Resisting the Light

The fluorescent light buzzed up above Clay Abaddon’s head. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it. The luminance bled into his periphery and overwhelmed the ceiling as he unflinchingly sat on the rigid olive green chair. “Is that what it’s going to be like?” he wondered as he drifted in and out of attentiveness. At times like these, he wavered between the servitude to the indelible words of his father to, “Be a man,” while wading into his apt to reach out for some external comfort. Digesting harsh news was never Clay’s strong suit. With a propensity to check out during moments of great pressure, Clay did what he did best; he drifted off to a better memory.

Six years ago in a dark and not-so-cozy bar, then-28-year-old Clay waited patiently for what was supposed to be his first date… ever. He’d pressed his shirt, wore his favorite cologne, and sipped a $7 glass of wine to calm his nerves. Every now and then, he would rub his thumb and index finger over his quarter-inch beard, a habit of his which he indulged whenever he either waited for something to come or longed for something to end. With freshly cut hair that was styled in a side part and piercing green eyes, there was just enough light around him to anyone any passerby to see how handsome he was. Clay was not at all the type to think so of himself, and his modest disposition and empathetic nature made him an easy person to be around. But after another three hours, four unreturned texts, and five drawings on napkins, he felt like he had wasted his Friday night. 

The bartender approached for the second time of the night. He was about 5’10”, had thick locks of short wavy dark hair, and his bright blue eyes caught what little light was dispersed in the atmosphere. He set down a second glass of wine on the bar top and gently slid it over. “On the house, mate.” You look like you’ve had a rough day.”

A simple rugged charm to the character of his voice, an accent Clay had recognized somewhat from his plethora of film ingestion, but couldn’t place. He smirked as he slid the glass over to himself. “I’m sure you get this all the time, but where’s your accent from?” 

“Texas.”

The patron snickered. It had been the first time he had displayed some type of emotion other than consternation since he’d set foot in that establishment. “Texas, eh?”

 “I jest. Scotland. My father’s job transferred him over here when I was in third year and I actually loved it. It’s funny though. I hated the thought of leaving my home, but now I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Massachusetts is very rich in its history.”

Clay found his whole persona charming. He’d never met anyone outside of the States, much less and a conversation with them. He raised the glass to the bartender. “Thank you for the drink. It actually was a lovely day. It just turned into a shitty night.”

“Sorry to hear that, mate. And don’t mention it. For what it’s worth, he’s an idiot.”

“What makes think it’s a he?” Clay asked with an eyebrow raised before he indulged in an initial sip.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

Clay burst out laughing. “Relax, I’m just messing with you.” 

 “Oh. My pals say I’m bad at reading humor sometimes. And in that case, let me reiterate that he’s an idiot.”

“What’s your name?”

He stuck out his hand and Clay grasped it. “Fynn Camdyn. Pleasure to meet you.” 

“I’ve never actually met someone who told me his last name right off the get-go like that.”

They shook for a moment longer than would be customary and they both knew it. Clay forgot why he had even ended up at that bar in the first place, but he’d discovered someone he didn’t know he was looking for. 

“I’m Clay. Clay Abaddon. Nice to meet you.”

“I like that name. It’s artsy.”

“I don’t know if I’d call myself an artist. More like a paralegal.” 

“Hey, mate, any way you can make money in this economy is an art.”

The young man began to savor those words the bartender spoke in his baritone voice. Clay raised his glass and tilted his head to the side. “Cheers to that.”

“This may be a bit forward of me, but would you like to get a bite to eat?”

“Now? You can just leave when you want?”

“Aye,” Fynn nodded. “Well, no, actually. I can’t just leave when I want. My shift is over. But yes, I did mean now. I’m hungry and what’s the harm of making a new friend? Unless you wanted to stick around and make more drawings on the napkins.”

Clay looked down at his array of doodles. “I never had much growing up. When I get a spare moment, I like to sketch out what my dream home would look like. It’s kind of stupid.”

“That’s not stupid at all. My mother always said, ‘Fynny,’ she called me Fynny since I was a wee lad, 'Fynny, the key to happiness is having something to hope for, a way to get yourself there, and someone to share that life with.’ It looks like you’ve got two of those steps down.”  

It took Clay all of five minutes to forget about the date that never was. He wasn’t a love-at-first-sight kind of guy by any means, but there was something special about this man. He was endearing and kind. Genuine and natural. He was one of those people that had a magnetism when he spoke. He looked deeply into Clay’s eyes when he spoke to him.

“You know what, Fynny? I think I will take you up on that bite. I could use something to soak up that half bottle of wine.”

Four years after meeting, they both lived inside that dream house that Clay used to draw on napkins. But now, Clay sat in Dr. Achlys’ office getting the worst news he could’ve fathomed. “Stage 4 metastatic pancreatic cancer.” The words echoed, and echoed, and echoed through his head. Initially, he thought it was some weird form of indigestion. Then his back started to ache. It was the beginning of the end. Clay Abaddon was 34. He wouldn’t see 35.

“You should spend these next few months with your loved ones. Make them count.”

Clay slowly blinked once. “Make them count, eh? That’s rich.” His jaw trembled as the thought of encroaching death overtook him. The Grim Reaper’s breath was cold on his neck, and that chill spread across his body and penetrated his bones. He looked at his fingertips and wondered what it would be like not to feel again. Would it be an everlasting dream or would it be like a period of sleep he couldn’t remember? "I’ll do that. I’m gonna go start making these final days count. Thanks, Doc.” He scoffed as he arose from the chair. Just hours before, Clay had his whole life ahead of him. He was planning his first vacation in two years. He was thinking about getting a cat. “I’m sorry if I was an asshole. It’s hard not to be curt when someone tells you that your days are numbered.”

“It never gets any easier. But you can still find meaning with the time you have. You shouldn’t be alone. Your parents—”

“Not a fan of my proclivities, as my father would put it. Shit, maybe they’ll be relieved. Maybe I won’t tell them anything. We haven’t spoken in years. Sorry, sometimes I overshare when my entire life comes crashing down around me. I’m gonna go now.”

“This might help you.” Doctor Achlys said, handing him a small pamphlet.

From a distance, one could assume that it was just a brochure for a hotel or a vacation spot. But Clay was too close to the reality. The Harsh Truth: Coping with Loss. He scoffed after reading the title. Thanks for your time. He waited until he was in the lobby to toss the literature into the wastebasket. Every step he took and every texture he touched felt so fleeting and far away. Upon sitting in his car, sharp pain in his gut gave him pause. He wondered if it was the stress or the carcinoma. While revving the engine, it all hit him; any day now would be his last. His body was consumed by grief and inevitable longing for more time. He turned the radio on in a vain attempt to stifle his rising thoughts. Dread abounded within him. He gripped his steering wheel and let out a long primal scream for what felt like forever. When he opened his eyes, a small group of people was gathered around the entrance of the clinic.

Time didn’t exist during Clay’s drive home. He was somewhere else entirely. He thought back to nearly a year ago. The arduous workweek had taken a toll on his mind and body, and he was anxiously awaiting the weekend. The young man was so worn out, he tried to use his car’s key fab to unlock the door. Get a grip, Clay. Through the window adjacent to the door, the house looked deserted. He inferred that Fynn was working. Friday and Saturday were major tip nights. Clay was ready to take a long hot shower and read a book.

 But when he opened the door and turned the lights on, he was met with a pile of rose petals on the floor encircling a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. His face lit up and his life returned to him as he followed a trail of votive candles and roses which him to the living room. Fynn stood there with a rose in his mouth and two champagne flutes. 

“Happy anniversary,” Fynn struggled to say as he held the stem between his teeth.

“Shut up. No way.” Clay’s face was illuminated and his eyes were bright and warm. “You did not just do this, Fynn. You’re ridiculous” He wasn’t so much the romantic, not because it wasn’t his inclination but he had never had the opportunity. “I love you. I love you too much. Get over here.”

Fynn handed Clay the rose and wrapped him up in a bear hug. The one had never ceased to amaze the other. They drank a glass each and before Clay stuck his nose in the air. “Do I smell cake?”

Fynn excitedly clapped his hands together once and put his fingertips to his lips. “Dinner’s done.”

Clay was puzzled. “Dinner? It smells like chocolate. Did you make a cake for dinner?”

“Absolutely.”

“Don't ever change.”

After they ate, they moved to the loveseat to polish off the rest of the bottle. The warmth of each other and the flames emanating below the grey stones of the fireplace felt good. Pictures of them were abundant on the mantle. Vignettes of memories they’d built together—ones they would spontaneously relive—were tastefully framed and showed them smiling throughout the different seasons and years. 

Clay rested his head on Fynn’s shoulder. He brushed his hand through his chestnut hair and then down to caress the stubble on his cheek. “I’m so glad that stupid guy stood me up that night at the bar. I’m so grateful you were there. Everything in my life fell into place that night.”

“Mmm.” Fynn’s deep voice resonated within Clay’s chest as he spoke. “You looked so let down when I first saw you. You were all cute and brooding. It would’ve been criminal to let you walk out of there. I had to get up the courage to say something for hours.”

Clay took his head off of Fynn’s shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “You were nervous? You, the smooth-talking and exotic bartender?”

“Exotic, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I think that’s just because you’re so white bread, ace,”

Clay laughed hard from his belly. There was something ever so precious about hearing colloquial terms in that Scottish accent he’d come to crave the sound of. 

Fynn finished off his drink and put the glass down with a clink. “But I have to say, I was all giddy inside when that guy never came. His loss was my amazing gain.” He laid his head on the couch and gazed into Clay’s eyes like a puppy with complete adoration and tenderness. “I used to wonder what you would look like. What you would sound like. My soulmate. I always knew I would find you. Some people wait their whole lives or find love later, but I only had to wait 30 years. I am so lucky. I love you. There’s more of me because I’ve known you.”

“I’m the lucky one,” Clay said. “I love you.”

Now Clay sat in front of that house in his car. He longed to just go back. Building snowmen together last December and opening Christmas presents in their pajamas. The first dinner in the new house. The night they met. The time they got caught outside in the freezing rain and warmed up under a storefront while they waited for it to pass. Their first kiss. 

With a waxing trepidation that he’d never felt before, Clay wended his way in. Fynn causally watched TV in the living room. It was just another day to him. “I know, I know. I promise I’ve been trying to turn this off, but Jake and Liberty seem like they’re over and I was rooting for them.” He turned to smile at his lover, but then immediately straightened his face and shut the television off. “Clay? What’s wrong, mo chridhe?”

Clay tensed and pondered the life that his beloved would have after he told him. The constant feeling of dread they’d both be enmeshed with. How the man who stood before him now and by his side for six years would stand by powerlessly as Clay’s body and mind disintegrated. He wanted nothing more than to get it all out. To just cry and be held. He wanted Fynn to tell him it would be okay even though he knew he’d never be okay again. He wanted to say that he appreciated every second that they spent together. 

“Fynn, I…”

“What is it? Hey, I promise I’ll never watch Love Island again.” 

The words he wanted to speak scrolled through Clay’s mind. So simple to say but so hard to get out. He rehearsed it over and over again on the drive home. He was sick and he wouldn’t be getting better. He was sick and he didn’t want to go through it alone. He was sick and he was more afraid than he could ever have dreamed of.

“Fynn, I cheated on you.” 

“What? Really? Are you seriously telling me this right now?” His lips curled into a sorrowful smile but he pleaded with his eyes for something to ease the ache.

Clay looked down and nodded his head. It was the only time he’d ever told a lie. 

Fynn opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. His jaw trembled. “How long?”

“A few months.” 

“Months? Fucking months? What the hell, Clay? I told you ages ago this was the only thing I couldn’t forgive. I’m a bartender, for chrissakes. You don’t I had the chance to go home with plenty of good-looking guys? But I didn’t ‘cause I had everything I could ever want in you. I gave you everything I had. All of me. And I thought that you felt… You broke my fucking heart. You broke us.”

“I didn’t want to hurt—” 

“Oh, spare me the generic blather. It’s such utter bullshit when people say that. If you don’t want to hurt someone, then don’t fucking hurt ‘em. You know I’ve been through this before. How far did it go? Was it a kiss or was it more? 

Clay couldn’t respond. He just looked down and said nothing. 

“Brilliant. You’re a class act, lad.” Fynn worked himself into a frenzy. His life uprooted from its safety, he ached to go back to the night before. To have just one more instant together before he knew. To be able to forgive. His face was so laden with anguish, it felt like his head would cave in. If his relationship with Clay was light and lifted him up, then the loss of it all was a crushing weight that bore down on him.

When Clay couldn’t take the magnitude of his lie any longer, he spoke. “You know you meant a lot to me. You made me a better person. I didn’t mean to find someone else but I did. It just happened.”

“I’m glad it’s easy for you.”

“Trust me, Fynn, none of this is easy. If you only knew…”

“Well, I guess I won’t, will I?” Fynn went to the bedroom to pack up his things. He quietly lamented over every item he packed. Regardless of how trying a situation in life could be, going through the motions cemented the fact. He erased himself from the place they built together along with any hope of the future. In his haste, a small brown paper bag fell out of his belongings.

Fynn swiftly made his way to the door and was ready to leave for good. He’d made it without so much as a glance at Clay. But with his hand on the doorknob and his last six years in the proverbial rearview, he stopped. Fynn turned around to face the man who had been his everything; his first love, his partner, his best friend. He couldn’t bear the galvanized anger that crept into his heart. It stung worse than the current imaginary images of his boyfriend’s betrayal. He softly walked over to Clay and held him. “I love you. You’re…” He trailed off as his words became pangs of sadness that stung on the way out. Then, with a quivering voice that turned Fynn’s lovable accent into a solemn melody the crushed Clay’s heart, he continued. “Clay, you’re my home. You are the best part of me. We can work through this. Please don’t go.

It took all that Clay had to be still. To keep his hands relaxed and not hold him back. He wanted to though. Oh, how he wanted to. He just stayed there enveloped in the warmth of the man that had given him purpose. The man that rescued him from a life that would have dragged him down as it did to everyone else that came from his hometown. He just wanted another few seconds to feel those arms around him. And when he felt his partner relax and begin to cling to hope, he spoke. “I don’t love you. You have to let me go. It’s what’s right.”

Fynn tensed as the words came out. He squeezed one last time and then released. He released everything he had held in for so long. And without a look, a sigh, or another word, he turned around and left. He gently closed the door with a click. Even in the worst of times, he was still a gentleman. And that hurt Clay more than the vilest words Fynn could've spoken. 

Clay had always thought it hyperbolic when he’d heard one could feel a broken heart until he was alone in the house. He sunk down slowly, careful not to make a sound. He cried for three hours alone in the big beautiful house of his dreams. He walked past the mantle of resplendent memories displayed above the fireplace. They were just a dream now. He couldn’t look for too long at a picture of Fynn. His heart was made of glass and a gentle breeze could shatter it.

After no more tears would fall and he grew tired of sulking, he grabbed a bottle of red wine in the kitchen. He pulled a glass down but put it back after a second thought. He wouldn’t need a marker of how much he would drink today. It’s the right thing to do. He doesn’t deserve to watch me die. It’s the right thing to do. He’ll be happy with someone else. He took the bottle and meandered to the bedroom. 

An unfamiliar small paper bag there in the center of the floor caught his eye. He couldn’t make sense of it at first. He felt a small velvet case with rounded edges. It crushed his insides as he pulled it out to reveal a black box with a hinge on one side. Oh, God, Fynn. You didn’t. He slowly clasped the seam and sprung it open revealing an engagement ring. To Clay’s dismay, he found out he wasn’t out of tears yet. One slowly trickled down his cheek and fell onto the box as he read the inscription: My someone to share life with.