My Best Man by Andy Schell (top 10 novels TXT) 📕

much as my hand holding with Matthew during college. They both took on sociological meaning, and whether with Matthew or Amity, I looked to the outside world for some kind of reaction or non reaction But at the moment, I’m holding Nicolo’s hand because he’s reached for mine, and we simply like the intimate feel of our fingers being interlocked while the clouds grow taller and the creek slides by.

“How long did you have your pony Cinnamon?” he wants to know.

“Eight years. Until I was seventeen.” “And you say he’s retired?” “Not exactly.”

“Did you sell him?” he asks, using his free hand to take the bota from his neck.

“No.”

“Did he die?”

“No. I didn’t sell him and he didn’t die. When I was seventeen

I told my family that I was gay. They didn’t take it so well. My mother wanted me to get therapy, to turn myself straight. My father just wanted to punish me. So he did the worst thing he could think of: He took Cinnamon away. He didn’t even tell me. I went out to the barn, and he was just gone. I swear to God, Nick, I never cried

harder over anything in my life. I wanted to kill my father. I drove straight to the hospital and found him. He was so humiliated that I was crying in front of his peers that he threw me into an empty room and backed me against the wall and told me that, as soon as I was ready to be a normal man, I could have my horse back. He made me choose.”

“You never saw your horse again, did you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you have integrity. That is why I like you.”

For a moment I’m silent. I think about Amity and how much my lack of integrity has cost me. And I wonder how I’m going to tell him I’m engaged to her. “I never saw my horse again,” I continue. “I knew I was gay, and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing I wanted to do about it other than just be it. I never found out where my father took him. Whom he sold him to. Or whether he gave him away. Or even if he just turned him loose. And I never forgave my brother for not telling me because I know he knew. I wanted to run away. I used to dream about the year before, when I was sixteen that I would be riding on him and he would fall while jumping a creek and we’d die together and spend eternity in heaven, like those brothers in Greek mythology, Castor and Pollux.” I recite, by memory, the last seven stanzas of my poem I attempted to read to Amity.

Till the day arrived when off the trail

A shoe came loose, a broken nail.

It happened as they jumped the creek,

So quick that neither one could speak,

And down he went, onto the rocks.

The last he saw, his pony’s hocks

And when he woke, the steed was gone And light had washed from dusk to dawn.

Anuy c,uJ

Then lightning flashed, a cloud bore down

And took him high above the town.

And with the view of soaring birds

He searched the land for errant herds.

But nowhere did his pony run

Not on the earth, nor moon, nor sun

And when the boy did cry a tear

He heard a whisper, “I am here.”

Upon the cloud, his horse stood by.

The two embraced, within the sky.

The boy climbed on and said, “Let’s go”

The pony’s words: “One thing to show.”

And back they rode, to the fateful creek

And hovered o’er to steal a peek. ” And there they lie, in blood and stone, . Their bodies cold, no cry no moan.

And when he understood the sight

He grabbed the reins, and held on tight.

O’er wheat fields, and farms, and creek beds stony

He flew to heaven on his cinnamon pony.

Nicolo pats my leg. “Very nice, hombre.” He lifts the bag of wine, and he fills my mouth with sangria. And this time, when the dribble falls down the side of my cheek, he gently laps at it with his tongue. I close my eyes and let him move his mouth to mine. He closes his lips over my tongue and softly pulls back, scraping the leftover wine into his own mouth. Then he gives it back to me, and we intertwine our lips and tongues and breathe. It’s minutes before we separate and lie back against the tree again.

“Jesus,” he says, pronouncing it the Spanish way.

“SI,” I whisper, exhaling every ounce of my breath. “You’ve been driving me crazy.”

“I know,” he laughs softly. “I’m going crazy too. But this is how I am when I truly like someone. If I don’t care, I’ll sleep with you fight away.”

“Don’t care,” I order.

His eyes grow wide.

“I’m only kidding,” I tell him. “I’m glad that you care. But at this point you’re never going to live up to the fantasies I’ve created of you.”

He laughs again. “Do I have a ten-inch dick and an ass like Pele?”

“Yep. And beautiful brown huevos,” I claim, taking my own sip of wine. “So when am I going to see them?”

“I know. I’m dragging this out. I’m sorry, Harry. Sometimes Latin men are old-fashioned, even the queer ones. I’ve always dreamed that I would get married one day … when I found the right guy. And… well …” He turns shy, even red in the face. “It’s weird, but that night in the restaurant, when you defended me, I knew we would be together. Forever.”

The victory I feel when he says this to me is so complete that I’m speechless. Me. Harry Ford. It isn’t like when Amity announced our engagement and I knew everyone was watching and that I was validated in their eyes and now free to be comfortable in their presence. No, this victory is personal, whole, undiminished by any one’s thoughts but my own. The roar of approval this time is silent and in my heart.

“You have not said