Chapter 26
jack
The shivering was gone. So was the cold from his bones. Yesterday and tomorrow vanished as well, and all he had was this moment. On the couch, wrapped in Morgan’s arms, with a quilt around them both and barely enough room to lift a glass half-full of Frangelico to his mouth.
He could see Morgan’s chin out of the corner of his eye, feel the warmth of his breath. Feel the slight movement of his chest when he swallowed some of the liquor, the long muscles in his throat tensing and relaxing in that swallow.
They were both gazing at the fire. It was the most perfect fire Jack had ever built, bar none.
A triad of orange-and-blue-and-white flames danced in the small window of the cast-iron stove, the middle flame the tallest and the ones on the right and left of it slightly smaller, the way a first grader would draw it.
The air smelled of pine sap and smoke, while the blizzard scrabbled at the windows as if violently opposed to the moment of comfort they were sharing. But they had this. This now. This wish-it-could-last-forever now.
Soon they’d have to get up. Morgan would need his pills, and Jack should make them something to eat. In the meantime, he felt like a cat who had been gently petted for hours in all the right ways.
Back home—with those girls—he’d done some kissing and groping and feeling, but it hadn’t been like this. Even his imagined dalliances with the Italian boy or the Irish boy had not blossomed into such joy.
That first kiss had been an explosion, fireworks in his soul. He’d leaned in and, so grateful to be alive, kissed Morgan. And Morgan, rather than pushing him away or blustering a protest, had allowed it.
Coming down from that horrible drive, Jack had been tense all the way through.
The closeness of Morgan’s body, the concern in his voice as he asked if Jack was okay—apologized, as if there were anything to apologize for—replaced Jack’s stress with other things.
Better things. Warmth. That moment had just about made the drive worth it. What had followed was gravy.
A sharp sound crackled from the little stove, a bit of wood fell, and Jack’s perfect trio of flames collapsed into six smaller ones, fire imps that jumped this way and that, as if threatening to burst from their cage.
“Could get more wood,” Jack said, shifting, though his body was urging him to burrow deep inside Morgan and never come out.
“What you could do is go get your new clothes and try them on to make sure they fit,” Morgan said, like the practical taskmaster he was. “And later we can find somewhere to recycle those old boots of yours.”
“My boots are fine; don’t insult them.”
Jack lifted his chin to show he meant business, but Morgan was probably right. His boots had been repaired and patched more than once, and his feet had been two blocks of ice by the time they’d arrived back at the feed and grain.
“I’ll start dinner,” Morgan said. “I’m capable of opening a can of stew and getting potatoes ready to boil.” He scoffed out loud as if Jack had raised some kind of objection.
“Do that.” Jack levered himself to a sitting position, shivering at the loss of the warmth of Morgan’s body, then stood up, nodding toward the bottle. “Trade you a fashion show for the last of that stuff.”
With a small laugh, Morgan poured the last of the Frangelico into Jack’s glass and held it out.
Jack took the glass and drained it, cheeks bulging for effect, and then gasped as if the small drink had just about knocked him flat.
Then, cheerfully, he tromped downstairs, where he padded around the store to make sure the windows and doors were shut tight before grabbing the large black bags, along with Morgan’s cane.
When he got back upstairs, the couch was empty, the quilt folded back as though nobody had ever been sitting there. Morgan was in the kitchen, standing at the stove, stirring stew in a pan, though it didn’t look as if he’d done anything with the potatoes.
“I’ve got that.” Jack handed Morgan the purple cane. “You look like you’re hurting.”
Morgan took the cane and winced as he shifted his weight. His face was white, and his eyes were hard when he looked at Jack.
Alarm rose inside Jack. “Need your meds?” He turned off the burner. “Is it your knee?”
At Morgan’s slow nod, Jack found the pills in the cupboard, filled a glass with water, and handed the lot to Morgan.
Commonplace actions, but Jack’s head was whirling with questions. Morgan didn’t have the expression of a man who’d just had a good time in bed. He looked like he had when Jack had first popped out from behind that cash register: irritated and in no mood to hide his opinions.
“You should take those,” Jack said.
“I’m fine.”
“Morgan.”
“I said I’m fine.”
The ice from outside seemed to fill the kitchen, taking it as far away from cozy and sweet as it could possibly be. Jack didn’t know what to do to ease his dread as his imagination took over, a wild horse galloping. Morgan didn’t just regret what had happened between them, he fucking regretted it.
Morgan took his meds, his gaze flicking up to Jack.
Clearly he resented Jack hovering, but Jack remained close because, yes, he was counting the pills.
One, two. Three. With the bottles once again capped, Morgan stood up, leaning on his cane.
“I need a shower,” he said, taking a few deep breaths as though to settle himself.
Morgan’s drastic change in mood was impossible to ignore, but Jack did his best. In the middle of himself, somewhere, remained a kernel of hope that bad things wouldn’t happen simply because Morgan had let his guard down and Jack had welcomed him with open arms.
If Morgan smelled amazing, the way he tasted was a balm to Jack’s soul. And the feel of him beneath Jack’s hands, solid and real and welcoming, had been a comforting place to land in a life of wild storms.
Being in a small town where everybody knew everyone else was like being back home—only better. His dad wasn’t beating him. There weren’t all the old-fashioned rules that made him feel like he’d been put in a box and left there. And Morgan was here, at the center of it all.
Jack wanted to keep what he had here. Build on it. Layer by layer, ribbons of connection all the way to the end of time. Like a train track that never ended but went on and on to all the warm, sunny places where nothing hurt and love lasted forever.
“I need to say something.” Morgan’s gruff tone jerked Jack back to the kitchen, away from his imaginings. Standing in the doorway to the hallway, Morgan paused without turning to face Jack. “That was probably a mistake.” He lifted his hand in a wave-away gesture. “It shouldn’t happen again.”
The words hit like a slap.
“Sure.” Jack tried his best to keep his voice from shaking. “Sure, okay.”
He’d been stupid. Same as when he’d believed Blue and Star were his true friends. He’d imagined that something good had been growing between him and Morgan, a solid connection that made Jack feel like he was flying even though he was staying in one place.
“Okay,” he repeated to the empty air.
Outside, the world was howling whiteness, and in the yellow-and-white kitchen, everything felt stale and sticky and used up.
He couldn’t go anywhere while the blizzard lasted. Could he? Surely Morgan wouldn’t throw him out into the snow.
Well, that’s what came from depending on someone else, didn’t it. Fine. Fine, then. Jack was going to muddle through however much time Morgan gave him before kicking him out. Then he’d collect his thousand bucks, maybe keep those boots, and be on his way.
For now, he peeled the potatoes, cursed the lack of a microwave, and put them in water to boil like the dutiful servant he was.
While the potatoes cooked, he dragged the bags of clothes into the parlor and threw them into the corner.
No fashion show tonight. He didn’t want those things, anyway. He’d never asked for them.
He kicked one of the bags, fuming, and the box with the new boots fell out onto the futon. With a huff, he picked up the box, and then he sighed and sat on the couch. Opened the box.
The boots were sleek, oiled brown leather that was silky to the touch. The laces were new and thick, and Jack ran his fingers across the toe. There was steel inside there. These boots would last a lifetime. Unlike anything else he’d ever touched.
Slowly, with reluctance that felt like a tide pulling him out to sea, Jack put the boots down and went back into the kitchen.
The potatoes were fine. The stew was congealing in the pot. Where was Morgan?
Jack heard nothing from the bedroom or the bathroom, and alarm raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
He found Morgan sitting on the bed, hair dripping onto his bare shoulders, a towel wrapped around his middle. He was leaning forward as if he was trying to get up but couldn’t manage it. The scars on either side of his left kneecap looked red and hard, like the surgery had gone deep.
“Morgan?” Jack asked, coming close. He had never imagined that getting off that train would end up with him playing nursemaid to a man like Morgan. Handsome. Unhappy. Wounded.
“I got dizzy,” Morgan said, his head still bowed. More water dripped from his hair and slid down the front of his chest, two racing beads of silver. “It was hot, the medicine kicked in, and wham.”
“I’ll help you,” Jack said. “Let me get you dried off and dressed.”
“No.” Morgan flushed and turned away as though Jack was the very last thing he wanted to look at. “I’ve really had enough of being vulnerable.”
“Fuck that,” Jack said, feeling practical and useful. “I’ve had your cock in my mouth. What difference does it make if I see you naked?”
That drew a sharp laugh from Morgan. “I’m sick of needing to be coddled.”
“It’s fine,” Jack said. “Just don’t be an asshole about it.”
Morgan went still, and he looked up at Jack as if preparing for a blow. “Am I an asshole?” he asked. “I am, aren’t I.”
His demeanor was strange, so Jack ignored it. He grabbed a dry towel from the bathroom and came back. Why not add nursemaid to his duties. He began drying Morgan’s hair. His shoulders. Arms. Torso. Morgan stayed obediently still.
Then Jack hunkered down and dried Morgan’s legs and feet. When he was finished, he held out his hand.
“What?” Morgan asked.
“Where’s your brace?”
“I don’t want it,” Morgan said. “It’s too bulky. I do have a sleeve—”
“Fine, where is that?” Jack had no idea what a sleeve was, at least not in this regard.
“In the suitcase,” Morgan said. “It’s still wrapped.”
Getting out the sleeve, which was made of woven bamboo threads, and helping tug it over Morgan’s knee gave Jack something to focus on.
Helping him stand. Helping him into clean briefs and sweats and T-shirt made it possible for Jack to ignore, at least for a while, the ripped shreds of the happiness that had taken root upon their safe arrival home. And which had blossomed at that first sweet kiss.
All that was behind him now, and would, it seemed, remain a onetime memory. Following Morgan down the hallway to the kitchen, toward the warm smell of boiling potatoes, he said, “I can leave when this storm clears.”
“Fine,” Morgan said. “I’ll pay you for the month.”
“I haven’t worked that long.” Jack went to the stove, putting his back to Morgan as if none of this mattered to him and the conversation was an everyday one.
“I said I’ll pay you for the month,” Morgan said. “Jesus, let me do that, at least, after—”
Jack turned the heat up under the stew. He wanted to ask After what? But fear stopped him—fear that Morgan would blame him for what had happened the second they’d gotten inside the door.
It would be better if he left. He could, of course, leave on the 12:39 train that night, running alongside it to grab hold of an ice-coated metal ladder, and hope, by some miracle, for an open boxcar to climb into.
It had been Star’s idea to come this far north in October, so maybe all of this was Star’s fault. Or maybe it was merely Jack’s own bad luck to land in a town like Hysham—friendly, cute, comfortable (well, except for his near arrest for not having his ID on him)—only to have it turn sour.
He served up two bowls of stew, complete with smashed potatoes beneath, and thought about finding the wine and pouring himself a glass, but didn’t.
Not because it would be rude to have it when Morgan couldn’t, but because he didn’t have the energy. So he ate his dinner, staring at the middle of the table, at nothing.
“Look,” Morgan said suddenly, putting his spoon down.
“I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this.
” He took a breath and settled his shoulders.
“I gave you shelter because I wanted to,” he continued.
“And then it turned into something else. I took advantage of you, and I shouldn’t have.
I’m going to pay you for the month, and at the first sign of good weather—safe enough to drive—I’m taking you to Billings and putting you on a plane to Santa Monica. ”
“But—” Jack didn’t want the money or the plane ticket, charity he’d never asked for.
“But nothing,” Morgan said. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Sure,” Jack said. “Fine. Whatever.”
He might as well pray for good weather, and he’d find some way to refuse the plane ticket. As for the money, he hadn’t needed any before Hysham. He wouldn’t need it after.
In the meantime, he’d focus on what was in front of him, the small details: The dishes. Putting Morgan’s meds on the counter where he could get at them.
Then, as Morgan rose from the table and took up his cane, words came out of Jack’s mouth that he’d not thought he’d be saying. “You need to sleep on the couch.”
“No, I’m fine in the bedroom.”
Jack moved to stand in Morgan’s way. “Look, asshole,” he said. “It’ll be warmer in the parlor. I’ll get the fire going again. And if you need anything in the night, I’ll be right there.”
He wasn’t the kind of jerk to leave Morgan on his own in a cold bedroom. Plus, it’d be nice to have him near while the storm raged outside, even if they were both trying to pretend there wasn’t one inside.
“I said I’ll be fine in the bedroom,” Morgan insisted. “Let’s not argue about it.”