t understand, cried for a life he was constantly trying to escape.

“Don’t be sorry,” Damien said. “You’re here. You’re all right. That’s all that matters.”

Shane felt the pressure on his hand, and Damien’s tanned aristocratic face came back into focus.

“You okay?” Damien asked.

Shane nodded. “I am. I was just, you know, thinking about that day … at the hospital.” He matched Damien’s pressure. “You smelled awful.”

“Thanks a lot!”

They laughed.

Shane gently pulled his hand away, then shifted his body to face Damien, leaving only his left leg hanging off the wharf. “You’re sure about this, right? I’m taking my meds. I’m committed to staying healthy. And, God, I love you, Damien Miller. But —”

“There’s no but, Shane.” Damien slid his body closer and took Shane’s face in his hands. “I’m exactly where I want to be.” He leaned in, pressed his lips to Shane’s and held them there for about ten seconds. “For me, nothing’s changed.”

“It could happen again,” Shane said, his voice dipping low. “And it if does … that could be the time I get it right.”

“If you’re trying to scare me away, it’s not working.”

“You could be living a normal life with someone who’s not —”

“Stop.” Damien swept up both of Shane’s hands in his. “Do you remember our second date?”

Shane felt the heat burn in his cheeks and looked down. He’d been such a prick the night they met at Mikey’s, yet he agreed — like Damien had suggested — to them having dinner together. His treat for how he’d acted. They’d gone to Station Bel-Air, a French bistro on Front Street West. Even though they talked at Mikey’s, conversation didn’t come easy for them. And at dinner, the dominating silence had Shane second-guessing his choices. They didn’t look at each other, their eyes shifting to the door every time it opened. They only spoke when their server came to take their drink order and when she returned to see if they’d made any decisions on food. What the fuck am I doing here? he’d wondered, checking the time at regular five-minute intervals.

“Want to just call it a night?” Shane asked, gulping the last mouthful of his wine.

“Maybe that’s not a bad idea,” Damien said.

“I mean, really, you don’t want to date a crazy person.”

Damien’s eyes went wide. “Well, that explains everything.”

Shane bristled. “Go to hell!”

There was a silence, then they both broke out laughing.

“Are you…” Damien stared at the open menu. “Are you really crazy?”

“They call it bipolar disorder these days,” Shane said, matter-of-fact. He saw the surprise in Damien’s eyes and beyond it something more. Was it … compassion? “Look, now’s the time to get up and walk away. I wouldn’t blame you.”

Damien reached across the table and placed his hand on Shane’s. “I’m told I’m a great listener.”

Shane tried to pull his hand away, but Damien held on. “It’s not something I really talk about.”

“You can with me.”

Shane, his gaze locked on Damien, drew in several deep breaths. Something in those eyes inspired confidence and trust. “I was nine when my father killed my mother…”

The sound of a speedboat zooming across the lake made Shane raise his head. “You should have walked away that night.”

“That was the moment I fell in love with you,” Damien said.

“Out of pity?”

“Respect. That you survived. That, despite everything, you’ve built the life you imagined.”

That was, at least, partly true … when his mind wasn’t broken. Now he had people waiting almost two years for a commissioned work.

“Come on.” Damien stood and held out his hand. “Let’s grab something to eat.”

Shane grasped the large hand and rose. “Stay with me?”

Damien pulled him in close. “Always.”

“Goddammit, move!” Damien slammed his fist into the steering wheel. Traffic on the eastbound QEW hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. The worst part was that he could see the exit for Islington Avenue, and that meant he was almost home. He turned on the radio and, searching for news, kept switching channels. No one talked about an accident, just the usual heavy rush hour gridlock. “Fuck!”

He’d been staying with Shane for almost a month, and waking up to those mesmerizing coffee-brown eyes made him smile. But the forty minutes added to his commute — most of that time spent parked on the highway — had him rethinking his decision. Well, not really. He wouldn’t abandon Shane, not when he needed him the most.

“Hey, Siri, call Shane’s mobile.”

“Calling Shane Wright … mobile,” the robotic voice said.

Like his three previous calls, Shane’s voicemail cut in right away. Damien didn’t want to admit it, but something was wrong. He knew as much by the way Shane, over the past few days, wouldn’t look at him. And when he went to touch Shane — kiss him goodbye in the morning, reach for his hand, hug him when he came home — there was always resistance. More than that. Avoidance. The silence made his stomach churn. Shane, lost in his labyrinth, wouldn’t let him in. Damien swallowed hard. When he thought about the past few weeks, and Shane being back on his meds, he wasn’t sure that anything had changed.

Traffic began to move again. Fifteen minutes later, Damien pulled up next to Shane’s black Matrix and scrambled out of the car. He jammed the key into the lock of the grey-brick house on Lake Crescent and opened the door. He roamed from room to room on the lower level, immured in a silence that had a metallic taste swirling in his mouth.

“Shane,” Damien called out, mounting the stairs. “We don’t have a lot of time if you want to get something to eat before the game.” It took a lot of convincing, perhaps even begging, but Damien had finally persuaded Shane to go to a Raptors’ game with him. It wasn’t necessarily the date night he imagined, but he’d have done anything to get Shane out of the house.

Damien, at the end of the hall, pushed on the bedroom door that had been left ajar and entered the room. “Come on, sleepyhead,” he said as he sat down on the bed and gently shook Shane. “You agreed to go, so there’s no backing…” His voice trailed off when he saw the empty pill bottle on the nightstand. His mouth went dry as he placed his fingers on Shane’s neck. He found a pulse … barely. He yanked his phone from his inside jacket pocket and dialled 9-1-1.

“Don’t you die on me,” he said, tears banking in his eyes. “I still need you.”

He heard the sirens growing louder and, when it sounded like they were wailing inside the house, raced downstairs to open the front door. He led the paramedics upstairs and, back in the bedroom, watched as they worked on Shane. Damien couldn’t stop crying because Shane never responded, never opened his eyes, never twitched.

The next thing he knew, Damien was climbing into the back of the ambulance, never taking his eyes off Shane. He found himself smiling and crying as he thought about the day they’d met and the rocky debut to their romance.

It’d happened two years ago at Mikey’s, one of the less popular hangouts on Church Street. Damien, seated at the bar, didn’t seem to blink as he watched the Penguins take on the Lightning in the Eastern Conference Final. At a commercial break, he drained his beer stein and that was when he saw the man at the other end of the bar. Something about him — the smooth caramel skin, the way he nursed his drink, his focus on the book he held in his hand — everything had Damien swooning. He slid off his barstool and walked over to the guy who he’d already decided would be his future husband.

“What’s that you’re reading?” Damien asked, his voice cracking.

“A book,” was the curt reply.

“Right.” Damien held out his hand. “I’m Damien.”

“Good for you.”

Damien started to walk away, then spun around. “Fuck you. I’m just trying to talk to you. You could say, ‘Hey, not interested,’ instead of being a world-class prick.”

“You’re right,” the guy said, putting down his book. “I’ve had a crap day, but that’s no reason to take it out on you. Shane.” He extended his hand and, after a quick handshake, added, “Let me buy you a drink.”

“I think a better apology would be dinner.” Damien winked. And when Shane flashed him a broad, life-affirming smile, that was the moment he knew he was hooked.

The rapid beeping of the heart rate monitor made Damien look up. His gaze latched onto the flat line streaming across the screen.

“No shock advised,” was the audible prompt. “Begin CPR.”

Damien let go of Shane’s hand and felt himself gasping for air as the paramedic began vigorous chest compressions.

“Stay with me,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Please, stay with me.”

As they sped through the city streets, Damien thought about God, salvation and eternal life. Now, he wasn’t sure about any of them.

The Flowers Need Watering: A Novel

When Mateo’s present and past collide, he’s questioning everything he knows about family, friendship, and love. The biggest test is this: is he willing to forgive? Read The Flowers Need Watering today and find out! Available on Amazon.

Do it, Shane thought, limping into the dark living room and collapsing onto the sofa. And this time … get it right.

In the silence, all he heard was the ticking of the clock hanging above the fireplace. His stomach gurgled and, suddenly, it felt like the room was spinning. He thrust himself forward until his head was between his knees and took in several deep breaths, pushing them out forcefully through his nose. When he calmed down, he could barely hear the whistle of his breath. Just the tick-tock of the clock that had him remembering the moment that had set him on the path to madness.

Tick. Shane was nine years old again, wearing his Spider-Man pyjamas and standing at the top of the staircase with his hands over his ears to block out the yelling. Tock. The light over the staircase came on and, seeing his mother sprint towards him, his hands fell to his sides. Tick. She swept him up in her arms and carried him downstairs and out of the house. Tock. She set him down on the front porch, cupped his face in her hands and then leaned forward to kiss his forehead. Tick. “Go next door to Mrs. Dodd’s,” she’d said, tears streaming down her face. “Have her call the police. And don’t come back. Go!” Tock. Shane took off running in his bare feet. Tick. Before he made it to the end of the walk, he heard a popping sound, followed by a high-pitched shriek. Tock. He tripped and fell to the ground. Tick. He stood and, when he heard two more pops, bolted towards his neighbour’s house.

The doorbell sounded. Shane, his heart thumping, didn’t move. A year ago, on a night like this, he’d decided to lay his burdens down. He’d just swallowed ten of his Tegretol pills when his phone rang, Damien Miller’s name on the call display. Damien, a scruffy Robert Downey Jr. lookalike, came into his life when he needed an anchor and became his hope, his joy, his everything. At that moment, Shane felt a presence, something — maybe that still, small voice — that made him answer the call. He tried to speak, but no words came as he cried. Through his sobs he heard Damien’s reassuring voice, “I’m on my way.”

The repeated pounding on the door brought Shane back to the present. He rose slowly and made his way into the foyer.

“I’ve been trying to reach you all evening,” Damien said as he stepped into the house. He closed the door, then reached for the light switch to his left and flipped it on. His eyes went wide. “Jesus! You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Shane slinked back into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa.

Damien, following behind, turned on a lamp before sitting down next to Shane. “Did you have that dream again?”

“It’s not a dream,” Shane said. “I lived it, remember?” Even now he could still smell the hint of sage as Mrs. Dodd held him as they watched his parents’ bodies, each draped in a white cloth, being rolled away on gurneys.

Damian reached for Shane’s hand. “I know. I just meant —”

“I know what you meant.” Shane, locking his gaze onto those cinnamon-brown eyes that somehow made him smile through the pain, pulled his hand away. “I’m tired, Damien.”

Damien wrapped his arm around Shane’s shoulders and drew him in close. They sat in silence for a moment, then he kissed the top of Shane’s shaved head. “You’re taking your meds, right?”

Shane squirmed out of the hold and rubbed his eyes. “I ran out.”

“When?” Damien asked, almost shouting. “I’m sorry. But you can’t just go off your meds and not expect —”

“You don’t know what it’s like.” Shane rose and crossed the room, standing in front of the fireplace with his back to Damien. “My head hurts all the time. I can’t eat. I don’t feel like being with you even when I want to.” He spun around, tears pooling in his eyes. “I can’t fucking concentrate. I haven’t worked in almost a month. What the hell am I still doing here?”

Damien bounced off the sofa and rushed to Shane, taking him into his arms again. “You’re still here because I need you.”

Shane twisted away and returned to the sofa. “You don’t need a pathetic —”

“You’re not pathetic.” Damien moved to the sturdy wooden coffee table, sat down on its edge and took Shane’s hands in his. “Tell me how I can help.”

“Let me go,” Shane pleaded. “For Christ’s sake, let me go. Fuck, I’m going to end up just like my father anyway.”

At fifteen, Shane was diagnosed with bipolar depression. That was when his grandmother, who’d taken him in after his parents’ deaths, told him how his father was schizophrenic. “Your mother loved your father very much,” his grandmother had said with a hint of guilt, or shame, or maybe both. “They were soul mates. That’s why she stayed. But your father … he tried to self-medicate. He didn’t want her help, or anybody else’s. And I really don’t think that it could have ended differently.”

Maybe that was what hurt the most … that his mother had given her life for his.

“You’re not your father,” Damien said, matter-of-fact, and glanced at his watch. “The pharmacy’s closed by now. I’m crashing here tonight. Hey, it’s not up for debate. We’ll go get your meds first thing in the morning.”

“Why?” Shane blinked rapidly, but the tears still flowed.

Damien shrugged. “Why, what?”

“Why do you stay?”

“You haven’t figured that out yet?” Damien, smiling, squeezed Shane’s hands. “Because I love you. That’s the only why I need.”