“I’m sorry,” my voice is barely awhisper.
“No!” he shouts, and then the dambreaks; tears unleashing in devastating sobs.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry.” I yank him into ahug. “I’m so sorry,” I murmur over and over, the two of us on ourknees, me supporting Ryan’s full weight as he weeps into myshoulder; his pain a rainstorm flooding the room.
I just want to take it all away, but I don’tknow how, or what else I can do, so I just give him me; all of me.All of my strength, all of my love, all of my support. Hoping it’senough.
Ryan cries until my knees go numb and myshirt is drenched with tears. When the last drop of salty fluidfalls, he slumps back wearily onto the ground.
He drops his head in his hands, his elbowsresting on his knees and breathes like there’s not enough oxygen inthe room. I sit next to him so we are face to face, hip to hip; anycloser and I would be sitting on his lap. He sniffles and sighs,trying desperately to compose himself. I wipe away some residualtears and wait until he’s ready to talk.
“Are you okay?” I ask delicately.
“No,” he answers truthfully, “but I willbe.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he looks up at me with tear-soakedeyes and a wrung out soul. “I have you.”
“Yes, you do. And you’re not the only one whoknows where the pieces go.”
“Good, because I’m going to need someone tohelp me with this puzzle,” he blows out some hot air and drops hishead again. “Maybe it’s better this way,” he expels mournfully.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because now we’re both free.”
“Oh, Ryan,” I choke, grief-stricken fromtheir tragic end. “I’m sorry it feels that way.”
“I’m not,” he puts his head on my shoulderand I place my hand on his cheek consolingly. “He was never goingto get better.”
It’s the Saturday after Ryan’s courtappearance and we’re burying Sean. It’s a cold, cloudy, Januaryday, the air is prickly and the ground is soggy from the relentlesssnow fall. It’s ideal weather for the solemn event happening beforeus. There aren’t many people here; Ryan, his mother, a few ofSean’s friends, my father, my uncle John and Emily. We couldn’tfind Ryan’s dad. I know Sean’s funeral has nothing to do with me,but my father coming means everything. It’s a gesture; anindication he’s supporting my relationship, which is encouragingfor both me, and Ryan.
"May his soul and the souls of all thefaithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.” Mrs.Pierce sobs inconsolably into Ryan’s chest as we each lay a roseatop Sean’s coffin. I tilt my head up, letting the snow touch mycheeks while the tears stream down my face, then I look at Ryan.I’m heartbroken over his loss, but so much more grateful for hisgain. Sean told me he was afraid Ryan would end up like him, andfor one split second, in the darkest hour, I believed him. But notanymore, and never again.
“In the name of the Father, the Son and theHoly Ghost,” the priest decrees, making the sign of the cross overthe casket that’s about to be lowered into the ground.
“Amen,” is the collective response.
It’s been ten monthssince we laid Sean to rest, six months since I graduated from lawschool, four months since I took the Bar, and three months sinceRyan and I moved to Las Vegas.
And tonight, it’s the grand opening ofCulture: Las Vegas Strip, the Strip’s premiere Male Revue andwomen’s fantasy nightclub.
It’s a 20,000 square foot facility, designedand decorated by world famous nightclub engineers (who knew therewas such a thing?); set up like an amphitheatre, with asemicircular floor plan so no matter where you stand, you canalways see the stage. There are several tiers with large bars alongthe walls; some tiers are strictly for dancing while others havetables and couches for a loungeier feel. This more casual part isvery much like the Culture in New York, where half-naked men minglewith the crowd in their signature shiny blue shorts. But unlike inNew York, the stage is the main attraction. It has floor seating,which is reserved in advance, usually by bachelorette or birthdayparties, or really anyone who just wants to party. There are threeshows a night each one lasting an hour and a half with Ryanheadlining. Tonight is completely sold out, and has been forweeks.
Ryan has been rehearsing for the last twomonths with professional choreographers on intense routines, it wasnever like that in New York, he just sort of went out there and didhis thing. But here, it’s so much bigger and more theatrical. Thetables have definitely been turned, now he’s the one gone night andday putting all his effort into making this work.
I know it’s unorthodox, his profession, but Ican’t help but be proud of his recognition and hard work. The showhasn’t even premiered and he’s already being hailed as the next bigthing on the strip. And here, it’s not so taboo, it’s sought after.But I will admit, it’s still kind of weird. Sometimes I feel likeI’m living in a theme park.
“Alana? You have something for me?” my newboss jolts me out of my thoughts.
“Ah, yes,” I hold out the blue folder I havein my hands, “it’s the Pennington Brief you asked for, Mr.Duncan.”
Yup, that’s me. Working at Duncan and Mires,a medium-sized law firm on the Strip that handles some highlyirregular cases. This morning I went to the Las Vegas PoliceDepartment with an associate and his client who was called in tolook at a lineup, which is nothing out of the ordinary, except thatit consisted of Marilyn Monroe impersonators in drag. Like I said,irregular, at least for me.
James ‘Slim Jim’ Duncan went to law schoolwith my uncle John and was the prospect he mentioned when Iannounced I was moving to Vegas. Ryan and I came to Nevada in Julyso I could take the Bar and interview with Jim. I was nervous ashell as I sat across from the overly tan man who wears Hawaiianshirts to the office. He asked me two questions, then shut thenotebook sitting in front of him. I knew the interview was overthen. What I didn’t expect was for him to give me the job right onthe spot. He said that I’d impressed him with just the mereelegance of my speech. Which I find ironic since my internalmonologue is littered with slang and curse words. I’m sure beingthe niece of a respected lawyer and the daughter of an esteemedjudge didn’t hurt either. So, I’ve been working here since the endof August, and even though it’s not some high profile New York Citylaw firm, I love it just the same.
“Thanks and I’ve told you call me Jim,please. Mr. Duncan is a retired old geezer who spends his daysplaying eighteen holes.” He takes the folder graciously and smiles.“Have you heard anything from the Bar association yet?”