Love Has No Direction

by Kim Fielding

  “I doubt that. They seemed pretty worried about you.”

  “Hmm.” Parker folded his arms and turned to stare at Wes. “I’m not telling you my tale of woe while we’re parked here. If you want me to talk, onward. Wyoming, or wherever.” He punctuated this with a vague get rolling gesture.

  Maybe Wes could scare him off. “How about we go somewhere and fuck instead?”

  “Okay.”

  Shit. That wasn’t the response Wes had expected. “That’s it? Just okay?”

  “You’re gorgeous, and I’m… single.” A flash of deep sorrow, replaced quickly by determination. “I’m not exactly easy, you know, but I’m also not exactly hard to get.”

  “You’re… medium? Just right?”

  Parker grinned. “Now you’re making me sound like someone Little Red Riding Hood would sleep with.”

  In truth, Wes was more than a little tempted to do exactly what he’d suggested. To find somewhere secluded, take Parker into the back of the van—conveniently full of blankets to cushion the furniture—and screw until neither of them could walk right. But his conscience said no. Parker was dealing with some kind of disaster, and Wes didn’t want to take advantage. He had enough regrets on his tally sheet; he didn’t need more. Still, his conscience wasn’t assertive enough to force him to drop Parker off at P-Town.

  Traffic sped by, the rain grew harder, and Wes tried to steer the right course. “Tell you what,” he said. “How about if we opt for Plan C?”

  “Which is?”

  “No Wyoming. But no quick boinking either. How about if we head down to my place?”

  “Where’s that?” Parker was interested, not wary at all.

  “South. Rogue Valley.”

  “Okay. Cool.”

  South it was. As if there had ever been any real doubt where Wes would end up.

  MORRISON WAS much more cooperative than on the journey into Portland. Maybe the van was like a horse, eager to get home after a long day. Or maybe having a passenger gave the vehicle a renewed sense of purpose.

  Parker remained quiet until they passed a familiar landmark south of Salem. “Enchanted Forest,” he said, pointing at the sign. “My parents used to take me when I was little. It’s nice that it’s still there.”

  “It hasn’t been that long since you were little.”

  “God, it’s been eons.”

  “Nah. You’re still young.”

  “You say that like you’re a hundred. You’re not that much older than me.”

  Some days Wes felt as if he were a hundred. “A decade. I’m a decade older.”

  “Ancient.”

  Then Parker was silent again. When they reached Eugene, Wes announced that Morrison needed gas. He pulled into a station and, while the tank filled, trotted through the rain to the bathroom. He returned half expecting to find Parker gone—or at least demanding a ride back to Portland. But Parker, still buckled into his seat, smiled. “I can chip in for gas.”

  “Nope. I was going to have to head home anyway. It’s not as if you’re costing me anything.”

  Wes pulled out of the gas station and, soon afterward, back onto the freeway. This situation was so weird—he never picked up strangers, never brought anyone home with him—but it felt oddly comfortable. Maybe because Parker seemed content to simply sit there and watch the scenery roll by. Companionship had been rare throughout Wes’s life. Usually he didn’t feel it was necessary. But today, well, maybe he could use a bit. For a little while.

  “You’re not a cop anymore?”

  There it was. The best reason to avoid other people: they asked awkward questions.

  “No.”

  “What do you do for a living, then?”

  The tightness in Wes’s chest eased when he realized Parker wasn’t poking into the ugly depths of Wes’s past. “I’m a cabinetmaker. I build furniture.” That certainly sounded boring, didn’t it?

  But Parker didn’t act as though it was. “Really? How cool! Tell me what you make.” And he listened with what seemed to be genuine interest while Wes talked about his work. Parker even asked questions about carpentry techniques and Wes’s stylistic influences while claiming that his own experiences were limited to disasters involving IKEA. “I should not be trusted with an Allen wrench.”

  Wes came to feel as if furniture making really was cool and that he might be clever indeed for having mastered it. He rarely felt accomplished or admired—except when Miri handed him a check—so this was nice. But then, as they were approaching Roseburg, Wes made the mistake of asking Parker a question. “How about you? What do you do?”

  First Parker moaned, and then he was quiet for a few miles. Finally he sighed. “Unemployed. Except of course Mom will always give me a spot at P-Town.”

  “So you’re a barista.”

  “On and off. I’ve also…. Let’s see. Doggie day care wrangler. That was my last job, and sort of a dumb choice since I’m allergic, but it was fun. I took antihistamines. Before that I worked retail a bunch of times. Fast food. Receptionist. Messenger. Customer service rep. Inventory auditor—that’s a fancy name for counting stuff in stores. I sold cell phone covers at one of those little booths in a mall. I mopped floors. Checked tickets at a movie theater. And I’ve poured oceans of coffee.”

  “That’s a lot of jobs for a twenty-six-year-old.”

  “None of them lasted long.” Parker turned toward his window as if to end the discussion.

  Wes didn’t pry, although he still wanted to know what had upset Parker so thoroughly today. He turned on his music, and Eddie Vedder began to wail about a homeless man. To Wes’s surprise, Parker sat back in his seat and moved his knees to the beat, humming along now and then. He wouldn’t have pegged Parker as a grunge fan. But then, the only thing Wes really knew about the man at his side was that he was… unexpected.

  In Grants Pass, Wes finally left I-5 and turned onto a state highway. There weren’t many people down this way, mainly farms, orchards, vineyards, and pastures with horses. And a whole lot of weed, although that wasn’t visible from the road.

  “Almost there,” Wes commented after a bit. “Twenty more minutes.”

  “All right. Hey. Do you mind that I glommed on to you? I didn’t ask.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  They passed through the tiny town where Wes went for groceries. It contained little more than the general store, a post office, a bar, a gas station with an auto mechanic, and a mediocre pizza joint. There was an elementary school—high school kids had to travel farther—and a Grange Hall that hosted occasional events, which Wes never attended.

  He slowed at an intersection and turned onto a county road. Parker shifted in his seat and took a deep breath. “I broke up with my boyfriend yesterday. Logan. It was kinda ugly. And today he died by suicide.”

  “Holy shit.” Wes pulled onto the shoulder, a precaution not entirely necessary since there was no other traffic. But he felt as if he’d been slapped. He twisted to face Parker. “I am so sorry, man.”

  “Thanks. That was… that was what you saw in P-Town. Seattle police called to tell me—Logan and I lived there—and I freaked out.”

  Deeply grateful that they hadn’t fucked when Parker was clearly so emotionally vulnerable, Wes sought appropriate words to console him. He was no good at that kind of thing. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry this happened to you.”

  “It didn’t, though. I mean, yeah, I have to sort of deal with it, but I’m here. I’m alive. Logan’s the one who’s gone.” He played with the hem of his hoodie, rolling it between his fingers and tugging at a loose thread.

  “But to lose someone you loved….”

  Parker shook his head slightly. “I didn’t…. I liked Logan. But we weren’t in love. We’d only been together a few months, and it wasn’t exactly the kind of relationship you’d read about in a romance novel. It was just….” A noisy sigh that was almost a sob. “We worked together and got along okay. We fooled around a couple of
times. And his apartment was closer than mine to Barkin’ Lot—that’s where we worked. Plus one of my roommates used to have sex on the living room couch, which was gross, and another one—or maybe the same one, I dunno—sometimes crapped in the hallway, which was way gross, and everyone was always eating my food and nobody ever did the dishes. So I moved in with Logan.”

  Unsure whether the word avalanche was over, Wes reached into the pocket of the door and pulled out a couple of the peppermints he always kept there. He handed one to Parker and unwrapped the other for himself. Peppermints weren’t going to solve the world’s problems, but his grandfather had always given them out when Wes was upset, and they certainly didn’t make things worse. At least you ended up with good breath while you were miserable.

  Parker crunched his instead of sucking on it. “Anyway, Logan was a good roommate. I thought so, anyway. Turns out he wasn’t actually paying the rent. Maybe I would have fallen in love with him eventually? But I found out we were about to get evicted, I yelled at him at Barkin’ Lot, we both got fired, and I called my mom to come get me. Again. I guess Logan decided to escape a different way.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” Parker leaned his head back and closed his eyes tightly. “Episode 5,892 of the Parker Makes Bad Decisions Show, only this time my bad decisions affected somebody besides me.”

  Wes knew very well how one person’s poor choices could lead to someone else’s grief. He wasn’t sure, though, that this was one of those situations. He spoke quietly. “It sounds to me as if Logan was responsible for what happened to him.”

  Parker dry-rubbed his face and then turned to Wes with a weak smile. “Sorry. I bet you didn’t wake up this morning hoping to get involved in a stranger’s soap opera.”

  “I don’t mind.” It was kind of nice, actually, to be reminded that he wasn’t the only person who had problems—although he didn’t wish troubles on Parker, who seemed like a sweet person. “Why’d you come with me today?”

  After a long pause, Parker scrunched up his face. “I needed to get away. Mom’s great. She loves me and she’s always there for me. Nevin and Jeremy are superheroes. But I need to not be with them right now. And you looked like a nice guy when you were going into P-Town, even though I’d guess you were nervous about seeing Jeremy and Nevin. Plus you faced the two of them—that was really brave.”

  It had been a long time since Wes felt brave. And he had no idea why, but for some reason Parker’s presence made him feel calmer. More solid within himself. Maybe that was simply due to Parker’s pretty face. But he didn’t think so.

  “Do you still want to go to my place?” Wes asked.

  “I really do.”

  Chapter Five

  PARKER HAD always found it easy to make new acquaintances, although he struggled with finding deep friendship. So hopping into Wes’s van wasn’t exactly out of character for him. Heck, he’d had sex with guys whose names he didn’t know. Watching Wes straining to apologize to Nevin and Jeremy had struck a deep chord of sympathy. And of course, Wes had given Parker a handy opportunity to get away from Portland when staying might have crushed him.

  All of that explained why Parker had climbed into Wes’s van. However, it didn’t explain why he felt so comfortable with this man, a relative stranger. Usually emotions—good or bad—swirled inside Parker like a tornado. Now, though, they felt more like a stiff breeze. Still noticeable, still enough to make him shiver, but not enough to carry him away.

  And the farther they drove from Portland, the more relaxed Parker became. As far as he was concerned, they could continue forever. But as they neared Wes’s home, he recognized that he had to fess up—had to admit what he’d done and what happened—because it wouldn’t be fair to Wes otherwise. When he’d spilled his story, Wes hadn’t freaked out. He also didn’t overwhelm Parker with meaningless condolences or thick pity. He just said a few good words and stared at Parker with his blue-gray eyes full of understanding.

  Joining Wes was as impulsive as many of Parker’s other decisions. But maybe it wasn’t entirely stupid.

  Wes turned Morrison onto a gravel road that was full of dips and bumps. A farmhouse stood in the middling distance, its white clapboards visible even in the waning daylight. Parker assumed that was their destination, but Wes rolled right past it, curved around a hill, passed a thick grove of trees, and finally pulled to a stop. “Hope you weren’t expecting the Taj Mahal.” He turned off the engine and got out of the van.

  No palace was visible. In fact, there didn’t even seem to be a house. But there was a school bus, most of the yellow paint covered by wild abstract shapes in every imaginable color. Concrete blocks chocked its tires. The area, edged by trees, also contained a couple of small wooden sheds, a tidy collection of boxes and furniture under a large green canopy, and a little pond with a few mallards swimming placidly.

  “I thought ducks were supposed to migrate south or something,” Wes said when Parker joined him. “But these guys showed up two years ago and evidently decided to hang around.”

  “You live here?”

  Wes looked away from the ducks to give Parker a quick glance. “Yeah.”

  “That’s cool. I never met anyone who lived in a bus before. Can I have a tour?”

  After a brief pause and another quick look, Wes nodded. With Parker at his heels, he led the way to the canopied spot, where a green tarp created a weather-protected space. “This is my workshop and kitchen. The bus doesn’t have plumbing, but I’ve got running water here.” He pointed out a few features: the sink, propane grill, and oven where he prepared his food; the shed containing the compost toilet; the little wooden enclosure with a cement floor where he showered. He had a propane-powered tank to heat water for washing and bathing.

  “Rustic,” he said with a half shrug. “I’m used to it.”

  But Parker was noticing the details, the little touches such as a wooden dish rack with stylized flower shapes adorning its sides. Shed doors that sported fanciful animals carved into their surfaces. Doorknobs and cabinet knobs of glass, painted ceramic, and faceted metal. A half wine barrel heaped with colorfully painted stones. A tabletop mosaic of broken dishes.

  “It’s homey,” he announced. He liked this space. He could imagine lounging in one of the chairs with a mug of coffee in hand, watching Wes create furniture out of pieces of wood. Yes, it was a little chilly now, in the depths of November, but Wes had a space heater out here, and there was a firepit nearby. And an observer could always cover himself in blankets.

  Wes had been watching closely, gauging Parker’s reaction, and now he gave a slow smile. “Thanks.” He led the way up a few stairs into the bus.

  Parker wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Maybe a cot and a few odds and ends, along with the faded smell of school lunches and crayons. Instead he discovered a home. The steering wheel and original controls remained, but the driver’s seat had been replaced with a leather recliner that faced the back. Polished wood covered the floors, accented by a couple of long patterned rugs. A platform bed took up the entire rear of the bus, and the middle held a couch and some upholstered chairs, an armoire and a dresser, some cabinets, a bookshelf, a table for two, and a woodstove. There was even a fridge/freezer. Curtains hung at every window.

  “Wow,” Parker breathed.

  “Yeah?”

  “Definitely wow. It’s so cozy.” And it was. Not many knickknacks, but every item looked carefully crafted or chosen with care.

  “No plumbing in here, but I have electricity and Wi-Fi.”

  It was a lot like a trailer home or one of those tiny houses people on TV were always pining for. It smelled of freshly cut wood with a hint of lavender.

  “It’s amazing. Did you do all this yourself?”

  “Mostly.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Ten years.”

  Parker ran his fingertips down the side of a cabinet. The wood was as smooth as glass, but warmer. He imagined Wes
patiently sanding and finishing that same expanse. The brief vision made Parker’s heart beat faster, and he felt his cheeks flush. He had a thousand more questions, but asking them seemed intrusive. Wes clearly had unpleasantness in his past that didn’t want resurrecting. So Parker settled for a statement instead. “You love your home.”

  Wes’s response came out low and raspy. “Yeah. My grandpa lived in that house we passed. I used to spend a lot of time with him when I was a kid. I helped him dig that pond.” He gestured at a window, and Parker viewed the scenery in the waning light. The pond was about the size of Rhoda’s urban backyard and ringed with grass and late-autumn remains of wildflowers. It was an intimate and peaceful place, much like the interior of the bus.

  Wes traced a finger down the window glass. “Grandpa was still alive when I moved here—the bus was his idea. But he died before I got things really set up.” He gave a small smile. “He left me these five acres.”

  Darkness had fallen, and several lights gave the bus interior a warm and cozy glow. Parker remained near the door, watching as Wes plugged in his phone and then spent a moment poking at it until low-volume music drifted from speakers near the ceiling. The Rolling Stones.

  “Do you want some dinner?” Wes asked.

  “Not yet. Still full from lunch.”

  “Okay. I can grill us some burgers or salmon later. If you still want to stay, that is.”

  Parker wanted that very badly. He strode over to Wes, planning to ask about the beautiful chair nearby. Had Wes built it? What kind of wood was it? What made him decide to carve that particular design into the back? But instead of interrogating him, Parker somehow found himself embracing him.

  They were nearly the same height, although Wes was more heavily built, and their bodies seemed to fit together as neatly as two pieces of joined cabinetry. They didn’t kiss, didn’t grope. But Parker held Wes tight, and Wes returned the embrace—he was solid and smelled of soy sauce and peppermint.