A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

Folklore

Carrying the small bundle of clothes he'd just taken out of the dryer, Harry padded barefoot and wet-haired through the silent living room and into the room where he'd spent a nearly sleepless night. It was eleven o'clock in the morning, and judging from the sound of rushing water, he assumed Zayn had also slept late and was now in the shower.

Squinting against a dull, throbbing headache, he went listlessly through the ritual of blowing his hair dry, then he brushed it and pulled on the jeans and sweater he'd worn three days ago when he drove to Amarillo. That morning seemed like weeks ago, because it was the last time everything had been normal. Now nothing was normal anymore, least of all his feelings about himself. He'd been taken hostage by an escaped convict—an event that would have made an ordinary, decent, upstanding man hate his captor and despise everything he represented. Any other moral, respectable twenty-six-year-old man would have fought Zayn Malik at every turn while simultaneously trying to foil his plans, escape from his clutches, and get him recaptured and sent to prison, where he belonged! That's what a good, decent, God-fearing young man would do.

But that wasn't what Harry Mathison had done, Harry thought with bitter self-revulsion. No indeed. Instead, he'd allowed his captor to kiss and touch him; worse, he'd reveled in it. Last night, he'd pretended to himself he only meant to comfort an unfortunate man, that he was merely being kind as he'd been taught to be, but in the harsh light of day, he knew that was a complete lie. If Zayn Malik had been some ugly old man, he wouldn't have flung himself into his arms and tried to kiss away his unhappiness. Nor would he have been so damned eager to believe he was innocent! The truth was that he'd believed Zayn Malik's ridiculous assertions of innocence because he wanted to believe him, and then he'd "comforted" him because he was disgustingly attracted to him. Instead of escaping and getting him recaptured at that rest stop yesterday morning, he'd lain in the snow and kissed him, ignoring the very viable possibility that the truck driver named Pete wouldn't have been hurt if a struggle ensued.

In Keaton, he'd scrupulously evaded the sexual advances of good, decent men while hypocritically congratulating himself on the high moral standards he'd acquired from his adoptive father and mother.

He was attracted to men he knew that, but never once did he let any man approach him because he wanted to be good and not create any rumours about himself. Although his town was a small one, there were some men who has relationships with other men, but they faced a lot of social boycotts. Harry knew he would never be able to come out because then he would have to give up everything he has worked so hard for.

Now, however, the truth was glaringly and painfully obvious: he'd never been sexually attracted to any one not even his god-fearing fiancée, and now he understood why: It was because he could only be attracted to his own kind—social outcasts like Zayn Malik. Decency and respectability didn't turn him on; violence and danger and illicit passion obviously did.

The nauseating reality was that on the outside Harry Mathison might appear to be a righteous, dignified, upstanding citizen, but in his heart, she was still Harry Styles, the street urchin of unknown parentage. The ethics of society hadn't meant anything to him then; obviously, they didn't now. Mrs. Borowski, the head of LaSalle Foster Care Facility, had been right all along. Harry gave the brush a vicious tug while in his mind he heard the woman's acid voice and saw his face, twisted with contempt and knowledge: "A leopard can't change its spots, and neither can you, Harry Styles. You might be able to fool that hoity-toity psychiatrist, but you can't fool me. You're a bad seed just like that movie we saw on television... You'll come to no good, you mark my words... You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and that's what you are—a sow's ear: Birds of a feather flock together, that's why you hang around with trashy street kids. They're just like you—no good ... NO GOOD."