by Roan Parrish
Mayonnaise, a sweet white cat with one green eye missing, slunk up to him on the counter and butted her little head against his arm.
“Hi,” he said, and kissed her fuzzy head. She gave him a happy chirp, then darted out the window cat door above the sink.
Everything took four times as long as usual and required ten times the energy. The crutches dug into his underarms with every touch, bruising and chafing the skin there and catching on his armpit hair. His leg hurt horribly and the longer he stayed upright the worse it ached as the blood rushed downward. His head throbbed and throbbed and throbbed.
Though he’d gotten up while it was still dark, the sun had risen during the rigamarole of making coffee and eggs. Jack scarfed the eggs directly from the pan, afraid if he tried to sit down at the kitchen table he wouldn’t be able to get back up.
He realized too late that he couldn’t bend down to put food and water in the animals’ bowls and began a messy process of attempting it from his full height.
His first try slopped water all over the floor. Swearing, he dropped towels over the spills, moving them with the tip of his crutch to soak up the water. Next came the dog food, and Jack practically cheered when most of it went in the bowls.
The cat food, smaller, skidded everywhere, and Pirate and Pickles looked up at him for a moment as if offended. Then they had great fun chasing the food all over the floor. When the dogs joined the chase it resulted in the knocking over of bowls of water, the soaking of food, the scarfing of said food by the dogs and a counter full of hissing cats.
Jack opened a tin of tuna and let them at it, staring at his ravaged kitchen. It looked like the forest floor on a muddy day and it stank of wet dog food. The prospect of trying to clean it up left him short of breath and exhausted.
Bernard, always one to lurk until the end of mealtimes, hoping to scarf a stray mouthful, shoved his face in the mess.
“Good dog,” Jack said. He’d meant to say it wryly, but it came out with relieved sincerity.
Louis, the least social of his cats—he only liked Puddles—poked his gray and black head out of the bedroom, sniffed the air, and decided that whatever he smelled didn’t portend well. He eschewed breakfast with a flick of his tail and retreated back inside the bedroom. Jack made a mental note to leave a bowl out for him later.
Just as Jack sank onto the couch, the dogs started shuffling to the front door the way they only did on the rare occasions when someone was approaching. Jack groaned. He hauled himself back up and pretended not to hear his own pathetic whimper as he made his way to the door.
“Back up, come on,” Jack wheezed at the animals. Then, in a whisper, “Be extremely cute so this guy likes you.” Then he yanked the door open.
There, with one hand half-raised to knock, stood a man made of contrasts.
He was tall—only an inch or two shorter than Jack’s six foot three—but his shoulders were hunched and his head hung low, like he was trying to disappear. His clothes were mismatched and worn—soft jeans, a faded green shirt, a peach and yellow sweater, and a red knit scarf—but every line of his body was frozen and hard.
Then he lifted his chin and glanced up at Jack for just an instant, and Jack couldn’t pay attention to anything but his eyes. A burning turquoise blue that shocked him because after years of drawing he’d always thought blue was a cool color. But not this blue. This was the blue of neon and molten glass and the inside of a planet. This was the blue of fire.
As quickly as he’d looked up, the man dropped his gaze again, and Jack immediately missed that blue.
“Uh, hey. You SimpleSimon?”
His head jerked up again and this time there was anger in his eyes.
“On the app, I mean? I’m Jack.”
Jack held out his hand and Simon inched forward slowly, then shoved his hands in his pockets and scuffed his heel on the ground. He had messy dark hair that, from Jack’s view of the top of his head, was mostly swirls of cowlicks.
“You wanna come in and meet the pack?” Jack tried again, attempting to infuse geniality into his voice instead of the exhausted, pained, irritation he felt at every dimension of his current situation.
Simon tensed and scuffed his heel again.
“I won’t bite,” Jack said, shuffling backward to make room. “Can’t say the same for Pirate, though. She’s a little monster.”
Good. A dad joke. Great first impression, Matheson.
But Simon gave a jerky nod and followed him inside. When Jack reached to close the door behind him one of his crutches caught and slid to the ground. Jack swore and grabbed for it, avoiding wrenching his ribs at the last moment by deviating to grab the doorknob instead, knocking into the man’s shoulder in the process. Jack wanted to scream.
Simon immediately moved away and Jack had a moment of resentment until his crutch was retrieved from the floor and held up for him.
“Thanks. Damn things. Mind if we sit down?”
Jack dropped onto the couch with a groan but Simon didn’t sit. He hovered near the doorway to the kitchen and crossed his arms over his stomach.
Jack saw his nostrils twitch and begged the universe that Simon wouldn’t turn around and see the utter shambolic trough that was his kitchen floor.
They’d messaged last night to set up this meeting and their exchange had been perfectly friendly. All Jack could imagine was that his bad mood was so palpable that he’d put this guy off.
“So, uh. I’m Jack,” he tried again.
The man’s arms tightened around himself.
“Simon,” he said, voice low and very quiet.
When nothing else seemed forthcoming, Jack launched into introductions to the animals and watched Simon unfold.
When Jack gave the signal to allow Bernard to approach, the dog cuddled Simon so aggressively that Simon ended up sitting on the floor. Bernard licked his face and snuffled into his armpit and Simon huffed out a sound that might’ve been a laugh. Jack caught a flash of fire blue through his dark hair.
“This is Puddles,” Jack went on. “He’s a neurotic dude. Hates puddles. Seriously, you’ll have to pick him up and carry him over them.”
Simon held out his hand, head still bowed. Puddles placed his chin into Simon’s hand and then sat down right next to him, pressing himself against Simon’s hip.
“Hey, Puddles.” It was so soft Jack almost didn’t hear it. Puddles kept leaning into Simon.
“That’s Rat.” Jack pointed to the tiny dog whose hairless tail whipped across the floor. Rat jumped over to Simon, then bounded away after something only she saw. “And Dandelion.” The cheerful mutt wriggled happily when Simon pet her.
Simon was bookended by Bernard and Puddles, petting them both at once. His scarf had come loose and Pickles, who was one of Jack’s newer arrivals, made a beeline for it, batting at it until her claws tangled in the yarn.
“Shit, sorry. Pickles, no!”
Jack moved to stand, forgot about his leg, and groaned, falling back onto the couch.
“Fuuuck my life.”
Pirate slunk single-mindedly from her perch on top of the easy chair, making her way through the room to Simon.
He reached out a hand for her to smell and she gave him a dainty lick on the knuckle. Jack thought he saw a smile behind all that hair, but before he could warn Simon, Pirate pounced on his scarf too, wrestling with Pickles over it and nearly garroting Simon in the process.
“Jesus, it’s pandemonium,” Jack muttered.
A creaky laugh came from the man currently buried under animals on his floor.
Simon unwound his scarf and wrapped it around Pickles and Pirate, hugging the cats to his chest with one arm. Then he got to his knees and slowly stood, patting Bernard and Puddles with his other hand. Jack could hear Pickles and Pirate purring in their swaddle.
“You okay?” he asked Simon.
> “Mhmm.”
“Okay, well... Still up for it? I know they’re a lot, but...”
Simon shook his head and Jack’s stomach lurched at the thought of finding someone else who could help. But then Simon said, softly, “It’s fine.”
“Yeah?”
Simon nodded, all shoulders and dark hair and flash of blue eyes and slash of pale jaw.
“Oh, great, amazing, wonderful.” Relief let loose a torrent of words, and Jack hauled himself off the couch to take Simon through whose leash was whose and where they could and couldn’t go, what Puddles was afraid of in addition to puddles (sticks shaped like lightning bolts, grasshoppers, bicycles, plastic bags), which dogs they might meet that Bernard would try to cuddle to death and Rat would try to attack, what intersection to avoid because there was a fire ant hill, and why never, ever to grab Pirate if she tried to climb trees.
Simon nodded and made soft listening sounds, and every once in a while he’d jerk his head up and meet Jack’s eyes for just a moment. When Jack passed the leashes, treats, and plastic bags over to him, Simon paused like he was going to say something. Then he put the treats and bags in his pocket, wrapped his unraveling scarf around his neck, and backed out of the door, head down and dogs in tow. Pirate leapt after them.
“Okay, then,” Jack called from the door as Simon walked away, not wanting the animals out of his sight. “You have my number if you need anything, right?”
Simon held up his phone in answer, but didn’t turn around.
“Okay, bye,” Jack said, but there was no one left to hear him.
Chapter Two
Simon
Simon’s heart fluttered like a wild thing and he sucked in air through his nose and slowly blew it out through his mouth, concentrating on the smells of the autumn morning. Pine and dew and fresh asphalt and the warm, intoxicating scent that seemed to cling to him after only ten minutes spent in Jack Matheson’s chaotic house.
He rounded the corner so he knew he was out of sight, then led the dogs to the tree line and pressed his back to the rough trunk of a silver fir. He squeezed his eyes shut tight to banish the static swimming at the edges of his vision and willed his heart to slow after the encounter with Jack.
Shy. It was the word people had used to describe Simon Burke since he was a child. A tiny, retiring word that was itself little more than a whisper.
But what Simon felt was not a whisper. It was a freight train bearing down on him, whistle blowing and wheels grinding, passengers staring and ground shaking with the ineluctable approach.
It was a swimming head and a pounding heart. A furious heat and a numbness in his fingers. It was sweating and choking and the curiously violent sensation of silence, pulled like a hood over his entire body, but concentrated at the tiny node of his throat.
Shy was the word for a child’s fear, shed like a light spring jacket when summer came.
What Simon had was knitted to his very bones, spliced in his blood, so cleverly prehensile that it clung to every beat of his physical being.
The huge St. Bernard called Bernard—apparently this Jack guy wasn’t exactly the creative type—bumped Simon’s hip and he opened his eyes. The cautious yellow Lab, Puddles, was looking up at him with concern in his warm brown eyes; tiny Rat was scanning the road looking for threats; easygoing Dandelion was happily yipping at birds; and Pirate the cat was daintily cleaning her paws as her tail swished back and forth.
Simon’s breath came easier. He was right where he wanted to be: outside, spending time with animals. He dropped to a crouch and murmured to the little pack, letting them smell him, letting his heart rate return to normal.
“Hi,” he said, trying out his voice. It tended to go scratchy from disuse. “Thanks for walking with me.” Bernard smiled a sweet doggy smile and Simon couldn’t help but smile back. Animals didn’t make him feel self-conscious. They didn’t make him feel like he was drowning. They gave and never required anything of him except kindness.
He’d discovered this as a child, around the same time he’d discovered that other children could not be counted on to be kind. Not to him, anyway.
Pirate meowed and took off down the road and all the dogs mobilized to follow her, tugging Simon back onto the lane. As they walked, he basked in their quiet joy and the peace of simply being in the fresh air. In that peace, his thoughts drifted to Jack Matheson.
Simon had gotten himself to Jack’s front door by sheer, knuckle-clenching force of will.
For the past two years, Simon had been saving up to get a bigger apartment so that he’d have space for a dog. He’d planned the walks they’d take and the parks they’d go to together.
When his grandfather died six months ago and Simon saw his grandmother’s face—brow pinched with grief and eyes wide with fear—Simon knew what he had to do. He moved in the next week. His grandmother was his best friend and he didn’t want her to be alone. But the cost of her company was the plans he’d made: she was terribly allergic to animals.
He’d made his profile on PetShare the week he moved in with his grandmother and for the last six months, he’d waited. He’d matched several times, usually with people who needed someone to stop by and feed their pets while they were at work, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to spend time with animals, bask in their easy companionship.
So when he saw JMatheson’s profile pop up, with its picture of a huge, adorable St. Bernard and its description of his rather extensive needs, which managed to be both terse and self-deprecating, Simon’s heart had leapt.
But when he stood outside his door, he hadn’t been able to make himself ring the bell. It was like his hand ran up against a physical force when he tried. He stood there, trying to break out of the paralyzing fog.
And then the door had opened.
Stocking feet, worn sweatpants, a bulky cast on one leg—his eyes had traveled slowly up from the ground. A faded Penn State hoodie, broad shoulders, and biceps that bulged as they wielded crutches.
But it was the first glimpse of the man’s face that had frozen Simon in place. He had hair the color of copper and gold, a strong jaw etched with copper stubble, a straight nose, and hazel eyes beneath frowning reddish-brown eyebrows. His full mouth was fixed in a scowl.
He was beautiful and angry and it was a combination so potent that it flushed through Simon with the heat of an intoxicant, then set his head spinning with fear.
He’d clutched his arms around himself in a futile attempt to keep all his molecules contained, dreading the sensation of flying apart, diffusing into the atmosphere in a nebula of dissolution.
Simon had been consumed by the conviction he’d held as a child: if he could squeeze his eyes shut tightly enough to block out the world then it would cease to see him too. But when he’d opened his eyes again, there was Jack Matheson, still beautiful, but now looking at him with his most hated expression.
Pity.
Simon shook his head to clear the image of Jack’s pitying gaze and picked up the pace, as if he might be able to outrun the moment when he’d have to drop off the animals and interact with Jack again.
* * *
“Grandma, I’m home,” Simon called as he shouldered open the door, arms full of groceries.
“In the kitchen, dear!”
He deposited the bags on the counter, but backed off when his grandmother moved to kiss his cheek.
“You’ll be allergic to me. One sec.”
He jogged downstairs to his basement room and changed his clothes, giving a fond look at the fur of his new friends clinging to the wool of his sweater.
“How did it go?” his grandmother asked, sliding a cup of tea toward him on the counter. The smell of lavender perfume and chamomile tea would forever remind him of her.
“As well as can be expected?” Simon hedged, sipping the hot tea too quickly. She raised an eyebrow and h
e sighed. “He was fine. I just... Whatever. You know.” Simon raked a hand through his hair.
His grandmother knew better than anyone how hard it was for him and how angry he got at himself for the hardship. She’d been the one he came to, red-faced and sweaty, when he’d nailed varsity soccer tryouts his sophomore year and then fled the field, never to return, when the coach noticed he hadn’t shouted the team shout with the other boys and forced him to stand on his own and yell it with everyone looking.
She’d been the one who found him in the basement he now lived in, tear-streaked and reeking of vomit after his eleventh-grade history teacher had forced him to give his presentation in front of the rest of the class despite his promise to do any amount of extra credit instead.
Simon swallowed, overcome with affection for her.
“The dogs are great, though. There’s this really big St. Bernard who’s a cuddly baby and throws himself around even though he’s probably two hundred pounds. And he has cats too, and one of them comes on the walks. Her name’s Pirate—she’s a calico with a black spot over one eye—and she leads the group like a little cat tour guide.”
Simon’s grandmother squeezed his hand.
“It’s so good to see you happy,” she said wistfully. Simon ducked his head, but a nice, comfortable kind of warmth accompanied his grandmother’s touches. She didn’t rush him the way his father did, didn’t try and finish his sentences the way his mother did, didn’t try and convince him to just try and be social the way his sister, Kylie, did. The way his teachers and school counselors had.
“Yeah,” he said. He gulped the last of the tea and put his cup in the dishwasher. “I’m gonna go get started on work. You need anything before I do?”
“I’m fine, dear. I’ll be in the garden, I think.”
Simon hesitated. His grandfather’s rose garden was the place Simon still felt his presence most strongly, and it was where his grandmother went when she wanted to think of him.
“Is it bad today?” he asked softly. He wasn’t sure if bad was the right word, precisely. After all, it wasn’t bad to miss the man you’d spent your life with, was it? It was merely...inevitable. But it was the shorthand he’d used the first time he’d asked, when he’d found her at the fence, one swollen-knuckled hand pressed flat to the wood and the other clutching the locket with her late husband’s picture in it, and it had stuck.