by Anyta Sunday
Under other circumstances, he would’ve too. But for once leaving first thing didn’t feel right.
And he wanted to push through any awkwardness that might have settled over Rory in the night. He was determined to leave on a good note. In fact, he didn’t want to go until Rory suggested meeting up again.
“I’ll have some of that coffee first,” Eric said, perching on a bar stool, “if you don’t mind sharing.”
He rested his hands over a grainy surface. Coffee grains were everywhere. “What happened in here?” he asked, brushing off his arms. “Couldn’t get to the coffee fast enough?”
Rory laughed, grabbing two Disney mugs from the cupboard. “Something like that. Who do you want. Mickey or Donald?”
“Well, I think you should have the mouse. Seems more you.”
“What? The duck is more like me. It’s one letter away from my favorite word.”
Eric laughed. “Ahhh, but remember the F words belong to me. So I’ll have the . . . duck.”
Rory slipped the mug under the coffee machine and pressed go. “What the fuck are these F words, anyway?”
“Are you trying to prove a point or something? I get it, you’re fond of fuck, but give it up now, that mug’s mine.”
Rory handed him the coffee. “Milk? And these F words?”
“Black’s fine.” He took a sip, scolding his upper lip. Yikes that was hot.
“Huh,” Rory said, filling Mickey with coffee. “Interesting. Maybe duck does suit you better.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re ducking my questions.”
Coffee sprayed out of his mouth and over his arm as Eric laughed. He grabbed a paper towel from the top of the fridge and mopped himself up. “I really need a shower now.”
Rory nodded, grinning. “Yeah, that was gross. Go home so I can chat with you.”
“You can chat with me right here.”
“Yeah, but you won’t answer my questions.”
“And it would be so much better online?”
“Well,” Rory lifted his mug and spoke into his coffee, “it’s easier sometimes, isn’t it? Besides, we’re both more tolerable via the web.”
“Move so I can chuck this in the bin?” Rory shifted, and Eric accessed the cupboard. When he shut it, he was standing right in front of Rory. “Well, on my side, I’m about as tolerant as they come. So I’m good right here.”
“Modest, you are.”
Eric stepped back, not breaking their eye contact. “Frank.”
Rory’s brow lifted. “That one of your F words?”
Touché. Eric dropped his gaze and moved around the bench to his barstool and coffee.
“I can be tolerant too,” Rory said. “Or at least have a stab at it.”
They finished their coffee amidst light-hearted chit-chat. As Rory cleaned their mugs, Eric moved into the dining room and looked out the front window. “Nice garden.”
“Yeah. It’s a nice setting to draw, too.”
Eric glanced over his shoulder, light from the bright outdoors blotting his vision. “Can I see something?”
Upstairs, Rory unpacked his sketchbook and flipped to one of the garden. Two girls were lazing on the lawn, laughing. One of the girls plucked petals off a flower, and the other tugged on her sleeve.
“That’s my cousin Lily and her friend. They look all innocent there, but trust me, they were up to no good.” Rory laughed—deep and melodic.
“That’s the third time I’ve heard you laugh,” Eric heard himself saying. “And all of them have been over the last couple of days. First at the pool racing me. Then over coffee. And just now. I thought I’d have had more chance getting hit by lightning.”
“Bugger off. I laugh.”
He sure did.
Eric took the sketchbook, turning the page as he sat on the edge of the bed. Rory stiffened.
“Ah, yeah, I was just—”
“When did you do this?”
“That next day.”
Eric stared at the scene, he and Rory sharing the spotlight. The way they looked at each other on paper was both timid and . . . hopeful? “It’s good. Very good.”
“Yeah, well, I thought so too, at first.” Rory sat next to him and studied the scene. Then he looked up, cocking his head as he studied him. “I didn’t give your eyes enough justice.” He frowned, stood, and grabbed some pencils. Taking the book, he said, “Sit in the armchair for me.”
Eric did as he was told, sinking into the feathered cushions strewn on the seat.
“Lean into the sunlight some. . . Good. Now, let’s turn the tables here.” Rory smirked. “I want you thinking of something you really want.”
What he wanted . . .
His family back.
Out of his dead-end job.
To ditch his F words list and replace it with an S words one: successful, smart, scintillating . . .
But right at that moment, the thing he wanted most was for Rory to suggest them meeting up again.
Rory looked from him to the paper, moving his pencil, eyebrows pushing together as he concentrated.
Eric planted his hands on the chair arms and pushed up from the chair. To get what he wanted, he’d have to nudge the guy in the right direction.
“What are you . . . ? I haven’t finished.”
“I know.”
“Then . . .”
“I’ve got to go. I forgot. I haven’t fed my kitten.”
“What, Yowler?” Rory laid the sketchbook and pencil on the bed. “I was so close.”
“Well, then . . .?” Eric stared at him, willing him to spit it out already, but Rory looked blankly back at him. Sighing, he turned to the door. He’d barely reached it when Rory shuffled behind him and the floor creaked.
Eric looked over his shoulder at Rory standing at the end of the bed, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“I guess . . .” Rory said, “later then?”
He shook his head slightly. “Good enough for now.”
Rory’s expression had ‘huh?’ all over it. “What does that mean?”
“I’ll see you later.”
He went back home on a high. His kitten whined as soon as he opened the door and gave his standard scratchy meow; loud and obnoxious. “Yowler, eh?” he murmured to himself as he followed the sound to the empty food bowl. “So what’ll it be today, Yowler?” he asked, searching his cupboards and pulling out the last two cans of cat food. “Chicken or . . . chicken?”
Rory tried fixing Eric’s eyes by memory, but couldn’t nail it.
He ditched his sketchbook, and grabbed the phone. In all that’d happened since the Forster brothers had broken in, he hadn’t had the chance to tell Lily. He really should ring her.
Because that was the right thing to do.
Not because the house suddenly felt cold and empty now Eric had left, or because he missed hearing her yakking away.
Not in the slightest. . . .
He moved outside onto the deck, into the shade that slanted across it. He turned his back to the barbeque shoved up against the side of the house, and dialed Uncle Davy’s mobile—since his was the only reachable one overseas.
A strong waft of lavender hit the back of his nose. He paused his finger over the call button as the piercing memory overcame him. Uncle Davy slumped in the deck chair, grinding his knuckles against his forehead.
He swallowed and hit call.
His uncle picked up on the fifth ring. “The house not on fire, is it?”
“The house is fine.”
“So then, Rory, what’s up?”
“I just wanted . . . um . . .” He’d rung to talk to Lily, but . . . “Um . . . How’s everything over there?”
There was a pause and wind or something crackled down the line. “The weather’s great. The city’s amazing.”
Interesting, but not the information he was after. “And Lily? How’s she liking it?”
“Fa—” Uncle Davy cleared his throat, “She’s spent all her savings a
lready. I’d say that’s a fair indication she’s having an okay time.”
Rory craned his head and stared at the sky unblemished with clouds. His uncle had been about to crank out his usual “Fact . . .” but’d stopped himself. He’d wished his uncle would just speak normally, but now that he was trying . . .
“This isn’t what you rang for, is it?” Uncle Davy’s voice rumbled softly.
“Well I . . . Fuck.” Rory paced the length of the deck, right to the edge. Flax leaves from a small bush bordering the corner brushed against his ankles. He studied the smooth, dark green as he continued, “I—Thank you,” he finally breathed out. “You know, for . . .”
“Yeah, I get it. Do you . . . need to talk?”
Rory breathed out nice and slow.
“You still there?” Uncle Davy said.
“I think . . . I think I’ve found someone I can talk to about it.” He pushed the flax away with his foot. “Anyway, look, I really hope things are working out for you over there.”
“Me and June, you mean? It will, because I know what I want. And I’m going to get it. I won’t let things lead me away from that.” He didn’t sound arrogant as he said it, more determined. The need vibrated in his tone.
“That sounds . . . sounds great.”
Suddenly a different voice called down the line. Lily had snatched her dad’s phone. “Ro-ry! Oh my God, I love it here. As soon as I’ve finished with school, I’m so coming to live here.”
In the background he heard a snort followed by: “. . . money managing like yours . . . doubt that.”
Lily shot back, “By the way, Dad, you know that guy at the park from before?”
“What guy? . . . saw no guy.”
“You were talking to mum. Anyway, he said he’d totally show me the city from the back of his”—in a lower voice—“quick, Rory, give me a bike name!”
“You’re terrible. Triumph Rocket.”
“. . . his Triumph Rocket or something. He said it does a quarter mile in, like . . .”
“Twelve seconds,” Rory supplied.
“Only twelve seconds! How cool right? We could cover a lot of city.”
His uncle’s voice sliced down the line. “You’d better not be egging her on.”
“Dad, get off, give it back. I’m just teasing.”
“I’m locking you in your room.”
Lily laughed, and said to Rory, “So, where were we?”
Rory told her about the Forsters’s break in.
She said, “Crap, they’re looking for Jared’s diary.”
“Do I want to know why they’d be looking for that in your room?”
“I snitched it. I wanted to see if he had a thing for Sammy, but it’s in some type of code I haven’t cracked. Yet.”
When Rory finally—reluctantly—got off the phone and put it on the hook, the empty house seemed even bigger than before. He flopped onto the couch in the living room, and thought about what his uncle said. Then he closed his eyes and listed all the things he wanted.
All the things he was going to get. . . .
First on his list was making it up to Eric.
After dropping Willow off on Monday, Rory beelined to Eric’s place. He knew he had about an hour before the guy finished work.
So he’d work quickly.
He sidled past cabbage trees to the side of the villa. Crunching his way down a narrow gravel path, hedged with corrugated iron, he got to the back of the property. Weeds and long grass waved to him in a small breeze. The yard was a decent size. With some trimming, Eric could really have something.
Rory reached into his pocket, pulling out a notebook and pen. After scratching a quick note, he moved to the windows. On his third try, he found the broken window Eric loathed.
It was higher up than he’d have liked.
Searching the grounds for something to prop him up, Rory’s gaze latched onto an old metal bucket.
He grabbed it, flipped it upside down under the loose window, and stepped up. There was a ‘ding’ as the metal buckled under him. It held his weight, but barely, and probably not for long.
Yanking open the window, he wedged his upper half inside. The window protested, thumping Rory’s back, knocking the breath from him.
Holding the sill, he wriggled in. It was awkward, and his wrist caught on something jagged, shooting pain up his arm, but he finally tumbled inside.
A cut on his wrist welled with blood. “Fuck it.”
Rory cleaned up the smear it’d left on the sill and rummaged through Eric’s bathroom cupboards until he found the plasters.
Which were right next to an opened box of condoms and tube of—
He shut the cupboard.
He really did not need to think about Eric’s sex life right now. Or have the reminder of Rory’s non-existent one.
With his notebook and pen in hand, Rory jotted notes.
When he got to the living room, a yowl and hiss welcomed him.
“Yeah, get over it,” he shot back to the tiny grey furball.
The kitten kept up the long-winded meows, sounding eerily human. “Oh, just shut it already. Two can play that game.” He whined back at it.
Well, that just seemed to make it worse. “Don’t you need to breathe?”
Rory moved to the cat. Its back arched even more as he drew closer.
He held out his hands as if it would pacify it. “Look, I’m not doing anything wrong here. No need to sound the burglar alarm.”
Well, not really.
Rory turned his back and tried ignoring it. He started a couple more bullet points, but the cat Just. Wouldn’t. Stop.
“Seriously? Am I that repugnant to you?”
He grabbed the little kitten by the scruff, holding him away out of scratching reach, and dropped him in the hall, shutting the door.
The cries didn’t stop.
But at least they were muted.
He caught sight of the food and water bowl in the corner of the kitchen, and scowling—because the thing didn’t really deserve it—he placed them in the hall too.
Finally, he circled the dining room/lounge/kitchen. The space was decent, but it looked so sparse and cold with only the table, chairs and unpainted walls. The guy needed a couch and rug—something to make it less of a house and more of a home.
It was no wonder he was depressed living here. The only ornament on display was the glass jar urn on the mantel piece.
The emptiness had Rory brimming with questions.
Maybe Eric would go swimming tonight and he could fish for the answers?
Even though Rory waited until closing time, Eric didn’t show up at the pools that night.
In fact, they didn’t see each other again until Wednesday evening—after two more days of sneaking into Eric’s house on the sly to show him the “thanks” he seemed incapable of saying.
“Alcatraz?” Eric said after they’d exhausted themselves with sixty laps of freestyle.
Rory laughed, pulling himself onto the edge of the pool. “I seriously hope you’re following that up with something. Because if you think that might be my middle name . . .”
“You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?” Eric said, and ducked under the lane divider, resurfacing in front of him. “Admit it, you love me guessing.”
“It’s . . . amusing, yes.”
Eric smiled, then dove under the water, pushed against the wall, and did another lap. The guy had good form, head at the right angle, arms extending fully, but his pivot was slightly off. He didn’t rotate enough with each stroke and it shortened his pull through the water. With a bit of work, Eric could give Rory a real . . . swim for his money.
Eric’s hand slid over Rory’s legs as he reached for the wall. Only a brief touch, but the feel of it lingered, threatening to climb higher, to his thigh, his groin.
He missed what Eric said then, and shook his head. “Huh?”
“I said I’m done,” Eric lifted himself out of the pool. “I’m also starving. How d
o you feel about grabbing some Indian takeaways?”
“Ah . . . good?” Yeah, really good.
It was a great opportunity to get some answers . . .
And not having to make dinner for one was a plus.
Rory dropped his bike home and went with Eric in his pickup to grab some masala, korma and naan.
They ended up taking it back to Eric’s.
“Yowler, back off,” Eric said when Rory unpacked the food onto the table and his kitten jumped on the table, passing Rory with a hiss.
Rory paused, the hot masala container burning his fingers. Yowler? He hurriedly put the container down. Eric had named him? Had taken his idea?
“What are you smiling at?” Eric asked, picking Yowler off the table. He stroked the hissy furball as he placed him in front of the cat bowls.
“Nothing. He didn’t try to scratch me this time though—that’s a first. Things are looking up.”
Eric took a seat opposite him. He stared a moment. It seemed as if his gaze carefully sketched his expression. Shit, he’d probably been smiling like an idiot.
“You know,” Rory said, “you really need to get more furniture. A couch, rug, TV . . . It sort of feels like sitting in a museum right now. Actually, abandoned warehouse is more accurate.”
“You’re right,” Eric grabbed the rice and piled some onto his plate. Then passed it to him. “But I’ve got to get the place painted first. Then I can think about that.”
“And when were you planning on painting?”
“I’ve got the color in the closet. But I just finished getting the walls prepared. I’m taking a creative break. Not that you can call what I did creative. But, I’m sick of all the blisters, so . . .”
“Gotcha.”
As they ate dinner, they talked. And then somehow, and he couldn’t for the life of him think how they got to the topic, but suddenly he found himself asking about the future.
“If your job is such a dead end,” he said, “why don’t you quit and go back to uni?”
Eric mopped the last of the korma off his plate with the naan, circling round and round. “I want to.”
“But?”
His glance to the jar on the mantelpiece told Rory most of the answer. Eric supplied the rest. “When Grandpa died, I spent my savings on his funeral—”