by Roan Parrish
It was a graphic novel called Two Moons Over by Corbin Wale, and the style was like nothing Simon had seen before. It looked almost scratchy, but the figures seemed to glow impossibly. The cover showed a large Victorian house that appeared to have had pieces added to it willy-nilly. In the garden were huge pumpkins, unnaturally large squash blossoms, and flowers that wound up every surface. Dogs—or were they wolves?—prowled the tree line protectively. And in the sky hung two crescent moons. Between them was a boy. Was he flying? Falling? Simon couldn’t tell, but it also didn’t matter because it was clear he belonged there. From the windows of the impossible house light glowed welcomingly. When he peered closer he could see two women’s faces in a high window, their watchful eyes fixed on the boy.
Simon flipped the book open to the dedication page: For the Aunts & for Alex.
“It’s my favorite,” Jack said softly. “He’s amazing. The stuff he does that’s real but not real. It’s... I love it.”
Jack took the book out of Simon’s hand as if he couldn’t speak of it and not be holding it.
“It was kind of what made me think that maybe I could write and illustrate my own project. Mine and Charlie’s story. I’m no writer; not really. But Corbin Wale...he doesn’t really have many words. The drawings are the whole story. But it’s not a kids’ book. It’s just... He doesn’t need words, I guess.”
Nothing had ever made Simon want to read a book more.
Jack set Two Moons Over down reverently.
“Too late now, I guess. Whatever.”
Simon had so many questions, but it didn’t seem like the moment to quiz Jack on the particulars.
“You could d-do it anyway,” Simon said.
Jack’s eyes narrowed and Simon’s heart started to pound. He shook his head and waved his words away. Jack started to speak, but changed his mind. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin thoughtfully.
A flurry of barks and whines from the living room sent Jack lurching out of the room. Simon followed, closing the door to the studio behind him.
Bernard and Rat were fighting in front of the fireplace. Well, Simon wasn’t quite sure you could call it fighting when a hundred-and-eighty-pound dog was sitting on top of an eight-pound dog and the eight-pound dog was barking aggressively while the hundred-and-eighty-pound dog whined, as if sad his friend didn’t want to be sat upon.
“Bernard,” Jack laughed. “Come here, ya lug.” He gestured and Bernard sighed—if it was possible for a dog to sigh—and shifted off Rat. The second she was freed, Rat jumped up, skinny legs shaking, ready to do battle, and hurled herself at Bernard. Bernard yawned and threw a heavy paw over Rat, looking for a cuddle.
“Ridiculous,” Jack muttered fondly. “Wanna sit?”
Simon sat on the couch next to Jack. Somehow sharing a couch felt more intimate than sitting next to each other in the kitchen and Simon sat on his hand to keep it from twitching.
Jack opened his mouth to speak, but instead Rat let loose a volley of barks. This time, though, Bernard got to his feet too, looking toward the door.
The door opened and in stepped a man who looked enough like Jack that Simon assumed this must be his brother. The dogs circled the man a few times and then settled down again. Clearly he was a familiar presence here.
“Charlie,” Jack said, resignedly.
Simon scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. Jack was quite a large man, but Charlie was huge.
Charlie’s eyes widened.
“Oh, hi. Sorry, I should’ve called. I didn’t mean to interrupt...”
Simon glued his eyes to Charlie’s dirty boots.
“Charlie, this is Simon. Simon, my brother, Charlie. Simon’s been helping me out with the animals.”
“Right, sure,” Charlie said. “Nice to meet you.” He held out a large hand to Simon and Simon shook it. He thought maybe, since he’d just been talking to Jack, he’d try to say it back, but the words all came out garbled.
His neck got hot and he pulled his hand back, inching toward the door.
“Hey, you don’t have to leave...” Simon heard Charlie say, but he was already out the door.
Chapter Six
Jack
A week later, Jack and Charlie sat, eating meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas. Charlie always cooked absurdly balanced meals.
“He’s not weird,” Jack was saying. “He’s just shy.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow.
“You scared him away with your hugeness,” Jack grumbled.
“Mmhmm,” Charlie said.
Jack bit at his lip. “He’s...great. Sweet. I didn’t expect him to be... I don’t know. Cool.”
Charlie snorted. “Cool? What are you, fifteen?”
“Shut up. He’ll probably turn out to be an asshole just like everyone else.”
Charlie’s eyes grew serious.
“Not everyone will let you down, Jack.”
Jack sighed. “Yeah, well you won’t let me down even when I beg you to.”
Charlie just kept coming over every day, helping without being asked. He cleaned the kitchen, did laundry, and brought groceries and sometimes meals. He asked Jack how his leg was and talked about people they knew who’d come into the hardware store. He gave the dogs baths that ended with him soaked to the skin. And, vexingly, he still left Jack’s notebook and pens on his bedside table, a glaring reminder.
Still, every time he showed up, Jack was so glad to be distracted from mindless television or shamelessly spying on the house across the field. But within minutes of his arrival, Jack was snapping at him. He needed him—fuck, he knew he needed him—but he resented every moment of it.
Jack took a bite of meatloaf and it was so very familiar. His brother had made it the same way since he was seventeen. A week after their parents died, Charlie had cooked meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas for dinner, as if, with a well-balanced meal, he could somehow restore to their lives the balance that had been upset.
“Charlie? How did you know how to make meatloaf?” Jack asked, suddenly realizing he couldn’t remember him ever cooking before their parents’ death.
Charlie looked at him flatly. “I didn’t know how to make it; I learned. Mom had those recipe cards of her mom’s, remember? In the yellow plastic box.”
“Kind of, but she never made meatloaf, did she?”
Charlie shook his head. “I didn’t want to make something she used to make. I didn’t want it to taste like she was still there when she wasn’t.”
With a wave of vertigo that comes from realization, Jack thought of the meals Charlie had made in those first few months. They were plain and simple and balanced—nothing like their mother’s slapdash combinations of whatever had been on sale at the market or in season in the garden. She’d been a joyful and absent-minded cook. Charlie approached the task with military precision.
“Do you like cooking?”
It was something else he’d never thought of before. But he’d had a lot of time to think lately.
“I don’t mind it,” Charlie said slowly.
As always, Charlie seemed to be measuring his words. His revelations were as precise as his cooking.
After an awkward few minutes in which they both, as if by mutual agreement, shoved food in their mouths so words were impossible, Charlie said, “I saw Vanessa the other day. She said to tell you hello and that you’re an asshole for never hanging out anymore.”
Guilt and irritation jangled through him. Vanessa had been his friend since high school. The two of them and their friends Ed and Sarah used to meet up monthly for burgers and beers at a bar they’d frequented since before they were legal.
Other than those monthly meet-ups, Jack had never been very social—he was easily bored by small talk and preferred sitting around a fire or walking in the woods to dinner parties and birthday parties; casual fucks with few
words exchanged to first dates—but since the incident with Davis, Jack had canceled more often than not. He hadn’t been in any fit state to socialize and he certainly hadn’t wanted to broadcast the humiliation of trusting someone who turned out to be a snake.
Though logically he knew the fault lay with Davis, he felt like a sucker, and learning he couldn’t trust his own judgment where Davis was concerned left him doubting it in general.
“Yeah, I’ll give her a call,” Jack mumbled.
“You all have a fight or something?”
“No,” Jack snapped. “We’re not ten years old and we didn’t have a fight.” Charlie raised a calm eyebrow and Jack felt even worse. “I’ve just been...” He started to say busy but it was so patently untrue.
“Feeling sorry for yourself,” Charlie finished.
Happy that Charlie had finally said something he could legitimately be pissed at instead of just being in a permanently shitty mood, Jack said, “Screw you.”
Charlie’s expression was impassive and he raised one massive shoulder in a shrug.
“It’s not unwarranted. I just wish you’d get over it.”
“Get over it? How about your best friend and collaborator who you’ve trusted and worked with for a decade totally betrays you and screws you over and steals something important to you and we’ll see how quickly you get over it, hmm?”
“Bro, I’m not saying Davis doesn’t deserve all your anger. He’s an asshole and he did a terrible thing. But you don’t deserve to be this angry. And you’re not drawing. You’re never not drawing. Not since you were a little kid. I just don’t like to see you like this.”
“Yeah, well, sorry you have to. I’ll try to get over it so you aren’t inconvenienced,” Jack snapped, more hurt than he could explain.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Charlie said stiffly. He took Jack’s empty plate and his own into the kitchen and Jack was glad for the reprieve and furious he couldn’t be the one beating a retreat.
Damn bones for breaking and gravity for functioning and greedy, egotistical bastards for being greedy, egotistical bastards.
“Sorry,” Jack muttered.
He knew Charlie couldn’t hear him.
* * *
A few days later, a storm blew in while Simon was out walking the pack. It started as a shower that sent Mayonnaise and Pickles scampering inside, but within twenty minutes was a gusting squall that darkened the sky and drove rain sideways against the windows.
Jack paced. Well. Jack swung himself back and forth in front of the living room window on his crutches until he had to stop because it was too tiring. It hadn’t had the same effect, anyway.
After another ten minutes, he lowered himself to the floor gingerly and built up a fire, wanting the animals to be able to warm up when they got home.
Yeah, the animals. It’s definitely them that you want to warm up.
After another ten, he brought armloads of towels from the bathroom to the couch so he could dry the pack off when they got home.
After another ten, he was able to admit he was worried. Puddles hated the rain. Rat was so small, and...and... He huffed out a breath.
Simon. He was worried about Simon.
Simon felt like part of the pack.
As if conjured by the thought, Simon burst through the door, a sodden, dripping mess. Pirate, seeming unperturbed, made a beeline for the fire and began to clean herself, and Rat followed, shaking off her skinny legs as she went; Dandelion ran right to the kitchen in hopes of a snack.
If Jack had been in fighting form, he would’ve had the towels on Bernard faster, but as it was, just as he turned to grab them, the huge dog shook himself, and Jack watched as if in slow motion as Simon got sprayed with another round of rain.
“Oh Jesus,” Jack said, as Simon slumped resignedly, but he couldn’t help but chuckle at the picture it made. Bernard, satisfied he’d wrung himself out, flopped in front of the fire to toast, which left only Puddles and Simon, leaning against each other, soaked and miserable.
“Aw, buddy,” Jack said. He was talking to Puddles, whom he approached with the towels he hadn’t been quick enough with for Bernard, but he included Simon in his sentiment, if only to himself.
He rubbed Puddles as dry as he could and then the dog slunk off to the bedroom, no doubt to soak a dog-shaped damp spot into his blanket and sheets. Making a mental note to change them later—fine, to ask Charlie to change them—Jack turned to Simon.
“Simon,” he said, and the man’s eyes met his. “Come inside, man, let me get you some dry clothes.”
Simon eyed his soaked boots, jeans, and sweater currently dripping onto the doormat. Jack wanted to tell him he’d already have to clean everything to get rid of the wet dog smell so a little more rain wasn’t a big deal. But for some reason, instead, he picked up the remaining towel from the couch and swung over to stand in front of Simon.
“Here,” he said, and he wrapped the towel around Simon’s shoulders and drew him close enough to rub his arms through it.
He heard Simon’s intake of breath and had the brief wild wonder if Simon’s mouth would taste of rain if he kissed him.
Then Simon let the breath out and leaned ever so slightly into Jack.
“Get your boots off and you can take a hot shower, okay? I’ll get you some clothes.”
Simon blinked up at him.
“Okay?”
Simon nodded and gave a ghost of a smile.
Since the first time they’d really talked the week before, they’d lingered over pickups and drop-offs, sometimes talking; sometimes Jack talking and Simon texting. Jack still couldn’t tell what made the difference in the times when Simon could speak and when he couldn’t. He appreciated the gift of Simon’s words when he managed them. But Simon via text was smart and honest and a little bit snarky, and he liked that too.
Now, standing so close, he felt like he should be able to tell whether words were forthcoming or not, as if the fanfare that announced their appearance would stir the very air between them.
But, no. He still couldn’t tell. What he could tell was that Simon was shaking with cold and his wool sweater was so sodden that it might as well have been dumping water down his back.
“C’mere, let me take this,” Jack said, tugging at the sweater. Simon’s eyelashes, spiked with rain, fluttered and he lifted his arms to help take the sweater off. It was plastered to his shirt beneath, so when the sweater came off so did it.
Jack couldn’t help but notice that Simon was lovely beneath his clothes. Angular and smoothly put together, though he was shivering. Jack dropped the sweater to the floor with a thlump and slung the towel back around Simon’s shoulders.
“Come on,” he said softly, and led the way to the bathroom.
He left Simon to his shower and fetched sweats for him to wear from his bedroom, where he did, indeed, find a sheepish Puddles on the bed.
He stroked Puddles’ damp nose and Puddles licked his hand. Worried Puddles might be chilly, Jack slung the blanket over him and gave him a rub.
“You like Simon?” he whispered. Puddles yipped. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”
He dropped the sweats outside the bathroom door for Simon and tried not to picture the way hot water would slide down his skin. The way his dark hair would cling to his skull and show off the angles of his face.
His fingers itched for a pencil and he could almost feel the first line he’d lay down.
That was the worst part. Davis’ betrayal had been gutting, but it was something that had been done to him. Not drawing for the last eight months? Losing the joy that had carried him through the darkest times of his life? That was something he seemed to have done to himself.
In fact, in the first blush of rage that had followed Davis’ news, Jack had been full of spiteful energy. He’d determined that he’d draw the most gorgeous b
ook Davis had ever seen and it would be the ultimate revenge. When the wind went out of those sails a week later, it had felt like something deeper was ripped away.
Because betrayal for selfish reasons was grotesque, but it was base; comprehensible. His own heart’s turn away from itself was a mystery he hadn’t yet managed to solve.
* * *
Jack was absently poking at the fire when Simon emerged, flushed and damp, from the bathroom. His dark, wet hair clung to his cheekbones just the way it had in the picture Jack hadn’t drawn. His blue eyes burned, the cut of his cheekbone a perfect slash, and Jack couldn’t look away.
The sleeves of his sweatshirt hung past Simon’s hands so when he wrapped his arms around himself it looked like a straightjacket. Simon was only a few inches shorter than him but he was spare where Jack was muscular.
All in all he presented a picture so tempting that for the first time since it had happened, Jack was grateful for a broken leg because it felt like all that was keeping him from drawing too close to his new friend and breathing in every molecule of him.
“Better?” he asked, voice rough.
Simon nodded and picked his way through the maze of sleeping animals to get to the fire.
The storm still raged darkly outside, making it look more like sunset than morning; the fire glowed and crackled. It was Jack’s favorite sound in the whole world.
Suddenly, Simon turned to him and smiled—a quick, bright smile that cut through him.
It took his fucking breath away.
“Hot dogs,” Simon said, clear as anything.
“Huh?” Jack felt like the fog from outside had descended on him the moment he saw that radiant smile. Then he saw that Bernard, Rat, and Dandelion lay before the fire in a row, snoozing with their legs stretched behind them. Hot dogs.
He laughed, loud and deep. He laughed because Simon had smiled. Because Simon had made a dopey joke. Because Simon was in his cabin, with his pack, damp and warm, skin to Jack’s clothes, happy.