by Elle Keaton
“For making your life hard. For not being there.”
Nate had one of those emotional epiphanies he was absolutely not known for; Mel was asking forgiveness. From him. At first he wondered what she thought he could forgive and how it would help her. What good would it do her to have Nate accept her apology? It certainly didn’t do anything for him. What she was apologizing for was unclear. Emotional distance? Leaving him in the clutches of their father and grandmother? Then he thought, maybe he didn’t want the responsibility of absolving her. Maybe he couldn’t.
“Are you still there?” Mel’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Yeah, I don’t know, Mel. Forgiveness is a big ask, and to be honest I’m not sure why you need it from me. Me saying everything’s okay, now you’re forgiven, that doesn’t seem true. Me forgiving you isn’t going to make everything go back to how it was. I’ve changed, you’ve changed. I’m not even sure you know what you want forgiveness for.”
“Nate…” There was a hitch in Mel’s voice.
“No, Mel. I think I’m right about this. And frankly, I feel freer for it. It’s not my job to fix your mistakes, or Clint’s.”
“Are you cutting me out of your life?”
“Not the way you did, no. But my home is here now, my life is here in Skagit, and I’m done making excuses about it. I’m gay—I don’t know if you care or not; just because you say you are too doesn’t mean you accept yourself. You’re free to call; I may not always answer. You’re free to visit if you want. I’m done feeling guilty about not being the son and brother I was supposed to be. That’s not how family works.” The Steller’s jay finished flouncing around in the bath and flew off to the other side of the back hedge, his midnight-blue wings flashing in the sunlight.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Miguel
Buck let him get away with hiding for about ten more days after he was released from the hospital. Then the hammer came down. Which would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been directed at Miguel. He was lying on the couch flipping through channels, trying to decide what he should spend the day dozing to, when Buck interrupted him.
“All right. I’ve had enough,” Buck announced.
Rolling his head so he could see Buck over the arm of the couch, Miguel gave him a “whatever” look. He was standing in the kitchen doorway drying his hands, looking, as he always did, Thor-like. Did Thor do dishes? Why was the domestic life of superheroes never explored? They had to eat, right? And therefore do dishes?
“Miguel.”
“What? Oh, had enough of what?”
“You, lying there all day watching Lifetime TV shows, cook-offs and beauty pageants and whatever else. You, not eating. You, being quiet.”
Miguel was sleeping on Joey and Buck’s couch, because his mattress was still at his apartment and he had no intention of going back there. Ever. Knowing that Justin had been inside it and spread his evil made it impossible for Miguel to think about living there. Maybe it was giving a dead man power over him, maybe not. Miguel didn’t care; he wasn’t going back.
Dead. Justin was dead. The man had made his life a living hell for almost a decade, and now he was dead. On the one hand, that brought an overwhelming sense of relief, freedom. Choices he’d never felt he could consider were now open to him. On the other hand, it felt weird. Justin and the mere thought of Justin had ruled his life for so long that Miguel felt like he didn’t know what to do. He was free but also felt lost. And he didn’t want to have this conversation with his best friend.
“Daaaad.” Miguel struggled to a sitting position.
“Don’t try being funny with me. I’m serious. Get your butt off the couch. You’re coming into the shop with me today.” Buck moved closer to the couch, looming over Miguel, hands on his hips.
“Oh goody, it’s Take Miguel to Work day. All the other boys and girls will be jealous. Whatever shall I wear?”
Buck growled. The sound came from deep inside his chest. Miguel felt his own eyes widen, realizing too late he’d pushed his friend further than he meant.
“Okay.” He raised both hands in surrender. His right hand anyway; the left he kind of wiggled, but the thought was there. “But I’ll need help getting dressed.”
Buck sighed dramatically and stomped out to his garage where the washer and dryer lived. “Please tell me you’re wearing underwear these days,” he muttered not under his breath at all.
“Sorry, they’re hard to put on with one hand,” Miguel yelled after him.
Buck returned to the living room, a pair of Miguel’s sweats in one hand and a T-shirt in the other. “Coveralls aren’t going to work. I’ll cut the sleeve off this T-shirt, and we’ll be able to get it over your cast. Put the sweats on; I’ll be right back.”
Miguel heard the sound of kitchen drawers opening, and then scissors. Fine. Doing the best he could with one hand, he pulled off the sleep pants he’d been wearing since he got home from the hospital and tugged on the grey sweatpants as best he could.
“Are you decent?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
Buck got the T-shirt over his head and around the unwieldy cast. Then he refitted the sling around Miguel’s neck and under his left arm.
“There. Sit back down, and I’ll put your shoes on.” The list of things a person had difficulty doing with one hand was longer than Miguel had considered before his injury.
“It’s lucky we only need one hand to jerk off. Can you imagine if we needed two?”
Buck finished tying the laces of Miguel’s low-top Converse. As he stood back up, he slapped Miguel’s calf with finality. “I knew this was a good idea. That’s the first sex joke you’ve made since you got home.”
It was? “It was?”
“Yep. No kidding, buddy, Joey and I have both been worried.”
Kevin and Dom greeted him like he’d returned from the battlefield, Kevin racing over to Buck’s car to give him a huge hug before Miguel made it to the front door.
It was nice, if disturbingly surreal after everything, to spend a day hanging around at the shop. Miguel really couldn’t do anything, but he joked with the brothers and harassed Buck about his honeymoon. No one mentioned Justin or the kidnapping, and for that he was thankful. It was sweet that the guys were trying to make things seem normal.
A few hours in, Miguel was beginning to feel physically and emotionally tired. The brothers were careful not to ask him about the abduction, but Miguel could feel their questions hovering in the air. His arm began to throb with a dull ache, and he was having trouble coming up with witty remarks. He wanted to be huddled back on the couch at Buck’s, watching reruns. He wanted to quit thinking about Nate Richardson and whether Nate would ever forgive him for nearly getting Nate killed. He kept circling back to how they’d stopped to fix Nate’s tire and he hadn’t said anything about it being deliberately slashed. Maybe if he’d said something, Nate would have taken what appeared to be random events more seriously and not tried to come racing to Miguel’s rescue.
Angel had come to visit Miguel—and thank him—while he was still in the hospital. Miguel was at a loss as to why the kid would thank him for nearly getting them both killed. Angel had been the one to fill Miguel in on the extent of Nate’s injuries. How he’d shot Justin and then collapsed on the rooftop deck, unmoving and unresponsive. Miguel kept wanting to tell the kid he was thanking the wrong guy, but Angel wouldn’t listen, insisting that Miguel had given him hope. That if it hadn’t been for Miguel, Angel would’ve given up altogether.
Miguel was hiding in the office pretending to look at invoices but really contemplating asking for a ride home when he heard Buck talking to someone. Whoever it was, Miguel hoped they didn’t come into the office. He didn’t think he could make small talk with anyone but his group of friends.
The truth was, the good people didn’t stay. Somewhere along the way he’d been cursed, born under a bad sign—whatever it was. Sure, Justin had wanted to keep him in a creepy stalker way, but keeping and staying were two very different thi
ngs. He still couldn’t believe that Buck had stuck by him all these years. He often wondered what Buck had seen that day when Miguel showed up at the shop very much at the end of his rope.
What about Nate? a defiant voice whispered, a voice that had become more insistent over the past few days. After the hospital and questioning by the police (and the Feds because of Nate’s involvement), Miguel had wanted to crawl under a rock and hide from the world. Buck had let him, understanding that the real world and Miguel were taking a break from each other. So what if he had watched all seven-plus seasons of the Great British Bake Off?
He spun slowly in the office chair behind Buck’s enormous metal desk. Buck’s father had picked it up at an auction, and Miguel thought a person could probably survive a nuclear blast if they hid under it.
Nate had come for him. Nate had found Miguel and Angel at the house on Charter. Nate had saved his life, and Miguel didn’t know if he was worth the trouble. Nate had almost died in the process; Joey had whispered that he’d had a concussion, among other things, from being hit by the shovel. If Nate had waited for backup, that possibly could have been avoided; of course, if Nate had waited, both Miguel and Angel could be dead.
The chair spun again, and Miguel automatically kept it moving. It turned so he was facing the door, and Nate was there. Miguel blinked. Nate still stood in the doorway—not a figment of his imagination. He stopped the chair with a jolt.
“What are you doing here?” Miguel shut one eye, opened it again. “You are here, right?”
Nate chuckled. “Yeah, I’m here.”
He looked horrible. There were healing scrapes and cuts on his face and neck from the fight with Justin. A fading, yellowed bruise along his left cheekbone. His right arm was in a cast and bound tightly against his chest. He looked amazing and real and alive. Miguel felt his breath hitch in his throat.
“I brought you something.” Miguel saw Nate had a small bag dangling from his good hand. He hadn’t noticed it, he’d been so focused on the reality of Nate. “Here.” Nate approached the desk with care, as if Miguel was going to bolt. Miguel supposed it wasn’t entirely out of the bounds of possibility.
“You brought me something?” He looked at the bag, registering the name of a wireless company.
Nate plopped the bag on the desk. “A cell phone. I’m tired of not being able to talk to you. That is,” he said, uncharacteristically shy, “if you still want to talk to me. I added you to my plan, but it’s easy enough to change that so you have your own.”
All the available oxygen was sucked out of Miguel’s lungs and then the office. He couldn’t breathe.
“First, though, I want to apologize for nearly getting you killed.” Nate shuffled forward and perched on the edge of the desk. “I have been reminded that I have a bad habit of rushing in, ah, without fully evaluating the situation.”
Miguel inhaled deeply, filling his lungs, his rebuttal ready.
Nate nodded and held up his hand, stopping Miguel from speaking. “I’m not done. I’m pretty sure you are about to apologize and tell me this was all your fault. That somehow it was you who made Justin Oakes act as he did. Now…” Nate leaned closer, and Miguel could smell soap and something undefinable that was Nate-specific. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “We can do this the hard way, or the easy way—one of my father’s favorite sayings. I’m good with either, but the outcome will be the same.”
“Yeah?” The word came out a whisper; Miguel’s throat was bone dry.
“Yep.” Nate nodded matter-of-factly. “The outcome will be you not blaming yourself. You coming to my house so we can talk about it. I’m anticipating it may take time to convince you that I’m really here for you.”
A slightly evil chuckle came from the direction of the shop. Miguel dragged his gaze from Nate to see Buck leaning on the doorframe, shamelessly eavesdropping.
“I see you’ve discovered Miguel’s Achilles’ heel.” Miguel thought Buck was joking, but the look on his friend’s face said he wasn’t. Straightening up, Buck came all the way into the office, shutting the door behind himself.
Miguel didn’t know what to say as his friend paced a circle around the office, hands in the pockets of his coveralls. Nate watched him warily and with, Miguel thought, curiosity?
“I don’t want to interfere.” Miguel snorted and rolled his eyes. “But since Miguel sticks his nose in everybody’s business, I figure it’s my turn.”
Buck had Nate’s complete attention.
“I’ve always thought life would be much easier if people came with a manual. But they don’t. We’re supposed take our cues from our families and the people around us. That is most people’s manual. Miguel… wrote his own. For the most part, he’s done really well creating himself. Family is what we make it. Joey and Miguel are my true family. Miguel here,” Buck patted him solidly on the shoulder, “he needs family the most. Family grounds him—tethers him—but also, I think, gives him the freedom to fly a little. Stupid metaphor, I know. He’s got the biggest heart of anyone around; I think that’s how he fell into that bastard’s orbit.”
“What you’re telling me is, Miguel needs an anchor?”
Buck nodded. “Yep. That sounds about right.”
“I can do that.”
Chapter Twenty-Four: Nate
“I can do that.” Nate knew he could be an anchor; be Miguel’s anchor. Convincing Miguel to trust him enough to try might be a different story. Miguel had a funny expression on his face, like Buck had just explained the secret of the universe, and it was much simpler than he’d thought. So simple, in fact, Nate couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it himself.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.”
Nate would have liked to make a triumphant exit with Miguel in tow. The unfortunate truth was, neither one of them could drive, so they had to wait for Kevin. The kid drove them at breakneck speeds through Skagit to Nate’s house. He pulled to the curb with a jerk, nearly sending Nate into the front seat.
“Jesus, Kevin, neither of us want to go back to the hospital,” Miguel complained. He’d remained quiet since Buck’s little speech and Nate’s declaration, but he hadn’t protested when Nate asked Kevin to drive them to his house. Quiet Miguel was unnerving. Nate hoped Miguel was thinking about the future, not the past.
The GTI rumbled off back in the direction they’d come. Miguel stared after the car, watching it disappear around the corner. “He’s totally going to take the long way. I bet he does a hundred on Old Farm House Road. That’s what I would do.” He shrugged apologetically. “I like fast cars.”
Nate looked at him. “I think you like a lot of things fast.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Miguel was still looking in the direction Kevin had gone.
“Let’s go inside. The neighbors are probably gawking.”
“Who says ‘gawking’ anymore?” Miguel groused, but didn’t protest when Nate unlocked his front door and gently pushed him inside.
His house was cool compared to the summer day. The big tree in the backyard kept most of the sun off the roof, allowing the indoors to maintain an even temperature.
“Hungry?” Nate asked, stepping around Miguel, leading the way into his kitchen.
“You have food?” Miguel was appropriately amazed. “I’m hungry, but I looked the last time I was here, and you had two sad cans of soup and some bottled water.”
“My partner took me to the grocery store. There’s stuff now. In the fridge too.”
Miguel looked at him slyly. “You ask me if I’m hungry and tell me there’s ‘stuff’ in the fridge… you don’t cook at all, do you?” He laughed; the sound was merry, and Nate loved how it reverberated in the confines of his tiny kitchen.
“No.” He shook his head sheepishly. “After my mom died, my grandmother came to live with us, and she cooked. Didn’t believe in men in the kitchen. I didn’t like her, so it worked out.”
Another indefinable expression crossed Miguel’s face. Nate wondered if he was aware how muc
h emotion he displayed or if it was something only Nate saw. He couldn’t help stepping closer, running his hand down the side of Miguel’s face.
“We have a lot to talk about.”
“Yeah.” Miguel watched Nate carefully, not stepping away or stopping him. Nate liked that they were the same height.
“I know you said you could eat something, and I kind of have food, but… how do you feel about a nap first?” Nate had been nervous to the point of sweaty palms when Natalia dropped him off at Swanfeldt’s. She’d stopped by the house to check in (make sure he still had real food) and let him know that they’d finally located a frightened, hungry, tattered collection of souls waiting further instructions from Rosales. They’d been expecting him for over a month. Most had lost their life savings to the trafficker… but they were alive.
When Nate had spotted Miguel through the office doorway, slowly spinning around in the office chair while he talked to Buck, his nerves had fled. All he’d wanted in that moment was to get his hands on him—feel his skin again, smell him, make sure he was really alive and in one piece.
After his last conversation with Mel, Nate had decided he wasn’t going to dwell on the things she’d told him. None of that was relevant to the life he’d created for himself. And he wasn’t going to feel guilty about his choice. He was done with people trying to force him to assume guilt that wasn’t his own, shoehorn him into a life that didn’t fit what he envisioned for himself. After that, Nate had only been able to think about Miguel, to plan how he was going to convince him that Nate was the man for him. The person for him.
“Unless you want to talk first?”
Miguel made a face. “A nap sounds good.”
They lay on Nate’s bed, Nate’s hatred for the cast on his right arm reaching new levels when he realized that any sort of cuddling was going to be nearly impossible. He huffed and tried to quell his growing irritation.
“You are fussy. And grumpy.” Miguel skootched closer. “Lay on your back. I’ll lie on my right side next to you. That way you can put your arm around me.”