Change of Address
Page 14
“No, it’s fine—”
“Yes, it is,” Dee interrupted, startling Josh. How had he forgotten about her? “So go have fun, both of you.”
Josh turned in time for Dee to close the door in his face. She grinned at him as she turned the lock, then waved at them both.
“Um. Should we have met somewhere else?” Michael asked as Josh turned back.
Probably, Josh thought, though he shook his head. “No, it’s fine. She’s just like that.” He wanted to reach for Michael’s hand, but not yet. Not now. He shoved his hands in his pockets instead. Michael had invited Josh to dinner, but he hadn’t specified it was an actual date. “So, do you know where we’re going, or do you need recommendations? Not that we have all that much of a selection . . .”
“Actually, uh, would you be okay with going into Portsmouth? There’s a seafood place there that I used to love. It’s still open—or at least its website is still up.”
Portsmouth? Josh laughed softly and shrugged, looking over at Michael’s SUV. If Michael had another . . . incident, Josh would be stranded. “I can’t remember the last time I was on the mainland, honestly.”
Michael’s smile faded a notch. “Or we can stay here. We, uh, can give the diner another shot.”
Josh weighed Michael’s disappointment against the need for his dad to rescue him. Embarrassment was a small price to pay to put that excited light back in Michael’s eyes. “No. No, if you don’t mind the drive, I’m okay with it.” Then he realized he had another potential cause for embarrassment and asked, “Er, am I dressed okay?”
“It’s casual,” Michael assured him, heading for the SUV. “And it’s nice out. I figured maybe we could eat on the patio.”
Josh hid a sigh of relief. Patio dining was hardly ever fancy. “Sounds great. As long as you won’t be cold,” he teased, pointedly looking at Michael’s bare arms.
Michael laughed. “I have a jacket in the truck. And I was born here, you know. Well, not here-here, but up in Concord.” He opened the rear driver’s-side door and told Kaylee, “Car.” She jumped up smoothly, vest brushing against the seat.
Josh circled around and got in the passenger side. The handicap parking tag hanging from the rearview mirror caught his eye. Had Michael been hiding it before, or was he just having a bad day now? He didn’t seem to have any trouble getting into the car.
But seeing the tag reminded Josh that he and Michael needed to have a discussion if this thing between them was going to have a chance at becoming something more.
Not that he knew where to begin. He glanced at the darkening sky as Michael pulled the SUV out into what passed for rush-hour traffic on Hartsbridge Island. There was no delicate way to ask—to invade Michael’s privacy—but their failed date had proven silence wasn’t really an option.
Finally, Josh took a bracing breath, then asked, “What happened the other night? At the diner?”
He glanced over in time to see Michael’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. Michael didn’t look away from the road as he said, “I have PTSD. Loud noises . . . especially breaking glass.”
Josh nodded, resting his arm on the side of the door, trying to be casual. He wasn’t any good at it, but Michael was focused on driving. Gently, Josh said, “I kind of figured.”
Michael moved one hand off the wheel and reached to the back of the center console, so Kaylee could nose at his fingers. “She’s trained to help, if that happens. I don’t . . . I don’t always know where I am or what’s going on. When it happens, she gets me somewhere quiet, where I can be alone, sort of . . . come down from it. The stress and all.”
“Okay.” So far, so good. Between research and common sense, Josh had figured all of this out already. “How’d it happen? I mean, if it’s okay to ask, what—”
“I was in the Air Force,” Michael interrupted. “I got shot.”
“Shit,” Josh blurted, twisting around in his seat. “Are you—are you okay now?” It was a stupid question, because obviously the answer wasn’t an unconditional yes.
Michael shrugged. “Mostly? The last couple of years, I was in the hospital and in outpatient treatment. I wasn’t able to move up here until a couple weeks ago.”
“Shit,” Josh repeated. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to touch Michael’s forearm. “I’m sorry.”
“I survived.” Michael glanced away from the road long enough to give Josh a quick smile. “I was shot in the head. Left side.”
Josh’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t move his hand back. Michael was holding his arm very still, not even scratching at Kaylee’s muzzle, as if he didn’t want to accidentally pull away. “You don’t have to talk about it,” Josh offered quietly.
Michael shrugged. “It’s okay. After the other night . . .” He sighed and glanced at Josh again. “I really am sorry.”
“No. It’s fine,” Josh said firmly. “Completely not your fault.” He caught himself rubbing up and down Michael’s forearm, but he didn’t want to stop. And Michael didn’t seem to mind.
“I almost died,” Michael said, his voice soft but firm, not asking for pity. “I should have died, but there were medics in the convoy. Really fucking fantastic medics. I don’t even know how I got from the convoy to the hospital in Germany. I was in a coma for sixteen days.”
“Oh my God.” Josh’s hand clenched around Michael’s wrist. “Michael . . .”
“Yeah.” Michael shot him a quick, humorless smile. “I had a bunch of surgeries, then almost two years of physical therapy. I still need it. I just have to figure out a local doctor so I don’t have to drive to Boston.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t even know what to say,” Josh admitted.
Michael pulled his arm away, but only to turn his hand over and take hold of Josh’s. “I’m here. I’m alive. Everything else . . .” He shrugged.
Josh nodded, spreading his fingers to interlace them with Michael’s. “I’m . . . I’m glad you’re okay. And here,” he said softly.
This time, Michael’s smile was genuine. “Me too.”
The restaurant was almost exactly as Michael remembered it, a sprawling building with a patio overlooking the Piscataqua River. Growing up, it had been a family favorite; they’d eaten here at least twice a week whenever they came down to Hartsbridge Island for the summer. It had its share of good memories and bad, but Michael had always liked the food, and hopefully he and Josh could make some new good memories together.
Which was an incredibly sappy thought—one he didn’t voice as he let go of Josh’s hand and pulled into the only open handicap parking spot near the curving walkway up to the front doors. Josh was staring out the windshield, brows drawn together. “You’re sure this is casual?”
Michael nodded. “I double-checked on the website, but yeah, it’s always been casual.” He shrugged and turned off the engine. “They’ve got great seafood. And other stuff—steaks and burgers—but what you really want is the fish. Or the shellfish, I guess. It’s all fresh off the boats.”
“Okay . . .” Josh unlatched his seatbelt and opened his door. “Sounds good.”
It wasn’t until Michael was letting Kaylee out of the SUV that he realized Josh might be worried about the cost of dinner. Even at the Maine–New Hampshire border, lobster wasn’t exactly cheap.
He adjusted his bag over one shoulder, then led Kaylee around the front of the SUV and caught up with Josh. “And this is my treat,” Michael offered. “It was my choice to come all the way here. And after the other night, it’s—”
“You don’t have to keep apologizing,” Josh interrupted, stepping close, though he didn’t reach for Michael’s hand. Was he wary of being caught in public with another guy? Or was he thinking Michael was? Before Michael could figure out how to ask, Josh looked down at himself and took out his wallet, saying, “Oh. Hey. That reminds me . . .” He flipped open the wallet and took out a stack of bills, at least one of them a hundred. To Michael’s utter confusion, Josh offered all the cash to him.
“You left this at the diner, when”—Josh hesitated—“when Kaylee led you out. You didn’t even count it, but it was way, way too much.”
Oh. Michael took the cash, feeling heat rise in his neck and cheeks. “Thanks. I . . . Yeah.” He shook his head, trying to remember if he’d even given the money a second thought. He’d stopped at an ATM before going grocery shopping, and then again tonight before picking up Josh, but that was nothing unusual. Neither Michael nor Amanda used cards unless absolutely necessary, a habit since their teen years—all part of the wonderful paranoia that came from growing up in a political environment that left no room for privacy.
“Thanks.” Michael tucked the cash into his pocket, telling himself it was no big deal. Josh wasn’t freaked out about it. “But I’m definitely paying tonight.”
Josh looked at him through narrowed eyes. “On one condition.”
Michael’s gut went cold. He shoved both hands into his pockets, Kaylee’s leash slack around his wrist. She was sitting diagonally against his left leg, not at his side, not in front of him, as if unsure if she should block Josh or not. “What’s that?”
“Tell me what to do if something happens.” Josh shifted his weight closer to Michael without actually moving his feet. “If I should just . . . keep my distance and let you go, that’s fine. But if there’s something I can do . . .”
Michael’s exhale was shaky with relief. “You can come with me. I’m not . . . I’m not dangerous.” A quiet laugh escaped him. “I was in supply, not Special Forces or something. And talking . . . talking might help, but if I don’t make any sense . . .” He shook his head, resisting the urge to pull his hand out of his pocket so he could rub at the scar under his hairline.
Josh touched his arm gently, just like he had in the SUV. Michael glanced up, and when their eyes met, Josh smiled. “Follow you, talk to you. Easy enough.”
To hell with discretion. Michael pulled his hand out of his pocket and touched Josh’s fingers. Their hands turned naturally, fingers interlacing as if that was where they belonged. “How come you’re so understanding?”
Josh gave a little shrug, fingers tightening. “I’m just willing to take a chance, that’s all.”
The patio was lit with flickering torches and hurricane lamps, creating a comfortable balance between casual and intimate. Josh barely felt underdressed, though that could’ve also been because he and Michael were the only ones dining on the patio. Tourists, he thought, smiling to himself as he sat down at a small table next to the railing. The river was right there, thirty or forty feet down, and the breeze was cold and damp, though not too cold for a couple of New Englanders.
“Can I get you started with a drink?” the host asked, passing out menus. “Beer, margarita? We have an extensive wine list.” He gestured to the drinks menu already on the table.
“Just water for me, thanks.” Michael turned to Josh, saying, “But if you want something—”
“No, water’s fine.” Josh smiled briefly at the host. He wanted to stay focused tonight. Tempting as it was to have a drink or three to relax, he needed to pay attention. His father’s “what if it’s not casual” wisdom was too important to ignore, which meant Josh couldn’t let tonight pass without what was sure to be an uncomfortable, frank discussion.
“And does your dog . . .” The host nodded at Kaylee, who had settled under the table, muzzle resting on the bottom railing as if she were looking out at the river. “A bowl of water or something?”
Michael shook his head. “She’s okay, thanks.”
The host nodded again. “Your server will be right back with those drinks,” he said before leaving the table.
Michael took an eyeglass case out of his messenger bag. “I don’t drink much. Almost not at all.”
“Because of the”—Josh hesitated, wondering how to phrase it without offending—“health issues?” He imagined drinking would be a quick and dirty way to escape the trauma that had caused Michael’s PTSD, but Michael seemed to be taking good care of himself, rather than going the self-destructive route.
Michael took a deep breath and gave a quick nod as he slipped the glasses on. The sight was distracting, flooding Josh’s brain with inappropriate thoughts despite the seriousness of their conversation. He had to glance away, across the river, to gather his wits.
Hopefully unaware of where Josh’s mind had gone for a moment, Michael answered, “Yeah. For a while I did—I have trouble sleeping—but alcohol interacts badly with almost everything.”
Meaning meds, Josh guessed, looking at the menu without reading it. What was Michael on? Tranquilizers and sleeping pills as needed, or something taken more regularly, like antidepressants? Not that it was any of Josh’s business, even if he was looking ahead toward a possible relationship.
“I usually don’t drink either,” he said, then winced. He’d been aiming for reassuring solidarity, not awkwardness. “I mean, there’s nowhere really on the island, once you’re out of college. I guess. Since I’ve never been to college.”
He finally shut his mouth, but it was too late. Brilliant, you idiot. He’d cemented not just his awkwardness but his lack of higher education. It wasn’t exactly a secret that he’d dropped out of high school, and he’d had a good reason for it—they would’ve lost the shop otherwise—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t self-conscious about it.
But instead of laughing, Michael just shrugged and said, “I dropped out after my first semester and enlisted.”
Josh blinked at him. “Huh?”
Michael didn’t quite sneer, but one corner of his lips twitched up. “I was supposed to graduate from Dartmouth. The day I turned eighteen, I quit and joined the Air Force instead.”
“Dartmouth? But that’s . . . one of the best colleges in the country, isn’t it?” Josh asked, stunned. Nobody walked away from an Ivy League education to enlist in the military, right? Well, other than Michael.
Michael shrugged again and looked at him over the tops of their menus. “I wanted to see the world.”
“Did you like it? I mean, until . . .” Josh trailed off, uncomfortable with the idea of Michael getting shot, much less saying the words.
“Yeah.” Michael’s smile was sad. Distant. “I would’ve stayed in forever, I think.”
I’m glad you didn’t, Josh thought, though there was no way he’d say that. Not now, when they were barely friends. Maybe not ever. Instead, he asked, “Is it a family thing? The military?”
Michael shook his head, wrinkling his nose, making his glasses twitch. “No. I’m the first. Maybe the only one, on either side.”
Hoping to get that smile back, Josh said, “I have cooks on both sides. I suspect my family was making bagels ten generations ago, back in the Old Country.”
Success! Michael laughed and asked, “Which old country is that?”
Josh shrugged. “Brooklyn. Even if you’re an immigrant, once you get to Brooklyn, you’re forever from Brooklyn.”
“Does that count if you’re adopted?”
“Damn right it does,” Josh said proudly. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have been entrusted with the recipe for Bubbe’s matzo ball soup.”
“Mmm. That sounds good,” Michael said, looking down at the menu. “And I can’t decide, crab legs or lobster.”
A quick check of the menu showed that both were at the very top of the seafood section, with the ominous words market price instead of a number. The prices for everything else, though, were a whole lot higher than Josh was used to seeing, assuming he was reading them correctly and not getting his numbers mixed up. He started turning pages, looking for anything ten bucks or less, without success. The cheapest entrée—plain burgers—cost more than the most expensive sandwich combos he sold at Bagel End.
Would it be weird if he ordered a small plate of fries instead of an actual dinner? Maybe he could get a kids’ meal, though even those started at twelve dollars.
This from a restaurant not twenty minutes away from the island? Was Bagel End undercharging?
Before Josh could figure out what to order, Michael set his menu aside and asked, “Want to get both and split them?”
“What?” Josh tried to estimate the price of fresh lobster and crab, but despite living on an island, he couldn’t guess.
Michael gave him a wide-eyed stare. “Or not. I just—” He snapped his mouth closed and picked up his menu again, frowning down at it.
Also frowning, Josh quietly asked, “Just . . . what?”
“I haven’t done a lot of dating,” Michael said, eyes resolutely fixed on his menu. “Picking people up in clubs, yeah, but not . . .”
Caught up in the exhilaration of the word dating, Josh barely heard that second part. “Same here,” he said. “Not clubs, but dating. Lizzie and I went out a few times, and there was an on-again, off-again thing with Freddy’s nephew, Nate—Freddy, who owns the hardware store? It was”—he hesitated, catching the way Michael was watching him but clearly not following his rambling—“a summer thing . . . So yeah, not much dating.”
After a moment, as though expecting Josh to keep babbling, Michael nodded. “I wanted this to be . . . nice.”
Relief made Josh laugh quietly. “This is nice,” he said, putting down his menu so he could lean on the table, getting closer to Michael. “This is a hell of a lot nicer than the diner or the pizza place or anywhere else, but they’d also be fine. I just want to be with you.”
For only the second time that night, Michael’s smile was bright and unburdened. God, he was gorgeous like that, confident and charming and captivating. “Then, can I . . .” He put down his menu and deliberately reached across the table, resting his hand palm-up before Josh, who slid his fingers over Michael’s and took hold. Michael’s grasp was strong and warm, and he didn’t pull away when a server came out of the restaurant with their drinks and crossed the patio to their table.