Free Stranger Things Have Happened: An Adrien English Write Your Own Damn Story (The Adrien English Mysteries) by Josh Lanyon Page A

bullshit, but one day when you’re in one of your rare pleasant moods, the two of you start talking about Georges Simenon and French mystery fiction, and it turns out that Jean Paul really has read your book.
    After this you start to see Jean Paul as a person rather than simply a strong back and a muscular pair of arms.
    You’re not sure what Jean Paul sees when he looks at you — other than a patient with SCI and a weak heart. It’s impossible for you to believe that anyone would want you now, so you feel safe opening up to him about things you wouldn’t share with anyone else. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to. Maybe it’s a French thing, but Jean Paul seems absolutely unshockable.
    At first Jean Paul is just a sympathetic and sensible listener, but eventually he opens up to you as well, talking about his childhood in Provence, working in the vineyards, his immigration problems, and the challenges of being a gay man in the nursing profession.
    “Are you in a relationship?” you ask him one morning when he’s taking your blood pressure.
    “Non,” Jean Paul says absently, reminding you of your old friend Claude. “I am, as you would say, married to my work.” He teases, “I am married to you, Adrien.”
    Jean Paul pumps the blood pressure cuff, looks surprised at the reading, and meets your eyes. You feel yourself blushing, though you try to tell yourself you were just making la conversation.
    Later you lie in the bathtub, while Jean Paul bathes your motionless body. Not entirely motionless as your chest does continue to rise and fall, whether you like it or not. It is so strange to see him lift your foot and scrub the sole with the little clear nail brush, but feel nothing. The scented water laps against you, the bubbles snap and dissipate against your pale skin, but it could all be happening to someone else. Your body doesn’t even look like your body anymore. You close your eyes because you hate the sight of the useless carcass that is you.
    When you open your eyes again, Jean Paul is holding your cock in his well-shaped hand and gently washing you. He handles you like you are beautiful and precious, and it is infuriating that you cannot feel his touch. But then a crazy thing happens. Your cock hardens.
    You still can’t feel it — and your erection doesn’t last — but Jean Paul looks at you and smiles widely. “Oh ho ho ,” he says. It is a distinctly French sound.
    You laugh. “I wish —”
    You don’t finish the thought, but Jean Paul studies you with his bright blue eyes. “Moi aussi,” he says softly.
    Your relationship changes subtly but importantly after this, and you begin to spend more and more time with Jean Paul. When he mentions looking for a new apartment, you suggest to Lisa that you would like Jean Paul to be around more, and she invites him to move into the Porter Ranch house as your fulltime “companion.”
    It’s a nice old-fashioned word to cover up the fact that your former friends and acquaintances don’t have time for you now. Or maybe Lisa keeps them away. Sometimes you would prefer to believe that.
    Anyway, Jean Paul agrees — probably because Lisa bribes him heavily with free room and board on top of his already generous salary.
    You tell yourself you’re a realist. You know this is a paid gig for Jean Paul, but he’s kind and attentive and you have to take what you can get. You’re grateful. Mostly. Sometimes you’re resentful, and unlike Jean Paul, you’re not always kind. But Jean Paul doesn’t seem to mind.
    You quickly become inseparable. Which only means he knows what side of the bread his butter is on.
    One autumn afternoon Jean Paul takes you out into the garden and lifts you out of your chair, lying beside you on the green grass and golden leaves. It’s wonderful. The grass tickles your neck and the earth smells warm and alive. Jean Paul kisses you sweetly and then he spends the next half hour making love to you.
    Before your accident you would never