More Than You Now

You know how in most stories, when conflict happens and problems arise, the characters always pull through and there's a happy ending?

It doesn't usually happen that way in real life.

My name is Steven Abernathy. I met the love of my life when I was 19 at the university I attended. He was 21, and already finishing his master's degree in business management. Just like many couples, Adam and I started as friends. He was charming, but quiet and genuine. He had jet-black hair and ice blue eyes that would melt any person he met. We eventually progressed to a relationship, and ended up moving in together two years later, after figuring out that we would be spending the rest of our lives with each other. Seven years after that, we adopted Ana, an orphaned, vivacious seven-year-old whose parents had died in a car accident after immigrating to the United States from South Korea.

We were the poster picture for family life. We worked, we disciplined and coddled our daughter, we fought, we made up. We lived and loved. Life was good.

Then the separation from fantasy came, in the form of a phone call from our doctor's office.

"Hello?" I inquired, picking up the phone.

"Hello. May I please speak to Mr. Sorensen?"

I looked at my lover, lying in bed next to me. Ana was at school, and we had both somehow managed to get the day off. We took advantage of it, too. He stared at me, his light eyes piercing holes through mine, a smile playing on his face as he watched my hand skim up his sculpted abs and torso, stopping to play with the soft, black hair on his chest.

"He's a little busy right now. May I take a message?"

"Yes, this is Sylvia from Dr. Knott's office. Is this Mr. Abernathy?"

"Yes, it is, Sylvia. How are you?"

"Well, Steven, I was fine until I saw this. We need you and Adam to come in as soon as possible. Today would be ideal. Doc's seen some things that may concern us in Adam's bloodwork."

Usually, it was used to monitor his hypertension and high cholesterol. "Is his LDL that high?"

"Steven, is Adam there, by any chance? I really need to speak to him." I didn't like the tone in Sylvia's voice.

"Sure, Sylvia. Hold on."

I put my thumb over the small microphone. "It's Sylvia at the doctor's office. She wants to speak with you."

Adam gave me a puzzled look, but took the phone.

"Hey, Sylvia. What's going on?" I watched as his features darkened on his face as he paused. "Today? What's the hurry?" Another pause. "How about in two hours? Okay, Sylvia, see you then."

We had no idea what to expect, and were quite mystified that Sylvia couldn't tell us over the phone why it was so pressing. We found out later that she didn't know: she merely had Dr. Knott's orders to make an appointment for that day. The only thing she knew was that it was never good news on the rare occasion that she made this type of call.

We showed up an hour later, and were immediately led to an examination room. We sat down in the small room, quiet tension thickening the air as I gripped Adam's hand in both of mine. Dr. Knott walked in no more than two minutes later. When you don't have to sit for a long time in the waiting room of a doctor's office, you know something is amiss. Every red flag in my mind was going up, but I never expected what was about to come.

"Mr. Sorensen, Mr. Abernathy, I'm sorry to disrupt your day, but I don't feel comfortable putting this off at all. When we took your blood, Mr. Sorensen, we had to do more with it than we thought. Your cholesterol was fine, for a change," he attempted a smile, "but we saw some things that we weren't quite sure about, so we ran more tests. I'm so sorry to have to tell you this." Dr. Knott paused, took a breath, and looked Adam in the eyes. "Mr. Sorensen, you have cancer."

My world stopped. I blinked my eyes a few times, but it still didn't quite register.

"I have made calls to an oncologist, the best in the city for the type of cancer you have."

"What type?" Adam's voice was eerily calm, his eyes clear, the look on his face collected.

"Pancreatic cancer, Adam, and an irregularly aggressive strain at that. I'm so sorry."

We met with the oncologist that day. Adam started chemotherapy and radiation treatment almost immediately. Life was a blur.

In case you aren't familiar with pancreatic cancer, it tends to be one of the most aggressive forms that cancer takes. It is torturous and fast. Fifty percent of victims die within six months. More than 95 percent of those diagnosed die within a few years' time. I'd love to tell you that Adam was one of the very few who lived for years, or one of the even fewer that make it to complete remission.

But like I said in the beginning—this isn't a fairy tale.

While taking care of Ana, working full-time to support our family and the rising costs of what our medical insurance didn't cover, and trying to keep up with life, I had to watch as Adam went through excruciating pain, some days worse than others. Chemo and radiation not only stole his hair, his energy, and most of his appetite, but also took part of his spirit. I watched as he lost weight, his muscles atrophying and withering his limbs to spindles, his face gaunt. I watched as his skin tinted to yellow from the jaundice in his last weeks.

And all I could do was watch.

For the first time in my life, I felt what it meant to feel like I had absolutely no control over something; being the control freak that I am, it was horrible. If I could have, I would have done anything to make him better. I helped keep him comfortable, I held him in my arms when he slept, or to try to ease his pain. I kissed him as often as I could. We made love once. He didn't have the energy to do it again, and I had too much guilt from seeing how much it took out of him just that one time. Then I watched as my life disappeared with his.

"Steve, I'm ready," I remember him telling me, as I held his emesis basin in one hand and his hand in my other. I sat at the side of his hospital bed, trying to be strong. "I'm ready to go."

My will to be strong crumbled beneath me. I was done trying not to cry. I couldn't hide my face before Adam saw the tears and heard me sob quietly.

"Steven."

I continued to look down, my tears completely blocking my vision as they fell into the pink container.

"Steven, look at me," he said quietly. I turned my head and looked at him. "I won't have to deal with any more pain."

His words washed over me. That's all I wanted for him: I wanted him to have everything he deserved, everything he gave me, and that meant not being in agony every single day. The only problem was that I wasn't ready to let go yet. Of all times, what a moment to be selfish and think about myself.

"Steven, I love you so much," he whispered, smiling as he looked at my face. Smiling that smile that I loved so much. Smiling that smile that he smiled every birthday, every anniversary, every time I came home. The smile that made me fall in love with him, the smile that told me that if he had it to do over, he wouldn't have changed a single thing about his life. It was too much.

"I love you, too, Adam," I half whispered, half sobbed as I worked my body onto the hospital bed. Well, part of me, anyways. I held him in my arms, kissing the top of his now-bald head. "More than I could ever say. I love you so much. Thank you for spending your life with me. I love you. I love you. I love you."

Adam died that night, only eight weeks after his diagnosis.

When I was at work, my mom and dad would watch Ana, cook, and keep our small house running. I would've completely lost it without them. I cried until I couldn't anymore, until all I could do was feel numb. After about a year, with some help from a saintly therapist and more tears shed than I ever expected, the numbness had faded almost completely away, but there was still the emptiness in our bed, in our house, in my heart. I poured all my love, extra time, and devotion into Ana, raising her the best I could. My parents helped me, too, the most patient, affectionate people alive. However, even though I was alive, I didn't live. I functioned from day to day, just getting by with what I had.

And now, I walk down my hallway at two in the morning, unable to sleep. I check in on my beautiful fifteen-year-old daughter, sleeping peacefully, and then glance down and across the hallway to where my gorgeous man sleeps in our bed, asking myself how I got here, how I got to happiness again.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's rewind about two years, shall we?

<><>

I had been having transmission trouble with my BMW, and knew I had to take it to get fixed eventually. Matters were taken out of my hands, however, when on my way to work, my car made it very clear that I needed to get it fixed that day. I loved that car, and just couldn't bring myself to buy a new one quite yet. I arrived at the firm where I worked a bit early, sat down at my desk, and looked up the car repair shops in the area. After deciding on and calling a locally owned small business close enough to my house that I could walk home, I closed my computer and met with my first consult of the day.

I'm a CPA. Most people would find the job both stressfully tedious and boringly annoying—a paradox, I know—but I really enjoy what I do. I get to work with numbers and people: two of my favorite things. Yes, I'm one of

those

. I try to own it. I know I'm a geek. I know I'll always be in business, too; after all, the only two certain things in life are death and taxes.

After I got off work, I called home to tell Ana I'd be a few minutes late. My know-it-all eighth grader gave one of her famous sighs as soon as she heard it was me on the phone.

"Dad, I'm trying to do homework."

"What subject?"

"Trig."

"Good, you keep at that," I said, and I knew she could hear me smiling over the phone. She knew I loved math. "I just wanted to let you know I'm going to drop my car off on the way home, so I'll be a few minutes late."

"That's cool." She paused, and I could hear her whispering numbers to herself until she came to an answer. "What's for dinner?" she asked, after I heard the sound of her pencil being dropped onto the table through the phone.

"What do you want? I got chicken boobs out of the freezer this morning—"

"Dad, come on. Boobs?"

"—so whatever you want to do with those. Think about it, and what you want to have with it, and we'll throw it together when I get home, okay?"

" 'Kay."

"Love you."

" 'Kay. Bye."

"Bye," I said, hanging up the phone. She had gotten to that stage where it was no longer acceptable to say "I love you" to me unless it was a dire occasion. It was fine; I knew that she still loved me. It's easy for a father to tell—it existed in all of her non-verbal actions and looks that she thought I didn't see. Ah, the joys of the early teenage years.

I pulled in to the small automobile shop as I was thinking about this. It was maintained very well, with simple, but neat, landscaping and a clean appearance. I parked and got out of my car, loosening my tie as I did. As soon as I walked inside, I was greeted a bit more enthusiastically than I expected by a busty-yet-modestly-dressed blonde.

"Hi, hun! How are you?"

"I'm doing pretty well," I replied. "How about you?"

"Why, I'm just great!" she chirped, snapping her chewing gum. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I called earlier today with an emergency appointment on a—"

"A white 2000 BMW M3?" she asked, typing in the computer and clicking the mouse vigorously.

"Yes."

"Sweet ride," she said, finally lowering her voice to a conversational register.

"I enjoy it."

"I bet." With that, she picked up the phone. "Luke, thirty-four is here." She turned to me as she hung up the phone. "He's very particular about keeping his appointments organized."

"I see." The words weren't out of my mouth before he walked in.

"Candi, get twenty-three paid and when you call forty-four, make sure you tell her it's going to be about a week."

"Twenty-three paid, one week for forty-four. Your wish is my command, sugar," she said, snapping her gum yet again and quickly stabbing numbers on the telephone with her pen.

Luke turned to me, and stared blankly. In hopes of easing an awkward moment, I handed him my keys.

"If anything happens to her—scratches, dents, whatever—make sure you tell me when I come to pick her up. I don't want any surprises when I get home." He seemed taken aback by my forward tone.

"Don't worry," he said, in a voice so smooth it made me want to hear more of it. "Your car is in good hands. You're good to go," he said, taking a piece of paper from Candi—who was chattering away, presumably at "forty-four" on the phone—and handing it to me. "Bring this back. Candi will call when she's done."

I studied him for the first time since he walked in the room. He was a bit taller than me, his face framed by relatively short, yet mussed golden hair and a strong jaw line. His eyes were a light amber, warm and inviting. He was built much more strongly than I was, and I couldn't help but notice the veins that curled up his forearms and disappeared under the plaid, flannel shirtsleeves that he had rolled up. His clothes and face had smears all over them, and his hands were blackened as an occupational expectation. What surprised me, though, is that despite the small beads of sweat on his forehead and the greasy stains everywhere, he smelled good: masculine, but clean. I shook the thought from my head. It had only been six years since the love of my life died, and this man was in no way, shape, or form the kind of guy that fit my usual preferences. And then there was Ana to think about. I couldn't just start dating again—it would affect her just as much as me.

"Thank you," I said, and walked out the door. Thinking of Ana made me think of dinner, and I needed to get home. I was hungry.

Luke

I wiped my forehead as I stood, knowing that the grease on the back of my hand probably just smeared my face. Candi informed me that appointment number thirty-four had arrived. I liked everything organized for my records, so I had a system to keep everything as I liked. I made my way inside, and spouted some things to Candi before I stopped to look at the man in front of me.

Scheduler 34 was stunning. You could tell, though, upon first glance, that he didn't think so, even though he did carry himself with poise and self-esteem. He wore a dark grey suit that was fitted perfectly for his trim form, and I guessed him to be just under six feet tall. His loosened black tie complimented his white shirt. His somewhat short, wavy black hair and deep, expressive eyes didn't hurt, either.

When he spoke, although it was soft, like his eyes, it felt like the room froze. The man had a command when he spoke, and damn if it didn't give me goosebumps. That intensity in his voice shone through as he told me to take care of his car. With any luck, soon I'd be taking care of more than his car.

Now wait, where did that come from?

I watched as he walked out the door. I hadn't dated in about a year. My last date was with a man who was barely five-and-a-half feet tall, skinny as a twig, and had the worst case of Napoleon syndrome I'd ever encountered. Needless to say, we didn't go out again. The one before that was another year before, but it lasted for two months. He was great in bed and had the body of a god, but when I saw him out in public one day, he introduced me to his wife. Oops. Were there warning signs? A few. Should I have picked up on them? Probably. Was I so bedazzled from the memory off all those times my dick was up his ass that the introduction blindsided me? Absolutely.

Lucky in romance, I was not. I just wanted an honest man who wanted a serious relationship. At 35, I wasn't a spring chicken anymore, and I wasn't getting any younger. Was a nice, decent, monogamy-seeking gay man too much to ask for?

"Girl, that man is

fine

," Candi practically shouted, interrupting my thoughts. Somehow, she dragged 'fine' into an eighteen-syllable word. "And don't tell me that you didn't notice. I saw you staring. You should be glad he handed you those keys right away, otherwise I'm pretty sure you'd still be checking his ass out."

"Now that's not true. I checked his ass out as he

left

," I corrected, making my way behind the counter, facing Candi and leaning against the wall.

"Sorry, babe. His wife was probably waiting at home."

"No wedding band," I said.

"Did Eric have a wedding band?" Candi asked me.

"No," I said, mimicking her high inflections and loud volume. "Eric had a tan line where the wedding band should have been." Candi chuckled a bit, then looked at me.

"Rough. That's just rough."

"Tell me about it."

I stepped back into the garage, walking back over to one of the cars, oblivious to the few other men I had working that day. Candi was probably right. He probably had a beautiful wife waiting for him at home. Suddenly, I felt ridiculous, like I would break out into "Holding Out for a Hero" à la Bonnie Tyler at any moment.