by Willa Okati
You know, maybe it’s nothing worse than stress, he thought. Probably just that. His mind needed a vacation, and it’d started to push the envelope. That made sense. Let him get hold of some cash, get them both back on their feet, and he’d be good to go again.
He hoped. Please God, he hoped.
Scared the hell out of him, those episodes he kept having. Thinking maybe he’d finally started walking down the same road as her. Who’d take care of them both if he lost the plot?
“Are you hungry?” he asked. Someone well-meaning had cleared the cottage of any perishables way back when, but they’d left all the tins and the canned stuff too. Peaches and blueberries and okra. Sealed dry crackers and sour pickles. Not a banquet, but it beat the hell out of ramen. “I could put something together. You should eat.”
Gabrielle wrinkled her nose. “Not now. Please?”
Yeah, he couldn’t blame her for that. Shawn smoothed down the braid he’d tried to fix for her, like they were kids again, nodding off dusty and sunburned to freckling point in the back of their mother’s old wood-paneled station wagon.
“Then try and get some sleep instead,” he said. “Close your eyes and count, like we did when we were little. That helps sometimes, doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes.” Gabrielle plucked idly, restlessly, at the pillowcase. Someone had hand-embroidered pink flowers along its edge, pink with green leaves and dots of blue trim that’d mostly unraveled. Still, it was clean, even crisp in the way that line-dried laundry tended to be. “Do you remember that place where we grew tomatoes?”
Shawn’s lips twitched into a smile despite himself. So she still wanted to play the memory game, hmm? “Was it the one where you decided you were going to make soup?”
Gabrielle laughed, quiet as a mouse. “But I didn’t know you had to do more with tomatoes than just boil them and smash them.”
“It wasn’t that bad, as soup goes,” Shawn said. “Better than ketchup water.”
“Not by much, but I liked it.” Gabrielle sighed. “Don’t stay gone too long, okay? And don’t go out on the jetty. I heard someone saying it’s dangerous.”
“You’re one to talk.” He patted her arm, awkward, well-meaning. He thought she took it in the spirit intended, anyway. “I’m going to do a couple of laps around the house. Make sure everything’s secure, and then I’ll be back for the night. Promise.”
Gabrielle gave him a shrug that said she didn’t believe him but was willing to pretend she did, and shut her eyes.
* * * *
The locals almost never came down to this curve of coast, giving the old house a wide berth. Something about empty homes, Shawn guessed. They made people sad somehow. Like being reminded of their own dreams that hadn’t come true.
Too bad about the jetty, though. Shawn had liked the looks of it right away, a long spit of rocks forging their way out to sea, and he’d meant to wander out there someday. Though now he thought of it, he seemed to remember they could have a nasty undertow associated with their sides. Shame.
He pushed the iron gate in the stone fence surrounding the property open and stepped inside. He stopped with his feet on the flagstones almost buried beneath overgrown grass, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and looked up at the empty house. When he did, strands of hair blew over his eyes as the wind from the sea picked up. He made a face. A fine one he was to fuss over Gabrielle going around disheveled, wasn’t he? Maybe he’d get it cut when they had the place sold. Ten or fifteen bucks for a trip to the barber’s. He’d be able to afford that then.
They could do it. Could have a better life.
The grass, dried out with winter on its way, crackled underfoot as Shawn made his slow way around the house. Gabrielle would understand the excuse for what it was, but that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy wandering around the old place. There was just something about it. Something almost familiar in the eaves and the one door at the back that sat off-kilter in its frame, and the bricked-up well with a chipped china cup sitting at its base.
He’d have liked to see it in the summertime.
He bent his head, bowing it low to better gather his hair into a queue.
And, without meaning to, closed his eyes.
* * * *
“Sometimes I think you must have gotten on the wrong side of one of the little folk. Elf knots. That’s what my mother called them.” His lover tapped the comb he held against the top of Sean’s head. “Hold still. I’m trying not to pull, and I don’t want to hurt you, but if you keep wiggling—”
Sean kept his eyes closed. He didn’t need to see. Not that he could have, with the gas lamp off in their cabin, and he would rather let the gentle rocking of the sea and ship lull him into a warm, gentle state of mind. “I didn’t think I would care for this, but I love…sailing.”
“Cheeky,” his lover chided, mock stern. He sat behind Sean on the berth that he’d purchased but shared willingly with Sean. No one questioned him. He had money, and he had the advantage of a fine family name. They wouldn’t dare. Even if they were interrupted, there would be no questions asked—to his face, at least.
Or so he said. In Sean’s opinion, they courted disaster by taking such chances. He would have liked to believe the man, but it was far easier said than done to let go of a lifetime’s worth of looking over his shoulder.
They had found one another. That didn’t mean they couldn’t lose each other, yet.
“No one’s coming in without at least knocking first. Relax.” His lover stroked the comb through Sean’s hair. Crackles of static mixed with the soft shushing of the tines. “You always were stubborn enough to drive me to distraction. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”
“Good intentions,” Sean said, eyes still shut. “You’ve heard what happens with those?”
His lover sighed. “Sean. Please.”
“I’m trying,” Sean protested. He flexed his fingers. His calluses were disappearing. Felt so strange. Not quite so strange as the caress of a rich man’s hand, gentle and firm, but close enough. “I’ll keep trying. I promise.”
Even so, Sean shifted slightly, meaning to keep an ear out for the sound of footsteps.
He didn’t think it fooled his lover, but the man had the kindness to let it go after a moment. “It’ll take time,” he said. Then, with cheerfulness only slightly forced to Sean’s ear, asked, “Can you call it sailing, when we’ve nothing to do with steering the ship?”
“Why not?”
Warm lips touched Sean’s nape. “No reason, I suppose. I can’t wait for you to see the city, you know. I keep thinking of new things to show you. Places I want to take you.”
“I’ve seen cities before.” Sean reached behind himself without looking, searching until he found his lover’s strong, bare thigh and rested his palm on the man’s skin. “I grew up in a city.”
“Not a city like this. There must be over ten thousand people in San Francisco alone, Sean. And New York! There are neighborhoods where you would think you’ve been walking in Sicily and suddenly took a left turn into China. I’ll show you everything I’ve wanted you to see. There’s so much. Too much for one lifetime. We’ll have to take two at least. Maybe three.”
The touch of his lover’s lips moved down Sean’s nape, beneath his jaw; the comb fell unheeded on their tangled sheets. They were both still slick with sweat from coupling not an hour since, but the smooth stroke of his lover’s hand across his chest made Sean draw in a soft, sharp breath of wishful wanting. “It’s a good time to be alive, but it took me too long to find you this time. I had begun to think you didn’t want to be found. That you had made up your mind to—”
Sean leaned his head back to give his lover room. His heart stuttered, or so it seemed, but steadied under the man’s touch. So much love. Though he had chosen this, it frightened him sometimes with the enormity of all he felt for this lover who’d swept him away.
All it’d taken was everything.
“Shh. Doesn’t matter,” he soothed, reaching back to caress the man. �
�You found me, and I found you. Time after time, it’s always…”
* * * *
Goddamn it, Shawn thought, shivers rolling like drops of icy rain down his spine. Again. This couldn’t keep happening, stress be damned. He had to find out why. And how to stop it. He knew there had to be a way, he just couldn’t—
Wait. He stopped, finding himself near the back of the house. He’d done nearly a whole lap without thinking, taking himself right back to where he’d started.
Was that a light in the window? Be damned, it was. The door that usually hung askew stood open. Had that happened before he’d lapped the building? Or had they thought he was gone, and sneaked in after? Shawn’s fists tightened, and this time he let them. He jogged to the window, fist up and ready to bang on the glass.
Just inside, through the aged and bubbled glass, he could see a silhouette standing at the range. They had a flashlight in hand, shining it about.
“Hey!” Shawn brought his knuckles hard against the glass, fiercely pleased to see whoever it was flinch nearly hard enough to drop their flashlight. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get out of there now.”
The silhouette—likely a man, as tall and broad through the shoulders as it appeared—raised both hands, palms out. “It’s okay,” he said—definitely male, his voice a warm baritone—without moving. “I didn’t break in. I have a key.”
Yeah, right. Shawn might not have graduated high school, but he knew enough not to take that on faith. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not your house. Get out of there, or I call the cops.”
That’d be the day, but the man didn’t know that. He made an impatient noise, then said, “I’m on my way out now. Don’t shoot or swing at me or anything, okay? I don’t mean any harm, not if I can help it.”
Shawn popped his knuckles. Instinct. Reflex. He hadn’t tussled with anyone in years—someone had to be the grownup in his family—but it used to work out all the kinks like nothing else could. This guy wouldn’t roll over easy.
God, but it would feel so damn good to throw himself into something where he didn’t have to think.
He ground his jaw together and counted to ten instead. A fight might give the local law a bad impression of him. Might hurt the sale. He needed the money too much. Couldn’t screw this up. “Come out first and tell me what you thought you were doing on private property, and we’ll see.”
“It’s not what you think. I’ve been in and out of this place since I was a kid. I’m trying to buy it.”
Shawn hesitated, lower lip caught briefly between his teeth. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Raleigh,” the man said. “I’m coming out now. We can talk about this.” The sound of careful footsteps across flagstones shuffled close enough to hear. “I’m turning the latch now. The door opens inward.”
It did. The smell of the house, closed-up-stale and cool stone and salty ocean and something almost like dried spiced apples, and the man’s cologne, all rushed out to meet Shawn. Shawn couldn’t help it—he drew up short, breathing deep of the flavors that burst over his palate. Wind from the sea and from the backdraft blew his hair out of his face, and with his chin up he found himself staring straight at the man’s eyes.
The man stared back. As if he’d seen a ghost. Face pale, the flashlight falling from his fingers. “My God. You. You’re here.”
Shawn frowned. “Yeah. I am. Who are you?”
Chapter Two
“Why are you so stubborn?”
Stefan’s lover barred the open door with his body. Too tall and too strong to push aside, even now, after forty years together. Stefan could only hold his ground, and make sure the man knew he would not be so easily moved himself. “Because I must be,” he said, tired. They’d argued this point before. So many times. Why couldn’t he see how Stefan only meant it for the best, for both of them? “Why can’t you just listen for once?”
His lover shook his head, stubbornness and hope mixed in the set of his jaw, the glint in his eyes. Even in the way he tousled his hair, more silver and ivory now than gold. “Because you’re wrong,” he said. “So wrong. You claim you mean well, but you’ve blinded yourself to consequences.”
“I would free you—”
“You would end me. That’s not a choice I could make. Stefan…” His lover stepped forward to rest his hand against Stefan’s cheek. Resisting the urge to press into that touch took such strength, almost more than Stefan had to give. “Life—any life, any of our lives—without you could never have any sort of joy. And what is that but imprisonment of the worst sort?”
Shawn drew in a sharp breath as the pictures cleared from his head. He didn’t think the man had noticed. He hoped not. The guy didn’t seem to have moved. Shawn wasn’t sure he’d blinked.
And neither had he answered. Shawn shook his head once, then twice, harder, and lifted his jaw. “I asked a question. Who are you?”
“Raleigh Carter. But you—” The man took one step forward. A small book with an age-darkened binding fell from his left hand to tumble open in the weeds beside the lopsided door. He took another step, lips slightly parted as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, and then another.
As it happened, not such a great idea.
“Whoa!” Shawn caught the man before he hit his knees, but only just, and he wasn’t much of a success at that. Whoever this Raleigh Carter was, he had at least three inches on Shawn and probably almost fifty more pounds of muscle.
But it wasn’t Shawn’s first rodeo, either. He’d had practice enough. He knew how to brace his knees and use his shoulders to fight back against gravity, and to account for limbs that’d lost touch with how they joined together. It helped when Raleigh caught his fall by juking one leg out, but then he came down with a crash on Shawn’s shoulder that made Shawn wince. Still, it wasn’t hard enough to make him lose his balance. “Careful!”
“Shit,” Raleigh said, breathless. “Sorry, I’m—sorry.”
“Shut up, already,” Shawn said. He braced one hand against Raleigh’s chest as a lever for the man, to help him get his feet back under himself. “What the hell, man. Are you going to pass out if I let you go?”
“What? No. I’m fine,” Raleigh said, still staring at Shawn. Staring down at him. Shawn revised the first impression of three inches to five, and added another ten pounds of teak-tough bulk. But for all that, he didn’t have a bruiser’s face. Stark angles of cheekbone and jaw. A stubborn chin with a cleft. Heavy eyelids. He wore his soft gold hair short and neat, with a careless curl at his nape.
He had a mouth like rose velvet. Still pale, and his lips were parted as he stared at Shawn. “I thought…”
Was he drunk? Maybe. Shawn didn’t think so. He hadn’t smelled any alcohol on the man.
But he’d started to smile. The strangest kind of smile to see on a grown man. One that seemed too young and too happy for the real world. Too vulnerable. It made Shawn want to take a step back, to run away somewhere he couldn’t hurt or be hurt by this man.
“You’re here,” Raleigh said. He raised one hand, and not as if he wanted to reach out and touch. He did that without hesitating. His palm, warm and broad, rested against Shawn’s cheek, and he could have run away from the touch—but he didn’t. And he didn’t know why. Just that he couldn’t have moved.
Maybe it was not wanting to break the guy’s heart. Maybe it was surprise. Not even Gabrielle looked at him like that.
Or maybe… He didn’t know.
“You’re here,” Raleigh said. He laid his other hand on Shawn’s shoulder with an odd, asynchronous jerk. He’s shaking. “I thought you’d never come.”
Something about him went ahead and broke Shawn’s heart, and without even asking, and somehow made his own troubles seem far away—no, blurred, like a sheet of opaque glass had slipped between them and his mind. He drew in a sharp breath, but of cool, clear air, and settled more firmly on his feet.
Maybe it was that he could only worry about one guy at a time. Maybe not. He thought he u
nderstood Raleigh now. He’d seen guys like that before. More often in bars, hoping that they’d find something at the bottom of just one more glass, but sometimes out in the world. The ones who’d lost too much and figured they’d never get it back. Sometimes they couldn’t tell the difference between reality and dreaming even when they were awake. Whatever Raleigh had taken might not give him away like alcohol would, but now that he knew where and how to look, Shawn could read between the lines.
Poor bastard.
Shawn stepped back. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I don’t know you.”
“You…” Raleigh shook his head as he frowned. The happiness started to seep away. “What?”
Shawn hated to do this. Why, though? Shouldn’t matter. He didn’t know the guy. “My name is Shawn. My great-aunt left me this house. I never even met her. I’ve never met you.”
He put another deliberate step’s worth of distance between them. If he hadn’t, he—wasn’t sure what he would have done. The happiness hadn’t just seeped away. It’d vanished, leaving Raleigh looking as if he’d been carved from milky ice. Like he’d seen a ghost.
Shawn didn’t usually feel sympathy for anyone besides Gabrielle, but this one tugged at his heart somehow. “Look, I—I’m sorry.”
Raleigh smiled. His lips moved, anyway. He drew a deep breath that didn’t seem to help. “No. It’s my mistake. Must have been a trick of the light. For a minute there, I thought you were someone I—knew. A while back. Maybe it’s a family resemblance.”
“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t even know I’d had a great-aunt, or that she’d died, before I got a letter from her lawyer.”
“I see.” Pretty clearly, he didn’t. Raleigh gazed at him as if trying to drink him in and make sense of him. “She never touched base with you before?”
“We were hard to find when I was growing up,” Shawn admitted. He bit at his lip. Why he was telling the guy all this, he didn’t know. “Mom raised us on the road. She was schizophrenic. I didn’t understand that until I was thirteen, fourteen. We didn’t get on the grid much.”