Chapter 4 #2
He asks a few folks if Monte is sick, and a shy, black-haired girl fond of kohl eyeliner says he wasn’t in their biology class today.
Monte doesn’t have a cell phone, which is a little unusual, but not everyone does, and the school has a working payphone still.
Iggy has no idea where Monte lives other than “in Chance,” and even if he knew, who goes knocking on their new friend’s door because they miss one day of school?
Losers, that’s who.
The next afternoon, Monte shows up after Beth has divvied up the day’s work, and he barely returns Iggy’s greeting. Even more annoyed at being dissed, Iggy waits until Monte takes three paint rollers over to the utility sink and corners him there, away from the other worker bees.
“What’s up, dude?” Iggy asks. “You sick yesterday?”
Monte’s shoulders hunch up, and he stays angled over the sink. His response is muffled by the running water.
“What?” He pokes Monte in the left shoulder to get his attention. Monte yelps and his entire body jerks away, all three rollers clattering into the sink.
Monte reaches back to rub his upper arm, a little too wild-eyed for Iggy’s liking. “Yeah, I was sick, so what? You the call-out police now?”
“You hurt your shoulder?”
“Yeah. So?”
Iggy frowns, concern overriding his irritation. He’s been in and out of foster homes and temporary placements most of his life, and he’s seen some shit. He knows when someone’s hiding a bruise or a sore muscle. “What’d you do? Walk into a fist?”
Monte’s face reddens, and his lip curls back. “Fuck off, Donohue. It’s not your business.”
His entire spine snaps from half-serious to fully invested. “Monte, for real, are you hurt?”
“Leave it.”
Iggy opens his mouth to argue, and he’s cut off by Beth, who asks him to pick up a paint order from the hardware store. She knows Iggy drives Uncle Howie’s car to school most days, since Uncle Howie’s commute is literally a hundred feet across gravel.
“Sure, and Malcolm here can help me load it all,” Iggy says, jacking his thumb at Monte.
“Fine, just don’t take forever,” she replies, her attention already back on her ever-present clipboard. “We need the gold if we’re ever going to get the yellow brick road started.”
“On it, boss.”
Monte grumbles about being volunteered, but follows Iggy out of the school and to the station wagon without real comment. Once the heat is blasting, and Iggy is navigating his way toward the store, Iggy asks, “You got Epsom salts at home?”
“What salt?” In the bright daylight, Monte’s wide eyes betray a new shadow Iggy didn’t notice before. “Like, for the sidewalk?”
“No, dummy, like for sore muscles and bruises. You put it in a hot bath and soak for a while.”
Monte doesn’t reply right away; he also doesn’t tell Iggy to shut the fuck up and mind his own business. He seems thoughtful. “Does it work?”
“Sometimes.”
Another few minutes pass, and Iggy’s heart is starting to pound. He hates that he’s guessed something correctly, but he loves that Monte is trying to be honest here. They’re friends of two weeks, and have never interacted off school grounds until today. Monte owes him nothing.
“You have, uh, experience with that?” Monte finally asks, faint, difficult to hear over the station wagon’s engine.
“Yeah.” Iggy hazards a glance to his right, and he’s surprised to meet Monte’s eyes.
Briefly, because he’s driving, but those eyes flash with so many things.
Anger, concern, confusion, shame, all emotions Iggy knows personally.
“I live with my uncle, because my parental units constantly malfunction. Last fall, they both terminated their parental rights, and instead of going back into the foster system, Uncle Howie took me. Permanently.”
“Wow.” Monte picks at his coat zipper. “Are you, uh, sad about that? Like, do you miss your parents?”
“That’s a complicated fucking question.” Iggy slows for a red light and scans the street signs, pretty sure the hardware store is up another few blocks. “Do I miss the idea of having parents like what other guys have? Like what I see on TV? Abso-fucking-lutely. Do I miss my specific parents? No.”
“Oh.”
He should not be opening a vein to Monte, pouring his truth out like this, but something in his core trusts Monte.
Trusts him in a way he’s trusted very few people in his life, and it helps that Monte is listening.
Actively listening and interested, and Iggy will bet his uncle’s car that this isn’t an act.
Monte isn’t prying for information on the new guy to take back to his buddies, so they can harass Iggy later.
They don’t speak again until Iggy’s parking by the hardware store.
“I don’t know if they sell Epsom salts here,” Iggy says softly, “but we can stop somewhere else on the way back to school.”
Monte’s fists clench and unclench in his lap several times before he turns his head. Sad eyes meet his. “Can we stop at Subway, too? I was too wound up to eat at lunch, and now I’m…I feel better. Hungry.”
“Sure, we can.” Iggy resists the urge to reach over and squeeze Monte’s knee, to offer some sort of physical reassurance that things will be okay. He can’t promise that. “What do you like there?”
“Turkey and Swiss with mustard and sweet pickles.”
Iggy grins. “Want to split a foot-long?”
“Okay.” Monte returns the smile, relief and gratitude all over his damned-cute face. “Thank you, Iggy.”
“It’s what friends are for.”
They get the paint, and then the salts and sandwiches, and they don’t talk about Monte’s mysterious bruises again for a while….
…Malcolm loved every single thing about sharing a turkey and Swiss sub with Iggy again, even though it was in a hospital room, with the roommate watching some game show on the other side of the curtain. He was slowly sliding right back under Iggy Donohue’s spell, and he was helpless to resist.
Iggy had charmed him a lifetime ago with those big, dark brown eyes, so full of concern and direct, positive attention, and nothing had changed.
Okay, something had change, and not just them both getting older.
Iggy had a wall up, and Malcolm wasn’t self-centered enough to believe the whole thing had been built by their long-ago breakup.
Maybe a few bricks, but not the whole thing.
And it wasn’t just Howie’s illness, either.
Iggy was haunted by something else, and Malcolm wanted to fix it. To find the ghost tormenting him and pry it off Iggy’s shoulders, to give him peace the way Iggy had given Malcolm peace once. The way Iggy had cared without prying, eased hurts without knowing the full extent—not right away.
Eventually, their past selves each let their guards down. He hoped that happened again in the present. Very shortly, too, so Malcolm could help Iggy face what was haunting him.
“I hate to leave, but he’s slept most of the day,” Iggy said around five. “And I really want to head over to the saloon. See what’s what.”
“I don’t think Howie’ll mind.” Malcolm stood from the uncomfortable visitor chair and stretched his numb ass cheeks. “Hopefully, the crisis has passed, and we can spring him soon.”
“Hope so.”
“Need a ride?”
Iggy shook his head, lips twisting in a wry smile. “I’ve got the wagon, remember?”
“Right.” Duh, dumb ass. “So, I guess I’ll go then. You’ve got my number if you need anything.”
“I do.”
They stared at each other until Malcolm’s skin itched.
He checked for his phone and keys before turning and walking right into the divider curtain.
Iggy chuckled. Face hot, Malcolm settled the curtain, then did a second check for his phone because he already felt like an idiot, so why not double it?
“Hey, Monte?”
“Yeah?” He turned, hopeful.
Iggy’s careful smile flirted with a smirk. “If you happen to come by the saloon tonight, I promise I won’t accuse you of stalking me.”
Hope flared brightly and Malcolm basked in it. “Good to know, Iggs. See ya.”
Malcolm floated out of the hospital, all the way to his truck and back to Chance.
At home, dinner was over and the kids had dispersed around the house to do their homework.
A bowl of mixed up spaghetti and sauce was in the fridge, so Malcolm ate the leftovers cold while he debated texting Jake.
See if he was up for a few beers at Saddle Up, maybe see if any fame-seekers were going to take up the bull-riding challenge.
As much as he wanted to bend his friend’s ear over this situation with Iggy… it was still too unknown.
Too tender a wound to expose to others.
For now.
He spent some time in his little shed workshop, on the wooden console table he’d been putting together from a piece of live edge slab.
While he preferred commissions, for the simple fact that he got some money up front, he always had good luck selling his finished furniture pieces online.
And working on spec meant no deadline breathing down his neck to complete the piece, when he also had his regular work and the kids to occupy much of his time.
He used those as perfect excuses for why he didn’t date.
Shaping table legs on a lathe was simpler than dating.
Never mind the fact that he’d never gotten over his first love, and now he finally had an opportunity to make things right. Iggy hadn’t scoffed at his apologies. They’d had an enjoyable meal today. Iggy was haunted but didn’t seem to hold a grudge against Malcolm, specifically.
Maybe Malcolm held that grudge against himself?
At eight, he cleaned up his shop, went into the camper to change his shirt from a work polo into a spiffy red-and-blue plaid button-down, and then hit the road.
They lived on the west side of town. Far enough it was easier to drive, but close enough he could walk home on the rare occasion he drank too much.
Howie would take your keys and stuff them down the front of his own pants if he thought you were wasted.