Between These Walls Read online

  He needed time. What was wrong with that? Didn’t all relationships take time?

  Then a more frightening thought emerged: Hunter wondered if he could ever give his whole heart to anyone. If not, should he settle for less? Is that what other people did? If you couldn’t find complete happiness, was it possible to get 95 percent of the way there?

  Hunter listened to the furnace hum as the heat kicked on. From a nearby vent, a faint, toasty draft tickled his face. Outside, a streetlight flickered in the distance. The moon cast its electric glow through the window, which created long shadows at perfect angles on the far side of his bedroom.

  Hunter pulled his blanket snug beneath his chin.

  Gabe.

  Images of Gabe floated across his mind in a stream of consciousness.

  Gabe’s smile, the one that warmed Hunter’s heart with the glow of a hundred candles and ushered in a sense of security. The openness in Gabe’s eyes, which welcomed Hunter’s honesty, eyes that wouldn’t think less of Hunter for revealing a glimpse of his soul. Perfect, succinct ears that Hunter knew would listen to words he had buried since childhood.

  Then his mind’s eye skipped to Gabe’s arms, the arms Hunter had noticed during his first appointment as Gabe had worked along Hunter’s shoulders. The way the muscles flexed along Gabe’s forearms. Deep crevices that lined Gabe’s arms to form narrow moats between bone and muscle, which showed up whenever Gabe angled his arm in the midst of therapeutic motion.

  Hunter knew he should stop right now. But he didn’t. He allowed the images to run their course.

  He concentrated with more intensity, adjusting the lens of his mind’s eye to bring Gabe’s arms into sharper focus. Hunter closed his eyes. He could feel Gabe’s fingers make contact on his skin as they worked their way along his back, descending from his shoulders to where his shoulder blades converged, then farther down toward Hunter’s waistline.

  Hunter sensed himself stir below his waist. Heat emanated from his torso and sent a steady, electric current coursing through his veins. He thought of his own bare skin on the massage table, the vulnerability present when a towel had provided the only barrier between the flesh of his midsection and Gabe’s sight. At that first appointment, the thought had made Hunter uncomfortable. But now, its mystery enlivened him.

  Gabe’s face came into focus as he worked through the routine, coming nearer to Hunter’s skin as he concentrated on Hunter’s back. Drawing closer, yet his chin or cheekbone never made contact with Hunter’s flesh. Hunter had wished for contact, just one moment of it. He imagined the fever from Gabe’s breath as it landed on his flesh.

  Now, lying in bed, Hunter felt his resistance wear thin. The slide occurred in a gradual decline, the way it always did. Thought by thought, image by image, he peeled away layers of onionskin, one by one.

  Hunter’s breathing grew heavier, his gasps more desperate. He held each breath a full second before releasing it. He fought—halfheartedly—to endure this inner torture, to resist the pictures he had allowed to ambush his brain. Caught between the urge of his flesh and the desire to bring this thought pattern to a screeching halt right now, he winced. Of all the aspects of his battle, lust was the most difficult, the toughest obstacle to resist. God would want him to put a stop to these thoughts, he knew. Yet Hunter continued to tiptoe forward, brushing against the boundary line, nuzzling it.

  Beads of perspiration burst across his scalp, soaking his hair at its roots.

  Gabe’s hands again. Strong fingers. Blue eyes like ice on fire.

  Hunter curled his hands into fists at his sides, arms locked at the elbows, eyes aimed toward heaven, whispering for God’s help. With every ounce of defense he could summon, he tried to fight the pressure.

  Yet Hunter sighed as he felt his resistance crumble, sand washed from the shoreline during high tide.

  His hand now rested feather light on his chest. He clenched his jaw. Bit his lower lip.

  Fully aroused at his torso, he hurt from withstanding for so long.

  The crack was almost imperceptible. A breaking in his will.

  He allowed his hand slide down his chest … farther … farther …

  Hunter tilted his head back. His fingers continued to slide until he experienced an involuntary jolt as they made initial contact with his midsection.

  Images raced … raced … a flurry of sporadic pictures that melded into a blur.

  And within seconds, it was over.

  With his heart racing, his neck went lax against his pillow. He panted for breath.

  Hunter felt an anchor drop in his gut.

  He had been through this scenario countless times before. But not with Gabe on his mind. Now he had crossed that line.

  Hunter couldn’t deny it. He knew his attraction to Gabe was real.

  Shame settled in. Part of him wanted to weep because he felt as though he had let God down. Another part of him felt a stronger pull toward Gabe. Incidences like this, these five-minute rollercoaster rides, had occurred before, ignited by thoughts of other guys his age, all the way back to when Hunter was a young teenager.

  But this instance was different.

  This time, the guy about whom Hunter had fantasized was someone he actually cared about, someone with whom Hunter felt comfortable opening up—a rarity in his life.

  Unable to reconcile the incongruity, Hunter felt helpless.

  Exhaustion overcame him. His breathing slowed. His heartbeat coasted toward its normal speed, and soon he drifted to sleep.

  CHAPTER 17

  Hunter knew he should have seen it coming. He should have listened to the nudges he’d sensed in his spirit.

  But he hadn’t.

  The call arrived at 10:26 on Monday morning. Out of habit, as soon as he’d hung up the phone, his eye had darted to the lower-right corner of his laptop screen to note the time. A conscientious Hunter always noted the time a client called so he could create a journal record in his customer-relationship software, where he would summarize their conversation. Then, prior to calling a client or prospect, Hunter would scan the last few records of their interaction to jog his memory. If the client mentioned his kid would play third base in a softball game that weekend, Hunter would, during the next call, ask how the game went, how many stolen bases the kid had prevented, or the number of runs he’d scored.

  But this call hadn’t come from a client. When this call arrived, the phone’s double-ring tone indicated it had originated from within the building. Hunter glanced at the phone’s display screen.

  Human Resources had summoned him. The director of Human Resources.

  Gretchen Miller’s voice had sounded askew in a way Hunter couldn’t identify—not so much what was in her voice, but what wasn’t in her voice. She had sounded pleasant, yet removed, a neutrality Hunter sensed as intentional. The sort of neutrality that preceded bad news.

  Hunter wondered if the call would involve bad news about his manager, Wayne. Wayne had left for Detroit last week. He was supposed to continue to Milwaukee this week.

  Wayne got on his flight to Milwaukee, right? Hunter wondered. Hunter assumed he had. Come to think of it, however, he hadn’t received any phone or email messages from him today. For a man like Wayne, whose battle cry occurred in full force around daybreak, today’s Monday-morning silence wasn’t in character.

  Hunter’s tongue went fuzzy. He took a sip of coffee, which had gone cold.

  As he pondered the situation, he caught himself chewing his thumbnail and ceased.

  No, this definitely can’t be good, Hunter thought. Wayne must be in trouble. Hunter had heard of the man’s heated exchanges with other managers when he was tense. Had it finally come back to bite him, prompting Gretchen Miller to notify Hunter that, for the interim, he didn’t have a boss? Or maybe Wayne had quit on the spot. That would fit his personality: a renegade who would spend two years planning his own business venture, line up a slew of clients, walk out on his job, and then, the next day, notify his former employer he�
�d become their major competitor.

  Had anyone else received Gretchen’s call?

  He checked his clock again. 10:28 a.m. The foreboding continued, but he couldn’t stall any longer. He’d better head to the first floor, he figured.

  Hunter took the long way through his department. Instead of cutting through the narrow corridor between his cubicle section and the next, he walked toward the far end of his area, wrapped around the final row of cubicles, and headed up the corridor on the opposite side of the room. Along the way, he eyed various cubicles to see if anyone was missing, to get an idea of who else Human Resources might have contacted. He didn’t hear a chain of ring tones, but maybe they had called him last. He noted a few absences but knew one of those individuals had called in sick. Another had mentioned a client visit first thing this morning. Close to the glass doors, one person was away from his cubicle—Hunter didn’t know why—but his light remained on. Otherwise, the team appeared in place, no signs of abnormality. No one sneaking into a neighbor’s cubicle to whisper. No muted chatter in corners of the room.

  Taking the stairs to the first floor, he crossed the lobby, offering a brief wave to the receptionist on his way. The Human Resources office sat at the far end of the lobby, behind a pair of frosted-glass doors to convey confidentiality. Hunter entered the office, where the air felt five degrees cooler.

  “Gretchen asked me to stop by,” Hunter said to an executive assistant, his tone inquisitive, hoping she knew more about this than he did.

  “Hi, Hunter. Yes, you can go on in.” The same detached manner Hunter had detected from Gretchen on the phone. The executive assistant offered him a smile, but looked as though she’d forgotten to remind her eyes to follow suit. She returned her attention to her computer in what Hunter considered a bit too early.

  Gretchen Miller wore a professional blazer-skirt combination of navy blue, with a white blouse and a power-red scarf worked into her outfit. Traces of gray highlighted her brunette hair. Hunter and Gretchen had enjoyed a cordial working relationship during his years with the company.

  When he gave her open door a quiet knock, she peered over her eyeglasses, the tortoiseshell frames of which lent her nose a beaklike quality.

  “Thanks for coming, Hunter.” She gestured to a small table and chairs in her office. “Have a seat.”

  As Hunter took a seat with his back toward the door, he heard the door click shut as Gretchen closed it before joining him. He eyed the sole item in her arms: a glossy, dark green folder with the company logo embossed in gold on the front. Gretchen opened the folder before her, removed a section of paperwork, thumbed through its contents, then continued with the next section. She progressed with efficiency, a step-by-step routine practiced to perfection. Her eyes darted in his direction once. The same detached smile as the executive assistant’s, but Hunter caught a hint of regret in Gretchen’s eyes, as if her pupils had retreated to avoid the moment at hand.

  Once she judged all documents intact, Gretchen sat with exquisite posture, her hands on the mahogany table with her thumbs and fingertips touching, a meticulous steeple toppling over in his direction. She looked him in the eyes and didn’t begin to speak until he returned eye contact to indicate he’d yielded his full attention.

  “As you know, Hunter,” Gretchen said, “the company has had its challenges this year. The lagging economy has exacerbated the situation and tied the company’s hands. I realize rumors have circulated, but we’ve held together the best we could and made our employees one of our top priorities.”

  Okay, he thought. He rested one elbow on the table and focused on Gretchen’s words, his concentration so intense, he caught himself resting his index finger on his upper lip. He returned his hand to the tabletop.

  “Each sales region was instructed to reduce its team by two people,” Gretchen continued, her demeanor professional, her tone absent of emotion. “Those reductions are being implemented today.”

  Hunter offered no reaction but clung to every syllable, trying to identify clues as to what lay seconds ahead. But he cringed inside because he already perceived what Gretchen was about to tell him.

  “Unfortunately, Wayne is out of town this week, so he wasn’t able to be present today.” At that point, Gretchen hesitated. Hunter noticed a subtle alteration in shape at the corners of her eyes and saw a trace of sorrow, which she tried, without success, to mask. She penetrated his eyes with hers; along their edges, he detected she didn’t want to say the words that came next: “Your position has been eliminated as of today.”

  Hunter didn’t say a word.

  Lightheadedness settled in, causing him to feel as if he could doze into a nap. His chest felt heavier. To buy himself a few seconds, he shut his eyes. His eyelids felt feverish.

  He’d suspected this day might arrive, but that changed nothing. No matter how inevitable it might appear as it draws near, you’re never prepared to hear you no longer have a job. The words sound different, harsher, coming from someone whose mind you know you can’t change, regardless of what you might say. At the moment, Hunter couldn’t say anything. He wanted to vomit.

  What Hunter hadn’t anticipated in such a moment was an absence of emotion. What fascinated him was how non-angry he felt upon hearing the news. He’d pictured himself, were this event to occur, filling with righteous resentment, pointing out his faithful service, years of dedicated labor that had preceded a handful of unsuccessful months.

  Instead, he felt deflated.

  One thought ran through his mind in tickertape fashion.

  I’ve lost my job.

  Too stunned to speak, Hunter yielded to Gretchen, who, he now noticed, had developed a standard, step-by-step procedure for informing an individual that his roof was about to collapse and she would have the honor of taking the final swing of the sledgehammer. She would need to speak next, because he didn’t have a clue how to navigate this mess.

  As Gretchen Miller opened the shiny green folder with the gold logo, she provided a rundown of the severance package the company would offer him: Three months of health coverage. Outplacement services to help him locate another job. A lump-sum payment which, given alternate circumstances, would have looked like a nice reward. In this context, however, Hunter tried to calculate in his now-fuzzy mind how many rent payments the lump sum could cover. It’s strange how far a dollar can stretch when it’s not needed, and how little that dollar stretches when it’s needed most.

  Minute by minute, Gretchen’s rundown wobbled through Hunter’s head in a drunken blur. He studied Gretchen as she spoke, as she pointed to a printed bullet point, then made eye contact with him, followed by the next bullet point, then flipped to the next page. Gretchen explained the details as if he had a choice, as if he had selected this option a few weeks ago and the time had come to sign on the dotted line. But she and Hunter both knew he couldn’t afford to say no. He was out of a job. Did the details matter?

  Hunter kept his eyes on the paperwork, not out of interest, but because this scenario made him uncomfortable. The folder was the only object on the table and he needed to look somewhere. A jumble of hurt and embarrassment rendered him no longer willing to look at Gretchen’s face.

  Hunter listened further, then perceived a shift in his mood from embarrassment to betrayal. As Gretchen set one stack of papers aside and moved on to the next, she continued her spiel. Without flinching, Hunter raised his head again and stared straight at her, trying his best to hide any traces of anger or pain, replacing them with a confident façade. With the detachment of a scientist or psychologist, he observed the composure in Gretchen’s eyes. He marveled at the precise, efficient manner in which she laid out how, exactly, they had opted to screw him over in the fairest way possible.

  How could you operate with such mundane efficiency while, step by step, dismantling somebody’s financial stability? Hunter wondered.

  As it turned out, signing on the dotted line wasn’t a cute saying. On the final page, there was a line on which to s
ign. Above that line was an agreement filled with legal verbiage that stated Hunter would receive his severance package in exchange for relinquishing all options to pursue legal action against the company between now and eternity. And the standard kicker: Hunter couldn’t try to lure any employees from the company for the next two years. In Hunter’s view, it felt more like they had wrapped their arms around his financial security, his food and bills, and held them hostage until he signed his name. Which he did.

  A win-win scenario, as a seminar speaker might have called it.

  With the formalities complete and the glossy, gold-embossed folder under his arm, Hunter returned to his cubicle, accompanied by Gretchen Miller, as if Hunter posed a threat and required an armed guard. And as if the situation weren’t humiliating enough, Gretchen had given him two empty boxes to carry up the stairs and down the hall, past the cubicle rows, boxes he could fill with his belongings. Everyone who saw him walk down the hall with her would know what had happened.

  Voices hushed. Individuals stared at their laptop screens, yet Hunter could sense their stares jabbing against his back. From the corner of his eye, he caught a young woman rise from her desk and saunter into the hallway, probably to light the grapevine on fire. He could have predicted the scenario before he arrived on his floor.

  Gretchen sat down in a nearby chair, crossed her legs with one knee high over the other, and kept guard as Hunter emptied his desk and filled his boxes.

  Among the files in his desk, Hunter kept personal files, such as performance reviews and trade-industry articles. If Hunter packed a folder or binder into his box that appeared confidential, Gretchen would raise her eyebrows to summon forth an explanation, to which Hunter would open the item and explain it was material from a recent industry-training seminar or another non-threatening source, material he would like to keep since he had recorded helpful notes in it. Gretchen would grant permission, and Hunter, the convicted criminal, would add it to his box.