Chapter 15
nimble
Morgan was fully asleep by the time Nimble had crossed the threshold from the bedroom to the hallway. But that was fine by Nimble, because of what Morgan had said and done. How he’d looked as he’d listened to Nimble’s tale of woe.
Nimble had always thought his past wasn’t great, but wasn’t anything to fuss about, either. A boy from a small neighborhood whose dad didn’t like it that he was gay. Boo-hoo. Who cared. A lot of people had it worse.
Like Blue, who’d sometimes looked at Nimble with cold eyes, as if Nimble were the enemy. Always on the defensive. Sparked easily to anger, like his whole life up to that point had been one big fight with some unbeatable foe.
Or Star, who walked with hunched shoulders and kept his back to the wall whenever he could. Who sometimes whimpered in the dark, high-pitched cries that stabbed into Nimble’s heart.
Then there was Strider, who’d lost his legs and his life getting run over by a freight train.
Compared to them? Compared to them, Nimble was alive and well, didn’t have nightmares, and was no longer trapped in a corner while his dad loomed over him.
His life had been good after he’d left home, and he’d been generally happy.
However, calling his dad had brought all the reasons he’d left crashing back down on his head, shaking him to his core.
He must have forgotten how much his dad hated him, because talking to him for five seconds made Nimble feel lower than worm dirt.
Morgan had changed that by asking and listening, unshocked that Nimble was gay—but then, why would that be a problem for him? Morgan had his own story to tell about a guy named Bradley, who wasn’t very nice. Who was, in fact, an asshole.
Morgan’s expression had been the best part. Sympathetic. Kind. His blue eyes soft, as if every part of him was full of acceptance. He’d looked at Nimble like he wanted only the best for him, like he’d hunt down and hurt anyone who dared to give Nimble less.
Nimble’s vulnerability had been met with Morgan’s own. He’d wanted a drink, and Nimble had fetched it for him, forgetting that he shouldn’t have alcohol if he’d just taken Percocet. Morgan had remembered a second too late, chastising himself with comical dismay.
A little snoring sound came from the bed, and Nimble smiled. In the stillness, without the wind banging the windows, the apartment was quiet except for those snores.
He went downstairs, shivering as he got farther from the fire, and checked to make sure all the doors were solidly closed.
Then he hurried back to the kitchen and finished cleaning up.
When everything was tidy, he hunkered in front of the fire in the parlor with the quilt wrapped around himself and tended to the coals with the little iron shovel.
If not for that train starting up unexpectedly, Nimble might have been all the way to Santa Monica by now, splayed on the sand like a starfish, soaking up the sun, listening to Star rattle on about something and to Blue’s quiet, measured replies.
But he wasn’t. He was here, in this apartment with a handsome man who didn’t seem to know he was handsome and who was carrying memories that dragged on him like dark weights.
Nimble had memories like that, so he knew how it felt. And maybe he was glad, now, that the train had left him behind so he could have nights like this, in a place where, even if a zillion miles from the nearest beach, he could at least soak up some warmth. And listen to Morgan’s snores.
His head was swimming a bit. Maybe the liquor was hitting him harder than he thought.
He turned off the light and made himself a pallet in front of the fire, the quilt half beneath him, half over him. A couch cushion for a pillow. One of the books from the shelf to look at.
Maybe he should check on Morgan again, but the weight of his body kept him in place.
He must have dozed off, because he awoke when, from somewhere in the distance, across snow-rippled hills that sparkled in starlight, he heard the whistle of a train approaching the railroad crossing.
Lonely in the cold, a ghostly sound of warning.
If he’d left that night, like he’d been planning, he’d be at that crossing, poised to grab hold of an ice-cold ladder, and in a matter of minutes, he’d be far away from Morgan.
Such a bad idea. He was a fool to have even thought it.
In the morning, maybe Morgan would still want him to leave.
Make another offer about money for a bus ticket or driving him to Billings while the weather was good.
But between now and then, Nimble would make the most of the time he had.
Before he took another breath, closing his eyes to the glow of the fire, he was asleep again.
In the morning, the sky was blazing blue beyond the window, and he smelled coffee brewing and heard clanks coming from the kitchen.
Nimble pulled on his jeans and scraped his hair back from his face as he stumbled out of the parlor.
“How’s your head?” Morgan asked. “Mine feels like shit.” His purple cane was propped in the corner near the sink.
“Fine,” Nimble said. “I’m always fine.”
“I’m making oatmeal. Hope that’s okay.” Morgan turned around. “My knee feels like shit, too, but here’s some breakfast.”
The farm table was set with two of the Jadeite bowls, a stick of butter in a glass dish, and a white china plate laden with bacon.
There was a quart of orange juice and a carton of milk.
That pretty blue-and-white bowl of sugar for the coffee.
Nimble’s mouth burst into joy at the smell and the sight of it.
“Sit, already,” Morgan grumbled, and Nimble smiled and did as he was told. “Eat. And then listen, because I have a proposition for you.”
“Oh?” Hope bounced up inside Nimble, but he slammed it back. No sense in setting himself up for disappointment.
“Eat now, and I’ll tell you.”
Nimble turned his attention to the steaming bowl of oatmeal Morgan served him, for which there was plenty of sugar and milk, and the slices of bacon, cooked just right.
He stuffed his mouth with a little of everything, and as he chewed, he looked at Morgan. Who looked rested in spite of his hangover. There was a sparkle in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and Nimble quite liked that.
“I need help, and you need money,” Morgan said.
“I propose that you work for me for the next month or so. I’ll pay you a thousand bucks plus room and board.
” He shrugged and made a gesture with his hand, as though he were erasing something.
“Nothing formal, okay? For a month’s wages, the paperwork wouldn’t be worth it. ”
“Don’t need money to get to the West Coast,” Nimble said around another mouthful of bacon.
“It’s for the hot dog,” Morgan said. “So when you get there by train or bus or whatever, you’ll have money to buy that hot dog and stick your toes in the sand while you eat it.”
“Oh.” Warmth suffused him, a blanket of care and thoughtfulness.
He liked the idea of sticking around for another month—not so much for the money, but for this.
More mornings like this: good hot coffee, thick oatmeal, the sweetness of the sugar.
And Morgan, who’d managed a shower and a shave, and who now, handsome and morning bright, was looking at Nimble like Nimble’d just offered to grant him his dearest wish.
“Sure.” Nimble nodded and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What will you want me to do?”
“Grocery shopping—I assume you have a driver’s license,” Morgan said, counting on his fingers, “so Ambrose and those guys don’t come back because they think I’m starving to death.
Get more wood, too, while the sun is shining.
Then clean up the store, but systematically, taking stock of what’s there.
Make me a list, because of course there are no dependable records—not that I can find, anyway.
And then the stockroom. The yard. What the hell is out there?
I have no idea. I think the truck will start because I found a receipt for when Aunt Oralee had taken it in for tires and a tune-up about a month before she went into the hospital. ”
All of Morgan’s fingers were splayed out now, representing tasks for Nimble to take care of, though he could imagine there was a longer list in Morgan’s mind. The man seemed nothing if not dutiful and hardworking.
“And then whatever comes up,” Morgan said. “As I’m sure it will.” He took a swallow of his coffee and flicked Nimble a gaze suffused with warmth.
“Maybe you can drive me to Billings to sign papers with my aunt’s lawyer. I have to go through all those papers in the office and take care of the special and standing orders. And I like your cooking. I can do breakfast just fine, but I’m no chef.”
“Can do.”
Joy bubbled up inside Nimble. He could stay, at least for a while, and put off making any decisions about where he’d go next.
He’d be warm and fed, living in civilization with hot and cold running water.
Soap. Fruit-scented shampoo. Plus, he’d be helping Morgan, which, as Nimble had recently discovered, was something he liked doing.
“Anything you need, just say the word.”
“My phone’s been ringing, so I’ll check what that’s about. We’ll also need to see about getting you warmer clothes.”
“Don’t need nothing.” Nimble shook his head as he polished off the last of the bacon and scraped his bowl with his thumb for smears of oatmeal that were more sugar than anything.
Morgan made a sound under his breath and stood up, his blue robe swirling around him. “There’s that phone again,” he said. “I’m going to see if I can catch it. Can you get the dishes?”
“Sure.”
Nimble attacked the dishes, humming under his breath, and was surprised when Morgan came back quickly.