The F Words

by Anyta Sunday

  me:

  Still haven’t got a name for my kitten

  No response. But there was no message popping up telling him Rory was offline.

  ---------------------- 1 minute

  me:

  Aladdin?

  Oh no, wait . . .

  Alabaster?

  In the chat screen the little message “Rory is typing” showed up.

  And then it went away again.

  Well, Eric wasn’t letting that slide by so easily.

  me:

  I saw you typing. What were you going to say?

  Rory:

  Where the hell do you get all these names from?

  me:

  I search for the worst ‘A’ names parents give their kids.

  Rory:

  Jesus fuck. There are some disturbed parents out there.

  me:

  That there is.

  Rory:

  At least mine’s only a middle name.

  That’s not to say my parents aren’t stupid

  They have their moments

  . . .

  And that was it. Success! He and Rory were chatting again.

  It took four more evenings of chatting before Rory showed up at the pools again. Eric held back a hurrah as he moved toward the fifth swimming lane, where Rory stood, curling his toes over the edge of the pool, scanning the water. Or the people in it.

  Could he be looking for him?

  Giving up on his search, Rory lowered his goggles over his eyes.

  Eric cleared his throat, and the guy twisted in his direction, yanking the goggles up to his forehead.

  “Good to see you here again,” Eric said, stopping in front of him.

  Rory crossed his arms over his chest—just as broad as Eric’s but possibly a touch leaner. The guy looked made for water, his smooth skin and corded muscles made him look . . . streamlined somehow.

  “Uh, I was just going to do some lengths,” Rory said, his feet shifting slightly as he switched his weight.

  It’d taken over six hours of chatting to get to this point, and the last thing Eric wanted to do was scare the guy off. It felt like they were finally getting closer and more accepting of each other’s company—online at least—but now they had to bridge the same gap in real life, too. And Eric was going to make it as easy as possible. He’d make sure Rory knew all was good between them.

  “Lengths, eh? How about some sprints instead?”

  Rory lowered his arms, relaxing. “You suggesting we race?”

  “Great idea. Freestyle.” Eric moved to the lane next to Rory’s. “There and back. And let’s add to the stakes . . . the loser has to buy drinks for the both of us.”

  Rory hummed for a second. “Okay, deal.”

  “On three then.”

  Rory lowered his goggles.

  “One . . . two . . . three!”

  Eric let Rory dive in a fraction before he did. It was his plan to let Rory win and put him in a good mood. He swam half-heartedly, checking to see how far up Rory was and keeping behind him. The guy was slower than Eric would have guessed. In fact, at not even half a length, Rory had slowed dramatically.

  Eric made his strokes clumsier in an effort to stay behind him but, in all honesty, it was getting difficult to swim this badly.

  Then, two-thirds through the length, Rory stopped and looked across the aisle at him. Eric mirrored him, treading water.

  “You okay?” Eric said.

  “There is no fucking way you are this shit at swimming,” Rory said.

  “That’s rich coming from you.”

  Suddenly, a low rumbling laugh bounced over the surface of the water. “Shit. You were letting me win, weren’t you?”

  “And trust me that was a difficult feat in itself.”

  The laugh came again, and Eric couldn’t stop a grin.

  “Come on,” Rory said and lazily stroked toward the end of the pool. There, he hung onto the base of the diving stand. “Let’s try this again. For real this time.” Rory raised his brows at him. “No holding back.”

  “Maybe just a little? I really don’t want you to feel so bad about yourself.”

  Rory laughed louder this time. “We’ll see who feels bad. Two lengths. All out.”

  Rory counted to three this time, and as wished, Eric cut through the water at his normal sprinting speed. This fast, he couldn’t check how far behind Rory was. At the end, he flipped and pushed off the wall. He gave an extra ten percent in the final meters of the race.

  He touched the wall and looked behind him.

  “Not bad,” came Rory’s voice to his side.

  Eric jerked his head around. “What the—” It took him a second of searching Rory’s amused expression before he got it. “Oh crap, you were letting me win.” He laughed. “Why’d you want me to win?”

  “Why did you?”

  Eric looked down the lanes. “How much did you win by?”

  “Good few seconds.”

  “Guess you could give me pointers.”

  “Sure could.”

  Eric flicked some water at Rory’s face. “How about some more lengths before that drink I owe you?”

  They spent the next hour swimming, Rory ahead of him eighty percent of the time. Only in backstroke it seemed Eric had the advantage.

  Finally, they pulled themselves out of the water, grabbed their gear from the cubby holes, and headed for the changing rooms. It was eerily empty inside, only two guys dressed at the back of the room.

  Eric headed to the showers, where he stripped and let the clean water run over him as he scrubbed up with soap. He heard Rory pad into a shower a couple down from his, then his hiss and curse at the ice-fucking-freezing water hit him. Apparently the shower wasn’t working right, because Rory clunked his way into the one next to Eric’s.

  “If that one doesn’t work, I’m almost done with mine,” he said.

  “Nah, this one’s good.”

  Eric stayed longer than usual in the shower, the warmth of the water felt too damn good to get out of, even if he had to keep pressing the button for it to come back on.

  He finished up at the same time as Rory. Grabbing his towel and gear, he moved to the benches the main changing area. He scrubbed his hair dry, and patted his face. And it was as he dropped his towel to the bench that he noticed Rory half way across the room, glued to the spot, blinking at him.

  As soon as Rory noticed Eric looking his way, he reddened and hurriedly turned his back, dashing to the private cubicles. And it was impossible to miss his swearing. “Fuck it!”

  Eric tensed, chucking on his jeans and t-shirt. He knew if he didn’t make this better quickly, Rory would close up again.

  It crossed his mind briefly whether helping Rory to move on was worth the effort—he obviously had a load of issues that was going to cost Eric a bucketload of patience—but he quickly dismissed the thought.

  There was something about Rory that he genuinely liked, that interested him, that he wanted to understand. Every time they chatted, Eric learned something new about the guy and oftentimes it was something that made him want to find out more.

  So yes, it was worth the patience.

  Dressed, Eric moved to Rory’s cubicle and leaned against the outside door. “I need a name for my kitten. Can you help?”

  The shuffling inside stopped and it was quiet a moment, and then, “You are the master at coming up with names. You don’t need me.”

  “The master at terrible names. Maybe you should oversee things?”

  There came the sound of a zip closing and the rustling of plastic bags. Eric stepped away from the door as he heard the lock snap open.

  Rory came out of the room, dressed, and slung his bag over his shoulder. When he looked up, their eyes met. They held it for a few moments longer than normal, and Eric noted the stubbornness in them—as if he’d challenged himself not to chicken out and look away.

  Eric let him have his moment, glancing down first. “So, think you could help?”r />
  “What, exactly, are you suggesting?”

  “I owe you a drink. Come to my place, I’ll make you a cuppa tea or something, and you can give me some thoughts on names.”

  “Well, I’m really more of a dog person. . . ”

  “That’s the bitchiest excuse I’ve ever heard.”

  “Haw-haw. Funny. Fine, I think I could do that.”

  “Good then.” He gestured toward the exit. “Follow the pickup back to my place.”

  Eric held the door open. The slam of the bathroom window greeted them. God, his place was such a dump, what had he been thinking inviting Rory here?

  Well, too late for that now. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Come on in. Ignore the . . . well, everything.” As Rory moved to the living room, he looked from the walls to the ceiling, all smoothed now, but patchy and in desperate need for a paint. “It’s a work in progress.”

  Rory shrugged and moved to the broken fridge. Eric was using it as a cupboard until his replacement was shipped, and he’d draped a towel over the door so it didn’t shut, and aired properly.

  “Yeah, I’m not the handiest-man.”

  Rory said, “There might be worse.”

  “Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”

  He was graced with a grin.

  Eric shook his head. “So, drink?”

  “Depends on what it is.” He glanced at the fridge and back. “Nothing with milk in it.”

  “Look who’s funny now.”

  Rory smirked. “So where’s that kitten of yours?”

  Eric pointed to the table. “On the chair at the end. It’s his favorite spot. Chai tea?”

  “Sure.”

  He pulled two cups out of the cupboard and boiled some water. Behind him came a whine, followed by a hiss.

  “You little bugger! Get off.”

  Turning, he watched his kitten swinging off Rory’s arm, claws digging through a thin layer of his sleeve. The kitten hissed and fell, twisting to the ground, landing on all four paws. He hissed once more before promptly jumping back onto his chair and curling up.

  “Yeah . . . I have some names for him already,” Rory said, backing up to the fireplace. “Evil and Scratchy come to mind. I don’t think he likes me, eh.” He rolled up his sleeve and checked his arm. “Though probably smart, that is.”

  “You all right?” Eric moved around the kitchen island and over to Rory. “Need anything?”

  Rory inspected the small cuts into his skin. “Nah, it’ll be fine. Nasty’s a fine name too.”

  “Ah, I’m sure he’ll come around to you eventually.”

  Rory paused, swallowed and nodded. “Yeah”—he carefully pulled down his sleeve—“and rather sooner than later. How’s that tea coming?”

  Eric retreated, only looking at him again as he poured water into their cups. Rory leaned against the fire mantel, staring at his jar.

  “That’s my grandpa.”

  Rory glanced at him and back again. “Fancy urn.”

  “It’s not meant to be permanent.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Eric took Rory’s tea to him. “Gotta let him go soon.”

  Rory didn’t press to know more. Just murmured a thanks as he took his tea.

  “Want to sit down?” Eric asked, dragging himself out a seat.

  “As long as it’s not next to Hell over there.”

  “Yeah, look, I was thinking of a sweeter name. Something along the lines of fluffy.”

  Rory snorted and took a chair. “Fluffy my arse. Fury might work though . . . Tea’s good,” Rory frowned when something on the floor caught his eye. He bent over, reaching under the table.

  “What ya got—”

  Eric saw it. The bright blue of the birthday card Will and Heath had sent him. It had to have fallen from his kitten’s chair in the little spat he’d had with Rory. He didn’t want Rory to look at it too closely.

  “Thanks,” Eric said, reaching over for it back.

  “When was it your birthday?” Rory asked, beginning to hand it over.

  Eric shrugged. “Ages ago.”

  Rory paused and pulled back his hand. “Ages ago, eh? Interesting, since you haven’t lived here that long.” He opened the card and quickly shut it again. Then stared hard at—through?—Eric as if calculating it all. “Oh fuck. That was your birthday? And I pissed all over it being stupid and drunk?”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “No big deal. Yeah, right. Damn you, Eric, you should have said something.”

  “So what? You could buy me a present? Yeah, right. And I don’t care for any of that. I just wanted to go out, and we did. You said yes, and I—and that was all I wanted.”

  Rory ran a hand through his hair. He opened his mouth to say something and clapped it shut again. Standing, he said, “I’ve got to go.”

  On impulse, Eric stood too, wishing to stop him. “What? Why—”

  Sad eyes met his. “Because you’ve only been fucking kind to me, and look at how I’ve repaid you. I tried to lose that race today because I know how much I owe you and it was meant to be a start. Jesus.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. And I tried to lose today, too.”

  “Why? Because you think you owe me something?”

  “No. Because I wanted you happy.”

  Rory blinked, and stepping back toward the way out, he said in a gravelly voice, “I’ve got . . . sorry, I’ve got to go.”

  Some way or other, Rory would have to make it up to Eric. But he’d had to leave like he did—he was pissed at himself, and that wasn’t fun to be around.

  He slammed the letter box shut, cramming junk mail under his arm as he walked up the path, fishing for his keys.

  Why did Eric try so hard with him? He had the patience of a fucking saint. If it had been the other way around, Rory would have taken off long ago.

  ’Course, he was grateful Eric didn’t. Truth was, he needed this whatever-it-was between them. He liked—no, frigging loved—chatting with Eric. And seeing him in real life added a dimension to it that, well, was beginning to become addictive—

  Rory stopped suddenly on the porch, keys jangling in his grip. At his feet sat a butter pumpkin, but that wasn’t what had stilled him. The front door had the spare keys hanging from the lock. He pressed against the handle, and it swung open.

  Someone was in the house.

  The mail slipped from his grip, pelting onto the floor. He crept forward. Should he scare the bastards or call the cops?

  Something clattered, sounding like it was coming from above.

  Rory took the stairs two at a time. Scaring it was.

  At the top, he heard voices. Boys’ voices. “You hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Like a creaking—shit. Someone’s coming. Quick!”

  “I don’t have it yet.”

  “Who cares—we gotta split!”

  The pounding of footsteps came down the hall. A young bloke with a mop of curly brown hair and a t-shirt of bone prints ran toward him.

  “Oh fuckit!”

  “Fuckit, all right.” Rory lunged for him, but the sneaky rat dodged him and slipped down the stairs.

  There was no way he could catch the both of them, but one would be enough. He hurried toward where he guessed the boys had been: Lily’s room. Who else were they but the Forster devils?

  Pranking was all fine and good if they were just messing around, but breaking into someone’s home? That crossed the line.

  Air breezed into his face as he turned into Lily’s room. The second boy was trying to climb out the window, one leg thrown over the sill, maneuvering out.

  Rory stormed across the room, nicking his shin against Lily’s bed and cursing as he grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt.

  “You’re not getting away from me, you little shit. What are you doing in Lily’s room?”

  He pulled the boy back into the room, turned him around and—

  He let go, drawing in a sharp breath.

 
; The face looking back at him . . .

  He stepped back, legs knocking into the bed.

  It was . . . such an uncanny likeness.

  The boy took his chances and fled out the room.

  Rory didn’t bother giving chase. He couldn’t if he’d wanted.

  He sat on the end of the bed and scrubbed his face as if he could tear away the sight. And the sudden wash of nostalgia that came with it.

  The boy looked exactly like William had when they first met all those years ago. William was here. In Wellington.

  Just down the fucking street.

  Chapter Nine

  Anxiety and panic consumed him, making him blind. Before Rory knew what he was doing, he had written a pitiful goodbye line to Eric and was stuffing his clothes into his bags. The need to run propelled him to get all his shit together as soon as he bloody-well could.

  He wasn’t thinking. He was working on instinct—habit.

  Where would he go? Nelson? Westport?

  Where the fuck was left?

  Maybe he needed to go to Australia and lose himself in the outback or something.

  He zipped up his final bag.

  Everything he owned sat in the corner of the room, ready to be taken down to his motorbike. Everything except his art container. God. He hated and loved that damn thing. Pointless hope, is what it was. What it always had been.

  He dragged it out from under the bed. Hadn’t he promised himself to get rid of it? To burn and bury it once and for all? So why hadn’t he?

  He squeezed the container, unable to dent the hard plastic. With a curse, he collapsed onto the bed.

  What the fuck was he doing?

  Distance hadn’t solved anything before . . . why would it now? If he kept running from William, William would just keep following him. He knew this. Knew it.

  He unscrewed the container and pulled out his sketches one by one. Each one, each new angle of his face brought back a dozen memories, making it feel, by the time he pulled out the largest piece, that William’s ghost had been summoned and he was in the room with him right now.