Digging Deep

by Jay Hogan

  Me: Thanks for the lunch. I should be done in the bathroom by Christmas, all things considered.

  Caleb: Hey. Not my fault you can’t order for shit… lol… pun intended.

  Bastard.

  The next week saw the delivery of an actual beautiful bouquet of flowers. Based on Caleb’s previous efforts, I searched vainly for the hidden joke for quite some time before finally accepting they were exactly what they appeared to be, whilst at the same time horrified at the unexpected skippy thing going on in my chest. No one had ever sent me flowers, and if asked I’d have sworn I wasn’t that type of guy. Turns out I so fucking was. Who knew?

  Me: Thanks.

  (No need to feed his already healthy ego, right?)

  Caleb: Welcome.

  Guess I’d asked for that.

  A few days later I got a small envelope in the clinic mail. As usual the girls were front and centre for the opening, having separated it out from the other mail by virtue of the four-leaf clover sticker on the front, and kept it hidden till we were all present. Thoughtful of them.

  After gently lifting the seal, I tipped the contents into my palm and stared at it. Huh. A silver medallion on a chain. There was a figure stamped on the medallion, so I took it to the window and held it up to the light. Looked like a monk. I read the name beneath but was none the wiser other than this was a clear nod to my Irish side.

  “Saint Bonaventure,” I explained.

  “And…?” Carly pressed.

  I shrugged. “No idea.”

  Dana pulled out her phone. “I’ll google it.” A few seconds later she dissolved into a fit of giggles. “Oh my God, this guy is priceless.”

  “What?” I hurried over and grabbed the phone from her hand, reading the description aloud. “Saint Bonaventure, patron saint of… and I’m gonna kill him…” I looked up. “… bowel disorders.”

  Both women collapsed into howls of laughter. I didn’t know whether to be mortified or fucking charmed.

  “Oh come on, Drake, it’s hilarious.”

  “Glad you think so,” I grumbled, then unable to hold back any longer, I joined in, laughing so hard I had to wipe my eyes.

  Dana eventually calmed and blew her nose in a tissue. “Holy hell. I haven’t laughed like that in ages.”

  Me: Saint Bonaventure? Really? Who the fuck gives the saint of bowel disorders a name that means good luck?

  Caleb: It’s good luck that you found him. Problem solved now, right?

  Then three days ago, we moved back into the realm of the fondly peculiar when I arrived at the clinic after a morning of mother/baby visits to find Dana and Carly busy trying to pry open the corner of a carton the size of a six-pack of beer. The bow it sported probably ruled that particular probability out. Watching over their efforts with a bemused expression on her face was one of Dana’s heavily pregnant clients.

  “Yours, I take it,” the woman said to me with a grin.

  “In all likelihood,” I grumbled. “Though you wouldn’t know it judging by the gruesome twosome there.”

  “Hey.” Dana turned an innocent eye on me, a wad of wrapping paper sticking out of her fist. “We’re just looking out for you. Who knows what could be lurking inside.”

  “Of course you are.” I pulled the package away from their prying hands to my end of the desk, surprised at its weight. The courier label identified the sender as one C. Ashton. I smiled, wondering what in the hell the idiot had sent now.

  “I’ll start here, shall I?” I tucked my fingers into the hole left by Dana’s previous efforts and eyeballed her.

  She might have blushed.

  I deliberately unwrapped the thing in slow motion to the mounting frustration of my two colleagues, who almost couldn’t contain themselves. Finally I pushed it aside. “Nah, I think I should wait till I get home.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Dana’s client appeared at my left shoulder. “They didn’t say what was going on, but with all this damn palaver, I’m guessing it’s good. I’m a week overdue, sonny. I’m hoping whatever happens here will break my waters.”

  Never argue with a heavily pregnant woman.

  “I’m charging you an induction fee if it works,” I teased, and in less than a couple of seconds, I had the paper off and was holding the box in my hands, staring at the label in frozen wonder. Oh. My. God.

  “What the fuck?” Carly pulled the carton over and opened the end to peek inside. “Yep, just as it says. Goddamn.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Dana threw a nervous glance my way. “Spam? Is he taking the piss or something?”

  “Or something,” I answered before dissolving into more laughter and reaching for my phone.

  Me: Thanks. I’ll save it for my sushi…

  Caleb: Sushi? WTF Are you insane?

  Hah! A Korean food practice he didn’t know about.

  THREE DAYS later and I was still grinning every time I caught sight of the three cans of premium Spam arranged on my bookcase like a hopeful chorus line with the Saint Bonaventure medal draped over top. The girls had taken some serious convincing that Spam was in fact an esteemed and well-considered Korean gift, remembering the dark postwar days when meat was a scarcity. Caleb was letting me know he’d done his research. Like so many Kiwis, ours was a family with roots in more than one culture or even two, and my parents did their best to pay respect to that. That bloom of warmth in my chest grew exponentially and something suspiciously resembling hope came alive deep inside.

  That, together with a positive doctor’s appointment and my much-improved level of health, and I was done pretending I wasn’t going to give the guy a chance.

  I grabbed my phone and pulled up his name.

  Caleb

  I REREAD Drake’s text for the umpteenth time, trying to squeeze as much from every syllable as I could. To say the guy was economical with words was putting it mildly.

  Drake: My place Saturday evening, six? I’ll cook. Don’t bring anything… least of all any ‘expectations’.

  I grinned. Aw, I’m sure you’re a good cook.

  Drake: Funny guy… I meant romantic expectations.

  Me: So is this a date?

  Drake: I rest my case. It’s dinner. Don’t push it.

  I’d take that. Then sure, I’m free.

  Drake: Somehow I highly doubt that.

  Yes! I fist-pumped the air and made a mental note to thank Leanne for putting a kibosh on the whole singing telegram thing even if it had taken me fifty million damn hours of research, a phone call to Carmen, and a fuck-ton of Indian takeout to nail the Spam idea. Who in their right mind would’ve guessed Spam was gonna be the ultimate answer to my romantic dilemma?

  Mind you, finding where to buy the right stuff had taken a visit to our custody officer, Zane Seo, and a series of phone calls to his mother to organise an overnight delivery from the specialty store she used in Auckland. Of course, I then had to drop off a thank-you gift to said elderly saviour. That alone took two hours and more banana milk than you can possibly imagine. And who even knew that was a thing?

  But it had worked. I stared at the text. Romantic expectations? Was he nuts? Holy shit. I felt like I’d won the fucking lottery just getting an invite to a meal. I’d never had to work so hard for a guy’s attention in all my life. The man could feed me liver and tripe and spit on my shoes on the way out and I’d still count it as a win.

  Saturday. I glanced at the calendar. Fuck. Two days. Nerves skittered in my belly. I should take something, right? That would be the polite thing to do. No guy had ever cooked me dinner, so I didn’t have a clue. Wine? Shit. No. He didn’t drink. Dessert? But what? Without a good handle on what was safe for him to eat, it would be just my luck to turn up with something guaranteed to trigger a flare. Flowers? Nah, I’d done that already, twice. God, I was such a loser. I reached for my phone and scrolled the contacts.

  “Hey, Mrs Seo, got a minute?”

  Chapter Seven

  Caleb

  THE DOORBELL went bang on six; the gu
y was punctual, at least. My townhouse kitchen was small but perfectly formed and stocked with every conceivable appliance and ingredient I could possibly fit in it, and then some. I prepared 90 percent of my own meals and I liked to think I was a better than average cook, but to be honest, I was just a kitchen gadget whore.

  I gave the quinoa a quick stir, wiped my hands on the tea towel tucked into the waistband of my favourite soft jeans, and checked myself in the mirror, trying one last time to get my damn cowlick to sit flat. Like that ever happened when I needed it to. I ran my fingers through my hair and mussed it up a bit, aiming instead for the sexy tousled look. If you can’t beat ’em….

  The bell went again just as I reached the door and I caught Caleb with his finger still on the button when I swung it open. A blush ran to his cheeks. He was clearly nervous, and I found that incredibly flattering and a surprising turn-on. Along with whatever citrusy cologne he was wearing, it prompted an interesting dialogue in my nether regions, one I was at pains to ignore.

  “Oh, hi,” he said, immediately dropping his arm.

  I grinned. “Hi. Come in.” I stepped back to let him pass, trying not to look too damn obvious as I leaned in slightly to get another whiff of that scent.

  He turned, wearing a crooked smile. “Did you just sniff me?”

  I shrugged it off. “Maybe. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  He caught sight of the pile of shoes at the front door and promptly added his own.

  “After you.” I waved my arm, directing him down the hall and into the lounge.

  He leaned in, unexpectedly pressing the softest of kisses to my cheek before leaving me standing at the door, mouth gaping. Well, shit. That wasn’t in the plan.

  “Hey, no expectations, remember?” I said, sounding a lot less pissed than I’d aimed for.

  “You talk a good game, Drake Park,” he answered over his shoulder as he disappeared into the lounge. Then his head popped back, and he winked. “But I think you’re full of it.”

  He disappeared and a grin flew unbidden to my lips before I could stop it. Fuck. Two minutes in and the guy had already given me the speed wobbles. A draught of cool air brushed my bare forearms. Yeah, I was still hanging on to the damn door. I shut it firmly, sliding the lock in place with extra oomph. Like I needed to do with my stupid heart. The guy was interested, I already knew that. Didn’t mean anything in the long run, not really.

  So why did you ask him to dinner, then? Why encourage him? Yeah, about that. The quick answer, I still wasn’t sure. I’d in fact spent the last two days rethinking my decision, convincing myself I was only being nice and that the man deserved something at least before I brushed him off. For all the effort he’d put in if nothing else. Jesus, I’d almost rescinded the invitation due to panic twice in that time.

  But underneath my bluster, the inevitable truth outed. I liked him. It was as simple and as complicated as that. Caleb made me laugh, something sorely missing in my day-to-day life. In less than three weeks, he’d gotten under my skin like a fucking tick, focussing my attention on his unexpected presence in my life. He was the itch I had to scratch, and I’d come to rely on those stupid texts to lift my day, bringing a smile to my lips every time I felt the vibration in my pocket. If they came when I was with a client, I’d sometimes excuse myself to the toilet so I could see what idiotic message he’d sent rather than wait till I was done. Pathetic much?

  Same with the crazy deliveries. He had this twisted way of thinking that just got me, drew me in. I was hooked and he was reeling me in, playing me on the long-line and I was damn well letting him. I don’t even think he knew he was doing it, not consciously, at least not in the way he thought he was.

  Sure, he was “wooing” me as he ridiculously called it, but the honest truth was it wasn’t the gifts or the texts, it was simply the attention and the effort he was putting in… for me. And not to just fuck me. There was way too much investment going on for a single nut and run. Besides, I knew he understood the basics of that minefield. But his stubborn attitude and open enthusiasm to at least try had finally won me over.

  Not that I was gonna tell him that.

  I joined him in the lounge to find him wandering the room studying my family photos and other various memorabilia and boardgames with unaffected curiosity. Admittedly, I had a lot of stuff. The vagaries of my disease meant I could spend a fair amount of time on my couch on occasion, and I’d found having those tangible memories and an ample supply of quirky artefacts, particularly old puzzles, was an effective distraction, a reminder of the other side of life when I was lost in my body’s complications.

  To that end I’d tried to make the room as cosy and welcoming as I could with overstuffed neutral-toned furniture, a bleached wood coffee table and matching bookcase, a hand knotted cream-and-blue rug, sea and cityscape photography on the wall, and soft table lamps rather than a harsh overhead light.

  He turned when he heard me enter, his amused smile widening as he took in the array of protest leaflets fanned out across my breakfast bar. To his credit he made no comment.

  Then he reached into his pocket. “I, ah, brought you something,” he said, holding out a small package and using both hands in respectful Korean fashion.

  I stared at the unexpected gift.

  He cleared his throat. “I thought about wine or food but… well, you know, unsafe territory, right? And I don’t really know you that well.” He smiled. “Not yet anyways.”

  I cocked a brow. “A confident man.” He bit his lip and ugh….

  “I’d like to think… hopeful, is the more accurate term,” he said, wearing a guileless expression.

  “Riiiight.” I turned the gift over in my hands, studying it with caution. “I’m almost too scared to open it.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I’d hate to leave you hanging.” I sent him a wicked smirk. “Not that I’d ever do that, of course.” And oh my God, where did that come from?

  His back straightened and his eyes popped overly dramatically. “Drake Park, did you just flirt with me? I’m shocked.”

  I grinned. “I doubt that.” I narrowed my gaze. “It’s just that your choice of gifts is… startling at times. I’m preparing myself.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I can see why you might feel the need to be… careful.”

  I lifted the package to the light and turned it over. “Seems safe enough.”

  Caleb chuckled. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

  “Says the man who had six aloe vera plants delivered to the clinic for comfort of my arsehole. Right, here goes.” I held the envelope at arm’s length, carefully opened it, and peeked inside to find two small travel packages of laundry detergent. A choking laugh broke from my throat. “Oh. My. God. You are kidding me.” I threw them playfully his way. “You are officially crazy.”

  Caleb’s grin split from ear to ear. “Come on, admit it. I’m good at this shit, right?”

  “Someone helped you. Spit it out. No pasty-faced Kiwi cop―”

  He elbowed me. “Hey, who you calling pasty-faced?”

  Awesome Star Wars connect, but I ignored him and simply waited.

  Eventually he threw up his hands. “Okay, I might have had a modicum of assistance.”

  I snorted. “A modicum, huh?” That’s where that adjective shit was coming from.

  “Let’s just say I’ve discovered the terrifying superpowers of Korean mothers, even if only by association, but that’s all I’m at liberty to say.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “How…?”

  “Don’t ask,” Caleb said with a finger to his lips. “But, goddamn, those women are tenacious. If I weren’t gay, I’m pretty sure she’d have had me married to her daughter as quick as a flash. The girl’s a lawyer, don’t you know.” He winked.

  I simply stared. “I’m still waiting.”

  He sighed. “Spoilsport. If you must know, she’s the mother of our custody officer, who’s also gay, as it happens. I think she w
as somewhat bemused at the idea, but she was a good sport about it.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t suggest a gazillion rolls of toilet paper,” I said only half-jokingly.

  “She did,” he admitted with a smirk. “But considering my recent gift history, I wanted a fighting chance of not being thrown out in the first five minutes, and Mama Seo agreed.”

  I snorted. “Mama Seo?”

  He grinned. “Hey I told you, we bonded.” He held up two crossed fingers. “That woman loves me.”

  I snorted. “Of course she does.”

  We sat in silence for a minute. To say I was blown away was putting it mildly. Still, a little fuckery was definitely called for. I side-eyed him. “You do realise the Korean community is pretty close-knit in Whangarei, right?”

  He nodded mildly. “I imagine so.”

  Oh, the innocence of it. I bit back a smile. “As in very close-knit. And Dad likes to keep us connected to our cultural roots, Irish, Fijian, and Korean.” I left that hanging.

  You could tell the minute he got it. His eyes went wide and his face blanched. “Oh, sweet Jesus. She’ll know exactly who you are, right?”

  I nodded with a smile.

  “Your parents and her….”

  “Will know each other.”

  “So, if I meet them….”

  “They’ll know everything.”

  He sank into the chair with a horrified expression. “Holy fuck.”

  I sank down beside him and patted his thigh in sympathy. “Welcome to my life.”

  Caleb

  THE WHOLE outlandish gift thing broke the ice, and the rest of the evening went smoothly—scratch that, it went bloody great. We talked up a storm, covering everything from Greenpeace and the state of alternative power choices in New Zealand, to the methamphetamine crisis, prison terms, and midwifery legislation. Not to mention damn, the guy could seriously cook. He served up some poached chicken and mango stir fry concoction, atop a bed of perfectly cooked quinoa with homemade bread on the side. Did I mention homemade?