Page 83 of Never Leave, Never Lie

Ian hadn’t expected Alek to say yes, but the answer still stung. Not because he had really wanted to marry Alek that day, but because of what his refusal meant.

After leaving Alek in the greenhouse, Ian picked up his demo kit and headed for the library. Maybe the promise of a fully-restored Victorian library would keep Alek around a little bit longer. Because Alek was leaving. Ian just didn’t know when and he didn’t know how.

Ian donned his respirator, unzipped the plastic dust barrier, and stepped inside. Thick white canvas covered towering rows of plastic bins filled to the brim with books. On their first walk-through of the Victorian, Ian and Alek had discovered that many of the library’s books had been spared from the ravages of water and time, safely ensconced in the glass-fronted bookcases that bordered the walls.

The farthest wall was composed entirely of stained glass windows depicting scenes ripped from the pages of classic stories. Alice falling through the looking glass. Dracula. Dragons. Romeo and Juliet, in death. A bleeding, tell-tale heart. All trapped forever as colored glass between lead. When the sunstarted to set, like it was now, the wall of windows turned the library into a kaleidoscope of rainbows.

Some of the stained glass had cracked and shattered into shards. Between that and the greenhouse, Ian’s glazier bill was going to be astronomical.

The crumbling ceiling was painted a purple so dark it was nearly black. White flecks of stars and barely recognizable planets orbited a boarded-up skylight. The floor beneath had significant water damage, though the rest of the checkerboard-patterned parquet was in good shape.

The bookcases would need to be refinished, the skylight replaced with sun-colored stained glass, the damaged floorboards exchanged, everything put back together like pieces of a puzzle.

Ian needed the satisfaction of a job well done on a spiritual fucking level, so he started with the only task he could finish in one sitting. Going from one bookcase to the next, he removed the framed glass doors and leaned them against a wall.

He’d known for a while that Alek wasn’t as well as he let on. Alek took his medications exactly the same way every night before bed. There was a swish of the sink as he filled the cup, the rattling of pill bottles, the hard sound of the glass against the counter, then he peed, every single time, flushed, and washed his hands—all of it loud enough for Ian to hear through the door.

Alek was nimble, quiet, calculating. The only time he ever made noise was when it was on purpose.

If Ian was in the bathroom at the same time as this nightly ritual, Alek would make a sarcastic show of swallowing the pills and lifting his tongue while opening his hands to prove he’d actually swallowed them. Then he’d hold his wrists together and say, “Take me to bed, warden.”

Ian had voiced his concerns to Dr. Dhawan, but though empathetic and equally worried, there was nothing she could do. The law didn’t allow doctors to force-feed medications or lock away someone in an institution on word alone. They needed probable cause that Alek was a danger to himself or others, or that he couldn’t take care of himself. Even then, that would only buy them seventy-two hours. Alek was a skilled liar, he could easily pass for sane, and then he’d be right back to where he was before.

But Alek was wasting away, slowly strangled by the demons inside his head. In a way, it already felt like Alek had died. His eyes were dull. He seldom spoke. He never wanted to do anything anymore. He rarely laughed, or smiled. Anhedonia was what it was called. Alek had been hedonistic, if anything, when they first met.

Ian felt like he was dying too. He had no one to turn to. No one to lean on. Loving Alek had made him isolated; first, because he only ever wanted to spend time with Alek, and then because his relationship with Alek left little time for anyone else. He couldn’t talk to his mom. He didn’t want to burden her with his worries and Alek’s troubles were too big for a mother to fix anyway.

No amount of demoing would make what Ian and Alek were going through any easier. No solution could fix what went wrong between them. It wasn’t that Ian didn’t want to fight for them anymore, it was that he didn’t know how.

By the time he finished with the bookcases, the sun had set, extinguishing the colors that spilled over the floor so that everything was cast in dark grayscale.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the edge of his shirt and left the library.

Alek wasn’t at the greenhouse. He wasn’t in the parlor. Or the kitchen. Upstairs, Ian followed the sound of running waterto their bathroom. Breath held, bracing himself for whatever he might find, he pushed open the door.

Steam billowed out from behind the shower curtain. Alek only ever took scalding hot showers, even on hot days.

Ian peeled the curtain back and swallowed hard. Alek was turned away from him, leaned over with one hand pressed flat against the tile, water sluicing down his back. His head hung low and his raven hair blocked his eyes like a blindfold.

Quietly, carefully, Ian let go of the shower curtain and left the room. He paused, waiting to see if Alek had heard him, for the tap to turn off. When Alek didn’t emerge, Ian swiped Alek’s laptop off the bed and left the room. He went a few doors down to his office and closed the door.

He sat down at the desk, pushed his own computer aside, and opened Alek’s laptop. The password to Alek’s computer hadn’t changed in the two years since Ian had bought it for him. He typedloveianand pressed enter. The password box shook in place and the asterisks erased. No luck.

He tried several variations, alternating the capitalization and adding in Alek’s favorite number, which was three. When that didn’t work, he got creative. Finally, in a fit of fury, he typedfuckianand the loading screen cycled.

Alek’s desktop was as messy and disorganized as he was. Neurology research articles were interspersed with photographs of antique items he’d been working on, application shortcuts clumped together at random.

Ian opened the internet browser and clicked through each of the tabs Alek had left open. The first was a Google search results page with a list of vodka sauce recipes. Next, a website calledThe Piano Bay, which turned out to be a message board where users swapped sheet music. The last tab was the most recent video upload from Walter Graves, the rounded, bald-headed,mustachioed piano instructor Alek followed. His browser history included more of the same.

It all felt curated, but what had Ian expected? It’s not like Alek would have left open windows to gun shop websites, highest bridges within fifty miles, or other such clues to his nefarious plans.

Ian opened a new tab and checked Alek’s inbox, which was riddled with spam and the occasional professional correspondence. He scrolled quickly, past furniture ads, hot singles in his area, and the rare author mailing list. Distantly, Ian heard the shower stop. He scanned the emails faster.

His eyes caught on an email from a man called Mercer Llewyn. The subject wasRe: Re: Re: Living Will. It was a chain of seven emails exchanged between them, the last of which was from a week ago.

ML,

I forgot about the Big Sur house. That goes to Ian too. Call me to discuss.

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