by Roan Parrish
Simon nodded. For once, his head was blissfully empty, every habitual inkling blasted away.
“Good.”
They lay for another minute.
“We’re gonna get stuck together,” Jack warned.
But Simon was so comfortable. So comfortable and so very, very peaceful.
“The dogs are gonna try to lick our come,” Jack warned.
At that, Simon sat up, horrified.
Jack half chuckled and half groaned, since Simon sitting up involved a redistribution of the mess between them.
“Okay, okay, don’t do anything drastic,” he muttered.
They eased apart slowly, Simon wiping at their come with his shirt.
Jack caught his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm.
“Hey.” Simon looked at him. There was a softness to his expression—an uncertainty that Simon hadn’t seen before. “Was it okay?”
Simon grinned and rolled his eyes. The notion that Jack might not know how mind-blowing it was for him was laughable.
But Jack’s eyes had a rawness in them that made Simon remember how much it hurt when sincerity was treated as a joke.
Simon cupped Jack’s face, kissed his cheek, and said very seriously and very firmly, “Yes.”
* * *
When Simon got home, someone was breaking things.
At the first crash, he braced for a burglar. But this was Garnet Run so it was more likely to be a moose.
Then he heard the yell. It was indistinct and garbled with pain, but Simon knew. What he didn’t know was whether to give his grandma privacy or go to her. It was something he was never sure of. When he felt at his worst, the idea of someone seeing him was mortifying.
Once, in tenth grade, after Mr. Warner had forced him to the front of biology class to demonstrate removal of the fetal pig’s heart and his hand had shaken so hard as the man barked instructions at him that he’d nearly sliced the pig in half, he’d bolted from the room. A well-meaning classmate had followed him, crashing through the bathroom door just in time to see him puke into the sink. At the sight of her Simon had shut himself in a stall, wishing he were dead. Finally she left, and she never followed him again.
It never helped to be witnessed in the depths.
But with Jack’s scent on his skin and Jack’s taste in his mouth, an unfamiliar image slid into his mind. What if, someday, Jack were the one to find him? The one to witness his body and brain trying to tear each other apart? What if he didn’t run? What if he didn’t cringe? What if Jack just wrapped those strong arms around him and held him as he shook? That wouldn’t feel the same, would it?
Simon nosed into his collar, hunting for one more whiff of Jack, when another crash came from the kitchen. He turned the corner and jumped back as the plate hit the ground inches from his toes.
“Grandma, it’s me,” he said, keeping his voice casual.
“Don’t come in here unless you’re wearing shoes,” she said, voice choked. “There’s...everything’s broken.”
Simon gulped.
Broken crockery littered the floor and a hole was caved into the wall next to the window, flowered wallpaper punched into the drywall.
His grandmother stood outside the entrance to the pantry. For the first time since the funeral, Simon found himself thinking how old she looked. How small.
She’d simply always been there for him. In the usual ways, when he was a child. Birthday presents and hugs and special outings and favorite meals. But it was later that mattered more. When his parents began to realize that their son wasn’t going to be who they wanted him to be. Wasn’t going to act the way they thought he should. When they lost patience with his fear and his pain and began to see them as inconveniences instead of needs. That’s when his grandmother’s open door and open arms, her empathy and her acceptance, her fierce protection, had meant everything to him.
At fifteen, when he’d left his job at the Dairy Queen after three days because they’d forced him to take orders when he’d thought he would only fill them—when his boss had barked at him to Speak up, son, and when Simon couldn’t, let fly unsavory comparisons that Simon wouldn’t repeat—when his father had thrown up his hands in exasperation and asked how the hell Simon thought he’d ever be an independent adult if he couldn’t even keep a job at a fucking Dairy Queen—his grandmother had stood up for him. She’d told his father to back off and she’d told him that it wasn’t being able to ask strangers what kind of ice cream they wanted that made you an adult.
At sixteen, when he’d failed three classes because the teachers wouldn’t waive the participation and presentation grades and the school had sent home a letter warning that he might be held back a year, she’d been the one to pluck the letter from his mother’s hand, announce that she’d take care of it, then march into the principal’s office and give him a piece of her mind that had, Simon was sure, been what let him enter his senior year.
At seventeen, when he wanted to apply for college but didn’t have a single teacher who could write a recommendation letter on his behalf, his grandmother had been the one to suggest he ask Cindy and Bill, who ran the Humane Society where Simon had spent the weekends since he was fourteen, to write instead. He hadn’t gotten in anywhere, but he still had the letters. They were the only endorsements of his character he couldn’t deny.
She’d been there for him more times than he could count, always warm and fierce and unrufflable.
But now she looked small, uncertain, angry. She looked heartbroken.
Simon crossed to her, not sure what to say.
“I can’t believe he left me,” she choked out. “Bastard.” Simon put his arms around her and gathered her close. “Can’t believe that bastard died and left me all alone,” she sobbed. Simon had never heard his grandmother say bastard before.
“Bastard,” he cooed in solidarity about the kindest man he’d ever known.
His grandmother swatted him. “Don’t talk about your grandfather like that,” she admonished through her tears.
“Sorry,” Simon laughed. His grandmother laughed. She cried and laughed and then Simon found himself crying and laughing.
“Good lord,” she said, wiping her tears and taking a deep breath. “What now?”
Simon knew she wasn’t talking about this very moment, but sometimes the next moment was all you could really deal with.
“Well,” he offered, “we could break more stuff?”
His grandmother’s eyebrows rose.
“We could,” she said thoughtfully. “We could break more stuff.”
Simon reached into the open cupboard and took out two plates. He handed one to his grandmother. Then he clinked the rim of his to the rim of hers in a defiant cheers and threw the plate at the wall.
It exploded, then the pieces hit the tile floor and shattered again. Simon grinned, giddy with glee.
“Wow,” he said. “Good thing you replaced those linoleum floors you had when I was a kid. They wouldn’t have yielded nearly such a satisfying result.”
“True,” his grandmother said. Then she threw her plate at the wall and let out a holler of joy as it exploded.
They looked at each other, wide-eyed and grinning like naughty children.
“Again?” his grandmother said.
“Again,” Simon agreed.
Chapter Eight
Jack
It was so infuriatingly stupid, but Jack had the urge to call Davis. Not the real Davis, who’d shown he didn’t care about Jack at all. The Old Davis. The...fictional Davis?
The Davis who’d been his best friend since freshman year of college; the Davis who’d listen wryly when Jack would grumble about wanting a relationship but hating people, shake his head and say, “You don’t hate people, bro. You’re just a romantic and no one’s lived up to it yet.” At which point Jack would invariably huff and p
uff and change the subject, then wonder about it for days afterward.
Did it make him a romantic that most people irritated him and when he imagined waking up with them every morning for the rest of his life he wanted to barf at the tedium and annoyance?
Did it make him a romantic that, on the few dates he’d capitulated to, questions like What are you afraid of? and What’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you? killed the mood when in his fantasies they created intimacy, depth?
And now: Simon.
Simon, who didn’t irritate him, but fascinated him. Simon, the thought of waking up next to whom every morning filled him with a fizzy lightness like the air on a cold, clear birthday morning just after sunrise. Simon, whom he now desperately wanted to ask what was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Simon, who he didn’t hate, not even one little bit.
So, despite every possible betrayal and disappointment, sitting in his cabin with his pack, Simon’s kisses lingering on his lips and the image of Simon’s face in ecstasy—trembling mouth open, eyes shut, throat taut—as he came by another’s hand for the first time, Jack wanted to call the Davis of his past and say:
Maybe you were right. Maybe I am a romantic. Because I am feeling romantic as fuck right now about a man called Simon Burke.
* * *
Jack organized his sock drawer. Painstakingly easing it from the dresser so he could sit on the bed, he divided white from black; wool from cotton. He hung his shirts in color spectrum order in the closet.
He alphabetized his spice rack. He sharpened every pencil and perfectly aligned his books’ spines with the edge of the bookshelf.
The smoke hadn’t come from the house over the hill this morning, though Jack had watched for over an hour. Had the birds and squirrels seemed quieter too? It felt like it, but he couldn’t be sure. He marked an X on the piece of paper where he’d been keeping track, then a large, irritated question mark.
He sat in his studio with the binoculars and stared out the window at the defunct garden instead. He’d never been one for gardening though he remembered a time when it thrived. When his mom spent hours on her knees with her hands in the dirt. As a child, he’d sit at the corner of a bed of zinnias and hold as still as he could, hand outstretched, palm full of birdseed, waiting for the chipmunks to get used to him enough that they would eat from his hand.
Suddenly, for the first time, it felt essential that he plant the garden. If he could’ve willed his leg to heal in that moment, he’d have planted the whole field. He wondered if there were still seeds in the green metal box by the back door, but when he rose to check, a jolt of pain shot from his leg to his spine and he sank back down. Instead, he pulled a sheet of paper toward him and tried to remember all the things his mom had planted. He imagined delicate pea tendrils snaking up stakes and the creep of mint over potato mounds.
He stared out the window for hours. Watched the sun climb high and drop low again. Watched squirrels and chipmunks dart and flash in chittering configurations. Watched birds soar. Watched larger creatures move in the woods and smaller ones run from them.
Finally, exhausted from doing even these small things, he sank onto the couch and watched episode after episode of Secaucus Psychic. When he found himself starting to wonder if maybe spirits really did linger after death and send messages to the living he got an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.
Do you believe in ghosts? he texted Charlie, even though Charlie was at work.
I don’t know. Not really, Charlie responded. Why?
So you don’t think mom and dad ever tried to send us messages from beyond the grave or anything?
There was a long pause before Charlie answered and Jack didn’t know if he was thinking or working.
Finally, when his answer came, Jack didn’t know what to make of it.
I hope not.
* * *
“Fucking mother goddamn uggh!”
Jack swung his crutch like a golf club at the dog toy that had nearly tripped him and collapsed (gently) on the couch in a massive sulk, which is where he still was twenty minutes later when Simon arrived, only now Puddles was sitting on his left foot.
“Come in!” Jack yelled.
Simon brought the smell of autumn inside with him, fresh and intoxicating and Jack wanted to punch something. Jack wanted to punch everything.
“Hey,” Simon said. He was wearing grayish-brown corduroys and a wool sweater the color of blackberries; a soft gray scarf that looked hand-knit was wrapped around his throat. His dark hair was windblown and he was smiling a little.
He looked so gorgeous and soft that Jack wanted to bury himself in him and never come up for air.
Jack held out his hand and Simon came to him without hesitation.
“Hi,” Jack said and pulled Simon down on top of him. He wrapped Simon in his arms and breathed in the scent of outdoors and wool and Simon himself.
Simon said something Jack couldn’t hear.
“Hmm?” he asked, but didn’t let go and Simon didn’t repeat himself, just nuzzled into Jack’s neck. He thought he caught just the slightest hint of sugar from Simon’s scarf and bet Simon’s grandmother had knitted it.
“What’s wrong?” Simon said low into his ear after a while.
Jack grumbled and let Simon slide out of his lap onto the couch beside him.
“Can’t stand being cooped up here anymore. It’s driving me fucking batshit.”
“You don’t have to stay inside, do you?” Simon asked.
“Well, no, but I can’t fucking do anything,” Jack groused. He decided that perhaps sharing his recent habit of standing outside the back door and obsessively stalking a smokestack might not be in this delicate relationship’s best interest.
“What would you do if you d-didn’t have a broken leg?”
Jack huffed out a breath. He realized he was sulking, realized it was likely terribly unattractive, but couldn’t quite stop.
“Walk the dogs,” he said.
Simon shrugged. “Let’s go, then.”
He got off the couch and held out a hand to Jack.
* * *
Outside, Jack sucked in huge breaths, hungry for air that he or the animals hadn’t already breathed out. He felt better already. It was chilly out, but the sky was clear. Turning leaves, dirt, wood smoke, and ozone filled his nose. Perfect.
It was extremely slow and painful going down the path from his house. By the time they got to the road, Jack was sweating and breathing hard, and he’d had to lean against Simon four or five times when his balance betrayed him. He had to stay on pavement otherwise his crutches sunk into the dirt and leaves, which curtailed their route options slightly, but Jack didn’t care. He was outside with his pack and that was all that mattered.
Pirate rubbed up against his cast then trotted ahead like always, Rat at her heels. Dandelion turned this way and that, enjoying the walk. Puddles stuck close to Simon, and Bernard kept sniffing at Jack like he knew something was different.
Jack hadn’t fully realized how much he’d missed this until now. It had been a month and every cell of his body had yearned for it. Even the fact that they had to go so slowly that Pirate finally got fed up and started running in circles around them didn’t dull the shine of being out in the glorious morning air.
But after another five minutes, his shoulders and arms were on fire and his armpits chafed painfully. After another ten minutes he could feel the calluses forming on his palms and he was breathing like he’d run ten miles. Simon was shooting him looks that were likely supposed to be subtle but weren’t.
“Let’s stop for a bit,” Simon said gently. Jack was panting and wincing and dizzy, sweat streaming down his back. He was furious at his body and wanted to argue with Simon, but he couldn’t, because he needed to stop, and because he was already in a vicious argument with himself.
How
did just breaking my leg make me this weak? Jack’s mind screamed. My arms should be strong enough to compensate! Why am I tired when I’ve spent all day lying around???
The dogs didn’t mind stopping. They wove their leashes together chasing each other and nipping at falling leaves, bugs, the air. Pirate chased a pika through the trees, catching it once and letting it go, then jumped on Bernard’s back, inducing him to play with her. He obliged, harrumphing down on the ground and rolling around with her, practically tugging Simon down with him.
Simon’s laugh drove away the pain in Jack’s arms and the ache in his back. It even eased his resentment a little bit. He leaned back against a tree and looked up at the way each tree’s leaves didn’t quite touch, blue sky visible in rivers between them. Crown shyness it was called. A red-tailed hawk careened overhead and Jack envied its freedom.
“I’ll drop them off and come get you in the car,” Simon said.
The tentative edge to his voice was all that kept Jack from snapping at him.
“I’m fine,” he said tightly.
Simon frowned at him. He slid the leashes up to his wrists and took Jack’s hand, turning it palm up. Jack hissed when Simon pressed on the skin there and snatched his hand away. He opened his mouth and closed it again.
“Sorry,” Jack said softly. “I’m just so damn sick of being weak.”
Simon’s eyes snapped to his, blazing.
“You’re not weak. You broke your leg. You’re human, you know, with bones, that-that-that break!”
“Fuck bones,” Jack growled bitterly, scowling at his cast. “I hate bones.”
Simon’s laugh rang out.
“You’re such a baby,” he said, but he said it gently.
Jack’s eyes widened.
“You are,” Simon said. “You think it’s weak to have a broken leg? What do you think of people who can’t walk? D’you think they’re weak?”
“What? No, of course not!”
“What do you think of p-people who need help to get around all the time? Are they weak?”