by Courtney Lux
“So is all that hair dye.” Trip nods at Liam’s curls. He steps closer, sneaks a hand toward Liam’s hip. “Not to mention the canvas and acrylics and brushes you literally burned last week.”
“The paint- and canvas-burning was a symbolic gesture to cleanse my artistic palate. And at least the hair dye won’t kill me.” Despite Liam’s irritation, he isn’t oblivious to Trip’s fingers. He slaps at his wrist. “Fuck you! Get your hand out of my pocket!”
Trip retracts his hand and makes a show of rubbing his wrist, although Liam’s done no real damage. Trip’s not used to getting caught, but since the previous spring Liam’s managed to call him out nearly every time he’s tried to get a look in his pockets. “You’re getting too good at that.”
“I’ve had three years of practice with your sticky fingers, you obnoxious hillbilly. Go find a mark dumber than me.”
“Don’t call me that.” Trip tucks the cigarette back into his bag. “You’re the hillbilly, not me. Look at a map, you fuckin’ hick.”
“I’m not a hick. I think I was a Tibetan monk in a past life, or maybe one of those big rainforest butterflies.” Liam cocks his head to the side, thoughtful. He casts a look at Trip. “You’re still channeling some residual sewer rat or something.”
“Only life I’ve ever known is this one, and I call a spade a spade, Forrester; you’re one of the hill people.” Trip knocks the umbrella from Liam’s grip. “And I’m third- or fourth-generation white trash. Ain’t no butterflies or monks for us.”
“You prick!” Liam reaches for the toppled umbrella with one hand and clamps the other over his hair.
Trip moves away fast, wary of the punch Liam will most likely direct toward his arm after he’s got the umbrella back overhead. Liam’s usually good to him, but even Trip knows when not to push his luck. He’s late on rent, he’s gone missing for a few days and now he may or may not have ruined Liam’s hair.
Trip and Liam have known each other a long time. They first met on the bus from Virginia to New York when Liam—apparently oblivious to the way Trip had curled himself safe and small beside a window trying to be less visible—had dropped down in the open seat beside Trip and asked to draw him. Trip had refused, shocked and angered by the request. Liam had looked from Trip’s split lip to his hands curled around the neck of his guitar and nodded as if his refusal made sense.
He’d kept the seat, though, and spoken in hushed tones about his recently drafted artistic mission statement, which included moving to a place that pushed him to his creative edge. Trip had no idea what he was talking about, but when Liam suggested they stick close for a while once they arrived in the city, he’d had no reason to refuse.
They fight almost constantly. Trip is too crass and too rough for Liam’s tastes; Liam is too sensitive and whimsical for Trip’s. But that shared first few hours of their relationship on a hot bus barreling toward the unknown largeness of the city had bonded them in some unspoken way that neither has been able to shake.
The umbrella is back over Liam’s head. The drooping side is even worse from its fall, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s frowning; his gaze on Trip doubles back the way they’ve just come. “Where the hell are you going?”
“Not far,” Trip calls over his shoulder. “Just have to see about that light.”
“I’m not waiting for you.”
“Never asked you to,” Trip calls back.
“Trip, goddamn it, we need you to—”
“—Pay rent, I know. I’ll be back soon.” Trip twists to look back at Liam. “Scout’s Honor.”
“Boy, you are the fucking anti-Boy Scout.” Liam twists the umbrella so the drooping side is behind him and he can keep an eye on Trip.
Trip presses his palms together in front of his chest. “Swear to God, then?”
Liam rolls his eyes. “You’ve got two hours to get your sorry ass back to the apartment, Morgan, or I swear to God, I’ll kick your ass.”
“I’d love to see you try, Forrester.”
Liam turns and shouts over his shoulder. “Two hours, Trip. I mean it.”
Trip watches Liam go until he’s just a spot of pink floating above a sea of black umbrellas.
When he finally turns his attention back to finding a lighter, the rain is coming down even harder and almost everyone who’d been in the park has found shelter elsewhere. With a sudden lack of marks and fingers that are too shaky with hunger and cold to be trusted with quick work, Trip opts to look for a light the old-fashioned way: He asks.
People aren’t particularly friendly. An older woman meets his eyes and immediately makes a wide arc around him. Another woman at least shakes her head in response before moving away from him. He tries a couple more people. Some have the decency to answer him; most take one look at him and walk a little faster.
Trip’s ready to give up on the whole damn thing when someone clips his shoulder. Startled by the sudden contact, he shoves the stranger and snarls, “Hey, watch where the fuck you’re going!”
It shouldn’t make him as angry as it does, but he has little patience just now for anyone trying to shake him down, and his temper has never had a particularly long fuse. Besides that, he wants his cigarette for the heat of it on his fingers and some smoke in his lungs to curb the ache in his gut.
The man turns. Judging by the surprise in his brown eyes, he’d had no intention of running into Trip. He shakes his head; his gaze flits around the park as if he’s not entirely sure how he got here. “Sorry. I’m distracted, I wasn’t—sorry.”
Trip could normally fire off some sort of smart remark or maybe push this guy enough for a fight, but in this particular moment, he’s speechless.
The guy turns to walk again, and Trip acts fast before the opportunity disappears along with this stranger into some other recess of the city. The guy doesn’t notice Trip’s fingers touching him, nor the sudden lightness in his back pocket.
Trip stands in the rain and works fast to fish the driver’s license out of the wallet he’s just lifted from his discombobulated stranger.
His name is Nathaniel Clark Mackey. He’s originally from Minnesota. He’s twenty-six, six-foot-one, one hundred eighty-five pounds. And Trip is sure the way he is sure the sky is blue and he is never going back to Alabama that this man is the happy, bruised-kneed little boy from his photograph.
He stuffs the card back in the wallet, sets off at a jog. “Hey!”
Nathaniel doesn’t slow down, doesn’t turn.
“Hey!” Trip sticks two fingers in his mouth and manages one sharp, whistled note. He is not about to lose Nathaniel Mackey without at least exchanging a few words.
Nathaniel finally turns to look.
Trip slows to a walk, holds the wallet up and spins it idly between his fingers.
Nathaniel doesn’t seem to see it. He’s staring at Trip with so much surprise that, for a moment, Trip thinks maybe Nathaniel recognizes him, too.
“You have incredible eyes.” It’s spoken in a quick rush. The accent decidedly less Minnesota than Trip had expected, but definitely Midwest.
“Incredible” is not usually the word of choice for his eyes. Odd, disturbing; has-to-be-contacts, crazy-looking, yes, but “incredible” is a new one. Trip regards him. “It’s been said.”
Nathaniel has the decency to blush; his gaze drops. “I just—I mean—”
Trip almost laughs, amused with this bumbling, nervous person. He lifts the wallet higher. “Missing anything?”
Nathaniel studies the wallet in Trip’s hand with something akin to alarm while he pats his back pockets. “Oh. Yeah, I guess I am. Thanks.”
Trip is still watching him as he hands off the wallet. “You’re welcome, Nathaniel.”
Nathaniel meets his gaze again. He frowns. “Do we know each other?”
Trip cocks his head to the side with a smirk. “Not just yet.
”
two.
Nate doesn’t think Trip is funny. Nate doesn’t seem to think much is funny—not their meeting, not Trip’s wet clothes or the found wallet or anything about this situation. He is as solemn and gray as his three-piece suit and the weather around them. His gaze darts from Trip’s left eye to his right, as if unsure where to focus.
Trip offers his hand, empty this time. “Trip Morgan.”
Nate looks at Trip’s wet fingers before actually accepting the handshake. His palm is dry and warm; his grip is solid in the way Trip is sure people must learn during college or those lost high school years he never experienced. “Nate Mackey.”
Trip holds onto Nate’s hand for a moment longer before releasing him. “Now we know each other, don’t we?”
“I guess so.” Nate looks Trip over and makes little effort to hide his disdain for Trip’s wet clothes. “You look cold.”
“And wet,” Trip agrees. He waits and he’s not sure exactly for what. Maybe Trip’s waiting for Nate to mumble another thank-you for the returned wallet and be on his way, or perhaps mention a hotel or apartment nearby. Anything. Something.
Nate’s fingers drift toward his jacket near where he’s tucked his wallet safely in the inside breast pocket. He meets Trip’s gaze. “Could I buy you a cup of coffee?”
They stare at one another in mutual surprise. It’s the most unexpected thing Nate could have said, but Trip recovers first. He cocks his head to the side. “Sure.”
“Yeah?” Nate’s cheeks are pink, his eyes wide. Like this, Trip can see that child in him more readily. There’s a familiarity in the way Nate is tousled and flustered by his own floundering mouth. Trip nods to confirm that, yes, Nate’s boldness has paid off. He can buy him a cup of coffee.
Nate seems to find his center again. He stands straighter, steps a few inches closer so that Trip is suddenly shielded from the rain. Trip looks up at the black dome of the umbrella and scratches his wet collar. “A little late for that.”
“Better late than never.” Nate looks Trip’s outfit over a second time, and Trip considers how he must appear to this well-dressed stranger.
His shirt is not all that bad. It’s a gray V-neck T-shirt commandeered from the floor of someone’s hotel room, but the rest of him is not nearly so well kept. His jeans have a hole near the knee; his once white Converse are muddied and missing much of their plastic siding. The left one’s lace is broken and tied off two eyelets too low. His hair is getting long enough that he can secure much of it back in a short ponytail. His knuckles are still bruised from a confrontation he doesn’t entirely remember, and his bag and guitar are as battered as he is. Men in nicer suits than Nate’s have taken Trip home when he’s been in greater disrepair, so he maintains his air of easy confidence.
“Unless you plan to start walking sometime tonight, I’m gonna step right back out into the rain.” Trip takes a step to emphasize his point, but Nate remains by his side with the umbrella still held carefully above their heads.
Nate knows a place nearby, so Trip follows him out of the park and down a few blocks, whistling as they go and keeping an eye on the people who pass them.
At the coffee shop, Trip stands sentinel at Nate’s side in line and watches the other patrons with their glasses of wine and mugs of coffee painted pretty with designs in the foam. He feels Nate watching him and he allows the continued look for a few moments before turning to meet his gaze. “It’s not polite to stare, Nathaniel.”
Nate’s gaze jerks to his feet as he mumbles, “People call me Nate.”
Trip nods, but he has no intention of calling this specter from his bag of little treasures “Nate.” Nate is too unique a found presence to be called something so incredibly dull.
They order black coffees, and after following Trip’s gaze to a display case of pastries, Nate adds a croissant. They tuck themselves into a front corner table where Nate takes one of the open chairs and Trip takes up residence on the bench lining the wall opposite Nate, knocking his knees in the process.
Warmer and settled in, Trip takes inventory of his things. His bag seems mostly all right, protected by too many layers of duct tape, but his guitar is dripping and sloshing with every movement. Trip tips it over on the floor beside him. Water sloshes out of the sound hole and forms a puddle beside the one at his feet.
Nate pushes a few napkins toward him, frowning as though he disapproves of this whole process. “That can’t be good for it.”
Trip lays his guitar across his lap and accepts the napkins. He pats the body dry, shakes his head. “She’s fine.”
“Doesn’t all that water warp the wood or something?” Nate glances around the table as if he’s hoping he might discover a few more napkins.
Trip looks over the guitar. It’s on the small side; the body is all dark mahogany with a pretty decal around the sound hole. It’s seen better days, though. The black plastic of the pickguard is chipping, the strings look too worn, one of the tuning pegs does not match the others and the whole thing is pretty banged up. He can think of no one in the world he has more in common with than that damn guitar. He pats its neck affectionately. “We’ve seen worse than a little rain.”
He puts the guitar down gently on the open space of the bench beside him and reaches for his coffee, unable to resist the smell of it any longer. The mug burns his hands straight through the ceramic.
“It’s hot,” Nate warns. His hands are wrapped around his mug, but his coffee remains untouched.
Trip takes a drink anyway, but Nate’s right. It scalds his tongue and the back of his throat. “Very hot.”
He wants the damn coffee in a bad way, so, hoping he’s burned his tongue as badly as he can, Trip tries for another drink. He cringes when it burns his tongue a second time, and Nate sighs audibly. “You could wait a second for it to cool down.”
“I could,” Trip agrees. He considers trying one last time, fairly certain he’s running out of layers of skin on his tongue to burn through. When he lifts the mug, soft fingers on his wrist stay his hand barely an inch from the table. He meets Nate’s eyes and raises his eyebrows in silent question.
Nate releases him, then pushes the plate with the croissant toward Trip. When Trip just stares at it, not sure what permission is being granted, Nate motions. “Eat it. You’re driving me crazy with the coffee. My mouth hurts for you.”
Trip doesn’t need to be told twice. The croissant flakes brown crust onto the plate and melts butter-soft on his tongue. Trip moans because it’s so damn good.
Nate glances around before looking down when Trip pushes the plate back his way. Nate shakes his head. “All yours.”
Trip sits up straighter and pulls the plate close. “Nathaniel Mackey, you are a gift straight from God.”
Nate doesn’t respond. He sits with his hands wrapped around his mug and casts his gaze from his coffee to the plate to Trip’s still-dripping hair. He looks vaguely uncomfortable, as if maybe he wants to say something but isn’t entirely sure what.
Trip doesn’t mind. He’s done stranger things with stranger people, and having coffee with someone he’s met barely twenty minutes ago is a nice change. He jiggles a foot under the table and studies the frown line between Nate’s eyebrows. “So, Nathaniel, why the look?”
“It’s Nate.” Nate looks from the plate to Trip’s face. He’s quiet, no doubt waiting for more elaboration on the question. When Trip gives none, the frown line grows. “What look?”
“More storm clouds on your face than there are out there.” Trip nods toward the rain beating against the window.
“Oh.” Nate twists to look toward the window and then turns his gaze back to Trip, resigned. “Rough day, I guess.”
“Boss man give it to you good?” Trip looks over Nate’s suit. He doesn’t know much about designers or fabrics or cuts, but he knows a good suit, and Nate’s isn’t cheap. He must do
something Wall Street-based, probably finance.
“No, not really.” Nate straightens a coffee spoon beside his mug, then clears his throat. “I got dumped.”
Trip talks around another bite of the croissant. “You work with this person or what? He do it in the office?”
“No, um, he called me.” Nate takes a drink of his coffee, puts his mug down. “At work.”
“You got dumped over the phone while you were at work,” Trip echoes. He’s momentarily lost interest in eating in favor of watching Nate. “What the fuck did you do?”
“What was I supposed to do?” Nate shrugs. “Leave work and beg him to change his mind?”
Trip tilts his head. “I meant what the hell did you do to the guy that he thought dumping you over the phone on a Tuesday was a fine idea?”
Nate’s eyebrows shoot up and he sneers at Trip. “Who says I did anything?”
“You got your ass dumped, didn’t you?” Trip sips his coffee that’s finally cooled to a more drinkable temperature. “Don’t tell me he didn’t give you a reason.”
Nate sits up straighter, adjusts his tie and looks Trip over as though he’s not entirely sure how he wound up having coffee with this person. “This is kind of none of your business.”
“It’s not?” Trip settles his mug down on the table. He’s fully aware this is not appropriate, but he doesn’t care much for appropriate and he kind of likes Nate’s reproachful scowl.
Nate stares at him as if he’s considering the possibility that Trip may be right and this may be a perfectly reasonable way to speak with a stranger. The expression passes quickly and he’s shaking his head. “We don’t even know each other.”
“On the contrary, I know a thing or two about you, Nathaniel Mackey.” Trip leans his elbows on the table and glances around before his gaze falls back on Nate. “What if I told you I’m clairvoyant?”
Nate looks at Trip in a way he recognizes; he’s considering the possibility that Trip might be completely insane. He’s seen this look before, from people in the park and the men who invite him to their hotel rooms. The look doesn’t bother him; he’s not entirely sure he’s not a bit crazy.