Seven
SEVEN
ETHAN
N ana is the first to respond when the rapid knocking at the front door sounds off.
She springs into action from her position at the foot of the bed and races ahead with a bark.
Ethan, bleary-eyed from intermittent slumber, is slower to react. Wearily, he throws on his robe, slides on his slippers and, out of an abundance of caution, grabs the baseball bat he keeps resting beside his bed. It’s 2:30 a.m., and he never gets visitors.
Between Nana’s barking fits, Ethan calls, “Who is it? Who’s there?” His voice emerges as gruff and as intimidating as possible even though Samara says when he does that, he sounds like a teddy bear with a head cold. Because his hands are clammy with sudden nerves, his grip on the bat is loose and swaying. Things are not going well.
“Me!” he hears beneath the din of the storm that is ripping through the forest. The weatherperson in these parts said nothing about winds like this, though Ethan did forget to do a second weather check earlier in the day like he usually does. “Tay…! Plea open…! Hello!”
Certain he’s not to be met with a murderer, he drops the bat and flings open the door. Taylor stands in the flickering porch light looking like a waterlogged traffic cone. His feet must be freezing. His tall white socks are muddy and slicked to his skin.
“What’s happened?” he asks, pulling Taylor into the warmth of his cottage.
Through Taylor’s hiccupping breaths, Ethan can make out, “Branch…sleeping…broken…roof.” Those words in quick succession paint a clear enough picture. Suddenly, he gets a flash of a task on his to-do list for the last few weeks: trim branches near Snow White cottage .
“Shit. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m—I’m ah…fine?” It’s clear he’s shaken up by what happened.
Ethan doesn’t know what comes over him. Before he can question it, he’s pulling Taylor in for a hug that he hopes quiets his frantic inhales. He must’ve run here. And he’s freezing to the touch. Ethan doesn’t know this man well, and he’s far too aware of the very few layers separating the two of them in this moment, but the hug is what Taylor must need because as soon as Ethan rubs a hand along his quaking, wet back, Taylor’s breath evens out to a seminormal tempo. His muscles unclench beneath his reassuring palms.
He fits so well here, in my arms.
That floating, sumptuous thought is enough for Ethan’s sense to kick back in. Begrudgingly and far too sluggishly, he pulls away.
He can’t even care that Taylor is dripping all over the place and tracking mud through his living room. He brings him straight to the kitchen, sits him down in a chair and crouches in front of him.
Taylor inhales slowly through his nose and exhales even more slowly through his mouth. “Sorry. I got frantic after I couldn’t find anyone at The Castle. I remembered you saying you lived just north of the cottages, so I used the compass on my phone and found the path.” He pulls his wet phone from his pocket and tries to wipe the rain off the screen with his damp hand. Ethan grabs him a paper towel from the holder by the sink.
“Did you try the emergency maintenance line?”
“Nobody picked up. I’m really sorry. Stuff is getting ruined.”
Gabriel is going to get a stern talking to tomorrow. He’s probably forgotten to leave the ringer on while sleeping again. “You didn’t cause the storm. I’ll go inspect the damage. I’m sure it’s nothing that’s not fixable. But first, let me get you something dry.”
“Oh, no. I’ll only get wet again when we go back,” says Taylor, sniffling and brushing the rain droplets away from his bloodshot brown eyes.
Ethan shakes his head resolutely. “You’ve had a night. Please, stay here and get warm.” With that said, he turns to prepare the teakettle before racing down the hall to his room to change. From the closet, for Taylor, he grabs a fluffy towel then dithers over which clothes to bring him. Taylor will swim in everything he owns. Oh, well. Something big and dry is better than something clingy and sopping.
Taylor thanks him when he hands over the folded pair of sleep pants with a drawstring and an old T-shirt from his college days. “I’ll be back. Make yourself at home. I’ll try to be quick. Nana, behave while I’m gone, okay?” She plops her butt down right next to Taylor as if planning to guard him with her life. “Good girl.”
With a heavy-duty flashlight in hand, Ethan charts a direct course through the trees toward the Snow White cottage. Screw the path. This way is quicker. Even if somebody blindfolded him and forced him to wear noise cancelling headphones, he’d still know the way there. His internal compass is finely tuned.
The culprit is, as expected, that blasted branch he’d told himself he’d get around to trimming. It’s been jostled off the tree and it crashed into the cottage, clipping the roof and breaking the window.
There’s a shed with emergency tools camouflaged by landscaping and set back in the trees from which he pulls a board, a hammer and some nails. This is the best he can do at this hour and in this reckless, battering weather. He times his hammer hits to the persistent thunderclaps to avoid disturbing the other guests who are, hopefully, sleeping peacefully through this frustrating ordeal.
Inside the cottage, he checks out the roof situation. A steady plunk of droplets fall from the ceiling. Using the bathroom towels, he tries his best to wipe up the rainwater. From under the kitchen sink, he grabs a metal bucket and sets it beneath the drip.
Once the storm has passed and daylight breaks, he and Gabriel can replace the window after a trip to the hardware store, but the roof is a nonstarter. He’ll have to hire out. This cottage is going to be out of commission until he can get it fixed, and if this storm did damage like this all over the county, then it could be a while before his trusted contractor can come out.
He stalls inside the Snow White cottage, loses a bit of his initial adrenaline rush as realization washes over him.
All the resort cottages are booked solid for spring break. There’s nowhere to relocate Taylor, except Samara’s old room in his place.
Ethan flops down in the chair beside the table, takes in a bit of the warmth from the electric fireplace and really considers this. Since Amy and Samara left five years ago, he hasn’t had any overnight visitors at Casa de Golding, as Gabriel would call it.
No family, no one night stands, no one.
There is something special and inexplicable about his home that he is unwilling to share with others. A deep part of him feels if he opens the door to a hookup or a date or even a friend, they might upset the delicate balance he’s built in the absence of the two major loves he’s had thus far in his life.
But what choice is there now?
He can’t leave warm Taylor out in the damp cold.
TAYLOR
As Taylor’s second cup of tea this evening brews and the storm slams itself against the side of the house, he struggles to tighten the drawstring on Ethan’s flannel lounge pants. No matter how hard he pulls or how strongly he knots them, they still sag dangerously south of his hip bones. This is one of the perils of not wearing underwear. Going commando has always felt natural to him—he’s never been one of those gay men obsessed with designer briefs—but now he’s concerned he’s showing off a bit too much.
Taking the mug to the table, the pants nearly slide right off his slender frame, causing him to trip and spill his tea all over the floor. As if this night weren’t already a mess. Nana arf, arfs in dissent.
“Sorry, I’m trying my best.”
Once he’s cleaned up after himself, he trots down the hall and enters Ethan’s bedroom. The space is all dark wood and old lamps and dusty framed pictures on the bedside tables. Samara’s youthful face covered in Popsicle residue at a Fourth of July party pokes out from behind a stack of hardback library books—a collection of historical biographies.
A lazy, paddled ceiling fan click-click-clicks over the king-sized bed, causing tiny neon Post-it notes to flap from their random spots around the room. They say things like: Buy carpet cleaner and Change sheets first of the month . The crimson duvet (a remnant from Amy’s time here, surely) on the bed is messily flipped back.
Taylor’s not sure what comes over him, but he places his palm on the exposed cotton fitted sheet. Ethan’s body heat still sizzles there. The momentary, spine-tingling thrill gets usurped when Taylor’s pants slip again.
Growing up the way he did and living the way he does now, privacy does not come naturally to him. What’s his was yours and hers and theirs. Which is why he has no qualms about going into Ethan’s already-open closet and fishing for a robe.
Nothing is where Taylor expects it to be. Dirt-flecked boots are sat on the top shelf. A leaning tower of folded sweaters is seconds away from spilling across the floor. Wrinkly T-shirts in every color of the rainbow next to a plethora of flannels are hung on metal hangers that screech against the rod.
He has to rustle around quite a bit. He wants something that Ethan probably doesn’t wear much, if at all, so he’s not desecrating something he loves with his precarious pantslessness.
Aha! There in the depths he finds a red-and-green checkered fleece robe that looks significantly too small for Ethan’s build. Taylor shrugs it on. This must’ve been a Christmas gift at some point. It’s impeccably comfy against Taylor’s chilly skin.
Once that’s squared away, he hunts for a dryer. He’d left his wet clothes hanging over the lip of the tub so they’d drip into the basin and not all over the floor, but there’s no way he can walk back to the Snow White cottage without pants in this storm. He’d be Marilyn Monroe over that subway grate, completely exposed to the elements.
In his search, he stumbles across a second bedroom. It’s a place half-stalled in time, completely on-theme with the resort.
While the twin bed has an IKEA frame and a gray duvet laid across it, the wall behind it features an intricate mural. On one side of a rippling body of water is a kingdom, on the other is a tower, down from which a braid of golden, glowing hair falls. Lanterns light up the purply night sky above the scene.
This must’ve been Samara’s room, and even though she hasn’t lived here for five years, Ethan’s preserved much of it. In the corner, there’s a pop-up castle play set. The bookshelf is overstuffed with Judy Blume and Disneyfied fairy tales. He wonders, if he opened the drawers of the dresser, whether he’d find some of Samara’s old clothes and toys, ones she’s outgrown. But he doesn’t test that theory.
When he turns back around, Nana sits in the doorway, staring disapprovingly at Taylor. What’s that saying about dogs growing to look like their owners? It’s eerily true in this case.
“I’m a snoop. I know. I’m sorry. I’m leaving.” He shuts the door firmly behind him on the way out. Nana, clearly appeased by the apology, follows closely behind him like a protective shadow, which he finds comforting and chiding at the same time.
The combo washer-dryer sits stacked in a mudroom of sorts near the rear of the cottage. He throws in his clothes; the rattle of the garments flopping round and round reminds him of how Amy described this cottage to him when he first started working for her. She’d made it sound like a hovel. Now, having traipsed through it, Taylor couldn’t disagree more. This place is homey in all the right ways with touches so personal no highly skilled interior decorator could come close to replicating them.
Ethan should be back soon, so Taylor busies himself with boiling some more water and setting out a second mug. Surely Ethan won’t want him to leave right away upon returning.
Nana must have a sixth sense for Ethan’s arrival because she’s waiting beside the door before Taylor even hears the key in the lock.
He hopes he doesn’t look too ridiculous standing there in Ethan’s T-shirt and robe with no pants and two mugs of tea like some sort of weird welcome party of one.
“So it appears—” Ethan goes as still as a statue when his eyes land on Taylor in the light. Something about the laser-like focus of Ethan’s gaze makes a heat crop up on Taylor’s cheeks, fiercer than any he’s felt before. “Where did you find that?”
“The back of your closet. I hope you don’t mind. The pants didn’t fit.” Taylor swivels his hips to make the belt on the robe dance, so Ethan knows what he’s referring to. It’s only after the fact that he remembers he’s not wearing any underwear and the flaps don’t overlap that much. The heat on his face doubles in intensity.
Ethan loudly clears his throat, probably embarrassed for Taylor . “No, it’s fine. I should’ve gotten rid of that ages ago. That’s not mine. That is— was —Amy’s.”
Mortification is a monkey throwing its feces at Taylor’s face. Not only has he ended up looking like freaking Winnie the Pooh in his boss’s ex-husband’s house, but he’s also managed to put on his boss’s old robe to cover his unmentionables. Damn, his job is weird, and he’s majorly messing this up.
Ethan bypasses whatever discomfort he’s experiencing. “I boarded up the window, but there wasn’t much I could do about the roof right now. I’m sorry for the inconvenience but it looks like you’ll have to spend the night here.” Ethan is clasping Taylor’s purple suitcase by the handle. “I didn’t grab everything. Just left what was still in it and zipped it up. I didn’t want to go through your things.”
The robe becomes a leaden cloak of guilt. Taylor didn’t have the same courteous thought when he went searching for suitable clothing thirty minutes ago, but perhaps he should’ve. Maybe Amy’s robe has dug up emotions Ethan had purposefully shoved to the back of his messy closet, and now here they are, flaunted out in the open on an unsuspecting model.
“Thanks, that’s super kind of you. I really don’t want to impose, though,” he says, already uncomfortable. Staying here under this roof would only exacerbate the tightness in his chest.
“No imposition at all. There’s a second bedroom here.” Taylor tries not to make it obvious that he’s aware. That he padded around in it, wondering why Ethan hadn’t turned a room clearly made for a toddler into something befitting of a nearly sixteen-year-old. The teen Taylor dropped off at friends’ houses and went birthday-present shopping with. She’s strikingly mature for her age.
“I made you some tea.” His arms have grown tired of holding both full mugs, and he doesn’t know what else to do or say.
“Thank you. I’ll have that shortly. I’d like to bring this to the guest room and clean up in there a bit, but please start in on yours. There are some cookies in the pantry if you’d like them.”
Far be it from Taylor to pass up cookies, even if he’s still queasy with unease. When’s the last time he ate today? He finds the box of mint Milanos and a plate to display them on. He sets the teas across from each other on the wooden kitchen table and grabs coasters and napkins. It’s like he’s playing house in this unfamiliar kitchen with a large dog watching his every move.
Ten minutes later, Ethan settles across from him wrapped in a plush robe and slippers and says, “Sorry I’m not in the best mood right now.”
“Don’t let me keep you up if you want to go back to bed,” Taylor says, worried he’s overstepping by merely breathing in this place.
“Oh, no, I’m pretty awake now. All I mean is that I was supposed to clip those branches a week ago, and it slipped my mind. What happened tonight could’ve been avoided or ended up so much worse.” Taylor can almost visualize the different anxiety-inducing outcomes running through Ethan’s mind like a movie.
“It’s all okay now, right? You’ve got a roofer and a window person?”
“Of course. It’s more that I like to be prepared for these sorts of things. Sometimes ADHD wins.”
Taylor immediately flags the shock that crosses Ethan’s face over sharing his diagnosis. The closet organization makes much more sense now. So too does Amy’s constant refrain of, “Ethan’s horribly unfocused. Always lost in his own head.” Does Amy know about Ethan’s ADHD? If she does, her callous words dampen Taylor’s opinion of her.
To normalize talking about mental health, as he’s always tried to with his siblings, he says, “I’m not sure you’re being very fair to yourself. ADHD is a part of your unique brain. I always tell my sister Sasha that if you treat your brain like a villain it’s going to act like a villain. Treat it like the world’s coolest sidekick.”
“That’s quite perceptive.” The embarrassment brushed across his cheeks melts away, replaced by gratitude.
“Thanks.”
“You sound like a good brother.”
“I try to be.” Taylor leans forward in his chair, sensing the conversation about to slip into the easy rhythm it had last night beside the fire. “Do you have any siblings?”
“Two brothers. One younger and one older.”
“The middle child, huh? I don’t think I’d have expected that.”
“Why not?”
“You have caring oldest sibling energy.”
“Just because I’m the biggest sibling doesn’t mean I’m the oldest.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean—” Taylor wishes he could retract the words like one of those sticky, slappy hands he used to win out of the quarter machines at the mall.
Ethan appears unruffled. “Unlike my ADHD, I do treat my body like the world’s coolest sidekick. I keep it healthy and in turn it does everything I need it to do and sometimes more.”
Taylor fiercely masks his intrigue over that and sometimes more comment despite his mind coloring in a pornographic image of it. He’s already staying in this man’s house, wearing this man’s clothes, drinking this man’s tea. So many professional boundaries are being crossed that his mind thinks dirty little fantasies are okay when they’re not. “I hope I didn’t offend you,” he says finally.
“Not at all. It’s a habit, I think. Getting ahead of it conversationally. I’m fat. It’s not dirty or wrong. It just is. There are times when it sort of scoots out of my mind like earlier when I handed you those pants. I forgot waist sizes were a consideration.” He laughs to himself. “Sorry for that, by the way.”
“Don’t worry. I’m comfortable.” As he says this, he crosses his legs and tightens the robe belt. The last thing he needs is Ethan dropping his napkin and accidentally getting a free show. But the word comfortable has another meaning, too.
After Taylor’s deep, peaceful sleep last night with Ethan right outside the door, a slight fear had cropped up in him that tonight’s slumber would be more restless.
Sure, the symphony of the forest would be playing right outside, but Taylor is used to people noises. To footsteps and closing doors and hushed conversations and teakettles whistling too early. He’s never slept somewhere solo. He’s actually quite relieved to not be staying in the Snow White cottage tonight. If the window shattering hadn’t woken him, he’s certain by 4:00 a.m. he’d have been wide-awake and wired, disquieted by the stillness. Here, he’ll sleep comfortably. If he can get over feeling like an interloper.
And if he ever gets to sleep…
Because the Milanos get replaced, the teacups get refilled and their conversation ebbs and flows until morning light threatens to break through the dwindling storm.