Love Has No Direction

by Kim Fielding

  Wes made a decision as he crossed into Oregon. He needed to find out what Logan’s suicide note had said.

  Chapter Nine

  EVEN AS Parker collected the assortment of cups and plates from the vacated table, he could feel Rhoda watching him from behind the counter. He twisted his head to shoot her a quick glare, and she didn’t even pretend she hadn’t been staring. God. It was as if she feared he’d explode if she didn’t keep an eagle eye on him.

  He carried the dirty dishes back to the kitchen and left them with others near the sink. No two pieces matched, because Rhoda haunted thrift stores and yard sales in search of cheap and interesting china. A few of the most frequent customers had picked out their favorites, which were kept aside especially for them.

  Rhoda was waiting for him when he emerged from the kitchen. “Do you want a break, honey?”

  “I’ve been here less than two hours.”

  “So? It’s slow.”

  He sighed. “Then I’ll sweep. And wash the windows.” The truth was, he preferred to keep busy. That was always true for him, and especially when he faced emotional turmoil. Scrubbing glass was way better than wallowing—or spinning eternally in his angst vortex. When he’d returned from Wes’s place, Rhoda had insisted he take the afternoon off and then made him stay home the next day too. He spent the day cleaning her entire house, which was why she’d relented and brought him in today.

  Most grown men did not need to resort to housecleaning as a form of protest.

  Now it was late afternoon, and Parker had cleaned the floors and windows and caught up on the dishwashing. P-Town had grown crowded. Lots of students arrived at this time of day, and people who normally worked from home tended to emerge into public, laptops under their arms, for coffee and snacks. The group of older women who did some kind of cat rescue thing met at P-Town most days; each of them had a dedicated feline-themed teacup. Fiona, who lived in an old station wagon, came in to wash up in the bathroom and sip coffee while she read magazines. Parker knew business would stay brisk until closing, slowing down only a little at dinnertime and then picking up again later. Today was Tuesday, which meant live music at seven thirty, and by then every seat would be taken.

  Good. The harder he worked, the less he had to think about anything else.

  “I like your hair color,” said one of the cat ladies when he brought her a refill. “Orange is good for this time of year.”

  “I thought so too.”

  “My granddaughter dared me to do something wild with my hair. What do you think?” She patted her steel-gray bob.

  “I think you’d look amazing with a crimson streak. Or maybe one of those undercolor things where only your natural color shows until you lift the back of your hair, and then there’s a rainbow or something.”

  Her companions cooed their approval of this idea, and her eyes sparkled. “I’m going to try that! Won’t Hailey be surprised!”

  “Great! Can’t wait to see how it turns out.”

  He was heading over to bus an empty table when trouble walked in the front door: Jeremy and Nevin. Jeremy looked as buff as ever in his green uniform, as if he’d just stepped out of the newest Marvel movie, while Nevin was resplendent in a custom-made black suit and cerise shirt. Pretending not to notice Parker, they headed to the cash register.

  Jeremy lived only a couple of blocks away and visited almost every day, usually in the morning before work, and Nevin rarely stopped by when he was on duty. So the fact that they were both there now, arriving together and sporting work attire, meant this wasn’t a casual outing.

  As soon as they were seated, Parker marched over and balled his hands on his hips. “I don’t need another intervention. Or counseling session or whatever.”

  Nevin lifted his espresso cup. “We’re just drinking our fucking coffee.”

  “No, you’re not. Mom put you up to something.”

  He should have known. She’d very carefully refrained from asking a single question about Wes or Logan since Parker’s return. She must have figured she needed to bring in professionals to give him the third degree.

  “She’s just worried about you.” Jeremy held a hand-thrown mug painted with stylized evergreen trees. Although it was almost comically oversized, it fit his giant paws perfectly.

  “I’m fine. I’m functioning perfectly well and not collapsing into a hysterical heap at all. I’m brushing my hair and teeth. Putting on clean clothes. Dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s. All is well. I don’t need babysitting.”

  Yeah, that little speech had about as much effect as he expected. Jeremy gazed at him blandly, probably the same way he gazed at crank addicts who were climbing park statuary in an effort to escape hordes of invisible bugs. Nevin just made a rude noise. “Be thankful you have a mother who gives a shit about you, Smurf.”

  “I am thankful.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s why you ran off with Wanker, who you don’t even fucking know.”

  “I know him now. And he’s a really good guy.”

  “Pfft. Really good at wanting to get into your pants.”

  “Wes didn’t touch me.” Parker chose not to share that he’d thrown himself at Wes on their final night. “He fed me and housed me and drove me to the bus station when I left. And he was nice to me the entire time, even though I was a major imposition.”

  Nevin rolled his eyes but held his tongue, which was unusual for him. Maybe he wasn’t as anti-Wes as he had been before the apology.

  Jeremy set down his coffee. “Did he tell you why he was here the other day?”

  “To tell you guys he was sorry.”

  “Did he explain why?”

  Parker’s stomach clenched when he remembered the raw pain in Wes’s eyes as he told his story. He couldn’t imagine carrying that kind of guilt for so long. “Yeah. He said he screwed up really badly and someone died because of it. He said he killed her.”

  To Parker’s considerable surprise, Nevin shook his head. “Probably not. That whole situation could very well have gone balls-up even if Wanker went by the book. Domestic disputes like that are unpredictable. They can get fucking ugly, fast.”

  “Then why do you hate him so much?”

  “Don’t hate him. But he was a stubborn son of a bitch who never should have joined the bureau—he didn’t have the temperament for it—and shouldn’t have acted like a fucking moron. And he should have been fucking honest with people about his own shit.”

  As Nevin crossed his arms and Jeremy worked his jaw, a revelation hit Parker. They were disappointed in Wes. And not just because of what happened to Lindy Shaw. “Did you know Wes was gay?” he asked quietly.

  “Not until he left the bureau,” Jeremy answered.

  Nevin made another of his noises. “We fucking suspected, though. He was, what, twenty-two, twenty-three? But he never even talked about girls, and if you tried to steer the conversation anywhere near there, he just fucking shut down.”

  Knowing Nevin, the conversation was steered there often and forcefully. Before settling down with Colin, Nevin cut a pretty wide swath through the city’s dating pool, male and female. Nowadays he was happily monogamous, but that didn’t mean he stopped asking blunt questions about everyone else’s sex life.

  Parker raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t a person have a right to keep his private life private?”

  Jeremy cut in before Nevin could answer. “Of course. And a lot of folks in law enforcement don’t necessarily feel comfortable being out. Even more so a decade ago. But he never told us, and we were his friends. We would have understood. And we could tell something was eating at him.”

  “He overcompensated by acting like a macho shithead on the job,” added Nevin. “Which is why he fucked up that day.”

  That made a lot of sense. Back in high school, a jock named Pat Ballard swaggered through the hallways leering at the girls. Whenever he saw Parker, Pat would call him a faggot and laugh as if it were the funniest joke ever. Parker hadn’t been particularly surprised
when, four years after graduation, he walked into the bathroom of a club and found Pat Ballard on his knees, blowing some dude in faux biker gear. Although Parker couldn’t imagine Wes swaggering and calling people names—unlike Ballard, he wasn’t an asshole—he certainly might have been an insecure young man who tried to cover up his inclinations with a show of manliness.

  Parker set his hands on the table. “That was a long time ago. C’mon. You guys did stupid stuff too, once upon a time. Even you, Jeremy. I do it all the time. It sucks that Wes’s mistake had such serious consequences. But he’s…. I like him, okay? He was kind to me. And I think he’s been really lonely for a long time.” Maybe forever. Parker’s eyes stung just thinking about it.

  For possibly the first time in his entire life, Nevin appeared abashed. He ducked his head and muttered something under his breath, likely a swear word. Jeremy ran fingers through his buzz cut. And then, mercifully, something in the kitchen broke with a noisy crash.

  “I better help clean that up,” said Parker.

  Jeremy smiled at him. “You were right—you don’t need babysitting. But we’re still here if you want someone to talk to.”

  That was comforting to know, although Parker’s contentment was tinged with sadness at knowing Wes didn’t have anyone. Maybe Parker could do something about that—once he got his own life on track.

  PARKER HAD planned to stick around for the music that night but found himself yawning repeatedly. He hunted Rhoda down and found her sitting in her closet-like office, clicking away at the computer. “Do you need me here tonight, Mom, or are you covered?”

  She glanced at him. “We’re fine. Are you going out?”

  “Nope. I’m going to change my hair color. Then a Netflix binge and early bedtime for me.”

  You’d think a mother would be happy to hear early bedtime; she’d spent most of his teen years reminding him to get enough sleep. But she frowned and opened her mouth, probably to ask whether the change in hair color was symbolic of something. He held up a hand to stop her. “I’m fine. Just need a change. And the early night is because I told RJ I’d take his early shift tomorrow. He has a dentist appointment.”

  “Okay.” She still looked concerned, but she turned her attention back to the screen.

  Parker took a Lyft, which wasn’t the best use of his money but was the fastest way to get home. When he arrived, he ate a sandwich and potato chips, changed into his schlumpiest loungewear, and got to work on his hair. He dripped some bleach on his T-shirt and the cobalt blue stained his fingers, but he otherwise deemed the change a success. Climbing into bed with his laptop, he had every intention of spacing out in front of The Great British Baking Show, even though he knew it would give him the munchies.

  But somehow he ended up googling Wes Anker instead.

  He found basically nothing aside from the Black Lightning Interiors website, which included some gallery photos of Wes’s furniture. Gorgeous stuff, every piece creative and unique. Expensive too, but worth it, given the amount of time and care Wes put into each. They were essentially works of art. According to the website, they had all sold.

  A notion crept into Parker’s head, a thought that made his heart race. He reached for his phone and brought up the contacts. There it was: Wes Anker. Parker had found the number on a business card in Wes’s bus and added it to his list, although at the time he promised himself never to call. But this was different. He wasn’t going to stalk Wes. This was business!

  Taking a deep breath, Parker tapped the number.

  Wes’s phone rang several times. Just as Parker decided this was dumb and he ought to hang up, Wes’s breathless voice came over the line. “Hello?”

  “Uh, hi. This is Parker Levin.” He winced. God. It’s not as if Wes was likely to receive calls from other Parkers.

  “Hey. Did you leave something at my place?”

  It was really hard to judge Wes’s emotions over the phone. He wasn’t the most demonstrative person in the first place, and without the cues of facial expression and body posture, his true meaning was unclear. Was he annoyed that Parker had interrupted him?

  “No, I didn’t leave anything. Are you in the middle of something? I can call back.”

  Wes chuckled. “I was visiting the ducks and left my phone near the sink. Had to run to catch it. I can talk now.”

  Okay, but did he want to talk? And if so, about what? Parker blundered on. “I was just kinda wondering…. Hanukkah is in a couple of weeks, and Mom is impossible to shop for. Every time I ask her what she wants, she just says, ‘For my son to be happy,’ and that’s totally not helpful. I don’t have tons of money, but I was thinking… maybe you could make her something small? Like that dish rack with the flowers on it. I could afford something like that, and I know she’d love it. Um, if you have time. I know this is short notice.”

  He mentally kicked himself during the long pause that followed. This was truly a dumb idea. All his ideas were dumb. He ought to know that by now.

  But when Wes finally spoke, he sounded happy—or at least Parker thought so. “I’d love to do that.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Just give me a few days, okay?”

  “Of course. I can always take the bus down to pick it up, if you don’t mind meeting me in Medford.”

  Another pause, but shorter this time. “I’ll bring it up.”

  There went Parker’s heart, beating a mile a minute. He tried to sound calm. “Thanks. You’re saving me again.”

  “Almost becoming a habit.” And then Wes said good night and hung up.

  PARKER LIKED Sunday mornings at P-Town. The shop opened a little later than the rest of the week, and customers trickled in slowly, many of them clutching books or the Sunday paper. They dressed casually, moved more languorously, and laughed more often. They even left bigger tips in the jar near the cash register.

  Uncharacteristically, Rhoda had elected to sleep in and allow Parker to open up. That meant he got to pick the music, and he opted for 1950s pop-swing. Some Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and Dean Martin. A little Ella Fitzgerald, because Ella was always good. Judging from the customers, he’d chosen well; a lot of toes and fingers were tapping. At a big round table in a corner, several students were ignoring their laptops and piles of paper and lip-syncing instead.

  Grinning, Parker laid a pumpkin spice Rice Krispies treat on a plate and set it on the counter. “Here you go. Certified holiday cheer.”

  The customer, a handsome sixtyish man with a little paunch and gray beard stubble, smiled back. “I have to get in the last of it before we switch to peppermint season. I’m not a big mint fan.”

  “Peppermint’s supposed to be good for digestion.” Parker had learned that from Ptolemy, who was a proponent of herbal teas.

  “Maybe, but aren’t the effects negated if the peppermint’s drowned in sugar and fat?”

  “Probably.”

  The guy watched as Parker prepared his caffè macchiato. Parker always used a clear glass demitasse for this drink because the layers of coffee and steamed milk looked pretty.

  After Parker put the glass on the counter, the guy hesitated. His face red, he finally ventured, “Um, can I ask something?”

  “Sure.”

  “That lady who works here…. I think she’s the owner? The one who wears the bright clothes.”

  Parker fought to keep his expression neutral. He had a sense where this might be going, and if he was right, he’d be very pleased. “Rhoda. Yeah, she’s the owner.”

  “I just stumbled in here by accident a couple of days ago. It’s a great place.”

  “I agree.”

  The guy scratched an ear. “And she—Rhoda—she seems really nice. She has a lot of good energy.”

  “Rhoda’s great. Best boss I ever had.” No need to disclose right now that she was his mother. That would take all the fun out of it.

  “Do you happen to know whether, um, she’s single?”

  “I do. She is.” Parker leaned closer and
dropped his voice a little. “Want me to put in a good word for you, maybe?”

  Now the guy’s eyes twinkled. “I’d be obliged. My name’s Bob Martinez. I just moved here from Cleveland two weeks ago. Wanted to escape the Midwest for my retirement years. And I’m single too. Been divorced for nine years.”

  Although Rhoda sometimes admitted she was lonely, she also claimed her busy work schedule kept her from meeting potential dates. Bob, a good-looking man with an easy smile, could possibly be a solution to that problem. Of course, he could be an axe murderer. But Rhoda was an excellent judge of character, and Parker trusted she’d figure out on her own whether Bob was interesting and trustworthy.

  “Rhoda will be here in about half an hour. Stick around, and I’ll try to steer her your way.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.” Bob winked, took his snack and coffee, and headed for a vacant table.

  The adventure of matchmaking put Parker in an excellent mood, especially since his mother had often tried the same for him. A cute guy Parker’s age would show up at P-Town, Rhoda’s gaydar would go off, and she’d practically throw Parker into the poor boy’s lap. None of those attempts had been successful, mostly because Parker stubbornly resisted. Good God, Parker could manage to find his own love interests! Even if they weren’t always appropriate or long-lasting. Bob’s interest in Rhoda would allow Parker to turn the tables for once.

  He hummed along with “Mack the Knife” while he rearranged the contents of the pastry case. It was his third-favorite serial-killer ditty, losing out to “The Ballad of Sweeney Todd” and “Psycho Killer.” But it was a close contest.