Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
For all of Iggy’s brash and bluster at the store, and casually tossing the condoms and lube into their shopping cart, he was quietly a bundle of nerves during their first clean of the trailer.
They’d opened every window for the fresh air—and to help dispel any dust they tossed up—before getting to work in the kitchen and living room.
Malcolm was a methodical cleaner, moving items and putting them right back, tending to a small area before moving on.
Iggy imagined he handled his tools the same way, and Iggy was no different at his own job.
Keeping his station clean, tossing dropped garnishes immediately, wiping up spills before they dried into a stickier mess.
“Clean as you go” was a motto he’d learned early on in life, especially in certain foster homes.
Between him and Malcolm, their future home would always be spic-and-span.
I have got to stop thinking like that, this isn’t a marriage proposal, it’s sex and companionship.
Iggy was the one who’d put the brakes on intimacy, and he was also the one constantly easing his foot back off it, allowing them to rev forward.
Having sex in the saloon had not been on the menu when he woke up this morning, but he didn’t regret any of it.
He also didn’t want to be a hypocrite, or to give Malcolm mixed signals.
They needed to completely clear the air before they gave their bodies fully to each other.
Iggy had dared himself to have this conversation by so blatantly buying the supplies today.
He’d made a silent promise to Malcolm, which required fulfilling a promise he’d made to himself.
Cleaning was putting it off for a few minutes more.
While Malcolm worked on dusting Uncle Howie’s room, Iggy went into his old room.
Uncle Howie had given him permission yesterday to move things around and clear off the bed, so Iggy had more privacy than the sofa.
Half the mess was empty boxes, and he used a kitchen knife to break them down, then slide the flattened boxes under the bed.
He’d deal with recycling them another time.
He used two of the boxes to house a bunch of random bags of things that he could help Howie sort through later.
It cleared off the bed, which still had the same navy blue comforter from high school.
A quick sniff test suggested it could use a tumble in the dryer to freshen up, but it wasn’t musty.
He’d taken everything personal when he moved out, which hadn’t been much, even after three years in a comfortable, permanent home.
His entire life had remained the size of two suitcases, and even now, if he never returned to his apartment in Providence, he wouldn’t miss anything left behind.
He’d lived a nomadic life for so long, he still had a hard time imagining a permanent home like this.
One full of furniture he’d selected with purpose, memories of visits by family and friends; hopes for a future in that space.
For Iggy, that imagining came with a man he loved dearly to share his life with. That hadn’t been what Uncle Howie had sought, and he sometimes wondered why. But during his uncle’s recovery wasn’t the time to dig into those things. Maybe in a few months, when Howie felt better and Iggy was…where?
An image of Malcolm, smiling at him from across the saloon bar, filled his vision. Iggy smiled back, hopeful.
Hopeful, and a little terrified. He hadn’t returned to Chance to reconcile with Malcolm and fall back in love, but he’d be damned if that wasn’t happening anyway.
Once the bedroom was organized and given a preliminary dusting, he borrowed the small, overworked Electrolux vacuum from Malcolm and ran it over the shag rug that was probably original to the trailer’s manufacture date.
Same with the faux-wood wall paneling and even the small ceiling fan that wobbled dangerously at any speed over low.
The vacuum had a familiar burnt-hair smell, and he really wanted to replace the thing for Howie before it burst into flames.
The smell, combined with the blue comforter, sent Iggy right back to high school, and all the time he’d spent in this room.
Time spent jerking off to both magazines and thoughts of Malcolm; time spent dreaming of a future far away from this little town on the Colorado prairie; the one time he and Malcolm had made love in this room.
“Iggs?”
“Huh?” Iggy turned and nearly clipped Malcolm in the chest with the vacuum handle. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I wanted to see your room again.” Malcolm stood just inside the door, his broad frame shrinking the already limited space. He eyed the bed, lips twisted in a familiar smirk. “Lotta good memories in here.”
“Yes, there are. Some really great memories.” Iggy flashed to lying in bed, cold and nauseated, sobbing so hard he nearly got sick, and wishing for a spring rain to flash-flood his teenage-self right out of Chance. “And some bad ones. But that’s most bedrooms, right?”
Malcolm’s smile faded. “Yeah.”
“Come here.” He reached out; Malcolm clasped his hand.
Iggy pulled him over to sit beside him on the bed.
The old spring mattress creaked in such an obvious, awkward way he might have laughed if his mind wasn’t already sifting through the serious thoughts he needed to share.
“We need to talk about that night, Monte. We need to talk about how we got where we ended up. How did we get here?”
Malcolm’s expression went from sad nostalgia to pained grief. “You wouldn’t talk to me, Iggs. You wouldn’t let me explain anything.”
“Do you blame me?”
“Yeah, actually, I do.”
Iggy might as well have been slapped across the face. Tangled emotions from that long-ago night rose like bile, and fear of real bile pushed Iggy away from Malcolm. Their hands fell apart, and Iggy mourned that loss only briefly, because confusion and anger were creeping to the top of the tangle.
“What the fuck do you blame me for?” Iggy asked. “I went to meet you at that house party at nine like you asked, and I found you in bed with some college girl you didn’t even know.”
“Yeah, and then you blocked me every way possible so I could never explain why. Howie even threatened a restraining order once if I didn’t stop trying to talk to you.”
“He did?” Uncle Howie never mentioned making that threat, but it also didn’t surprise Iggy much.
He’d been a mess for several days, and it had been weeks before he wanted to walk farther from the trailer than their creek bank.
But his uncle, bless him, had never once forced Iggy to tell him why Iggy was suffering alone, beyond a firm, “Monte and me are through, and I never want to see him again.”
“Yeah, he did.” Malcolm’s eyes glistened, and he looked seventeen again, confessing to another rough night avoiding his dad’s temper and fists.
“I needed my best friend that night, and for a while after, but you chose to believe I’d betrayed you, like your parents betrayed you.
Like everyone else betrayed you.” A single tear slid down Malcolm’s left cheek. “You didn’t believe in us like I did.”
“I know.” Shame rolled through Iggy when he expected anger.
Anger over Malcolm going for a sympathy ploy—but that wasn’t his Monte.
Malcolm “Monte” Montgomery had always been a what you see is what you get kind of person.
He wasn’t manipulative or fake, and those tears were real.
His pain was real. Real in a way Iggy hadn’t been capable of seeing or understanding back in high school.
Real in a way he hadn’t wanted to see or understand.
Believing in the betrayal had been easier. And that had been the biggest betrayal of all: Iggy not believing in them the way he promised he would.
The party had been a month before graduation, at a farmhouse in the middle of the county, parents out of town for the weekend.
Mostly for the football players and their social circle, but all graduating seniors had been invited through word of mouth.
Some of the other stage crew were going, so Iggy and Monte had agreed to go and hang out with them.
For two days leading up to the party, though, Iggy was down with a spring cold.
Congested, not sleeping, generally grumpy, and he’d begged off the party that night.
Monte had volunteered to come over with herbal tea and his Iron Man DVD, but Iggy insisted he go.
That if Iggy started feeling better, he might make an appearance just to be able to later say the school’s queer couple had attended.
Even though (he thought) no one knew about them as anything other than BFFs.
At eight, he’d gotten a text message from someone claiming to be Monte, using a classmate’s cell phone, begging Iggy to come. Monte was bored at the party. Iggy had slugged cold medicine and caffeine, so he was wide awake and decided what the hell? He replied he’d be there by nine.
He’d actually been excited to meet his secret boyfriend at a school party.
The three-story farmhouse was teeming with students and older partygoers, and Iggy had a hard time finding anyone he knew.
A girl from his biology class gave him a beer, which he’d only sipped because of the meds he’d taken.
But he’d still been weirdly tipsy when Todd from Phys Ed told him to check for Montgomery upstairs.
Someone else had turned him toward a bedroom door.
The whole thing still felt fuzzy and muffled, like Iggy had watched it unfold while wearing ear muffs and gazing through foggy glasses.
What he believed now was something stronger than beer had been in that cup, but he had no physical proof.
At the time, he’d just wanted to find his boyfriend.
To hang because Monte texted and said he was bored, so please come chill with me.
He’d had no reason to question the intentions of folks nudging him toward a specific shut door.
No reason to dread what might be on the other side.