by Roan Parrish
He sent, I don’t know. I get really nervous and I just can’t make words come out.
Jack nodded. “Has it always been that way?”
Simon nodded miserably.
“Fuck. That really sucks.”
Simon choked on an unexpected chuckle.
“Is it like that with everyone? What about your friends, or family?”
Simon rolled his eyes. Friends. Yeah, right.
I’m fine talking with my family, Simon wrote. But I don’t see my parents much anymore. It’s better that way. They just want me to be someone I’m not. My sister’s cool and I can talk to her but she always wants to invite me to hang out with her friends or set me up. My grandma’s my best friend.
He sent the message and instantly felt awkward. What twenty-six-year-old man’s best friend was his grandmother? Then guilt swept through him at how hurt his grandmother would be to hear he felt that way.
“That’s cool about your grandma. Nice she bakes you cookies and stuff.” Jack sounded wistful.
Do you have a grandma?
He shook his head. “Well, I mean, I do, of course. But they’re dead. Everyone’s dead.”
Simon reached for his phone but before he could respond to that rather bleak pronouncement, Jack said, “Why does your sister invite you to do stuff she knows you don’t want to do?”
Simon snorted.
I know, right? Well...selfishness, I guess? She wants for me what she’d want for herself and she isn’t quite willing to imagine that I might be different and want different things.
Jack said nothing, apparently waiting for more. Simon felt his pulse flutter, but not from anxiety; from pleasure.
She’s my parents’ ideal kid, Simon went on. Ambitious, outgoing, confident. Everything I’m not.
He added a grimacing emoji but accidentally hit the scream emoji instead and sent it before he noticed.
Jack smiled.
“You’re not ambitious?” he asked.
Simon blinked at him, thinking about that, and for an unguarded moment, they were looking at each other—really looking at each other.
I guess my ambitions are just different. Less ambitious. Well, less...idk, career-y?
Jack nodded.
Mine are more like “Order a coffee without stammering” or “say ‘thank you’ at louder than a mumble when the pizza’s delivered.”
Simon couldn’t quite look at Jack to see his response to that.
“That sounds so damn hard,” Jack said, voice gruff.
Unexpected tears prickled in Simon’s eyes to hear the empathy there. Not his abhorred pity; not scorn; not embarrassment. Just empathy.
It is.
From the corner of his eye, Simon saw Jack’s phone light, knew he’d seen the message. But he still couldn’t look up.
So why don’t you draw when you can’t sleep anymore? he added.
“Ugh,” Jack grunted, and pushed back from the table with powerful arms, leaning his chair on its back legs. Simon looked up, startled, and Mayonnaise, who had crept in through the window cat door without Simon noticing, lifted her head at the disruption, but Jack was already levering his chair back down to earth. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Simon sat very still, except for his left hand, which spasmed against his will. He shoved it back under his thigh.
“I illustrate children’s books—well, I did.” And that was all he said.
Simon hadn’t given much thought to what Jack did, but if he had he’d have thought carpentry or lumberjacking—something physical and outdoorsy; something that would’ve honed the magnificent physique of the man sitting next to him.
But the image of Jack, powerful shoulders bent over paper, strong fingers wielding a pencil to bring a children’s tale to life made something snaky happen in the pit of his stomach.
The questions came too fast for him to type them: What’s your art like? What kind of stories did you illustrate? How did you get into that work? Are they published? Are you famous? Can I read them? Have you always wanted to do that? And, louder, bigger: What happened???
He fumbled his phone in frustration and familiar prickles of anger and humiliation crept up his spine. So many times he’d wanted to scream, “Why are you making me do so much work when it’s so fucking hard for me and it would be effortless for you!?”
One-handed, he typed, Just tell me everything!!! and shoved his phone at Jack rather than sending the message.
He had his eyes fixed to the table, so he didn’t see Jack’s expression, but after a moment, Jack said, “Sure. Sorry.”
It was kind, but the humiliation that came with relief was still humiliation.
“Do you want more coffee?” Jack asked.
Simon shook his head. More than a cup and he’d be buzzing.
“Okay. Um. I met my friend Davis in college. We were on the same freshman hall. I hated my roommate so I was always in the common room, and his room was right next to it. I didn’t really want to be there. College, I mean. I thought—Anyway.”
He gulped his coffee.
“I wanted to be an artist. Stupid, right?” He rolled his eyes at himself. “Eventually, he talked me into illustrating this story he was writing for a class. I don’t know, I think I was drunk. But it was...good. I’ve never been any good at writing or coming up with ideas. Not that smart, I guess.”
Simon glanced up in time to see hurt burning in Jack’s eyes and wondered who’d convinced him of those things. Jack ran a hand through his messy hair and sighed.
Mayonnaise jumped soundlessly from the counter to the table and insinuated herself on Jack’s lap. He stroked between her ears and let her make biscuits on his thighs. Then he pressed between her shoulder blades and she curled up contentedly.
“It just worked with Davis,” Jack went on. “He had the ideas and I just made them happen. At first we wanted to do a whole comic book thing, but then his sister had a baby and he wrote this little story for the kid. I illustrated it and his sister went nuts over it. So Davis decided we should try and publish one for real. I didn’t think anyone would want something I drew. Hell, what did I know about kids’ books? Books at all, really. Or kids. But Davis... When Davis decides on something it always happens for him.”
The sentiment was so like what Simon had assumed about Jack.
“After we graduated he moved to New York. It’s where his sisters live and they encouraged him to come. Before I knew it, he’d made all these editor contacts—I don’t know where. He was always good at meeting people and I didn’t want anything to do with that part of it. But it was cool. It was...ah, fuck, it was magical. The book sold and we did another one right after. I couldn’t believe I got to draw shit for a living. It was...perfect. But Davis—I dunno, it was like he was never satisfied. Anything good that happened he just wanted something better next time. He got an agent and wanted more money, he wanted to win all the awards, sell more books, I don’t even know what all else.”
Jack shook his head and gestured at the humble kitchen around them.
“I don’t need much. Never have. This place was my parents’. I just winterized it. Davis still lives in New York and his sisters, all three of them are...” Jack gestured unreadably. “You know, what’s the word. They like expensive stuff. Davis wants to be like that. Fancy. I dunno.”
Materialistic, Simon offered inside his head.
Jack trailed off and looked right at Simon.
“Is this boring? Is this too much? You said tell you everything, but...” He shrugged.
A smile tugged at the corners of Simon’s mouth and he shook his head and gestured for Jack to go on.
“’Kay. Anyway, it was fine with me if that’s what he wanted. I had what I wanted, so. But, uh.”
Jack’s low voice went softer.
“I had this...idea. For a story. Kind of ab
out me and my brother, but different. I dunno. It felt like something that I could write myself in addition to drawing. It wasn’t gonna be instead of stuff with Davis. I just wanted to try. When I told him about it he didn’t say much. He didn’t seem upset or anything. Mostly I thought he wasn’t very interested because it didn’t involve him. He’s kinda...he likes to be the center of attention. But then...”
Jack made to stand up in the move of a habitual pacer, but he’d clearly forgotten both his broken leg and the cat on his lap because he ended up grabbing Mayonnaise as she leapt onto the table and sprawling back onto the chair, wincing, the wood groaning beneath him.
“Fuuuuck.”
Simon reached out a hand to steady him, palm skimming soft sweatshirt and hard muscle beneath.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched someone who wasn’t Grandma Jean.
“Y’okay?” Simon got out.
“Yeah. Goddamn it.”
He slammed a fist down on the table, face a mask of frustration, then put out a hand to soothe Mayonnaise when she bristled. She rubbed her cheeks against his fist and he let her nibble at his fingers and then flop down on her back, batting at his hand.
“Anyway. Two months or so after I told Davis about the project I get this email from him saying he sold it. I thought maybe he meant he sold it for me? He’s in New York and I’m here, and I know he goes out for drinks with our editors sometimes. I thought it was weird but I was excited. It felt like a chance to really do something of my own.”
Jack cracked his knuckles.
“But he didn’t sell it for me. He pitched it as his own idea. The publisher loved it.”
Simon sensed what was coming next and bit his lip, hoping he was wrong.
“Only, they thought it would have an older market than our kids’ books and they wanted to pair Davis with an artist who does middle grade books. One who’s a bigger deal than me. And that fucker agreed. Well—” Jack cut a look at Simon, suspicious and mocking. “He said his agent agreed and it was a done deal before he could get me on board, but I know that’s bullshit.”
Simon’s heart ached. “Fuck,” he breathed.
“Yeah, cheers,” Jack said, toasting him with his empty coffee mug.
Simon raised his eyebrows to say, What happened next?
“I called him and he dodged me for days. Finally I got him on the phone and I put it to him straight. I said that I’d told him my idea and he’d stolen it. He acted like I was nuts. Said he thought I’d meant for us to work on it together. That he knew I couldn’t’ve intended to do it myself since I wasn’t a writer, so of course he’d thought I wanted to collaborate. And it was out of his control that the publisher had replaced me.” Jack shook his head. “Fucker.”
Simon asked, “What’d you do?” A flush of relief went through him when the words came out.
Jack’s sigh seemed to deflate him. Mayonnaise chose that moment of weakness to strike, pouncing on his hand and sinking playful teeth into his wrist. He lifted her with one hand and cuddled her against his chest where she started purring immediately.
“Nothing.”
“Huh?”
“What could I do? I told him to go fuck himself. That he was a greedy liar and he knew exactly what he’d done. I called our editor and explained what had happened but she wasn’t the one who’d signed the book. She said that I could sue Davis, but what the fuck. Who sues someone? Whatever. Probably I couldn’t have written it anyway.”
“But—but it’s your story! About you and your brother!” Simon said, outrage loosening his tongue.
“Yeah. Sucks. And now every time I go to draw it just reminds me of that. Of Davis. Thought he was my friend, man. Known the guy ten years. Guess trusting people is for suckers.”
Jack looked so sad, so lost, that Simon desperately wanted to disagree. To say something that would comfort Jack. But what could he say? He had no experience trusting people. No experience at all.
Jack’s broad shoulders were slumped, his full mouth pulled into a scowl. He was cradling Mayonnaise to him like the cat was all he had to hold on to in the whole world, and Simon couldn’t stand to see him like that.
Can I see your art? Simon typed, and showed Jack his phone.
Jack blinked at him. “You’d want to?”
Simon nodded and, in an act of bravery he couldn’t quite account for, reached out a hand and stroked Mayonnaise’s soft ears where they rested against Jack’s stomach. His heart trip-hammered, Mayonnaise purred, and Jack said, “Okay.”
Resentful at being displaced when Jack dragged himself to his feet, Mayonnaise scampered off, and Simon followed Jack through the living room where the pack sat and lay in various adorable configurations, and to a door that had always been resolutely closed when Simon had been in the house. He’d assumed it was Jack’s bedroom, thought maybe the animals weren’t allowed in there, but when they reached it, he looked to the right and saw a door open onto what was clearly the bedroom.
A huge, wooden four-poster bed was covered with a navy blue wool blanket on which Puddles cuddled with a cat Simon hadn’t seen before.
“That’s Louis,” Jack said about the plump black and gray cat with wide green eyes and sweet, flicky tail. “He and Puddles are in love.”
Before Simon could follow up on that, Jack opened the studio door. He turned, blocking the doorway, with the first hint of uncertainty Simon had seen from him.
“Just, um. It’s not real art, you know? Just...whatever. Come in.”
The room was small and smelled of wood and paper and something vaguely metallic that Simon assumed was ink. It was a bit musty, as if from disuse, but midday sunlight streamed in through the three large windows that made up the back wall, bathing the wood floor, with its collage of rugs and papers, in a cheery yellow glow.
There were sketches and torn-out bits pinned all over one wall and a huge whiteboard hung on the other, broken into squares like a storyboard. A bookshelf on the third wall showed the thin spines of comics and picture books and thicker, battered spines of art books.
Jack’s drawing table was a huge slab of wood resting on two sawhorses in the spill of light. Simon walked to it slowly, giving Jack time to stop him. Sitting on the far edge of the table, a thin layer of dust gilding their covers, were three hardcover books, with stories by Davis Snyder and illustrations by Jack Matheson.
The first was called There’s a Moose Loose in Central Park and the cover illustration was in gorgeously saturated greens and browns. The trees of what Simon could only assume was Central Park had movement to them like a breeze was ruffling their leaves. Peeking from between two trees was the familiar velvet of a large moose’s antlers.
“Wow,” Simon breathed.
He opened the book and was lost in Jack’s illustrations. The story was cute—a moose that had traveled from Wyoming and made its way to Central Park made friends with a little girl who wandered away from her parents. When the horse-mounted police officers found them both, the girl was asleep on the moose’s back and the horses made friends with the moose.
But the illustrations were glorious.
Jack had a hand with color that Simon could recognize instantly. He might be a graphic designer and not an artist, but he could see that much. And his work had a tenderness to it, from the cant of the little girl’s head where she rested on the moose to the expression on the moose’s face, as if it loved the child. Simon could see why the book had been successful. It was sweet and magical and amusing.
He flipped through the second book, There’s a Bear in Times Square, and the third, There’s a Bison Stuck in Brooklyn.
When he got to the end, and the bison was being safely led across the Brooklyn Bridge as the sun set, Statue of Liberty silhouetted in the background, Simon was nearly in tears.
“I can’t believe you,” he said.
“Um, in a g
ood way?” Jack’s voice was utterly sincere.
“Yes, in a good way, you idiot!” Simon heard himself say.
Jack’s eyes went wide and Simon clapped a hand over his mouth.
“No, don’t,” Jack said. “Tell me.”
“Tell you you’re an idiot?” Simon mumbled.
Jack grinned. There was a tiny space between his two front teeth that Simon hadn’t noticed before.
“Yeah.”
The sound that bubbled out of Simon could only be described as a giggle.
“You’re so t-talented.”
“Yeah?”
Jack drew closer and ran a hand over the book Simon held, crutch caught under his arm. Simon had a moment of disconnect, imagining Jack’s huge hands producing such detailed, tender illustrations. Then Jack gently traced the bison’s hump with one thick finger and Simon realized there was no disconnect at all.
“It’s like a combination of us. Wyoming and New York. Rural and urban. Davis said kids like animals, so.” He shrugged. “Oh, look.”
Jack touched Simon’s shoulder lightly and pointed out the window. Two elk emerged from the tree line that must have been a hundred yards from the back of the cabin. One larger and one smaller, they bent their noble heads to munch on fresh grass.
Simon had lived in Wyoming his entire life, but every time he saw one of the beautiful creatures he shared the land with it felt like a blessing. A moment when two points in time—past and present—snapped together, coexisting in a harmony that made his heart race joyfully.
“These two come around a lot,” Jack said softly, as if he didn’t want to run the risk of disturbing them, even from inside.
“Wow” was all Simon could say.
They watched the elk nibble for a while, nosing around in what looked like it might once have been a large garden but was now overgrown, then wander back into the woods, heads held high.
Jack was standing close enough that Simon could feel his heat. He could also smell the intoxicating combination of coffee, fresh laundry, and some kind of earthy shampoo that made him want to lean into Jack and press his cheek to Jack’s chest.
To prevent himself from doing that and probably getting shoved across the room, Simon looked at the other book on the drawing table.