by Jodi Payne
“It’s good to hear it from someone else. You were more than his friend, I guess. I’m sorry. He hadn’t told me your name yet. We had a phone call scheduled for the night he was—the night he left us.”
Thomas spun around and looked at Sam. “He told you—you knew about me?” Dammit, he was supposed to be keeping it together, not losing it in front of his lover’s family. But somehow the knowledge that James was going to tell Sam about him made him happy, and also twice as heartbroken. “Wow.” He wiped his eyes, turned his back, and looked out the window again. He needed to breathe. He needed to get under control.
“We talked once a month, give or take. He’d texted, said there was someone special, but that was it. I was fixin’ to look for something—an email or something—to tell you. I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. I’m gonna go drink my beer. You…you take your time.”
“I’ve never done this before either. I don’t think there’s a proper way to…it actually makes me really happy that he told you that. I just…wish we could have met under happier circumstances.” He made himself look at Sam. “But we did meet, at least. We so easily could have walked right by each other.” He decided to go with the joy. He’d had precious little of it in days. It felt like fresh air.
“Yeah. He must be watching over us.” Sam took his hat off and turned it over and over in his hands. “I’m glad he had someone that cared for him here.”
“I loved him,” he said quickly. He wanted Sam to know it was more than just care, more than anything else they’d shared.
“Yeah. I’m sorry for your loss, man, and I hate that we—that I didn’t know about you before we laid him to rest. He’s in a good space—quiet, green, lots of horses and pecan trees.” Sam met his gaze head on. “I would have invited you. I would never have dishonored James’s wishes, his memory.”
“Well, as far as that goes, if I’d known anyone knew—about him, about me—I’d have shown up on my own. Even if I’d had to keep my distance. It’s not all on you, Sam. But thank you. That’s kind.”
“Me and James and Bowie—we’re brothers. Bowie and me aren’t as close. James was the middle of us, and we were…friends too. I think we were friends. I don’t know. It don’t matter no more.”
The look on Sam’s face, the stormy expression was so like James. Thomas left the window and moved closer, trying to catch those hazel eyes even though he knew what it would do to him.
“Of course it matters. He loved you. I’m proof of that, if you need it. He talked about you a lot. He was proud of both of you. He had all kinds of stories.”
“Bowie’s a hero. Like our dad was.”
Yes, and Sam had been the wild child, the one who had been smart and stupid, the one on a bronc, on a Jet Ski, living on the ranch for days, then running to the ocean until he had to go crawling back.
“And you…” Was he flirting? He felt a little like he was flirting. God. Beer. “James admired your free spirit. Your curiosity, your determination to live by your own rules.”
Sam snorted. “They both think I’m a butthead, but thank you.” Sam flopped down in the recliner, sprawling.
He nodded, laughing softly. “That too.” And there, at last, was one difference between Sam and his brother. James didn’t sprawl. His lover had been much too…academic. Entirely too self-aware to sprawl.
“I was going to casually leave this somewhere in the kitchen, but now that I’m officially out…” He pulled his key to James’s apartment out of his jeans, set it on the coffee table, and slid it toward Sam. “He gave that to me. Ironically, I never actually used it.”
“Oh.” Sam looked at it like it was a snake. “Jesus. Jesus Christ. I—bathroom? Where’s the fucking bathroom?”
“Hall. There.” He pointed and watched Sam run. Fuck. He supposed that was more reality than the poor kid was ready for. Lover as a conceptual idea, fine—physical evidence still a poor choice. Noted.
He sipped his beer and picked at the label, thinking it was probably time for him to go. The apartment, him, all of it was likely overwhelming, and Sam had only just gotten in. The kid probably needed some time. Some quiet.
He stood up and took his beer into the kitchen, at war with the part of himself that needed to make sure Sam was okay and the part that knew better than to show his hand to the dealer.
Sam came out, face damp, eyes red. “Sorry. I just…it could have been either one of us, and that would have been fair. Not James. He had a whole life.”
Oh. Right. God, he could be an arrogant asshole. Sometimes it wasn’t all about him.
“There’s absolutely no measure on earth that can value one life over another.” He took another swig of his beer, set it on the counter, and didn’t ask permission before pulling Sam into his arms. “Nobody understands their own worth.”
“It don’t matter. I’m so sorry that y’all couldn’t…that you never got to use your key.” Sam shook like he was having a seizure, muscles so tight they tremored.
“It’s not what…thank you.” Thomas held James’s baby brother close and rubbed his back, absorbing Sam’s grief without question.
All the layers they’d been so carefully peeling away over the last hour were starting to weigh on him too, so this one he was leaving in place. He hadn’t had any plans to move in. He only had that key because it was his due. It was symbolic. He’d never used it because he’d never needed to. But that explanation was probably a bridge too far for poor Sam. Especially today.
“I ain’t never gonna breathe easy again as long as I live.”
Thomas was positive the words weren’t meant for him, but for James or God or maybe just Sam himself.
“I may not either, Sam.” Not the way he could breathe with James. That was rare and beautiful.
“Yeah. I guess that’s just how it is now. That’s what Bowie would say. ‘Suck it up, buttercup, and get your shit together.’ ” He could hear the command and growl of what must be the eldest O’Reilly brother, or a wild mockery of him.
“I take issue with that. My shit is all over the fucking city right now. I’m not sure I have a handle on everything I’ve lost, let alone how to put it all together again.”
“Yeah. I hear that. You…shit, man. I don’t know what to do. I’m not sure whether to scratch my watch or wind my butt.”
“Well, we understand each other, then.”
He loosened his grip on Sam and took a step back, immediately missing the contact. It was definitely time to go.
“This has been a really good and really…difficult afternoon. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you asked me to come up. But I can’t imagine how tired you must be, and the apartment…it’s a lot. I think I should go. But”—he ripped off the bottom half of a shopping list James had on the refrigerator and wrote down his cell phone number—“that’s me. When you’re ready again, call me. I can help here, or we can just take a walk. Get some coffee or a drink. Okay? When you’re ready. Any time. Middle of the fucking night. Anything.”
“Thank you. I’ll text you my number here in a bit. I’m sure there’s stuff that you want. I just…I’ll holler.” Sam took his number. “I’ll pray for you, man. For your peace.”
That was well intentioned, so he didn’t make a thing of it. “Thank you, Sam. I look forward to hearing from you. Good night.”
He took one step backward, getting a last look at the baby brother James had been so fond of. He honestly wasn’t sure if he felt better or worse, but he wouldn’t trade a second of his afternoon. It had been the next best thing to talking with James himself. He gave Sam a nod and headed out the door.
3
Sam crawled out of the drunken hell that was his week by his toenails. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sleeping on the bathroom tile, but it was long enough that every grout line was carved into his face, and the smell of his breath was enough to melt glass.
Nice.
“Lord, James, you got you an uncomfortable bathroom. I had to sit on the tub
to puke into the toilet. That ain’t right.” He climbed into said tub, still in the clothes he’d flown in on, and sat hard, turning the water on him, taking the cold as penance until the water heater began to do its job.
Finally he was stable enough to strip off and scrub his clothes with a bar of soap before hanging them on the towel rack to dry. Okay.
Now? Food. Or coffee.
Yes. Coffee.
“I swear to God, James. If you became some weird anti-caffeine, vegan-citified type, I will…pour hot coffee and bacon grease on your grave.”
He wandered into the kitchen, finding one of them cup-at-a-time pod dealies. Jesus. Fancy.
It only took him an hour to make a cup of froufy-assed coffee and to eat a handful of stale, dry Lucky Charms, because he’d opened the little fridge and fucking Christ. He needed a grocery store or a Walmart or something. Where did he find something like that here?
He sighed and went hunting for his phone. Surely he’d plugged it in, somewhere.
There were twenty-eight voice mail messages—Bowie, Momma, three of his rodeoing buddies, Sid Richardson, and four from “James’s T.”
Oh.
Thomas.
He started with those, and along with some scrambling and a couple of “Uhhs” and a “Was that the beep?” they all said the same thing. Thomas was checking in, seeing if he could help; one was asking if he wanted to get some food. The last one was a little longer.
“Hello, Sam…uh. This is working, right? I think it is. It’s Thomas Ward again. Listen, I apologize if I’ve put you off. I know that was a difficult…well, it’s pretty clear I didn’t make a very good first impression. I just wanted to let you know that I understand that you’d probably prefer not to hear from me again. I wish you…I wish…well…I wish a lot of things, and I’m sure you do too. Be well.”
Oh, damn. He shook his head and smiled. Lord have mercy, it sucked so hard that James and Thomas had been close enough to be talking about moving in together and…
The image of James’s face diced up and destroyed floated up in front of him, and his fingers clenched into fists.
“Motherfucker!” He slammed his hand into the kitchen counter, pain jolting up his arm, coffee splashing on his other hand. “Oh. Oh, ow. God damn it!”
He closed his eyes. Shit. How was he supposed to find James’s killer when he didn’t know where to find a goddamn Wallyworld?
Okay, ask the local.
He dialed Thomas before running his throbbing hand under cold water.
“Sam? Hello. I…well, hello.”
“Hey there. How goes it?” Because this wasn’t fucking weird.
“Fine. You?” Thomas snorted. “No. Sorry. Normal is…just not normal. Is everything okay?”
“I found a liquor store. I drank. A lot. Now I need to buy food and trash bags. Is there a Walmart or something?” And a hamburger as big as my head.
“I’ve been at loose ends all week myself. Did your bender help? I’m guessing not. And no, we don’t have a Walmart in the city. But if you need groceries, there’s a D’Agostino in James’s—in the neighborhood. And I’ve a Trader Joe’s not too far from my place if you need something special.”
“I need trash bags, dish soap, hamburger meat, noodles, and a bottle of Ragu. Possibly peanut butter and bread and a gallon of milk to eat all this cereal.”
“That’s a respectable list. Perhaps you would prefer to join me for dinner? Or, I suppose these things don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”
“Yeah, I got a clean pair of jeans in my bag. I could have supper with you, if you can help me find a store after. I got to clean out this fridge.”
“All right. Would you mind terribly coming up to my neighborhood? James had a lot of favorite restaurants down your way, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.”
“Fine with me. You’ll have to tell me where that is and what time you want me.” That was good, right, that James had favorite restaurants, favorite things here? That James had a life here, and he would maybe get a few days to learn about them?
“Okay, it’s so easy. You head out into the square, and you’ll see the subway station right there. Take the stairs down and head for the green line uptown. Any number, doesn’t matter. Take it up to 77th, and I’ll meet you there. If you leave about six, that should work. James kept his Metrocard in—”
The line went silent except for Thomas’s sigh.
“Sorry. The cops still have his wallet. You’ll have to buy a card when you get into the station.”
“Hey, you know, if you don’t want to…I mean, I know that it’s hard to think about him.” It hurt to think about James not being here. Hell, maybe he could just find trash bags stashed somewhere here; then he didn’t have to leave the house until a couple of days from now. God, where did the dumpster live here?
“I want to. I just…I mean, they have his wallet, they took his laptop and a box full of other things. Personal things. I understand why, but it makes me angry, and I hate it. I’m looking forward to talking with you again. And I’d be happy to help you with the refrigerator too. That’s a lousy job.”
This should be Thomas’s job—not the fridge, but…everything. Knowing what was important, what was special, what Thomas wanted to take. What did he know about James anymore? What did he know about Bowie? Hell, what did anybody know about him?
“I’m sorry. This whole thing sucks.” He didn’t know what else to say.
Thomas sighed again. “It does. But maybe we can…have a nice dinner anyway. That wouldn’t be so terrible, would it?”
“No, sir. It wouldn’t. I’ll try my best to get to you.” He could figure this out, assuming he could remember what Thomas had said.
“I’ll stay by my phone. Green line uptown to 77th. You’ll be fine.”
“I’ll figure it. I’m a big boy.” He made it here, didn’t he?
“See you soon, Sam. I’m glad you called.” Thomas let a little empty air settle before hanging up.
“Soon. Right.” He should probably put clothes on. After one more cup of coffee and another handful of cereal. Then he’d figure this whole thing out.
If his laughter sounded false in his own ears, well, there wasn’t anyone to hear it, was there?
He’d just have to fake it until he could make it.
4
Where to take a hungry cowboy for dinner? Of course the first two places he thought of were favorites of the only other Texan he knew.
Had known.
Knew.
Was someone’s death just supposed to be a light switch? Thomas knew him; then suddenly it was used to know him? He didn’t buy it. He’d always know James.
He did wonder if he would ever stop talking to himself about his lover, though.
It was a gorgeous night. One of those evenings when people were out, the sky was clear, Sam would have been treated to someone playing something in Union Square on his way to the subway. An inspiring night, where the air felt cleaner.
He breathed it in deeply while he waited for Sam, determined to haul himself out of his funk, if only for a few hours. Get to know Sam a little. Eat something fantastic.
He could see the cowboy hat coming his way, mingled in the crowd. James told him Sam was a pocket cowboy but that he walked like a bull rider. He got it—Sam was short and spare, but there was a confidence in his gait, a machismo.
James hadn’t told him how captivating it was, however. Or what he was supposed to do with that observation either. And he had precious little time to file it away, because the cowboy had just spotted him.
He returned Sam’s nod and took a few steps to intercept that walk. “You made it.”
“I did.” Sam looked a little like he’d been in a fight or had been sick—dark circles, lines around his mouth, one hand bruised.
He’d make a fuss over one of his own brothers for looking like that. But James had led him to believe that this was more or less par for the course for your average cowboy, and certainly fo
r Sam, so he made no remark. He offered a hand, despite the bruises, fighting the stronger urge for a hug. “So what are you in the mood for?”
He gave Sam a minute to look around before he started walking. His neighborhood was nothing like the chaotic jumble of intersections that was Union Square. Everything up here was neat, orderly. Sane.
“I’m easy. You know what’s good. It’ll be my first supper here.”
He squinted down the block so he didn’t have to look at the dark circles dulling those hazel eyes. He didn’t make a fuss, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to. “Well, do you want pasta? A burger? Tex-Mex? Um…sushi?”
“How about pasta? I like all sorts of noodles, and I ain’t riding right now.”
“Sounds great.” He was always happy with Italian himself. “You still ride? I got the impression you were done with that.”
“I got my card still, so if I need to make a little money, I can.” One shoulder lifted in an achingly familiar move. “I’m sorta at loose ends, I guess.”
“We need to do something about that, Sam O’Reilly.” He reached for the door to his favorite local Italian place. It wasn’t fancy, but the food was good. They had every pasta under the sun, and it was a sweet, tiny family place.
They were hit with the smell of warm bread and garlic as he opened the door. “Mmm. I’m hungry.” He smiled at the hostess as she seated them.
“No shit on that. I’m starving.” Sam inhaled deep, and Thomas could hear the man’s belly snarling.
His father used to say that a hungry man was an angry man, so he slid the basket of garlic bread over to Sam as soon as the server set it down on the table. He thought better of ordering wine, since his dinner guest had clearly indulged plenty in the last week, and ordered sparkling water instead.
“I fully accept that there’s a certain hypocritical aspect to what I’m about to say, but if you plan to stay in the city for a while, we need to find you something to fill your time.”
There were subtle ways that men with his proclivities took power and control from men who were unaware of the rewards of giving it up. Use of that gentle-sounding “we” was one of them. He knew it was a fantasy. It was unreasonable to believe Sam could or would be lulled in by such nuances, but the game distracted him, settled him. He didn’t see the harm in playing it.