Chapter 13
morgan
Morgan sat in front of the dwindling fire and listened to Nimble in the kitchen. The high-pitched bustle of cutlery and dishes didn’t quite hide the fact that Nimble wasn’t humming. Which was strange.
Morgan considered asking Nimble to come in and build up the fire the way only Nimble could. And then he stopped.
Nimble had already done so much for him. Fetching and carrying. Cooking and washing up. Morgan could sit for a while on his own, like a grown man who didn’t need a babysitter.
Then Nimble came in, a glass of water in one hand, three amber pill bottles in the other. He put them on the coffee table in front of Morgan in a swirl of flannel shirt, without a word.
Morgan took a breath to remark upon the fact that the glass might leave a water ring on the wood. Then he looked up and snapped his mouth shut.
Nimble’s shoulders were a hard line, and his face was stiff, as though he’d just come out of the cold and had yet to thaw. He wasn’t his usual cheerful self, taking joy in everything.
“Are you okay?” Morgan asked. “You look—”
He stopped, hardly able to explain what he was seeing, because it was so different from how Nimble had ever acted. Except on that first day, when Nimble had been hiding behind the counter in fear of the law.
He thought back. Nimble had grown quiet after the phone call home. The one that Morgan had talked him into.
Something had happened, obviously, but Nimble’d hardly said two words about it. My dad is a jerk. He knows I’m alive. And that was it.
Something was very wrong. And, as usual, Morgan had been so wrapped up in his own troubles that he’d failed to observe what was going on with anyone else.
That’s what Bradley had accused him of, back in the day, but Morgan had dismissed it because he’d just been in an accident, for Christ’s sake. It had been reasonable for him to be self-absorbed. He’d needed help, only Bradley hadn’t given it to him.
Now here was Nimble, who had given him help, and who might need help.
Morgan wasn’t fresh out of the hospital anymore.
He needed to step up and find out what was wrong.
Even if Nimble decided to leave in the morning, to hop a freight train or hitch a ride, Morgan needed to take care of him as best he could.
Nimble didn’t want his charity, but maybe he could use a listening ear.
“Dishes,” Nimble said, turning to go.
“Wait a sec,” Morgan said. “Can you?”
Nimble’s shoulders rose and fell in a quick, hard breath. Just waiting. Like Morgan was going to snap his fingers and order him to scrub the floor while he was at it.
“Listen, what happened? You told me your dad was a jerk. What did he say?”
Nimble shrugged. But the spark was gone from his eyes. His mouth was a hard line.
“He—” Nimble shook his head.
“You’re giving me a crick in my neck. Why don’t you sit down.” Which sounded like another order. Morgan needs this. Morgan wants you to do that. Why was he such an asshole?
“Hey,” he said, more softly, patting the seat beside him on the couch. “Can you tell me what happened? I’m happy to listen.”
Nimble’s shoulders sagged. He dipped his chin to his chest, his hair falling over his eyes.
Morgan looked at him, his long legs and long fingers. The hard wristbones poking out from beneath flannel cuffs. Damp flannel cuffs, as though Nimble hadn’t taken the time to roll his sleeves up before starting the dishes, like he usually did.
There was a flick of green eyes from beneath that dark hair. As though Nimble wanted to trust him, but couldn’t.
Morgan didn’t blame him. Nimble said he’d left home because his dad was a jerk, but there was more to the story than that. And while Morgan didn’t need to know, maybe Nimble needed to tell him.
“I’m a good listener,” he said, hoping it was true.
He shifted on the couch, and his knee twinged. He’d waited long enough for those meds, so he took the Percocet and blood thinner. He’d save the muscle relaxant for later. When he was done being a good listener.
“Talking it out can help,” Morgan said, wincing at the triteness of the statement. “Sometimes.”
Yes, it only worked sometimes, but Morgan was going to do his best.
“Do you need the fire built up?” Nimble asked, voice thick.
“No.” He patted the couch again. “It’s fine. Maybe later. But can you tell me what happened? I’ll be on your side, I promise.”
Nimble huffed a laugh, like he was flirting with the idea of being completely amused by Morgan.
“I will,” Morgan said, like a vow. “Come on, sit. Talk to me.”
When Nimble did sit, gingerly on the edge of the cushion, Morgan felt his own body relax.
“He won’t send money,” Nimble said flatly. “And he doesn’t want me home. Ever.”
“Did you know?” Morgan asked. He leaned forward and saw the twitch of muscle along Nimble’s neck. “What his reaction would be, I mean.”
“Yeah.” The word was a breath, like a sigh. And finally, finally, Nimble pushed back his hair, rolled up his sleeves, and looked at Morgan.
“All kinds of things wrong at home. Why I left. Why I can’t go back. Don’t want to.” He sighed out loud this time, then sat a little straighter. “Just want to go to the beach, buy a hot dog from one of those vendors, and eat it with my toes in the sand. Watch the sun on the water.”
The way he said it made it sound like something someone else had taught him, because it was like a picture postcard. Too perfect to be real. Although, to be honest, Morgan wouldn’t mind a little sun on the water right now, either.
“I’m sorry I made you call him,” Morgan said, and when Nimble shook his head, he added, “It seemed like a simple solution, but I didn’t know how it was for you. What made it so awful, anyway?”
The question was out before he could stop it, but even though it was none of his business, he wanted to know. Maybe it was time for him to quit being so detached from everything and everyone.
“It was those Bryn Mawr types,” Nimble said with a sudden laugh. “They were everywhere.”
“Bryn Mawr?” Morgan asked. “Didn’t think you’d know about a place like that.” He shook his head. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I got the idea that you didn’t—Never mind.”
“It’s fifteen miles from my parents’ fucking house, man.” Nimble scoffed, as if Morgan was foolish not to know that. “Those girls drive in to go to dive bars and corner shops, smoking at the bus stop so they can meet boys and have stories to tell when they get back to their dorms.”
“You ever date a Bryn Mawr girl?” Morgan asked. So Nimble came from eastern Pennsylvania.
“Few times.” Nimble looked like he was chewing the inside of his cheek as he stared at the timid flames flickering inside the cast-iron stove. “It was either them or church girls.”
“Church girls?”
“We went to Bethel Mar. Episcopalian, I guess. My mom made us go. Dad would drink and gamble after. Now it seems he does that all the time.”
“Why?” The question sounded like a bullet in the air, though Morgan hadn’t meant it to be.
“Me.” Nimble turned to look at Morgan.
“You?”
Morgan couldn’t imagine a single reason why Nimble wouldn’t be welcome at home, or why he’d be blamed for his father’s vices.
Nimble was a fine young man to have around.
Strong, capable, helpful, funny. Sweet, even.
And there was something about him that drew the eye, over and over, like ripples in water.
“Didn’t like those Bryn Mawr girls or the church girls.” Nimble laughed, shrugging the seriousness off, like he seemed to do a lot. “They give you blue balls soon as look at you.”
“So why’d you go out with them?” Morgan asked, not understanding. The East Coast was its own animal, full of rules he didn’t understand.
“It’s what you do,” Nimble said. He licked his lips, his mouth open in a silent laugh.
“Pardon?”
“Got to marry one of ’em. Eventually.” He stared somberly into the fire, the orange and gold and blue lights reflecting in his eyes. “But not me.”
“Not you?” Morgan echoed.
“Man.” Nimble laughed, low and sweet. “It was the Italian boy at the pizza place. Salerno’s. And the Irish boy who worked in the offices on my street. And then there was the guy in the blue coat. Hair like an angel’s.”
Nimble stopped and sighed and arched his back, sitting up a little, his eyes going hard, the tension returning to his shoulders, his face. “Guess my dad wasn’t expecting his youngest not to turn out like his other two sons. He didn’t count on me liking boys more than girls.”
“He didn’t have to be an asshole about it,” Morgan said stoutly. It felt natural to say it out loud like that, exactly what he thought, not holding back.
He wasn’t shocked by Nimble’s revelation.
But it put an entirely different spin on how he should look at all of this.
At everything. Still, before he tied himself in knots and before he started worrying about how there was at least a ten-year age gap between them, he needed to focus on Nimble and what he needed.
“You didn’t deserve that, and I’m sorry. Sorry about your dad, and sorry I suggested that you call him.”
“Could you ask your dad for money?” Nimble licked his lips again, a little flushed now.
“Yes.” The reply was instant.
“Yeah?” Nimble’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“Really.”
Morgan smiled at the memory of what a good guy his dad had been and realized he was smiling at Nimble. He didn’t stop.
It felt good to wallow in those good memories: his dad reaching for his wallet when, every now and then, Morgan needed money for snacks and beer at college. Or the time, right after he’d graduated, when his car had needed new shocks, new tires, new everything.
His dad had written him a check, and his mom had kissed him and handed it over. You’re a good boy, she had said. You deserve this and more.
Morgan had driven that car, kept it up until he’d gotten a real job, and still he’d saved for a good used one to replace it, knowing all the while, in the back of his mind, that he could have asked them to help him buy a new one.