Chapter 2 #2
They didn’t have to worry about consistent meal times or going to bed on time. They weren’t used to worrying about sharp objects on the table or laptops on the couch.
He didn’t begrudge them living their lives. It wasn’t fair of him to ask them to change for him and Rowan.
But fuck, it sometimes felt impossible to get through it all.
He needed to refill his water bottle, and the trek down three flights of stairs was worth it to get the filtered water they kept in a jug in the fridge rather than tap water.
The kitchen was cluttered when he wandered in, but he moved on autopilot to the fridge. He grabbed the pitcher–fucking empty, again. It seemed so logical: if you took the last of the water, you were responsible for refilling it.
He’d only brought it up with his housemates about twenty million times.
He filled up the jug and set it on the counter, resigned to wait the seven minutes it would take for the water to trickle through the filter.
His eyes were heavy. At his hip, the baby monitor emitted a soft crackle–the sound machine he always ran in an effort to drown out the noise from their housemates.
Finally, he filled up his water bottle. He’d just turned toward the staircase when he heard a muffled voice in the front yard. He stopped to listen. Their place was in the thick of student housing, so it wasn’t unusual to have drunk pedestrians walk by on the weekends.
But this voice sounded angry.
The voice rose in volume. “He can’t captain the Muskies for shit!”
What the fuck?
Tyler went to the wide front window, pulling the faded curtain aside and looking out into the front yard. It was dark enough that it was hard to see much, but he could make out an unmistakably large figure in a long coat shuffling in circles around the crooked snowman in the middle of the yard.
Long arms waved in the air, and the deep voice continued, loud enough to be audible through the glass. “He broke his hand throwing a stupid punch like a…” The arms flapped like a bird. “Like a dingus!”
Before he could try to comprehend what the hell they were talking about, the person started to kick and punch the snowman. Seriously? What kind of asshole hits a snowman?
Tyler pushed back from the window. He was over it–over this day, over people and their bullshit.
He grabbed a broom from the hall closet, flicked on the front light, unlocked the deadbolt on the front door, and stepped out onto the stoop.
He closed the door behind himself, careful not to slam it.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He shouted, waving the broom above his head.
The figure froze, took a step back, and Tyler watched as their foot connected with the icy sidewalk and they slipped as if in slow motion, arms windmilling wildly before they fell backwards with a dull, muffled thud.
“Shit.” Tyler picked his way carefully down the wet, sandy stairs and down the front walk toward the crumpled stranger. “Hey.” He poked them in the side with the end of the broom. “Hey. Are you dead?”
Nothing.
Tyler got closer, the street lamp illuminating the thick, expensive-looking navy wool coat wrapped around the man’s body. Because it was a man–a huge man, with his thighs splayed out in the snow and a thick blonde mustache tracing his upper lip.
He was out cold by the look of his soft, parted mouth and closed eyes. Tyler crouched down, and saw the puff of fog hovering in the air above the man’s mouth. He’s not dead. That’s good.
Standing up, Tyler ran a hand through his hair. Should he call the cops?
He ran back inside, up the stairs to the first door off the landing and knocked on his roommate’s door.
Davey opened the door in nothing but a robe. It wasn’t even tied around his waist.
“There’s a guy in the front yard,” Tyler said, waving his hand toward the stairs. “I think he needs to go to the hospital.”
Rubbing his eyes, Davey let out a groan. “Fucking bummer, man. Good luck with that.”
Tyler opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Can you take him?”
Davey winced. “No can do. I’ve got another episode to edit tonight.” Davey, in addition to working at a thrift store, was an independent podcast producer.
Frustrated, Tyler ran a hand over his mouth. “Fine. Can you keep an eye on the baby monitor, then? Rowan shouldn’t wake up, but if he does, go get Annabeth.”
“Got it.” Davey took the monitor and closed the door.
Tyler ran down the stairs, grabbed his coat and keys, and muttered a loud, frustrated “fuck this guy” as he rushed out into the night.
It was a short drive to the closest hospital, and Tyler drove as quickly as he could while being safe on the slick roads.
In the passenger seat beside him, the hulking, wet man leaned heavily against the window. Tyler had been trying to figure out how to drag the stranger into his car when the man had groaned, grabbed his head, asked “Where the fuck am I,” and then vomited all over the sidewalk.
It had taken a while to get the barely coherent man loaded up in his Subaru.
Tyler kept sneaking glances at him. He couldn’t help noticing his unruly blonde brows and his full lower lip–but it didn’t matter how objectively attractive the well-dressed stranger was. Didn’t matter that Tyler had always had a weakness for men who were bigger than him.
This guy was drunk, possibly concussed, and he was single-handedly ruining Tyler’s night.
At least he’d stopped throwing up.
“Think you can walk, big guy?” Tyler asked.
The man groaned.
Tyler came to a slow stop at the red-painted curb in front of the emergency room.
“Ready for this?”
A grunt.
Tyler shook his head, got out of the car, and by some miracle he managed to get the man on his feet with his shoulders supporting a heavy arm.
“Work with me, you caveman,” he gritted out between clenched teeth, his body struggling to stay upright with the weight of the body leaning against him.
“You’re the one who showed up on my lawn and beat up my kid’s snowman.
I probably should have left you to freeze.
The least you can do is walk, for fuck’s sake. ”
The man finally lifted his head, and Tyler’s breath froze in his chest. He could see him now, really see the man who’d stumbled into his yard in the middle of the night.
In the harsh light filtering out from the automated glass doors he looked like the lead from a black and white Western, with heavy brows over serious, green eyes, a perfectly average nose and that fucking mustache that framed a full, soft mouth.
He stared down at Tyler, shaking himself like he was trying to rouse himself from a deep sleep. “I,” he started, his voice a dry rasp. He cleared his throat. “I think I’m drunk.”
Tyler snorted. “And apparently a fucking genius.”
Wincing, his eyes tightened in a squint and he let out a hiss of pain. “Did I hit my head?”
“Yep. After you beat the shit out of my kid’s snowman.”
Those green eyes got big, looking down at Tyler with an expression of unmistakable anguish. “Oh m’god. I’m an asshole.”
“I mean,” Tyler began, resuming their slow shuffle toward the front doors. “I’m not going to argue with you there.”
“And you’re so pretty, too.”
A surprised huff escaped Tyler’s lips, which were already growing numb from the cold. He almost tripped over his feet when he felt the press of a nose against the top of his head. What was this guy doing? Smelling him?
“Behave yourself,” Tyler muttered.
“I don’t wanna,” the man said before letting out a groan, only this time the sound didn’t sound pained. It almost sounded…
No. Nope. None of that.
Thank god they had finally reached the sliding doors, moving into the warmth of the lobby. He helped the stranger into a chair against the wall, shielding the back of his head from slamming into the sheetrock as he slumped back. Damn this guy was wasted.
Tyler went over to the receptionist. “Hey, so I don’t actually know this guy, but he hit his head on my sidewalk and seems to be drunk.”
After answering some basic questions about what had happened and his impression of the stranger’s condition, the redheaded man at the computer looked up at Tyler through copper lashes. Tyler felt his appraising gaze on his face, picking up on the interest directed his way. “Are you going to stay?”
Tyler turned to look at the stranger. The man seemed to be sleeping, head tipped back and mouth hanging softly open.
He thought he saw the sheen of drool dripping down the stranger’s chin.
The beginnings of a purple bruise spread over his jaw.
His long, thick legs were sprawled out, and Tyler caught a glimpse of orange and green argyle socks peeking out above his dress shoes.
He had no business thinking about towering, bumbling strangers who had called him pretty. There was a kid at home waiting for him. A toddler who Tyler loved with a fierce, unquestioning blaze that sometimes left him breathless; the kind of love that could overwhelm someone.
If his life was different, he might have stayed.
“No,” he said to the receptionist. “You guys will take care of him, right?”
The man winked. “It’s what we do here.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Tyler crawled into his double bed, tugging the heavy pile of layered quilts over himself as he tried to make his body as compact as possible, waiting for the warmth to come. Across the room, Rowan slept.
As he felt the tug of sleep dragging him under, he thought about blonde mustaches and tall men with tree-trunk thighs.