The Wendigo

5

Kenny's labs and MRI were clean. He was released the next day. Clay drove him home. To the $800 one-bedroom apartment they now shared on the second floor of a modest complex.

He showed Kenny the bedroom and pointed out a spot on the floor where he could drop his suitcase. Then he showed him the kitchen, where he pointed out one of his nude paintings that hung above the sink. Kenny kissed him under it. Clay showed him the living room, where more art, some by Clay himself, some by artists he admired, lined the walls. They dropped their coats and kicked off their shoes. Pulling and kissing on one another, they moved past the bathroom where the medicine cabinet hung open and an empty spot in the toothbrush holder waited to be filled and a pill organizer was open and empty on the sink. They wrestled each other into the bedroom, feet stumbling against Kenny's suitcase on their way to the bed. He wouldn't unpack the suitcase for three days.

Kenny threw himself into their sex with gracious aplomb. What hadn't scabbed or scarred over was still bandaged and the bruises were still purple in places. But if he was hurt, he did not show it. His uninhibited enthusiasm made Clay less timid. He groped and rubbed and squeezed with little care. Their first time ended in a perfect, near-simultaneous climax, as if they needed one more sign that they belonged together.

Once they had passed this checkpoint, Clay found it easier to give himself over. He gave himself over several times those first two days.

During a longer break between sessions, Kenny withdrew to the shower. Clay lie in his bed alone for the first time and found it uncomfortable. The mattress under him irritated his back. It irritated him enough to rise up off the bed and find the source of the irritation: a few wisps of black dust. One of them must have carried something in on their clothes, he figured. He slapped at the unwanted dust. After a few heavier swats, he lost track of them and was satisfied that they were gone.

Clay walked into the steamy bathroom and pulled out the pill organizer. He took his antidepressant, antipsychotic, and multivitamin, and experienced a pang of fear when he realized he had skipped a day. Withdrawal worried him more than relapse. Headaches, aches, nausea, vomiting. The kind of symptoms he could worry himself into if he thought about them too long. He should eat, he thought. They hadn't eaten much at all those past few days. He looked at his phone. It was morning still.

"You want tacos for lunch?"

The stream of shower water continued. Kenny didn't answer.

"Ken?"

"I'm not really that hungry," Kenny said, answering the first question. "You can order without me, though."

"I can wait," said Clay.

"No, really," said Ken.

"You should eat something, I mean, you're still not fully healed. Although, you could've fooled me."

Kenny poked his wet head out from behind the shower curtain. There was still a small bandage over his eye, a bruise on his forehead, and a swollen cheek. The muscles under these wounds all flexed a little as he cracked a brazen smile.

"You know what I'm hungry for?"

"What?"

"Come here and I'll show you."

Clay closed the pill organizer. He went to Kenny and let his wet arms enfold his naked body. Steam and heat enshrouded him as he stepped into the shower.

Another day passed. Clay was sore, but satisfied. He was also starving. Outside of snacks snuck between sessions, he hadn't eaten a full meal since they came home from the hospital. He asked Kenny if he wanted pizza. Kenny offered a muffled, "No," against his pillow, then rolled back over and went to sleep.

Clay sprawled out on the couch and finished half the pizza over a wildlife documentary. He was so in his element he didn't bother to turn on any lights as night fell around him and he was only working with the light of the TV.

"During this period," the posh British narrator explained, "the Grizzly Bear can eat amounts exceeding 90 pounds per day. As winter approaches, satiated, the bears will have doubled their weight, and can safely begin the deep sleep of hibernation."

He was half-asleep when the couch vibrated underneath him. A moment went by before he realized his phone was on silent mode and he had a call. It was Tessa.

"Hello."

"Guess where I am."

"Oh God, are you outside my door?"

"Close. I'm driving into town tonight to stay with Mom. What are you doing? Wanna go out? I'll be in town in like an hour."

"Uh..."

"Come on. Bring Kenny out. You said you couldn't wait for us to meet!"

Anxiety spiked in Clay. Did he even want to go out? He could stand it, he guessed, but would Kenny want to? What would happen if he passed? He had heard of some people's friendships turning sour when a serious relationship got in the way. Would Tessa think he was choosing Kenny over her? Tessa would make it known if she felt slighted.

These were the petty, self-contrived, but nerve-wracking dilemmas Clay had sought to avoid in remaining single so long.

"Besides, if you guys don't take a break, you'll get dehydrated."

"God, you're not kidding. I've had more sex in the last few days than I've ever had in my life probably."

"Fuck," she said, "I was just kidding. Now I'm jealous. He heals quickly, huh?"

"Oh yeah, he's fine! Just some scrapes and bruises."

"Good."

Kenny entered the room stretching. He was about to speak to Clay when he saw he was on the phone. Who's that? He mouthed.

"It's Tessa," Clay said, covering the phone, "She wants to go out with us."

"Let's do it," Kenny said, "I wanna meet her."

"Oh..." Clay said. He returned to Tessa, "Uh, hey, so Kenny and I would love to go out. Where do you wanna meet?"

Tessa's excited squeal almost blew out the phone's speaker.