Change of Address

by Jordan S. Brock

  A relative? They didn’t look at all alike, so maybe a coworker. Or a boyfriend, though that’d be one hell of an age difference—at least fifteen, twenty years.

  When Josh looked back again, Michael got his head out of his ass and remembered to actually smile back. Josh’s smile turned into a grin—and God, this silent communication was so much easier than using words.

  Michael’s confidence lasted until the older man turned and followed Josh’s gaze. Sharp, dark eyes seemed to bore right into Michael’s skull. Unaccountably guilty at being caught staring at Josh, Michael glanced down at Kaylee, who looked up at him with a happy canine grin.

  Then she pushed up to all four feet, body angled to one side, blocking—

  Josh.

  Michael’s ability to form coherent sentences vanished like a flock of startled birds. He smiled—at least, he hoped it was a smile and not a grimace—and gave a jerky nod. Without the barrier of a counter between them, Josh was . . . well, obviously, closer. Accessible. Within reach as a person, not just as the facilitator of a commercial transaction.

  “Hey.” Josh’s smile left his mouth higher at one corner than the other, and he looked down at Kaylee as if intentionally showing off long, light-brown lashes.

  This was high school all over again.

  Michael said, “Hey.” That was as far as he could go until he remembered to wave Kaylee out of the way.

  Say something, you idiot, he told himself, but nothing came to mind. Back in DC, he hadn’t had any difficulty picking up one-night stands in nightclubs, but now he was in a damned pizza place, for God’s sake.

  “So, uh,” Josh said, capturing Michael’s gaze once more, “pizza? Or are you stalking me for more bagels?”

  Michael laughed, letting the leash go slack so he could shove his hands in his pockets. It was that or reach out to casually touch Josh’s arm. “Pizza. Though we’ll probably have bagels for breakfast. A bagel, at least. Kaylee gets a snack for breakfast before we leave.”

  “Tell me what kind you want, and I’ll keep one in reserve,” Josh promised.

  Was he flirting, or was this just really, really good customer service? It had to be flirting. That or Michael was being an optimist, which never happened.

  And Josh had asked a question. Michael scrambled for an answer and blurted out, “Everything,” which had nothing to do with bagels and everything to do with his uncharacteristic optimism.

  Josh’s smile made his eyes squint. The hint of crow’s feet briefly made him look older. “You got it.” He tipped his head, studying Michael’s face, and asked, “What name should I put on the bag?”

  Had Michael not given his name? Josh had introduced himself ages ago. Well, yesterday, anyway. Quickly, he said, “Michael. Michael Baldwin.” Then, before Josh could think about connecting him to the governor, he said, “Just Michael.”

  “Michael.” Josh’s smile went warm, his eyes soft. “One everything bagel, and I’ll throw in a couple pieces of crispy bacon for your girl there.”

  Michael nearly said, You don’t have to, before he realized that’d be both stupid and rude. Instead, he said, “Thanks, Josh.”

  “Anytime.”

  For a few slow, simmering seconds, they stood there, staring at one another, before Michael realized that he had to come up with a reason for Josh to stick around. The line had moved up, so Michael took a step, glancing from the menu board back to Josh again, and quickly asked, “What’s good here?”

  Josh gave a wistful sigh. “Spinach, onion, and bacon Sicilian. That’s the, uh, square pizza.”

  “They do Sicilian here?” Michael looked at the menu board, and there it was, printed large enough for him to read without his glasses: round, deep dish, Sicilian. Oops.

  “It’s the best.”

  “Is that what you’re getting?”

  Josh shot a mournful look at the older man who was lurking by the counter, failing to hide his amusement. “Dad prefers New York–style pizza, and we keep kosher at home, so we’re doing double pepperoni.”

  Michael almost missed that, in his inappropriate happiness at the confirmation that the older man wasn’t a boyfriend. “Wait,” he said, replaying Josh’s words in his head. Had he misheard? “Is pepperoni kosher?”

  Josh shrugged. “Probably not, but it’s not bacon, and bacon’s definitely not kosher. Pepperoni’s sort of a gray area, as long as we don’t know the ingredients.”

  That was just . . . adorable. Laughing, Michael asked, “Isn’t that cheating?”

  “Well, yeah.” Josh’s grin was unrepentant. “But it’s pepperoni.”

  Michael, Josh decided, had the best laugh of anyone he’d met in ages. There was something surprised about it, as if Michael hadn’t really had a reason to for a while. New mission: make him laugh more.

  “It makes perfect religious sense,” Josh pointed out. “Jews are practical that way. Reform Jews, anyway. It’s kind of like cheeseburgers.”

  Michael gave Josh a confused look that was almost identical to a dog’s curious head tilt. “Cheeseburgers?” he asked.

  “A cheeseburger made with actual cheese, like cheddar, isn’t kosher. Obviously, right?” When Michael nodded, Josh continued, “But with American cheese—as in, ‘processed cheese food’—the law gets a little fuzzy.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” Michael said.

  “Really, it is,” Josh protested, his voice going high-pitched with his own repressed laughter. “It’s like ice cream. You’re supposed to wait X hours after eating meat before you can eat ice cream, but a restaurant would kick you out for waiting that long for dessert. Which means that ice cream, even after burgers or steaks, is good for the economy.”

  Michael snorted, his whole face lighting up. “Oh my God. Have you actually tried this logic on an authority? A rabbi, maybe?” he suggested.

  “Nah. No sense bothering him with silly”—Josh hesitated when Michael’s grin faded a couple of notches and the dog pushed between them—“questions . . . What?”

  The answer came not from Michael but from Josh’s dad, who poked at Josh’s arm with one corner of the pizza box. “You ready, or did you want to stick around and hang out with your friend here?” he asked, all but spelling out boyfriend.

  Josh sputtered, “Oh, I’ll—”

  “We’re just—” Michael snapped his mouth shut, looking between the two of them before he locked his attention on the dog.

  “Dad.” It didn’t quite come out as a growl, but it was close. “This is Michael. He’s—” A customer? Too impersonal. Hot as hell? Both rude and obvious. “He’s a friend,” Josh said, even though it was presumptuous. But they were friends, right? Or acquaintances, anyway.

  Michael offered Dad a shy nod, then his hand. “Hi. Michael Baldwin.”

  Dad grinned and switched the pizza box to his left hand so he could shake. “Oren Goldberg. Nice to meet you, Michael.” He turned to Josh and asked again, “You sticking around?”

  Yes. Josh shot Michael a look, but before either of them could say anything, a new voice pointedly asked, “Can I help you, sir?”

  The line between Michael and the counter had vanished. No one was behind Michael, which was why they hadn’t noticed. Michael gestured toward the counter, saying, “I should— We haven’t eaten since lunch.”

  And that was practically an invitation for Josh’s dad to suggest Michael and Kaylee join them for dinner, which was a disaster waiting to happen. “I’ll have that bagel for you tomorrow,” Josh promised, waving Michael toward the counter. “Enjoy your pizza.”

  Michael’s smile was subtle and shy and felt like it was just for Josh. “You too, Josh. Nice to meet you,” he added with a quick nod for Dad.

  “We’ll see you around, Michael,” Dad said. It came out ominous.

  Josh took the pizza box from his father. “Come on, Dad. Night, Michael,” Josh said, herding his father away.

  “G’night,” Michael called after them.

  Before they�
�d even hit the door, Dad stage-whispered to Josh, “Is that the boyfriend you claim you don’t have?”

  Josh groaned and nudged his dad to get him moving. Only when they were outside—door closed—did Josh say, “Really, Dad. He’s a customer, not my boyfriend.”

  “Yet?”

  Josh sighed.

  Dad smiled reassuringly. “The way you two were looking at each other? It’s ‘yet,’ Josh. Trust me.”

  “Sure you want to go in?”

  Stupid o’clock was no time for Josh to be conscious, much less having a conversation. It took him a few long seconds to turn away from the front door and blink up at the patch of darkness that slowly resolved into his dad. In pajamas and a bathrobe. Unlike Josh, who’d put on his shirt three times—once backward, once inside out, before getting it right.

  “Huh?” Josh asked. He was still running on caffeine-free autopilot. The coffeepot at home sucked compared to the industrial machine at the shop.

  Snickering, Dad came to the bottom of the stairs. “Sure you want to switch shifts?”

  Switch shifts? That was a terrible idea. Except . . .

  Michael. Hot Tourist Guy, whose name Josh now knew, who was coming to the shop for a reserved everything bagel and bacon.

  “Yeah. You . . .” Josh shook his head, marginally more awake now that he was thinking of Michael. “You go back to bed.”

  “Okay.” Dad was still grinning, because even stupid o’clock wasn’t too early for his sense of humor. “Have fun, Josh.”

  All Josh could manage in return was a grunt. He took his keys from the hook by the door, then hung them back up so he could put on his windbreaker. And when he opened the door, he almost forgot the keys again.

  Mornings sucked.

  But he walked the two blocks to work, where he spent the next couple of hours drinking coffee, making bagels, and generally regaining consciousness. He had no idea when Michael would be in. Six a.m.? After the breakfast rush? Late in the day, after Josh went home and collapsed? God, he hoped not. The thought of his dad—who was on the afternoon shift—having free rein to regale Michael with stories from Josh’s childhood was horrifying.

  At least the morning’s baking was easy. Years ago, Dad—and Mom, before she died—had worked out a rotating schedule to maintain a supply of fresh bagels, in various flavors, without needing to triple their kitchen equipment. They’d made adjustments over the years, and their catering business had thrown a wrench into the schedule for six months, but eventually things had smoothed out again. Today’s morning baking wasn’t supposed to include everything bagels, but it was easy for Josh to make an extra batch.

  Maybe he’d send Michael home with a free baker’s dozen. Or was it too soon for things like that? Could be. Plus it might cost Josh in terms of visits, if Michael had the option to stay home and toast up a frozen bagel each morning. Of course, then Josh could actually get a decent night’s sleep.

  He was being ridiculous. A free baker’s dozen was just nice—a “welcome back to the island” gift box, as it were. Instead of sleep, he’d drink more coffee so he’d stay awake even if Michael didn’t show up before shift change.

  Having a plan helped, as did his usual six o’clock customer, Dr. Miller—alone, today. “This is becoming a habit, Josh,” she said when he came out of the kitchen to greet her. Her British accent was heavier first thing in the morning, one of the few reasons he enjoyed the early shift—second only to seeing Michael, in fact. “Have you and your father switched permanently?”

  “Temporarily permanently,” Josh explained with a grin. She’d left her long gray hair loose today, a wealth of thick waves hanging past her shoulders. “Nice hair,” he complimented.

  She winked. “You too, love. And do I smell everything bagels?”

  “Fresh out of the oven. Want one?” He’d made a whole batch in case some of them bubbled or burned—it happened under the best of circumstances—but they’d all come out perfect.

  “Mmm. My wife will regret missing out.” She tapped her nails on the glass bagel counter. “You know what? Give me two. I’ll run by the hospital.”

  “Is she still eating vending machine food?” Josh dropped two everything bagels in the slicer.

  She sighed dramatically. “Medical doctors have the worst health habits. Next time I take her home to London, I’m setting my mum on her. Perhaps I’ll get the twins to help—they’re relatively health-conscious.”

  “Isn’t one of the twins in the army?”

  “Keith is.”

  “Keith . . . He’s the taller one?” Josh asked, before realizing how stalkery that sounded. He’d had an on-off crush on the twins for years, back when their parents were summer visitors, not full-time residents. He filled a large Styrofoam cup with coffee and two sugars, no cream. “Regular or decaf for your wife?”

  “Decaf. And the light cream cheese for us both, please. It’ll be our little secret.” As Josh unwrapped the cream cheese, Dr. Miller said, “Oh, I won’t be around next Monday. I’m going up to Concord to meet with Governor Baldwin.”

  “Yeah? That’s—” Josh cut off, remembering Michael’s introduction last night. “Baldwin?” he blurted, instantly feeling like an idiot for forgetting the name of his state’s governor.

  Dr. Miller arched one eyebrow, a skill Josh had always envied. “Yes . . . Governor Samuel Baldwin. He’s asking for endorsements.”

  “And what are you asking for?”

  Dr. Miller’s smile went sharp. “Funding for an engineering study of the structural integrity of the bridge.”

  Momentarily derailed from the possible Baldwin connection, Josh asked, “What’s wrong with the bridge?”

  “It’s almost a hundred years old. We have no idea what’s wrong with it,” she said bluntly. “My wife compared it to a hundred-year-old patient who’s never gone to the doctor. Yes, he might still be alive, but who knows what’s going on inside there without an X-ray or MRI or what have you?”

  Josh wrapped each bagel in waxed paper, admitting, “That’s . . . slightly terrifying. If the bridge just”—he waved a hand—“boom, do we have a backup plan? Pontoon bridges? A ferry?”

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “The state says it has a plan, but . . .”

  “Shit. Uh, excuse me,” he said automatically, distracted by the thought of the bridge collapsing right before tourist season.

  “Precisely,” she agreed, sliding a wallet out of her jacket pocket. Josh had never seen her carrying a purse.

  He bagged the wrapped bagels, put the coffees in a carrier, and went to the register, trying—and failing—to sound casual as he asked, “Do you know Governor Baldwin? Is he one of the summer tourists?”

  She hummed thoughtfully and handed over a twenty-dollar bill. “I believe the Baldwins have a family house on the island, yes, though can’t recall seeing them here. In passing, perhaps.”

  “The whole family? Kids?” Josh asked, looking down to count out her change, conveniently avoiding eye contact.

  “A daughter? Perhaps?” She shrugged and said, “I can’t actually recall. I tend to focus more on the issues than ephemera, I’m afraid.”

  And Josh was prying. Guiltily, he passed over her change and said, “We should all follow your example, Doc.”

  She pocketed the change and gave him a brilliant smile. “I haven’t forgotten the town hall meeting. I expect you to be there—you and your father both.”

  “Just say when. And have a good day,” he added, waving her out of the store. He watched her walk through the fog and get into her car. Once she drove off, he took out his phone—and then put it back. It’d be creepy to cyberstalk the governor just to see if he had a son or nephew named Michael. Wouldn’t it?

  Michael was not going to show up at Bagel End at one minute after six in the morning. He wasn’t. That’d be desperate and pathetic and a sad snapshot of what his life had become. In fact, he didn’t even set an alarm on his phone—as in, the phone that still didn’t have its battery installed, wh
ich was how he ended up wide-awake in bed while it was barely light outside the round barn window that faced the ocean. He had an hour, maybe two, before Bagel End opened. Josh was probably still in bed, like any normal human being. Even Kaylee was deeply asleep, her muzzle buried under a pillow, feet hanging off the edge of the mattress.

  But Michael wasn’t going to fall back asleep, so he sat up, closing his eyes while the world rocked and swam around him, until his perception stabilized. Kaylee snuffled and jerked awake, lifting her head to give him an eloquently sleepy look.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he told her, twisting around to sit on the edge of the bed. When nothing disastrous happened, he got to his feet, one hand braced on the headboard. Kaylee bounded across the bed and dropped to the floor beside his leg with a huff, as if scolding him for standing without her help. First thing in the morning, he was always a little off.

  Thankfully, today was a good day. He took a few tentative steps, all the way to the railing that overlooked the living room, and the only problem was that his feet were cold. He didn’t have slippers or a bathrobe. He’d never bothered, living in a shoebox apartment in DC, but now he wondered if he should do some shopping. Own more stuff than could fit into a couple of duffel bags and boxes. That was part of his transition to civilian living, wasn’t it?

  Not that he was awake enough to justify this introspection. He pushed away from the railing and looked down at Kaylee, whose tail was whooshing across the floor in a lazy, happy way. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, heading for the stairs. On the way down, he hung on to the banister, with Kaylee close to his other side, ready to brace him if he lost his balance.

  He nearly went into the kitchen to make coffee before remembering two important things: he had a date—sort of—at Bagel End, and he hated the pod coffee machine that was the only source of caffeine he’d found in either the main house or the barn. One more thing for the shopping list.