by Gregory Ashe
On the second day, North got to spend more time with Shaw, and Shaw spent it in varying degrees of lucidity. Sometimes he seemed to understand what was going on, answering questions and making simple requests—mostly that he was thirsty. Other times, however, he was…less so. He spent a lot of the day giving stage directions to Dom DeLuise for a Broadway production of Blazing Saddles 2: Von Shtupp’s Revenge. Wilson and Phoebe tossed North out multiple times, but whenever they took a break for a meal, North snuck back in. Pari and Truck came for a time, and Pari tried to share a chocolate Zinger with North when she left Shaw’s room—the Zinger was half eaten, and she burst into tears and ran away before North could actually take it, but it was still the nicest thing she’d ever done for him. Teddi and Jack came. Percy came. Peter and Paul came. Jadon came twice, eyes ringed with exhaustion.
When Shaw’s parents finally left for the day, North convinced a nurse—he bribed her with coffee and a strudel from the café downstairs—to let him sleep in one of the chairs, regardless of the cast and sling. He managed to get his broken leg elevated on another chair, and then he slept in fits, the hard chairs making him feel like a nova was being born in the small of his back.
It was one of the small hours when he woke again, his back crooked from the chair’s steel frame, the vinyl upholstery sticking to his skin. A symphony of white noise registered at the edge of consciousness: the bedside fan, the whir of a floor scrubber, the indistinct murmur of voices. The room smelled closed up, of bodies, as well as a mentholated, liniment sting. The faint light from the window softened the chrome railings, brushing them down to silver, and flowed like a river across North’s lap. It picked out the dust bunnies under the bed, and they threw their own tiny shadows. North took in all of this from the cusp of sleep, ready to spill back over into darkness, when he heard it again. His name.
Shaw’s hazel eyes glittered in the dark. The bed was slightly elevated, propping him up at an angle.
“Hey, you’re up.” North dragged himself into a sitting position, winced, and massaged the small of his back. “Thirsty? Can I get you something?”
Shaw shook his head. The ambient light washed him out until he was just brushstrokes of gray.
“Bad dream?”
Shaw nodded.
The chair screeched as North dragged it closer to the bed. He leaned in and then hesitated. Shaw gave a tiny nod. North kissed him, just a peck on the lips, and lowered himself into the chair again. He found Shaw’s hand in the darkness.
“You ok? Want me to get a nurse to give you something to help you sleep?”
“No,” Shaw said, and it could have been an answer to either question. Or both, North thought. Probably both.
After a while, he raised Shaw’s hand and kissed the back of it.
Shaw cleared his throat. “Could you—” He gestured to the bed.
It was a wide bed, but North wasn’t sure it was that wide. All he said, though, was “Scoot over. Or do you need help?”
Without answering, Shaw shifted sideways on the mattress. North climbed up next to him, swearing when the cast clanged against the bed’s rail, and swearing again when he twisted funny and a hot wire lit up in his shoulder. Eventually, though, they were both settled, and Shaw turned into North’s shoulder, resting his head there.
“They’re going to give us hell if they see us like this,” North said.
Shaw ran his fingers up and down North’s bicep.
“I almost murdered a doctor with a bedpan, I think. It’s all kind of hazy. But I’m kind of on thin ice around here.”
For some reason, that made Shaw laugh, but the pain in his face cut his amusement short, and then he rested against North again. “What are we going to do?”
It was such a big question. Maybe the biggest. About us. About the agency. About the bills piling up. About Ronnie.
North found that coppery patch of hair and stroked it gently. “First, we’re going to find you a place to live that doesn’t have any fucking stairs.”
More of that pained laughter, stunted by the broken ribs and the cuts and bruises. When Shaw spoke again, his voice was hesitant. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
“You were unconscious. You weren’t doing anything.”
“My astral form was doing a lot of things, not just thinking. I helped Dom DeLuise fix the act two problems in his script. And I danced with Margo Martindale. And Luther Vandross taught me how to make love to a woman.”
“Stay in your lane, Vandross.”
“And one of the things I was thinking about was that it was nice when we were roommates. When you got all those STDs from being a man-whore, remember, I was always bringing you ice for your swollen balls.”
“I didn’t have any STDs. My balls were swollen because you kicked me. You were practicing pirouettes in the kitchen, and you screamed my name like the building was on fire. When I ran in to see what the fuck was going on, you got me right in the nads. I think you even said, ‘Hi-yah,’ when you did it, which still makes me think it was on purpose.”
“I was getting really good at pirouettes. I could almost do a full circle. And then I was off balance, and I put out my leg to steady myself, and you came charging in without even looking.” Shaw was tracing North’s arm again with just his fingertips. “And when you pulled a hamstring showing off for that track boy, remember? You were trying to vault that traffic barrier, and you made that noise like a dog right when you went over the top, and you screamed, ‘My hamstring, my hamstring, oh my God,’ and that track boy hadn’t even been paying attention? I spent the whole weekend getting you stuff from the fridge, even though all that cheddar made you gassy and you made me leave so I wouldn’t see you cry when you watched Homeward Bound.”
“I didn’t fucking cry! I had something in my eye, and you were supposed to be staying in your room so I could have five fucking minutes of peace and quiet. And I did my fair share of taking care of you, if you’ll recall. When you invoked your light bubble, whatever the fuck that means, and you got trapped inside that beach ball? Who got you out?”
“You did.”
“And when you tried that synthetic weed and decided your toenails were wax and you could soften them in the toaster, who spent a whole fucking weekend slathering burn cream all over your fucking feet?”
Shaw’s mouth made a smile against North’s shoulder. “I forgot about that.”
“Who, Shaw?”
“You did.”
“And I went on a date, and the guy left early because he said I smelled like feet. And we had to buy a new toaster, and you never paid me back.”
“So we agree: we’re really good at taking care of each other.”
“I want the twelve bucks for that toaster, Shaw. I kept the receipt.”
“Maybe we should, you know, do it again. I mean, it worked for us before.”
North touched that coppery patch again. He kissed Shaw’s hair and cupped his chin. “If you ask me,” he said quietly, “I’ll say yes. But you have to ask me.”
“North Epaphroditus McKinney, will you please live with me? Or I’ll live with you. Or whatever you want. We can get you a doghouse if you’re into that.”
North pretended to consider. “No stairs.”
“Definitely no stairs.”
“And we’re going to have a chore chart.”
“Oh, definitely. I’ll ask Emery—”
“No fucking way.” North hesitated. “It has to be dog friendly, wherever it is.”
“Maybe a house. Maybe a cute little ranch with a fenced yard.”
North grunted. After a moment, he said, “That sounds all right.” Then he straightened his tee. Something was in his throat, and he felt like he was making a weird noise but didn’t know how to stop. He shifted on the bed, trying to get the sheets out from under his ass. Then he forced himself to say, “And that’s not my middle name.”
Shaw’s fingers came to a rest on North’s arm.
/> “Cassidy.”
Shaw lifted his head from North’s shoulder. A smile burst across his face. He bit his lip, obviously wrestling with his expression, but the smile just got bigger. He touched North’s cheek. “North Cassidy McKinney.”
“Damn straight,” North said and kissed him.
CODIRECTION
Keep reading for a sneak preview of Codirection, the final book of Borealis: Without a Compass.
Chapter 1
“ARE THEY WEARING the same boots?”
The housewarming party at North and Shaw’s new home was in full swing, and the question came from one of their guests—a neighbor from down the street. Nita was a big woman, her dark skin warmed by gold undertones, her eyes a frank and startling hazel. She wore a sleeveless blouse and a short skirt in concession to the September heat, and she kept lifting the ends of her plaits from her neck, flapping the blue hair in an attempt to cool herself. She was looking at her wife, Breezi, who was currently picking a fight with North.
“Don’t get me started,” Shaw said.
Nita laughed so softly that it was almost swallowed up by the Jethro Tull playing on the Bluetooth speaker.
“I’m serious,” Shaw said after another sip of Coke—his fourth, because North had gotten caught up in the argument with Breezi. “He saw her tool cabinet in the garage last week, and he’s spent every night since researching them on his phone. They cost four hundred dollars. He talked about them in his sleep last night; I’m not even joking.”
“So much for that wizard’s crystal ball you were going to buy.”
“Well, technically it belonged to a witch, so I think it’s a witch’s crystal ball.” Shaw smoothed his hair and checked that it was still gathered in a bun. “But yeah, unfortunately, I seem to have forgotten how to say no to him.”
Nita laughed again, but that last part was more truth than joke. On the big things, they tended to agree, and so the shift in their relationship had snuck up on Shaw, catching him by surprise about little things: where to put the weight set in the basement, what types of protein to prep for the week, how much of the grocery budget could be spent on ice cream sandwiches. At least they’d managed to buy a house together—a gingerbread brick structure in the neighborhood known as St. Louis Hills, with high, asymmetrical rooflines and Gothic arch doorways and rubble masonry accents. And it had a garage that could fit both their cars, not common in St. Louis. A garage, Shaw suspected, that pretty soon was going to be sporting a new tool chest.
The party had started an hour ago, and now, with dusk settling over them, it was in full swing. Fairy lights strung across the backyard cast a warm, yellow glow. The smell of charcoal and citronella, of salmon grilling on cedar planks, mingled with the voices of their friends. Puppy in her arms, Pari sat on Truck’s lap, her bindi goldenrod today, the two of them engaged in another all-consuming conversation as she played with Truck’s long, dark hair. Zion and Jadon were standing together near the coolers, both men in slides, gym shorts, and tees. Jadon’s darkly sandy good looks were relaxed tonight; he was smiling as he said something to the other man. Zion kept running a hand over his hair, a tight fade cut into his curls. Whatever Jadon said made Zion burst out laughing, an unusually expressive moment for the reserved man. His hand found Jadon’s arm and squeezed, and Jadon leaned in, whispering something else, as Zion laughed harder.
“They’re cute,” Nita said.
“Um, yeah.”
“How long have they—”
“No, really, North.” That was Shaw’s dad’s voice.
Shaw turned in time to see it all happen: North making an impromptu takeaway container of grilled salmon out of two paper plates; Shaw’s mother shaking her head and raising a hand; North shoving the plate at her with a manic grin; the plates hitting his mom’s hand at the worst possible moment; the plates separating; grilled salmon everywhere.
“Excuse me,” Shaw said as his mom stepped back, plucking at the front of her shift dress, where the maple-soy glaze was spreading. His dad was casting about, probably looking for paper towels. North was on his knees picking up salmon.
“I’ll get Breezi out of his hair,” Nita said. “I’ll tell her she should send him a picture of that new drill she bought.”
“God, no, I want to go on vacation sometime again in this existence.”
Laughing, Nita made her way toward her wife, who was offering pointed comments about how North should be picking up the salmon. The main piece of advice seemed to be “Do it better.”
“You’re the devil,” Shaw called after Nita.
He reached North as he was gathering himself to stand. Shaw’s dad had found napkins, and he was dabbing at the linen dress while Shaw’s mom tried to politely and nonverbally tell him to leave her the hell alone.
“Let me just rinse this off,” North mumbled.
“North, they’re leaving, and they don’t want salmon.”
“It’ll be fine; I’ll be back in five seconds.”
Shaw squeezed his boyfriend’s arm.
“No,” Shaw’s dad said, his voice tight. “Thank you. We really need to get going.”
“It’s a lovely home.” Shaw’s mom kept her gaze fixed on Shaw. “And a lovely party.”
“Thank you for inviting us, Wild.”
Apparently a thank-you was beyond the realm of possibility for Phoebe Aldrich, so she bussed her son’s cheek and let her husband lead her to the gate in the privacy fence, and then they were gone.
“Oh my God,” North groaned.
“It’s fine.”
“Oh my fucking God.”
Shaw kissed him, but North’s eyes were directed toward the sky, and he didn’t return the kiss.
“I offered to rinse it off. It fell on the ground, and I ruined her dress, and I offered to rinse off food that had been on the ground and send it home with them.”
“I did notice that.”
“What the fuck is wrong with me?”
“Do you think Jadon and Zion are hooking up?”
“What?” North’s gaze came down. “Why?”
“Well, the way they’re standing, and there was this weird moment where Zion laughed and he touched Jadon and it was definitely a thing, like, my nipples—”
“Oh, they definitely want to bone, if they aren’t doing it already. I meant, why do you care? Wait, what the fuck about your nipples?”
“Go wash your hands. I’ll keep an eye on the burgers.”
North eyed the plate of food, his expression contorted.
“Don’t throw it away,” Shaw said. “We’ll rinse it off and toss it back on the grill for a few minutes. I’ll eat it. I’ll put it in a salad. Oh! Or I can make that salmon-flavored baby food that I saw on Pinterest. Or that omega-3 rejuvenating eye mask where you use salmon instead of cucumber slices and—no, stop, don’t put it in the trash!”
“I told him he could use the bathroom,” Pari was saying. The party’s flux had carried Jadon and Zion into conversation with Truck and Pari, and Shaw couldn’t help noticing that Jadon and Zion’s shoulders were brushing. “And he did look like he felt better when he came out. But really, I think he just needed a decent meal and a night’s sleep.”
“Who are you talking about?” Shaw asked as he joined them.
“If you checked your voicemails,” Pari said, “you’d already know.”
“We’ve discussed this. I’m glad you’re on board with the voicemail situation. I’m glad that you’ve finally caught up with 1990s technology. And I appreciate that you want to pass along messages that way. But it gets a little overwhelming when I get forty to fifty voicemails from you every day, and most of them consist of things like ‘I paperclipped that client report like you told me to,’ and ‘North’s chair smells like a burrito, in a bad way.’”
“This from the guy who once sent me fourteen videos in a two-minute span,” Jadon stage-whispered.
“Really?” Zion asked.
�
�He was very proud of himself for eating ice cream.”
Zion’s smile was huge, and he angled his body toward Jadon, as though sharing the expression with the cop. They were close to the same height, Shaw noticed, and Jadon wouldn’t have to do much more than tilt his head for a kiss.
“I wasn’t proud of myself for eating ice cream,” Shaw said. “Well, actually, yes, I was. But the videos were because I was excited to find an avocado-based frozen dessert. And then I had to tell you about the flavor profile. And the top notes. And the bottom notes. And the crunchy, pointy part at the end of the cone that had mango syrup in it. Actually, I think I still have those videos—”
“He was a street kid,” Pari said. “He came into the office and asked if he could use the bathroom. I know your official policy is to trample the poor and impoverished with your solid-gold heels tipped with the sharpened horn from a murdered unicorn—”
“I said one time that you couldn’t let the can lady sleep under my desk!”
“—but some of us have consciences, and I wasn’t going to send that poor boy away. He looked terrible, Shaw. And you ought to be ashamed of yourself for making me send him right back out onto the street.”
“I didn’t—I wasn’t even there.”
“But you would have. You’d have made me march him right into oncoming traffic. Thank God you were too busy doodling North’s penis on my diploma to check your voicemails.”
“In the first place, nobody leaves their associate’s degree diploma facedown in a pile of random papers. That’s just asking for trouble. And in the second place, as I’ve told you literally a hundred times before, it wasn’t North’s penis, it was an anatomical rendering—”
“Excuse me?” North said.
“It wasn’t North’s penis,” Truck said. “North’s penis has that weird angle in the middle, like a pipefitter was in charge of putting it together.”
“Excuse me?” North said. There was a definite tone.
On the deck, Breezi was laughing so hard that she fell out of her folding chair while Nita tried to shush her.