by G. B. Gordon
But I don’t have the guts to call him on it, and so we talk of everything under the sun, except Jack’s family or his past. For all I know of either, Jack might as well not have existed before he came to Bluewater Bay and reopened the general store.
So I talk of mine. Maybe to make up for gaps in the conversation, or maybe because Jack is listening, like, really listening. I tell him that I don’t remember my mother, that she left before I could walk. Of striving to escape from the torment of school into singing lessons. Of discovering fabrics and design. Of Ellen and Jason, and of my little niche on the set.
“I’m not what you’d call close with anyone at work, but people let each other be. That’s pretty good in my book. I’m weird, I get it. People keep their distance; I don’t blame them.” Or I try not to, anyway. Understanding it doesn’t always mean being okay with it.
“They’re probably a touch afraid of you.”
What? “Afraid of me? That’s a new one. Who I am works in my favor in this job. I’m not contagious, asshole.” Stay calm, Mark.
But Jack bursts out laughing. “No, man, that’s not what I mean at all. But you can be a bit intimidating. All serious, and imposing, and laser-focused.”
“I need to concentrate. That’s hardly imposing. If something doesn’t exactly fit the style of the show, it bugs me until I get it right. I want to be good at what I’m doing. I am good at it.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. No small talk. All competence and business. Plus tall, dark, and handsome. Of course they’re intimidated.” He grins as he says it, but clearly he means it. That’s Jack. He doesn’t just see the autism. He sees me. All of me. And in a way that’s embarrassingly flattering.
“You’re not intimidated.”
He leans in at that, but I hold my ground, even though Jack seems about to touch me. He doesn’t, though. Instead he shakes his head. “But then, I’m not working with you,” he says, and it’s not what he was going to say a second ago.
I can’t figure him out. He seems to know and understand all of it one minute, and then the next, at the exact moment I feel safe, his unself-conscious enthusiasm becomes elusive. I can almost physically feel that stupid film pull between us again. And it’s impossible to predict. Like trying to cross a deep canyon on a rope bridge, never knowing which boards can be stepped on and which are going to crack under my feet. I don’t dare to ask about it or to challenge him. I don’t want to break what we do have. I’ve never felt this un-alien with anyone, like I belong, and I’m not giving that up.
Because despite everything, Jack looks at me, not merely with interest, but like he sees who I am on the inside, without assuming anything, without judging.
And just like that things bubble up and over my tongue, things I hadn’t suspected to be so close to the surface: that my fortress, my niche, is under siege at the moment, the run-ins with Natalya, the talk with Anna and her advice.
Jack tilts his head. “Meetings hand out minutes all the time. Why not just tell her you need an email to keep track of things?”
“Because my memory works just fine.” It comes out like a growl, and Jack doesn’t deserve that. “It’s just—I shouldn’t have to invent something. I should simply,” Tell her the truth? “be accepted.”
This makes Jack nod and sigh at the same time. “Amen. Can we pool our prayers on that one?”
For a heartbeat we’re both silent, Jack contemplating his knuckles.
Then he looks back at me. “I guess you’ll have to decide if that’s the hill you want to die on. She might be right. Anna, I mean. If Natalya knew your reasons, that could make life a lot easier for both of you. I guess what I’m trying to say is, we all have our baggage and chips on our shoulders that make us see people and what they do a certain way. Sometimes that means we misunderstand stuff, and we need information to balance it back out.” He shrugs. “It’s not ideal, and sometimes it downright sucks, but what else can you do?”
I wish I could talk to him about the pros and cons of talking to Natalya, but I can’t. I can’t explain how I feel without letting him know how unsure I am about having told him that I’m autistic, and how I’m wondering whether he’d be less weird if I had tried to tough it out instead. Maybe that’s my baggage.
Which . . . Wait. He was talking about Natalya wasn’t he? Not about me seeing people and what they do a certain way? “Anna said something similar . . .” I trail off, hoping he might explain.
“There you go, then. It’s universal.”
Not exactly an explanation. A confirmation of sorts, though? That it’s not only about her baggage, but mine? His? Did I get him wrong? Maybe he’s sometimes being weird because of something completely unrelated to me, not because I told him I’m autistic. But it started back then, didn’t it? Clearly I need more information. Which would mean Jack is right that information helps? Fuck. Maybe I do need to talk to Natalya.
They have this spot by the river, Jack and Margaret, that no one else ever seems to visit, a secluded bubble of world about half an hour upriver from the more public beach. The days are still hot, but here, the breeze cools things off, and the sound of the water relaxes the muscles and makes the brain drowsy in a good way. It shuts off other, smaller sounds, much like my headphones usually do. It lowers my barricades.
Margaret’s sitting on a large boulder right above the waterline. Jack says she doesn’t swim, but she seems to love kicking her legs through the water as hard and as fast as she can. She squints at the splashes in the sunlight, and points at them, or more probably at the sunlight refracted by the drops; her unself-conscious laugh sounds perfectly content. She’s much better at living inside herself than I am.
River murmur, splashes, birdsong, insect hum, and the smell of grass and water and some flowers in the air. More splashes as Jack comes out of the water, limned in sunlight, laughing, spraying droplets everywhere like a big dog. He might not be tall, but sweetness, he’s fine. He makes my heart race and my chest tight. I want the texture of that tanned skin against my fingertips, the movement of muscle under my hand. Want to know whether he’d feel warm or cold.
I know I’m staring—at his eyes, face, hair, shoulders—and I can’t stop. Why does he just stand there letting me stare? Drops of water running down his arms and chest, getting smaller, then evaporating under the sun. A breeze coming up from the surface of the river; Margaret’s whoops of laughter. A drop runs from Jack’s clavicle down his chest. Did I just touch that? Follow it with my finger? The heat under Jack’s skin, goose bumps springing up from his neck, along his arms and even down his legs, pebbly little things.
“I want to fuck you.” The thought echoes in my brain, the whisper tingles on my lips, and I don’t know which one is real. Both? Did that come out loud?
What? The whisper had been soft enough that he might have misheard it. Then he lost the thought as Mark raised his hand and followed the path of another drop. From Jack’s chest to his waistband, again with one finger. A feather touch that raised more goose bumps along his back and arms and all the way down to his toes.
He was shocked into laughter by the unexpected pressure of tears behind his eyes. But this time his superpower failed him, and the laugh died from a lack of air, courtesy of a lump the size of a grapefruit in his throat. He closed his eyes.
Two more fingers joined the touch, which feathered back up to his clavicle. Mark’s palm cool against his sun-warm skin, the hand closed lightly around his shoulder.
Thumbs grazed his collarbones, met at his throat and moved up. He swallowed hard, and they stopped. Nonono, don’t stop. He froze, then followed the lead of Mark’s knuckle as it tilted Jack’s chin up. His hand cupped Jack’s neck, the fingers of the other one traced his jaw, then the thumb followed the line of his lip. He didn’t dare move for fear of breaking the spell, though his whole body tightened with need. Not even for this to go anywhere, only for it to continue. Skin on skin, warm, sensual touch.
Something other than Mark’s thumb brus
hed his lips ever so tentatively. Then, with a soft “Huh,” Mark let him go.
Jack’s muscles all betrayed him at once, and he barely kept from falling to his knees. He blinked into the sunlight and licked dry lips.
Margaret had climbed down from her rock and come over. “I’m hungry.”
Jack drew a deep, stuttering breath. He couldn’t think, much less reply.
But Mark was already kneeling on the blanket and digging in the cooler. “Let’s see what we have here.”
“Blue,” Margaret said, and Jack wanted to explain, but again, Mark was already there. “The ones with the blue lids? That’s your dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want them both?”
Margaret knelt on the edge of the blanket and pointed to one of the containers. “The sandwich first.”
Their heads so close together, Margaret’s somewhat lighter than Mark’s, they made his chest tight. They were getting along fine without him. For the first time since she was born, Margaret didn’t seem to need him. The realization wound around his rib cage in a surprisingly complicated coil of disappointment, relief, betrayal, and bright potential.
In less than five minutes Mark had pulled his world all catawampus. With Margaret, with himself. What had happened to the not-touching thing? He stared at the back of Mark’s head, trying to read his thoughts, and came up blank.
Driving had never been such a challenge. Jack was glad it was a short way home, and mostly on side roads, because his concentration was popping like foam bubbles at the memory of Mark’s skittering fingertips on his skin. He risked a glance at the rearview mirror, fully expecting to meet Mark’s eyes. Finding the man’s gaze firmly fixed on his neck instead was almost more disconcerting. Jack could feel it there like a touch. The goose bumps running down his arm were no less real for it being simply the touch of a mind.
What had happened there, by the river? Had it been a mistake on Mark’s part? Had he been glad when Margaret interrupted them? He was giving no indication that anything had happened at all. Maybe nothing would come of it.
No, nothing could come of it. He had to stop wishing it would. The way Margaret and he were living didn’t leave room for anyone outside their odd-couple existence. And even if they weren’t living in virtual hiding, Margaret would always be in his life, depending on him. Until the day one of them died. For her sake he hoped she wouldn’t be the one left behind.
He stopped at a light and checked the mirror again. Not that he needed to. His neck flushed under the caress of Mark’s gaze. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alive with anticipation. His brain was tacitly refusing to acknowledge the nothing will come of it part. He wasn’t even thinking about any tomorrows. There was nothing he could do about the future. But maybe, just maybe, he could live a little tonight?
A loud honk behind him whipped his eyes back to the stoplight, which was now green. He raised a hand to the driver in apology and drove on. Keep your thoughts on the road, Jack, or everyone’s brain is going to end up on the asphalt.
When they came up onto Main he asked, “Are you . . . Do you want me to take you home?”
There was a brief pause, then Mark asked back, “Do you want to take me home?”
“No.”
Mark’s mirror image gave a brief nod. “Then, no.”
Jack hadn’t thought it was possible to be more wired than he already had been, but apparently it was.
He pulled into the driveway and around the store to the delivery bay. His hands were shaking when he tugged the key from the ignition. Margaret got out of the car. As her door closed, Jack met Mark’s gaze in the mirror. Mark stretched out a hand and briefly ran two fingers up Jack’s neck from shoulder to hairline. Then he leaned back and unbuckled his seat belt. With a soft “Coming?” he got out and followed Margaret to the back door.
Jeeeezes, shit. What? C’mon, Jack. Brain? Gear?
Mark was holding the metal door open for him; it would otherwise have closed on its own. Jack slipped past him, mindful of not touching, and yet the air itself seemed to have become part of them, touching for them.
Margaret had curled up in her chair with a book, outwardly oblivious of anything around her. Though Jack knew from experience that could be deceiving.
Whatever was going to happen would have to wait until she went to bed. Which was usually early. Still. He was half-expecting Mark to leave any second now, despite the earlier innuendo. It had been Mark who’d put up the no-touching rule after all. Well, maybe not a rule, but . . . a request? Was that off the table? Did he expect Jack to make the next move? Or had nothing actually changed?
Had Mark said what Jack thought he’d heard him say? Damn it, he needed an explanation. Maybe a reprieve to figure this out wasn’t such a bad idea. Though, if what he was doing right now was any indication, he’d merely end up arguing things to death in his head without getting an inch closer to a solution.
He met Mark’s eyes for a moment, before Mark studied his hands, a soft smile playing about his lips, all the more noticeable for being so rare. Really? Was he enjoying this? Fucker. Jack almost asked what was going on, but then, with a glance at Margaret, clamped down on the words. Patience. She got everything that was going on around her, even though she seemed deeply immersed in her reading.
She rarely acted on what she overheard, but lately she’d let some disconcerting hints slip when Mark had been here, which seemed to indicate that she was picking up some of the back-and-forth between Mark and him. She knew very well how important it was that they keep their mouths shut, so Jack was sure it hadn’t been an accident when she’d talked about Jack playing the sax and that pawnshop in Idaho. Or talked about it in Margaret-speak, anyway. Boise indeed.
The point was, she usually tried to please him as much as she could, same as he did for her. So he didn’t believe she had just been giving him sass. Whatever her reason, though, it had been dangerous, and that made his teeth hurt. He hadn’t dragged her across the continent to see her locked up in Washington instead of Georgia. Which she wouldn’t be, because they’d extradite her. Did they call it that for state borders? Not the point, Jack. Not going to happen.
“Are you okay?”
He wasn’t sure what Mark had picked up on, but there was a definite note of concern in his voice.
“Fine as frog’s hair.” Jack made a smoothing gesture to strengthen his claim. “Just lost in thought.”
“Some tense thought.”
Damn him for picking up on everything so lightning fast. Jack stretched his shoulders to help him relax and dug deep for his superpower smile. “All good.”
“Here.” Mark got up and stepped behind the couch. “Let me help.” His hands hovered an inch above Jack’s shoulders. “If you don’t mind?”
Mind? Mark touching him? Fat chance of that. “N-no. I mean, go ahead.” It was probably not a good idea. It wouldn’t answer his questions in the least. But, man, he really wanted those hands on his shoulders.
They were warm, even through his shirt. And strong.
“Relax.” Mark’s voice was a low murmur, and Jack let it sink into his body, and allowed his muscles to do as they were told. Let the goose bumpy goodness of the massage suffuse every part of him. Lord, the man knew what he was doing. Each time the thumbs kneaded from his shoulders up into his hairline and back down, a new flush of goose bumps covered his body. And then there was only one hand on his neck. The knuckles of the other loosely grazed his jaw before it resumed its task. It was the tenderest, most fleeting of gestures, but Jack felt himself falling apart under it. He had to remember that he couldn’t afford that.
He sat up straight and cleared his throat. “Thanks. Er, that did help.”
Margaret put her book down and stretched out of her chair. “Good night, Jackson. Good night, Mark.”
“Good night,” Mark said behind him.
Pull yourself together, Jack. “Sleep tight, love.” He stared at the door she’d closed behind herself, t
rying to kick his brain into gear, when Mark’s fingers threaded through his hair. Again that touch, light as a breeze. Again the goose bumps spreading across his skin, the siren call to lean into the touch, to give in to what he wanted. His eyelids closed of their own accord. “What are you doing?” he asked in a last-ditch effort to stay on top of things.
“What I’ve been wanting to do since I saw you standing in your kitchen, covered in flour.”
A memory played through Jack’s brain like a half-forgotten tune. “The night you left early.”
“The night I fled from your place, you mean? Because I couldn’t concentrate on forming words anymore? Because there’s always so much going on in your face, in your eyes, with your hands, your body that I lose every ability to form a coherent thought?”
His hands moved to Jack’s face, gently smoothing his head against the backrest of the couch. “I can’t concentrate on anything when I look at you,” he whispered so close to Jack’s ear that Jack could feel his breath, then covered Jack’s face in slow fingertip strokes that turned any pretense at alertness into liquefied bliss. He might even have drifted off to sleep if it hadn’t been for that insistent niggling at the back of his brain.
“You don’t like touch.” It came out slurred, which was alarming enough to wake him back up, but not quite enough to make him evade Mark’s hands.
“I don’t like to be touched. Passive,” Mark said. “There’s a difference.”
“How?”
“It’s usually unexpected, which makes it startling to say the least. It can make me feel like I’m jumping out of my skin. With some warning it’s mostly just uncomfortable, but it’s not something that feels good. And I never know in advance what intensity level between bearable and pain my brain’s going to dial up. Like when you’re watching a show on TV and suddenly an ad comes on at three times the volume?”