William

by Anyta Sunday

“I doubt you’d do that.”

  “You bet I would.”

  Heath sipped his drink, smile ever-so faltering. “So, I heard you talking to your family the other week and—”

  “You overheard me?”

  “You were in the kitchen, I was in the lounge. I just heard some.”

  “Huh. Are you a bit of a snoop, too?”

  “Snoop? What do you mean?”

  Will rushed a sip of his coffee, almost scalding his tongue. “Never mind. What did you overhear?”

  “You telling someone that you wanted to travel more, and that maybe you’ll go down south to check out Stewart Island.”

  “Yeah. Well. Sig gave me the idea. But first I have to get a car. Learn to drive a stick. Then we’ll see about the travel. But, yeah, it sounded amazing.”

  “I could teach you. We could use Sally.”

  He was glad he’d swallowed his mouthful of coffee, because he was sure if he hadn’t, he’d have spat it all over himself and Heath’s legs.

  “No way!” Then realizing how rude that sounded to what was, actually, quite a thoughtful offer, he added, “At least not until I get my tetanus injection.” Not that that would really help if the car blew up on him. “I’ll see if Candice is crazy enough to teach me. I hope she is.”

  “Candice?” Heath repeated. “The name’s familiar.”

  “Well, she said you were a friend of a friend.”

  Heath thought about it a moment, lifting the lid off his hot chocolate and scooping the froth clinging on its sides onto his finger. “Oh yeah, she’s friends with Lucy.”

  He licked his finger. It was totally unpremeditated—Heath did it as if it was a habit—but watching his finger go in and out of his mouth had Will hard in moments.

  Staring at his own cup instead of Heath and his finger, he willed himself to calm down. “Lucy?”

  “Yeah, my ex-girlfriend.”

  That little tidbit of information helped cool things down, all right.

  “Oh.” So there was a Lucy. What did that mean, exactly?

  As if Heath could read his thoughts, he answered, staring into his cup, voice hushed, carrying barely to him. “I’m bi. There are some girls that interest me. But, actually, maybe not so many. Lucy was . . . Well she was there at a difficult time. For a bit, anyway. I still keep in touch.”

  Will nodded. What else was he supposed to do with that information? He finished the last of his coffee in the silence that followed.

  “So,” he said, looking at his watch, “I guess—”

  Heath’s feet jerked off the chair, skidding down one of his legs. “Are you hungry? Because I am. Let’s get something to eat.” He offered his hand and Will took it, trying to shake some sense into his thoughts as he stood.

  He wasn’t that successful.

  All he could think about was that one of those fine hands was grasping his own. And just imagine if they felt like this on his hand, what would they feel like roaming over his body? Pumping his cock? Fucking his ass? Gah! Concentrate. “Lunch. Yeah. That sounds . . . that sounds edible.”

  He paused. Edible? He’d not just said that.

  Heath chuckled. “Yeah, edible. Come on.”

  At a café across the street, they ordered some lunch. Once they were tucked away at a corner table, Heath across from him, he leaned into his seat, glancing at the waitress. “She did not like my order.”

  “She’s just pissed to be working. She was grumpy with mine as well. And so what? You like your food the way you like it. Good on you for knowing what you want. Some people stand at the counter staring at the menu like they’ve got a finger up their bum, you know? Takes forever.”

  He sent him a wicked smirk. “Damn, I think I ordered wrong. I’d rather have a finger up my—”

  The waitress was before them, dumping down the second hot chocolate Heath ordered and his fejoa juice. She didn’t stay long, and as soon as she slunk out of sight, Heath leaned over the table, raising a brow, “What were you saying?”

  Will playfully kicked Heath’s leg. This was getting fun between them. Comfortable, almost. Like he could relax and not have to worry or censor too much what came out of that big mouth of his.

  “Gonna share what’s making you grin like that?” Heath asked, dipping his marshmallows into the hot chocolate with a spoon.

  “I’m just so glad things are evening up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I might be weird with the way I order, but you have a fetish for marshmallows—and not any marshmallows, mind you. But fluffy, pink ones.”

  “How’d you know I like them fluffy?”

  He laughed. “I hazarded a guess.”

  Heath watched as Will took a long sip of his juice. “I meant it, you know, if you change your mind.”

  “Meant what?”

  “I could teach you to use a stick.”

  Their gazes held, the pull between them unmistakable, warm, inviting. “Yeah,” Will murmured, “maybe that would work.”

  “And if you are really bad,” Heath said, breaking the magic of the moment, “I can always drive you down there myself.”

  Will choked, spluttering green juice over the table. Grabbing Heath’s napkins, he wiped up the mess. “You would?”

  He caught Heath shrug in his peripheral vision. “It’s not like I have much else going on. And, well, only if Mum’s cool. But I’m sure she would be.”

  “Well, Heath, I have to say, you are full of surprises.”

  “That’s definitely true.”

  But he didn’t look happy about it.

  * * *

  He was on a high after lunch. If he was the breaking-out-in-song type, he’d probably be singing that raindrops-are-falling-on-my-head song, seeing as raindrops really were falling on his head as he raced back to the Commerce building.

  Soaked, but with Candice’s latte protected, he got back to his office.

  Candice took it with a grateful smile before giving him a funny frown. “What’s that you’re humming?”

  Humming?

  Oh. Huh. Maybe he was the break-out-in-song type.

  But if he was, he couldn’t help it. Lunch—Heath—it’d all been, well, perfect.

  It was official. He was crushing on the guy.

  “You feeling better?” he asked, noticing a long black stripe had been added to the canvas behind Candice.

  Her lip wobbled a fraction as soon as he asked, but she fronted up a short smile. “Fine.” Pushing back a stray hair with her fingers, she left a dark smudge across her forehead. “So, we’re getting a fourth office mate. He’s supposed to be arriving today, sometime. Actually, I thought he’d have come by already. His name’s Eric, I think.”

  “Sucks there aren’t so many females in this field, huh? Have to put up with us stinky guys instead.”

  She sipped her latte. “Yeah, well you’re not so stinky. Though Sig has his moments. But I tell ya, it’s so great never having to queue for the bathrooms.”

  He laughed at the same time there came a shy knock at the door. In the freaking good mood he was in, he leapt up and yanked the door wide open. Wide open to a very attractive man. Unusually attractive, considering earrings and tattoos didn’t really do it for him. Of which, this man had plenty. But his green eyes were really rather stunning behind the thick frames he wore.

  “Please tell me you’re Eric,” he said, stepping back to let him in.

  “Yes, yeah. Eric Graham.”

  Will glanced at Candice, whose eyes were also wide, taking in all the, well, art this guy sported.

  “Well,” she said, cupping her chin in her hand and staring at him, “that’s really not fair, now, is it? All you guys are shattering my perceptions of IT guys as thin and pasty.”

  “And smelly,” Will reminded her.

  “And smelly.” Candice crooked a finger for Eric to come closer. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Ah, what for? Proving we’re not all thin and pasty?” Eric peeked at Will out the corner of his ey
e. “I would have thought he’d have proven that already,” he finished, inclining his head toward him.

  Oh, yes. Flattery would get you anywhere. Eric and he would get on just fine.

  “No,” Candice said. “Thank you for joining the Freak Zone. There’s no way I have to worry about finishing this damn thesis on time now with a hottie like you around. I’m going to be in here extra early and late—see, not a minute in this room, and you’re already motivating me. Yes, yes, you’ll make a fine addition.”

  He laughed. “Okay, then. Say, what’s with the canvas?”

  Will sat back and swiveled in his chair, stopping when he was square to Candice. “Does Eric have enough charm to get an answer out of you?”

  For a second, Candice glanced at Sig’s desk. Then she took in a deep breath and smiled. “Guess, we’ll see, won’t we?” She faced Eric. “So, I wonder what you did to get sent to the Freak Zone.”

  Eric gave an uneasy grin. “Freak Zone?” he asked at the same time Will cried, “We’re not all freaks.”

  Candice turned on him. “Oh honey, don’t kid yourself.”

  “What?” Sure some might consider his eating habits strange, but he’d barely eaten anything in the office. So how would she even know?

  “Don’t look at me like that. It’s true. No one else I know yodels every time they hit a right answer.”

  “I do not—”

  “Yeah, you do. Sig giggles—actually giggles—every time you let out a yippee-day-di-do or whatever. We’ve decided when you were accepted here, you must have done something to that effect too, hence admission to the Freak Zone.”

  Huh. Stuck somewhere between embarrassed and amused, he said slowly, “So, what’d you do, Eric?”

  They spent the next twenty minutes easing poor Eric into the Freak Zone that was their office. Then Sig came back and Candice went all quiet. Within five minutes, she’d packed her stuff and was heading out.

  Grabbing his bag, quite ready to leave and get back to seeing some more Heath himself, he followed after her.

  They rode the elevator down to the ground floor in silence.

  Outside, Candice opened her large, yellow, Mickey Mouse umbrella and beckoned him to share it with her.

  “I fucked up, Will.”

  “We all do.” And couldn’t he testify to that? Absently, he rubbed a finger over his nose where Karl had hit him after the biggest screw-up of his life.

  Candice sighed, steering him around a large puddle and across the bridge to the main part of campus. “Yeah, maybe. But I wish I hadn’t lied to Harriet. She is a bitch, I still believe that completely. She flirts with anyone and doesn’t care if she says stuff that, well, hurts. But I was wrong to tell her Sig didn’t care about her—that she was just a fling and that he’d said he didn’t see her as long-term material.”

  She dabbed her eyes with her sleeves. “I don’t know what came over me.” Giving a dry laugh, she shook her head. “I’d love to blame the margaritas but I think I might have said it without them, too. She was just so gloaty about how great they were together; how wonderful he was in and out of bed, and I couldn’t hear it anymore. I just snapped. I didn’t think she’d break it off with him because of it. But she did. And, Will, this is where I become the bitch—I was glad of it.” Her bottom lip was back to wobbling. “Until today.”

  Will stopped and wrapped her in a hug, making Candice lose her grip on the umbrella until it fell to the side. Who cared for a bit of rain? He squeezed tightly. “You realize you did something shitty, and it’s brave of you to admit it.” He kissed her forehead, right over the smudge. “You know what you need to do now.”

  “Yeah. Give an apology. A really big one. But I’m afraid it might not be enough.”

  Will nodded sympathetically. “All you can do is try.”

  She looked back toward the Commerce building. “Guess . . . maybe I should.”

  “Off you go then.”

  “You want to borrow my umbrella?”

  “Nah, I’ll be all right.”

  Just before she left, she clutched her bag and rifled through it. “Wait a sec, Will, I have something for you.” She took out a folded piece of paper. “I wanted to give this to you earlier, but, well, you know. Anyway,” she cleared her throat. “At the weekend, you seemed confused about the Wallaces. Well, I get why you suggested we move in together. It can’t be comfortable living there—and if they haven’t told you, which I’m suspecting to be the case, then that’s even more reason to get out.” She handed him the paper. “I went to the newspaper archives and photocopied the article for you. If you need somewhere to stay tonight or anything, you just come over to my place and crash with me.”

  And with that she left him holding the answers to the Wallace house mystery in his hands.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have read it. Maybe he should have waited for Heath or his mom to tell him in his own time. But he wasn’t built like that. He was naturally curious and he just couldn’t help it. The answers were there and almost as soon as he’d raced out of the rain and under a pavilion, he read it.

  His stomach sank.

  * * *

  He went back home for dinner. He couldn’t quite say why, after reading the truth, but perhaps because it was just a piece of paper and it didn’t really seem real. Perhaps going back and eating dinner with them was him looking for more proof. Evidence. Though, if he thought back on the last five weeks, he had enough.

  He sat himself opposite Vicky and Heath at the dinner table. Heath shoved his plate a few inches in his direction and skidded his chair to follow suit, flashing him a grin. “How was the rest of your day then?” he asked.

  At Heath’s sudden talkativeness, Vicky almost dropped her fork. “Yes,” she said, smiling at her son, “how was it?”

  He stared down at his plate, murmuring. “It was . . . interesting.”

  Maybe coming back here had been a bad idea. He couldn’t sit here and act normal.

  After that, he mumbled answers—though he was barely listening to the questions. He prodded his fork at the potatoes on his plate, pushing them around, stabbing them. Should he tell them he knew? Tell them he was so angry they hadn’t told him right from the beginning? Tell them how sorry he was?

  Vaguely, he heard Heath ask for the pot of potatoes.

  His fork sunk into the bed of mint peas and he mashed them into a pulp. Or should he pretend he didn’t know anything? Maybe bringing it up was a bad idea. If they hadn’t told him yet, it was for a reason—they couldn’t. He could imagine it hurt that bad.

  “Could you pass the potatoes?” Heath said again.

  No, he really should confront them about it. Delicately, but it needed to be done. This wasn’t fair on him. He closed his eyes. Fuck. Heath had tried to warn him. Had told him to find another place to live. And even if there wasn’t much accommodation out there available, he’d have whipped up any old room, if he’d have known . . .

  “Did I forget the ‘please’?” Heath said, grinning and pointing to the pot in front of him.

  Will stared at the pot, his reflection curved and distorted on the side.

  He squinted, trying to make out any detail accurately. At the same time, Vicky snapped, aggravated, but not really annoyed. It even bordered on amused.

  Except the words hit him like a pounding gavel, the exclamation-mark to all the proof he needed. “For God’s sake, William. Stop day-dreaming and pass the potatoes to your brother.”

  7 Brother

  Pass the potatoes to your brother. Your brother.

  The seconds after Vicky said it stretched painfully long.

  Vicky continued cutting her schnitzel, unaware of her slip. But how? How could she not notice the way the air thickened around the table, making it difficult to breathe? How could she not feel the tension building—how did she miss stepping over the line of no return? Because nothing would be the same between them again. The camaraderie, the banter, the laughs, the comfortableness that they had developed between them ha
d just been proven a lie.

  It was disappointing, and it hurt and saddened him at once.

  But all that was nothing to the way Heath’s expression cut into him as Vicky muttered a “For crying out loud” and reached over the table for the pot of potatoes herself, planting them in front of her son. “There you go.”

  Heath’s gaze was frozen onto him, terrified, fearful. The pain behind it was blunt and sawed at Will. How come it hurt this much to see Heath like this? All the anger he’d felt from being left in the dark had receded, taken over with sympathy. The need to shove out of his chair and take Heath in his arms and tell him it was okay—that it would all be okay—overwhelmed him.

  “After all that, I thought you’d inhale the potatoes,” Vicky said, laughing.

  Still looking at Will, Heath shook his head. “I d-don’t want them,” he said, the words coming out a whisper.

  Will thought he saw guilt and an apology in that shake.

  “What do you mean you don’t want–”

  “I don’t fucking want the potatoes!” Heath thrust up from the table in one fluid movement. He slid the doors with a bang and stormed off toward his hut.

  Vicky just blinked. Confusion pushed at her brows and then she was up, shouting Heath’s name from the opened door. But if Heath heard it, he ignored her.

  She turned around to him, her shoulders slumping as she slid back into her chair. “Sorry about that,” she said, although she obviously had no idea what she was apologizing for. “He’s not usually . . . I have no idea what got into him.” She stood again. “Maybe I should make him a cup of tea and find out.”

  Will, still sitting there like an idiot not knowing what his move was supposed to be, found his big mouth deciding for him. “I think he just needs some time to vent, Vicky, maybe just leave him for a while.”

  “Do you . . .” she frowned again. “Do you know what this is about?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately?”

  “Let’s give him a bit, then maybe,” he was thinking aloud now, “maybe I should talk to him.”

  And rude though it was, he left his plate and the table full of dishes and escaped to his bedroom.