Chapter Eleven #2
For a second he thought Eric was going to keep taunting him.
Instead, he looked at River’s face—bright red, River was sure, in a way that did not flatter him the way his color usually did—and then at his right hand, which was clenched into a fist at his side, and immediately handed them over. Which was worse.
“Holy shit,” he said.
“Holy shit,” Ward echoed.
River wasn’t precious about his things, at least not most of them.
After his childhood, he didn’t think that was surprising.
Easy come, easy go. But even with Ward and Eric watching, he couldn’t keep himself from smoothing the wrinkles out of the notes and tucking them back under the magnet on the fridge.
“He’s a real boy,” Ward sighed.
Eric swatted at him. “Shut up. We can make fun of him later. This is serious.”
Oh God. “Actually, can you just make fun of me?”
“Sorry, no.” Eric nudged him until he acquiesced and sat on one of the kitchen stools. “As delighted as we are that you’ve finally bestowed your affections on someone who’s not an obvious loser, uh….”
“Your track record sucks,” Ward finished bluntly.
Eric side-eyed him. “I mean, I was going to be nicer about it, but yeah, that.”
Ward leaned his elbows onto the bar across from River. “You finally have a boyfriend we don’t hate, but he also began life as your sugar baby—”
“He began life as an actual baby,” River protested. “Just like everyone else.”
“—as your sugar baby,” Ward continued, unperturbed. “Your sugar baby you weren’t planning to sleep with, if I recall correctly. And now he’s living here—is he living here?”
“No,” River said mulishly. “He stayed over a couple times, that’s all.”
“So you’re definitely sleeping with him.”
Well, yeah, but Ward didn’t have to make assumptions. “He could’ve slept in the guest room.”
“There’s no bed in your guest room. You turned it into a yoga studio that you never use. And I know he’s not sleeping in your mom’s room.”
River shot Eric a poisonous look. Whose side was he on?
Eric raised his hands. “Not that there’s anything wrong with sleeping with your sugar baby. Whether or not you’re paying him. We are not here to judge you for that.”
“I might be judging you a little,” Ward muttered.
Eric kicked him. “We’re not judging you,” he reiterated. “We just want to make sure you’re communicating with Jem, man, because communication is important in any relationship, and, uh—”
“Your track record sucks,” Ward supplied again, ever helpful.
“And we don’t want you to get hurt because of miscommunication.”
Begrudgingly, River uncrossed his arms and thumbed at a smear of something stuck to the bartop. Cilantro-lime dressing, he thought. Jem made tacos last night. “I told him I might not let him leave. I was joking. But then he said he’d just have to go home and get a few things, so… he did.”
Eric and Ward exchanged glances. “Okay,” Eric said, “but does he think he’s like, just here for sex and making you breakfast?”
“And dinner,” Ward said. When both River and Eric turned to him, he said, “What? There’s leftovers in actual containers in your fridge, man, there’s no way you cooked that.”
“He’s a really good cook,” River mumbled, thinking lovingly of the tacos.
“Also,” Eric went on, “you forgot Ward and me have access to that folder you shared with Amanda, so we’ve both heard your new sound.”
Fuck. River had forgotten—he’d originally shared that folder with them so he could get their feedback before sending things to Amanda. Once he’d shared it with Amanda, he never changed the permissions.
“So like, are you going to tell him you’re in love with him, or just keep paying him to live with you?”
River took their point, but also—“Can we get some actual work done, please? Ward, do you remember how to hold your bass?”
“Fuck off. The only thing you remember how to hold is Jem’s dick—”
They squabbled all the way to the studio, but once they got there, the squabbling was setlist related.
River argued that with the smaller venue, they should play a few of their more intimate songs, the B-sides that didn’t get the airtime of the singles.
But then the question became what to leave out, or were they going to do a three-hour set like they’d done in the early days?
“Becca finally caved, she’s gonna let me take Mila on stage for ‘Beach People.’”
Ward couldn’t get away with that with his own kids; you couldn’t strap your baby to your chest and expect to play a guitar.
Eric’s youngest was small enough to work in the carrier while he played drums, though.
If River were Becca, he’d be insisting on supergluing the ear protection on, but that was her and Eric’s business.
“We should do that in the first half, then,” Ward said. “In case she gets cranky and has to go home early.”
“Beach People” was a single from their sophomore album, Merge Ahead. If they were going that far back for it, River thought, they should balance it with a less-played older song. “Maybe add ‘Buzzards’ to the back half?”
Ward made a note in his comp book. “Jesus, how does that one even go again?”
River hit the opening riff. Just because they’d written it almost twenty years ago didn’t mean he’d forgotten.
“Yeah, yeah, your memory is better than ours because you don’t have kids poking holes in your brain Swiss-cheese style.”
True, he didn’t. He’d always thought he never would, what with the whole flamingly gay situation.
But he was also pretty sure he’d never let anyone close enough to fall in love for real, so maybe he had to reevaluate that now.
Because Jem was good with kids. Jem was great with kids, actually. So, like, did Jem want kids?
Did River want kids?
“River? Hello?”
Shit. He blinked. “What?”
“Are you debuting one of your love songs for Jem or nah?”
He flushed. “No, uh, not yet. I’m meeting with a producer tomorrow, and me and Amanda are going to talk about how and when to start releasing that stuff without letting the cat out of the wet paper bag.”
“It’s just the bag.”
“Whatever. No River Wild solo works. Let’s keep the focus on the band.” It was one of the last times River would get to play with them on stage.
Eric raised his hands. “Just… I wanted to let you know we’re cool with it, if you wanted.”
River did know that. Eric and Ward might be ready to dial down their professional music careers to focus on health and family or whatever, but they’d never begrudge River anything he needed to ensure his career remained a success, or his mental health remained as balanced as it ever got.
“It’s just too different, I think. Genre-wise, I mean.
It’s all over the place. So there’s, like, strategy and shit. ”
By the time they wrapped practice for the day, River was beat and, judging from the smell wafting from the kitchen, Jem was home.
“Oh my God, what is that?” Eric said, sniffing the air. “And more importantly, when can I eat it?”
Jem poked his head out of the kitchen. “Oh. Hey Eric, Ward. Sorry, it’s got another half an hour.”
“That’s not dinner,” River said. It smelled too sweet to be dinner. Something nutty… apples, cinnamon. Definitely some butter. His mouth was watering.
“Leftovers for dinner,” Jem reminded him, “since you obviously didn’t break for lunch.”
River felt a little like a scolded cat.
“Welp, that’s my cue,” Ward said cheerfully. “Later, River. Nice seeing you, Jem.”
Eric fled after him.
“Sorry I forgot to eat lunch,” River said into a silence that suddenly felt loud.
Jem only shook his head and pulled him in with two fingers in each belt loop.
“Nah. Are you kidding? This way I had time to make dessert.” He planted a soft, cinnamon-flavored kiss on River’s lips.
Someone had been sampling the goods, and River was tempted to do the same.
How long before it cooled enough that River could eat it off of him?
Who was he kidding; he wasn’t going to wait that long. “So, want to kill half an hour?”
After work on Thursday, Jem dropped by Tori and Ivy’s to deliver the extra Huguenot torte—and almost dropped it when Ivy opened the door.
“Hey, stranger.” She beamed and backed away to let him inside. “Wow, it’s been a long time, huh? Nice car.”
“Nice car?” Jem asked. He wanted to gesture, but all he could really do was wave the casserole dish.
“Nice baby bump, Ives. When did this happen?” The last time he’d seen her, she was noticeably pregnant, sure, but even with the bump, she was still dainty.
Now her belly was in a whole other time zone.
She swatted at him as he toed off his shoes. “It popped last week. I’m starting to worry the baby’s going to come out already Jem-sized.”
“Oh,” Jem said, “so you don’t want the torte—”
Her reflexes hadn’t dulled any; her tiny hand clamped around his wrist before he could even pretend to turn around to go home. “Leave the cake and no one gets hurt, Jem.”
He grinned and gestured to the stairs. “In that case, after you. Tori not home yet?” He followed carefully behind her, ready just in case he had to drop the dessert and catch Ivy, but she seemed to be getting around fine.
“No.” Ivy lowered herself into a kitchen chair. “The fifth-graders are putting on some kind of play, and she got roped into being the musical director. She’s got practice for another half hour.”
Right—Jem had forgotten. In fairness, his head was pretty full of other stuff lately.
Or at least one other thing.
“Right, yeah, the Cat in the Hat one?”
“I think so.” Ivy waited while Jem plated up a portion and put it in the microwave to heat. Cold food and pregnancy, she had informed him several weeks previously, did not mix for her. “So.”
Jem kept his eyes on the microwave. “So?”
He could feel her eye roll. “So to what do I owe the pleasure of the visit, Jem? Seems like it’s kinda been a while. Not that I am complaining, mind you, I’m thrilled you’re getting around on your own again, but you didn’t bake me a Huguenot torte for my health.”