by Kim Fielding
“Good evasive maneuver,” Simon commented placidly.
“I bet being a cop made you a really good driver.”
“They spent a good chunk of time on it in the academy, yeah. Comes in handy in civilian life too. I’ll tell you, there are times I wish I were still able to turn on the lights and sirens and write a nice fat ticket for some asshole.”
Elliott gave him a quick glance. “Did anyone ever talk you out of a ticket?”
“Once. Guy was driving his wife to the hospital—she was in labor. Now and then a young woman would try to flirt her way out of a citation, but I was immune.” He put his hand back on Elliott’s leg, and Elliott decided not to complain.
Simon didn’t figure out where they were going until Elliott pulled into the parking garage at Old Sacramento. But then Simon seemed delighted, which was a relief. “Really? Here? Awesome!”
“Anna gets credit for the idea, remember.”
“I hope I can meet her soon to thank her.”
Shit. Elliott had been so focused on avoiding Simon’s family that he hadn’t thought about introducing Simon to his own. Not that Ladd and Anna would have any problems with Simon, but they’d never met any of Elliott’s lovers. They hadn’t even known about John, other than a few sketchy bits Elliott had given them in order to allay some of his guilt. Well, he’d consider the issue at another time.
Elliott had put some thought into planning the day. He took them to the Railroad Museum first, where they spent a couple of hours meandering. Neither of them knew much about trains, but Simon was like a big kid, exclaiming over the exhibits and tromping happily through the train cars on display. Several elderly men volunteered at the museum, and Simon stopped to talk with every one of them, listening eagerly to their explanations and stories.
After the museum, Elliott took them for ice cream. He didn’t especially want any but he suspected Simon did, and he didn’t want to make Simon feel self-conscious about snacking alone. The next stop was another museum, this one dedicated to Sacramento’s history. Simon gazed at a large antique photo of people canoeing down city streets. “Wow. They kinda had an issue with flooding, didn’t they?”
“Water’s weird around here. Always too much or too little. If we were visiting on a weekend, we could do the underground tours.”
Simon turned to look at him, his teeth shining white in his wide smile. “What are those?”
“They jacked up the buildings in the 1860s to avoid more floods. Street level is now actually a story higher than it used to be. But lately they’ve done some excavating in what used to be the ground floors, and they’ve learned all sorts of interesting things about the early days of the city. Like there used to be this bordello— Shit. I’m sorry. I’ll stop lecturing.”
But Simon grasped Elliott’s shoulder and stared at him, eyes shining with emotion and intensity. “I don’t want you to stop lecturing. It’s interesting stuff, and I like when you do it. I like it a lot.”
“I guess . . . you like learning, huh?”
“Sure. But it’s not just that. El, when you talk about this stuff, it’s like you become more fully you. You forget that you think you’re a snail, and you become a star instead.”
Blushing, Elliott ignored propriety, leaned forward, and gave Simon a quick kiss on the lips. Making out was probably not a visitor activity the museum encouraged, but no docents rushed up to expel them.
Touring two museums wasn’t all Elliott had planned for the day. “Your knee holding up okay?” he asked after they’d returned to the street.
“Yeah, I’m good. What’s next?”
“More food.” Elliott took them to a candy store with a huge variety of treats displayed in barrels. Sampling was allowed—encouraged even—and they both munched on saltwater taffy as Simon filled a basket, which Elliott insisted on paying for. Then, with Simon clutching a large paper bag of sugary goodness, they walked down to the river.
“We’re going on a boat?” Again, Simon seemed as enthusiastic as a small boy.
“Just for an hour.”
“Not a three-hour tour?” Of course, Simon sang the last three words.
“Nope.” Elliott glanced up at the sky—a few clouds, but mostly blue. “I don’t think the weather will start getting rough.”
They hummed the Gilligan’s Island theme song as they boarded.
Simon insisted on climbing to the boat’s upper level, even though the stairway gave him trouble. Once they were up there, Simon took a seat and stretched out his bad leg. “This thing’s such a pain in the ass.” He poked near his knee. He didn’t sound depressed about it, just irritated. “I wish I could keep up with you.”
Elliott took the seat next to him. “You’re doing fine. And I’m happy to slow down a little if it means spending time with you. I’m in no hurry.”
The boat chugged its way upriver, the captain explaining the sights over a loudspeaker. They went under a railroad bridge just as a train was going over, which was fun, and they spied several species of birds in the water and onshore. Somewhere near the confluence of the American and Sacramento Rivers, Simon interlaced his fingers with Elliott’s, and that was how they completed their little journey—hand in hand. The water was green and placid, the sky darkened as the sun set, and life’s cares seemed far away.
As they were disembarking, Simon got into a conversation with a young woman who worked for the tour company. Elliott stood patiently nearby, listening as the employee divulged her plans to get a criminal justice degree and Simon shared a little career advice.
“Sorry,” Simon said when he and Elliott were walking away.
“Like I said, I’m in no hurry. Besides, I like watching you talk to strangers like that. You’re good at it. Maybe I’ll pick up a few pointers.”
With Simon working his way carefully along the boardwalk, Elliott led them a short distance to one of the restaurants hanging on the edge of the river. Reservations weren’t needed on a Thursday evening, and he and Simon scored a good table by a window. They ordered two glasses of wine and appetizers and then sat gazing at each other across the table. Simon looked tired; all the walking had evidently been hard on him. But he smiled as if Elliott was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen.
“I’m going to have to top this for our next date.” He feigned an aggrieved sigh.
“I don’t think we’re having a date-planning competition.”
“Sure we are.”
Elliott sat back comfortably in his chair. “We’d better not. A dating arms race could get ugly quickly. Escalation.”
“Sure. Private jets to Paris. Snorkeling in Bora Bora. Chocolate fountains.”
“I thought those were for parties.”
“They are,” Simon said, grinning. “Two of my cousins had them at their wedding receptions. But I think a private one might be fun too.” He waggled his eyebrows and licked his lips, giving Elliott some suspicion of where Simon imagined that chocolate going.
Elliott cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “I might be able to afford the chocolate fountains, but the rest are a little out of my budget, I’m afraid.”
“Mine too. Nobody ever got rich living off disability.”
Crap. And here Elliott was, throwing money around. “Hey, we don’t have to—”
“It’s fine.” Simon waved a hand dismissively. “My house? It belongs to my parents. They moved out not long after I got my job. They said they wanted someplace smaller, but I think really they meant it for me and my future bride.” He made a wry face.
“If they find out there’s not going to be a bride, do you end up homeless?”
“Don’t look so worried, El. I won’t have to set up a tent along Dry Creek.” Then Simon abruptly steered the conversation elsewhere, asking about an oddly shaped building across the river.
They spoke of easier matters and enjoyed their meals, and with a candle flickering on the table and a few boats sailing by outside, lights twinkling, the setting couldn’t have been more roma
ntic. Water had an interesting effect on the psyche, Elliott thought, as he recalled his recent impromptu trip to the coast. Gazing at bodies of water somehow calmed the soul. Maybe he should install a little pond in his yard.
Lingering over dessert—and a second glass of wine for Simon—they clasped hands across the table. “I like dating,” Simon announced.
“Me too.”
“This wasn’t a future I saw for myself—even just a couple of years ago. It wasn’t something I thought I could have.”
“Could you have been out as a police officer?”
After a moment to think, Simon shrugged. “Dunno. People’s views have changed, but it’s still the Valley, and cops are still cops. Most of ’em are fine, but I worked with a couple guys who still weren’t ready to accept women in the department, let alone queers. Universities are different, huh?”
“Mostly. Let’s face it, there are assholes everywhere. But I never hid that I was gay, and nobody gave me grief over it.” Which made John’s insistence on remaining in the closet even more aggravating.
Silence fell, but after a minute or two, Simon squeezed Elliott’s hand. “What’s worrying you?”
“What makes you think I’m worried?”
“You get a line. Here.” Simon reached across and lightly touched the spot between Elliott’s eyebrows.
Elliott wasn’t sure which unsettled him more—the lightning zap of skin-to-skin contact or the realization that Simon could already read his expressions so well. “I had a job interview,” he blurted.
“Hey! That’s great! Congratulations!”
“It was just a phone interview,” Elliott responded, shaking his head. “Doesn’t mean anything. They probably talked to six or seven other candidates.”
“None of whom was as impressive as you.”
“Well, I’m not so sure.” With his free hand, Elliott rolled the edge of his napkin between his fingers. He couldn’t look at Simon. Couldn’t even look out the window, because somehow he felt that the river was judging him. Water under the bridge.
“What?” Simon asked.
Shit. Had he said that out loud? “I was just thinking about our little cruise. It was fun sailing under Tower Bridge.”
“Yeah, it was, but that’s not what put the worry line on your forehead, Prof.”
Maybe dating someone with professional experience in investigations wasn’t such a great idea—it certainly made secrecy more difficult.
“The interview was for a university in Nebraska.”
Simon’s smile dissolved. “Oh.”
The waiter approaching their table must have registered the seriousness of their conversation and instead stopped three tables away and meticulously straightened the silverware.
“If they offer you the job, will you go?” asked Simon.
“It’s . . . not so simple. They have to do campus interviews first. Then there’s usually this gauntlet of deans and provosts and people like that, and there’s always one person in the department who hates your guts because they see you as a threat, and then there are negotiations over salary and the number of years until tenure and—”
“Will you go?”
Fuck. Elliott was finally brave enough to look Simon in the eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Nebraska.”
“Yeah. And it’s a little town too, not even Omaha or Lincoln.”
Simon let go of Elliott’s hand. He picked up his empty wineglass, put it down, then found a crumb of key lime pie and put it into his mouth. “Nebraska is a long way from here.”
“Fourteen hundred miles or so.” He had the urge to fidget too, but managed not to.
“A long way.”
Elliott wished Simon’s usual chattiness would return. “A long way,” he agreed. His mouth felt dry. Then, relenting under silence, he spoke again. “Academic jobs . . . you can’t be picky about where you end up. Ladd, he’s a high school teacher. He could do that in any town in California. Anna’s an escrow officer, so ditto for her. But me, not so much. You have to follow the job.”
“To Nebraska.”
“Yes! To Nebraska. To fucking Timbuktu if that’s where the offer comes from. The market’s bad enough anyway, but they’re not exactly fighting over a guy who left his last job tainted by a scandal.” Elliott puffed out a lungful of air, more irritated with himself and life in general than with Simon.
“You can’t just keep doing what you’re doing? That’s still teaching, right? And you can continue to do research.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Okay.” To Elliott’s surprise, Simon reached over and grabbed his hand again. “I can’t move to Podunk, Nebraska.”
“I figured.”
“I mean, not that we’re ready to settle down with the picket fence or anything. Christ, we haven’t done more than kiss. But . . . Jesus.” He chewed on his lip. Then he gave Elliott a sad smile. “I guess I can’t bitch about this, seeing as I won’t even tell Mom and Dad about us.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s . . . complications. Barriers. Either way.”
“I probably won’t get this job in any case,” Elliott offered.
“But eventually you’ll get one somewhere. And likely it won’t be here.”
“Yeah.”
They stayed like that for a while, not saying anything, until the waiter worked up the courage to come to the table. “Anything else I can get you guys?” he asked.
“Just the bill, thanks,” said Elliott.
But Simon flashed a grin. “And a magic wand that will solve all our problems.”
The waiter chuckled. “If I had one of those, I’d keep it for myself. Maybe my wife and I would stop arguing over how to parent our five-year-old.”
“I’m not sure that’s the same magic wand,” said Simon.
“Sure it is. One wand fits all. Fixes every relationship crisis with a single swoop.”
On the way back to the car, Elliott and Simon paused to lean against a railing and look at the Delta King, a former ferryboat now serving as a floating hotel. “Wouldn’t you be lonely in Nebraska?” asked Simon.
Elliott wanted to tell the truth. I’ve always been lonely. I think I always will be. The only times that shadow recedes is when I’m with you. “Yes,” he said instead.
Simon drew close until they were pressed together side by side, and his heat seeped through to conquer a chill Elliott hadn’t realized he felt. Simon wrapped his arm around Elliott’s shoulders. Comfortable. Comforting. Smelling of food and wine, of cologne, of museums and the river and leather.
“What do you want to do?” asked Elliott quietly. “About us.”
“Wave that wand. But since we can’t, I guess . . . just take it as it comes.”
“Yeah?”
“If we get only a few weeks together, let’s make them a good few weeks.”
Elliott leaned against him and sighed. “Okay.”
On the way home, Elliott put on one of the playlists he listened to while writing. Old stuff by the bands his parents had bought on vinyl. The Beatles. The Stones. The Who. Familiar songs he’d been hearing since he’d slept in a crib, somehow made fresher because Simon was listening with him.
“I like this one,” said Simon when the Moody Blues came on. “It’s sad, though. And is it knights with a k or without?”
Elliott had to consider that. “Without, I think. With a k they wear armor, not white satin.”
“Not when they sleep. That would be really uncomfortable.”
“When they sleep, then they’re night knights?”
“And their loved ones tuck them in, read them a bedtime story, and then say, ‘Night-night, night knight.’”
The silliness of the conversation made it all the more wonderful.
Although it wasn’t especially late, Simon was yawning by the time Elliott pulled into his driveway. As before, they sat in the idling car, not saying a word. When Simon leaned closer, Elliott expected a kiss. Instead, he felt the warm
th of Simon’s whisper against his ear. “Come inside.”
Chapter Twelve
Elliott entered Simon’s house with a certain degree of trepidation and was surprised to discover it was actually clean and neat. The furniture—formal and fairly ornate—didn’t suit Simon at all, but it was carefully arranged and debris-free. The carpet was dusty rose, and most of the upholstery involved patterns in creams and sea greens, often accented by carved and gilded woodwork. The pale-yellow walls were mostly bare, although there were a few framed prints of ancient carvings.
“Lamassu,” Elliott said.
“What?”
Elliott pointed at a depiction of a winged bull with a bearded human head. “Fifth or sixth century BCE, I think. My knowledge of Assyrian history is a little sketchy.”
Simon stepped closer. “You think I invited you here to show you my etchings, huh?”
“That’s kind of a dated reference. Nowadays shouldn’t it be to watch Netflix and chill?”
“I’m dating a historian.”
Simon moved so close they were nearly touching. He didn’t quite loom, and Elliott could easily have backed away, but still Elliott was viscerally reminded of how big Simon was and how powerful, despite the knee. This wasn’t a frightening realization, although it made Elliott feel a bit weak in the knees himself.
“Your house isn’t a toxic waste dump.” He sounded evasive even to his own ears. And scared, like a virginal nineteen-year-old.
Undeterred, Simon let his cane drop and enveloped him in an embrace. “I made sure it was clean,” he rumbled into Elliott’s ear. “In case you came over.”
For him. Simon had cleaned his house for him. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Simon took a step back, which was a disappointment. “My mom has been after me about it forever. I finally told her to have her way with vacuum and dust rag.”
“Did you tell her why?”