Page 25 of Flowers To Give

Clark grabs Jeremy’s arm and pulls him over, sitting him down at the piano bench and coercing him, “Come on! I don’t care if you play Chopsticks.”

Lifting the key cover, Jeremy laughs and shakes his head. He can’t believe he’s about to do this, not having any solid practice in years. Dabbling with some of the keys, he thinks of a song he can play and says, “Okay. But I’m telling you now, I don’t know any popular music.”

“What’s this?” Clark giggles over the rim of his glass, drinking more and eyeing Jeremy’s fingers as they start to lightlytouch at some of the keys. He presses them gently, building the base of a song.

“Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Opus forty-three,” Jeremy tells him, “Sergei Rachmaninoff.”

The romantic piano chords fall together nicely, Jeremy playing smoother than he could have hoped. Perhaps the liquor had lubricated his musical sensibilities. He really gets into it, Clark watching him closely as the song crescendoes to a loud volume and then dwindles to a twinkling few piano keys. As the song comes to rest, Jeremy’s fingers relax and he moves them away. Looking up, Clark is staring plainly at him. Blinking, he sets down his drink and starts clapping. Jeremy bows his head, “Thank you.”

“I can’t believe you’re a cowboy,” Clark smiles. His voice is gentle as he asks, “Play something else?”

Jeremy plays some Beethoven and Liszt, Clark leaning against the piano and listening to every chord. He drinks half of another bottle of whiskey just listening to Jeremy play. He gets so drunk that he begins demanding Rolling Stones songs, Jeremy laughing at Clark’s slurred words. The actor starts singing some of the lyrics to “Beast of Burden” as he makes his way to the couch. He lays down and his hand drops his glass on the ground as he dozes off to sleep. Not caring about the mess, Jeremy finishes his drink before getting up from the piano and turning to leave. Before he does, he glances back at Clark’s relaxed form. Feeling cheesy, Jeremy stumbles to Clark’s side, takes a blanket, and lays it over his sleeping body. Time to go, Jeremy’s body won’t budge.

Gazing over Clark’s restful countenance, Jeremy feels a wave of sadness at looking upon his gorgeous and relaxed face. His dread comes from the intense longing he has for Clark, wanting more than anything to believe that tonight meant something. Jeremy felt like a confidant of sorts, at the very least, but hewanted more. His crush was getting out of hand, Jeremy forcing himself to leave the penthouse and retreat back to his room before he wakes Clark up to do something drastic.

The maid staff had respected the “do not disturb” sign hanging from his doorhandle and hadn’t come to his room, the whole suite dark and bed messy. Dizzy, melancholy, and drunk, Jeremy kicks off his shoes and tumbles his way to the sliding glass door. The late night air immediately cools Jeremy down, staggering to the railing and slumping his weight against it as he gulps in the ocean breeze. He leans far over, head held high as his eyes adjust to the darkness and he can make out the blackened waves below.

There’s a wave that breaks hard against the moonlight that catches Jeremy’s eye as sea foam sprays into the air. He squints into the night and watches as another wave swells and a surfer breaks into his view, dropping into the wave and riding it as it rolls over in on itself. The surfer rides the wave out, smoothly laying back down on the board as the tide subsides. But then he’s turning around, paddling his arms like mad into the water and being carried up to another wave to surf.

The skill is extraordinary, Jeremy mesmerized as he watches the midnight surfer cut into the water under the stars and moon with precision and flare. The show is a good distraction for Jeremy, only thinking of the fearlessness that must go into riding a black wave. His mind drifts away from him, lulled by the steady crashing of the waves breaking.

Tempted to text Clark on Sunday, Jeremy turns off his phone and naps the day away instead. The room service he orders is good albeit expensive, although he’s sure he can afford it right now, and the television in his room is eighty inches. He watches some of his favorite movies, a little embarrassed that a coupleof them star Clark Radison. Keeping the sliding door open, the ocean in the distance harmonizes with the film dialogue.

By the time the first stars are twinkling in the sky, Jeremy is waking up at the end of his fifth movie. He turns on his phone to check the call sheet, immediately affronted with notifications he’d missed in his isolation. Searching for one number in particular, there is no further activity from his message thread with Clark. Tossing the cell aside, he collapses on his bed and drifts back to sleep.

When Jeremy wakes up next, he’s disoriented. It’s completely dark outside and the TV is playing a rerun of Forensic Files. He rubs at his face as he searches for the remote to turn off the television, peace falling over the room. Checking the time, it’s a little past midnight. His call time is in six hours, really thinking about getting some solid rest as he sets his alarms.

Wanting to just fall back asleep, the urge to use the restroom overwhelms him. Jeremy drags himself to the bathroom, flinching at the bright light, and properly gets ready for bed. Scratching his head, he walks back into the main room with an emptied bladder and brushed teeth, going over to the sliding glass door to close it. Hand on the handle, a particularly loud wave crashes down below and Jeremy has the impulse to peer out to the ocean one last time.

He steps out onto the balcony and to the rail, greeted by the black ocean bathed in moonlight. A massive wave swells and the mysterious midnight surfer crests its peak, slicing down into the face of the wall of water. The wave curls into a spiral, rushing toward the surfer. Jeremy grabs the rail tightly as he watches the man try to outride the catastrophic tide. The splashing mist of the tubed wave engulfs the surfer and Jeremy’s heart stops as he thinks the man just wiped out. Then a big spray and the surfer bursts out of the tube at top speed, arms up in the air in triumph.Relaxing, Jeremy smiles to himself and considers applauding the distant midnight surfer.

A beam of light from a flashlight illuminates the beach, sweeping the sands until the security guard finds a bag and pile of clothes. Jeremy watches helplessly as the guard shouts out to the ocean, waving the high beam flashlight out at the waters. He wants desperately to help the surfer who’s starting to swim to the shore. Turning back to his room, Jeremy moves instinctually as he puts on his boots over his pajama bottoms and curses to himself as he grabs his key card.

Rushing down the stairwell and bursting through the back exit to the beach entrance, Jeremy hops the locked gate and lands on a sandy dune. He hears two loud voices in the distance as he catches his breath, straightening up and walking steadily although his heart is racing. The waves smash into the shore only a few hundred yards away, encouraging Jeremy’s confidence.

The security guard and surfer in a short sleeved wetsuit stand facing each other up ahead, growing clearer the closer Jeremy gets. He takes a steadying breath before raising his hand and calling out over the ocean wind, “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

They both turn toward Jeremy who approaches the surfer, continuing with a hint of concern, “What’s going on?”

“Do you know this man, sir?” The hulking security guard asks him.

“Of course,” Jeremy says, stepping forward to stand beside the surfer, “This is my husband.”

“And are you a guest at the hotel?”

“Yes. Here’s my key card.”

The security guard takes a look at the card and Jeremy steals a glance at the surfer who is looking at him with a soft gaze. Up close and at first glance the man is stunningly good looking. Afew inches taller than Jeremy, pitch black eyes, chin length wavy dark hair that’s dripping with salt water.

“I thought you said you weren’t staying at the hotel?” The security guard asks the surfer.

He hesitates, Jeremy jumping in, “Babe, why would you say that? Is it because of that fight we had?”

The surfer wrinkles his brow and shakes his head vehemently. The security guard looks between them and says, “Well, then you two won’t mind me escorting you to your room? Sir, we’ll have your surfboard checked. Right this way, please.”

Not expecting this, as soon as the security guard has his back turned, Jeremy looks over to the surfer who merely shrugs and picks up his bag from the sand before following the guard. He, in fact, does walk them all the way back to Jeremy’s room on the seventh floor. At the door, he says, “Please remind your husband that beach activities are restricted after eight PM. For his own safety.”

“Of course,” Jeremy smiles, closing the door, “Thank you.”