Chapter 20
jack
Jack walked into the kitchen, where Morgan was stirring the sauce and boiling water, and doing something interesting with a small loaf of Italian bread. Butter and herbs and more garlic.
He’d not intended to pester Morgan, but the smells were too good, too enticing. And the sight of Morgan in that apron, which had probably belonged to his aunt and was stained along his hips, where someone had wiped many times with their hands, was too much to resist.
The light was on over the stove, and the yellow-and-white kitchen was so cozy, particularly in contrast to the storm outside, that Jack came closer.
His plan had been to tell Morgan thank you for the futon and that he’d made the bed with sheets, as instructed, and that everything smelled so good and he was really hungry, but then Morgan stopped stirring and brought up the wooden spoon with red sauce on it.
“Here,” Morgan said. “Taste.”
The contents of the spoon were steaming hot, so Morgan blew on the spoon and then held it out once more.
It was a small moment, so small that Jack didn’t know what to do with it. He took the spoon in his mouth and tasted the amazing sauce, tart and salty and a little bit sweet. If this was truly the only meal Morgan knew how to cook, Jack wasn’t going to complain.
He swallowed. All the while, Morgan watched him. They were close enough that Jack could feel Morgan’s breath on his cheek.
“How is it?” Morgan asked. He still held the spoon in the air, as if he didn’t want to break the little spell that had drawn them so close.
Jack didn’t want to break it, either, but he didn’t know how to sustain it, to keep it there between them, wavering like a ribbon moved by a warm wind.
It had to break and did when Morgan stepped back a little. Jack sighed on the inside.
“Good. Let’s eat it now.” He smiled as he licked his lips.
“It needs ten more minutes,” Morgan said. “Long enough for the garlic bread to toast properly.”
“Aw, jeez,” Jack said, mock-moaning and rubbing his belly like he was starving.
With a flick of eyelashes, Morgan seemed to look Jack up and down, and then he returned to his cooking.
Jack made himself useful by setting the table. The scene became utterly too domestic when they finally sat down and ate piles of pasta in the warm kitchen while the wind picked up even more, and the panes shook, and there was a moaning sound as the storm made its way beneath the rafters.
“Looks like I’m going to have to replace all the windows,” Morgan muttered, but he didn’t say anything more about it, as he normally would have. As if he didn’t want to take away from the meal.
When the pasta had been demolished, they dug into the rhubarb crumble, which was delicious.
Then Morgan did the dishes while Jack put the leftovers away and went into the parlor to build up the fire, to ward off the chill and the odd noises from outside that sounded like the members of a men’s chorus were shrieking in unison.
Jack sat cross-legged on the futon, which was big enough that he’d had to move the coffee table to one side, and basked in the warmth of the flames. Which meant that when Morgan came in, blue robe swirling around him, he couldn’t get over to the easy chair and had to sit on the couch, near Jack.
“It’s bigger than I thought.” Morgan’s voice was low, his eyes on the futon and then the fire as he set his cane to one side. “But it looks comfy.”
“The couch is too soft,” Jack said. “This is perfect.”
Morgan picked up one of the books from the coffee table and peered at the text on the back.
“What’s that?” Jack asked.
“Something about a midwife in Maine in the 1700s solving a murder.”
“Sounds dreamy,” Jack said with a laugh. “Not something I’d’ve thought an old lady would read.”
“Here’s another one,” Morgan said, “about a woman delivering books to the Kentucky wilderness.”
Jack nodded and looked at the fire and thought about Star, who loved to read and who seemed to always have a book, well-thumbed and ratty, that he’d gotten from somewhere. Who might read aloud from time to time if the light was good and the noise of the train wasn’t too overwhelming.
He missed moments like that, when they’d gotten lucky enough to find an open boxcar in bad weather.
They’d build a fire in a metal coffee can or bucket, and they’d huddle around it, swaying to the rhythm of the train.
Shoulders brushing, creating a small bubble of warmth around themselves, the comfort of someone familiar nearby.
Those had been Jack’s favorite times, even when Star’s voice had gone still because he’d fallen asleep sitting up, his head a slack, heavy weight on Blue’s shoulder, the gold-and-blue flames reflecting on his skin and shining on his dark copper hair.
Well, those days were gone, and now here he was in front of a different kind of fire, in a cozy room, with a handsome man behind him idly flicking through the books in the stack.
“There’s a library book here.” Morgan tsk-tsked. “It’s from the library in Billings, and it’s six weeks overdue.”
“When did she die?” Jack asked, not turning from his study of the flames.
“A little over two weeks ago,” Morgan said. “She was in the hospital for almost a month, I think.” He sighed. “I guess I’ll need to go to Billings and return it.” It sounded like he lifted his head before saying, “We can get you warmer clothes then.”
“Don’t need more clothes.” Jack wanted to turn the lights off and curl in front of the stove like a wild dog who had finally found shelter.
“You need new boots, at a minimum,” Morgan said. “If you’re doing errands for me, it’s the least I can do.”
Morgan sounded stern, like he was trying to work himself up to being angry and couldn’t make it. Which made Jack smile, and then, instead of curling up, he stretched out, arms and legs wide, the warmth of the fire spreading all over him like sun-drenched honey.
For some time the two of them were silent, while the cheery fire did its best to crackle and snap and sigh above the roar of the storm.
Every now and then, when the wind ebbed, Jack could hear a page flick as Morgan read, and little by little, he sensed Morgan’s body relaxing above him on the couch.
“Would you mind?” Morgan asked in a low voice.
“Mind what?” Jack replied, not letting any kind of hope take hold.
“If I slept here on the couch tonight.”
That hope leapt in spite of Jack’s best efforts.
“Sure.”
“It’s so dang cold in the bedroom, so it’d be nice—” Morgan’s voice broke off.
Stretched out on his back, Jack became aware that his flannel shirt and T-shirt had ridden up a bit and that he was kind of sprawled across the futon he’d freshly made up, pretty much the most luxurious bed he’d slept in since he’d left home.
“Sure,” he repeated, before adding, “or you could sleep on the futon. God knows it’s big enough for two.”
“I guess it is,” Morgan said. “Guess I judged the size wrong.”
“That’s all right,” Jack said, looking up at Morgan through half-lowered lashes. Because while Morgan’d not said yes to joining Jack on the futon, he’d not said no, either.
“You know,” Morgan said, “there’s no TV up here, but I’ve got a laptop downstairs and a Netflix account.”
Before Jack could object that he did not want to get off the futon, even for Netflix, Morgan added, “Could you run and bring it up?”
“Sure.” Jack kept any reluctance from his voice. He scrambled up and dashed to the ice-cold office to grab Morgan’s silver laptop from the middle of the desk. Wondering why the store was quite so cold, he paused to look around and noticed that one of the windows had a crack in it. No, three did.
Maybe they should put plywood over them to keep the glass from shattering until it could be replaced. He’d seen his dad do that a time or two when he didn’t want to shell out for new windows.
For now, he raced back up the stairs to find Morgan obviously having gone to the bedroom to grab his bedding, which he’d dumped on the couch.
“Might as well be warm,” Morgan said with a shrug. “Thank you. And if I snore, I’m sorry.”
“Star snored.” Jack smiled at the memory. “Tiny little snores. Like a hamster or something.”
“Which one was Star?” Morgan asked as he set the laptop on a pillow, near the edge of the futon farthest away from the fire.
“Doesn’t matter,” Jack said, pushing himself away from the memories of those days.
“It does, actually,” Morgan said. He’d set Netflix to Resident Alien, and the first episode started, but Jack was distracted by the way Morgan settled against a pillow right next to him on the futon.
Their shoulders rubbed, and Morgan’s voice was soft, almost enticing.
“They were your friends, right? Until they let you down.”
“They were.”
“How long did you travel together?” Morgan asked, adjusting the fold of blanket beneath his hip.
“I was on my own for the first couple of months after I left home.” Jack squinted at the images on the screen and tried to remember how long it had been, exactly. “Met those guys in August, maybe? Of last year. Now it’s October, so a little over a year.”
“Was it hard to keep track of time?”
Jack paused, then looked at Morgan, turning his body so their arms met in a band of warmth and their hips touched. “I don’t really want to talk about this right now.”
“Mmmm.” The sound came from deep inside Morgan’s chest, as though he was reconsidering his questions and pulling them back.
Jack turned his attention back to the screen, focusing on that rather than on how much he did not want to think about Blue and Star.
Morgan was determined about everything he did, which was why the feed and grain would be sold come spring. By which time Jack would be long gone from Montana and sitting on the beach in Santa Monica, eating a hot dog in the warm sunshine.
He might have some regrets about that. In truth, he already did. That he was scheduled to leave sometime next month, a thousand bucks richer but heartsore in a way he’d not anticipated.
Mentally shaking himself, he got up from the futon and stoked the little stove, putting in the thickest chunks of wood so the fire would last for hours, keeping them both warm.
Outside, the wind had settled into a constant low moan that Jack thought might be caused by gaps between the panes of glass and the frames.
Inside, the parlor was warm, colors and sounds flickering from Morgan’s laptop, and Jack lay back down and stretched out, adjusting his pillow beneath his head, looking over the tips of his socks and watching the screen out of the corner of his eyes as Morgan did the same.
They were both still on the futon. Morgan was well within reach, and Jack’s body sighed at that almost-contact.
The proximity of another human being settled him in a way that he remembered from the boxcars and coal cars and flatbed cars.
As long as Blue and Star had been near, everything had felt balanced and right.
“I’m never moving again,” Morgan said as one episode ended and another began. “But I think I should get under the covers before I fall asleep.”
Jack nodded and got up to let Morgan pull the covers back. While he was up, he turned off the lights, then slid beneath the bedclothes a little bit closer than he had been before. Morgan didn’t say anything about that, and Jack smiled, pleased with himself.
“Have you seen this series before?” Morgan asked.
Jack shook his head. “No. It’s funny, though.”
Truth be told, he didn’t care what they were watching, and that was probably evident in his tone. When he looked at Morgan, though, ready to defend the fiction that he was interested in the show, Morgan caught his gaze and held it.
Morgan had the most beautiful blue eyes, tired and soft, and he didn’t seem to mind that Jack was so close. Maybe he was too tired to worry about it. Maybe his meds were kicking in. Whatever the reason, Jack tucked away that moment of happiness and looked at the laptop screen and sighed.
The futon was amazing. Morgan was amazing. And Jack was warm all over, the warmest he’d been in a long, long time.