5. Clark
Clark
Ilet myself into the cabin, laden with bags, surprised to smell actual food. River was at the sink, pouring noodles into a colander. His walking stick sat off to the side, so maybe he wasn’t too sore from the riding this morning.
“Did you make spaghetti?” I asked, closing the door with my foot.
“Yeah, there’s plenty,” he said, returning the noodles to the pot.
“Nah, I had something to eat with Beau.”
He turned around, his eyebrows comically arched as he took in all my shopping. “Did you buy out the whole store, Dad?”
“Maybe?” I grimaced. “Either way, I am now fully prepared for the trail ride and all ranch-related activities.”
“Nice hiking boots,” he said, turning back to toss the noodles with the sauce.
I was pretty sure it was a sincere compliment.
“They are kind of nice, right? And I got some better flip-flops. If you need anything, we can go back into town.”
River pulled a plate from the cabinet. “No need. I packed appropriately.”
“You packed every piece of black clothing you own,” I argued as he piled an enormous mountain of spaghetti onto his plate. “Literally not a single color.”
“First of all,” River said, setting his plate on the table before slumping down into a chair. “Black is a color.”
Before I could retort, he held up his hand. “Gimme a sec.”
He used his fork to pick up a big swirl of spaghetti and shoved it into his mouth. “Second,” he said through a mouthful of half-chewed food. “Snow Creek’s website said to bring jeans, T-shirts, and boots. Which is basically my entire wardrobe.”
“You went to their website?” I asked as I set my bags in my room.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice drifting across the cabin. “You were dragging me to a dude ranch in Colorado. I needed to know what kind of hell awaited me.”
I came out of the room, my mouth twitching. “You are so dramatic.”
“And you stepped in horseshit,” he pointed out before taking another bite. “Twice.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I asked, plopping down across from him.
“You came to a ranch dressed head to toe in Ralph Lauren, and you stepped in horseshit. I’m just saying that maybe the drama apple didn’t fall too far from the drama tree.”
I snorted and stole his fork from him, sneaking a quick bite from his mountain of spaghetti.
“That’s pretty good.”
“Adding jarred sauce to freshly boiled noodles is one of my many skills,” he said, leaning forward to steal the fork back from me.
I crossed my eyes at him, and then we chatted a bit more about the day.
“Beau convinced me to buy seven-inch cargo shorts, which I wasn’t sure about. But he said they had the gay stamp of approval, so I had to buy them.”
River looked at me like I was the dumbest person on earth.
“What? Is the gay stamp of approval something really bad?”
“No. It just means that he thinks you’re hot.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”
I mean, I did catch him checking out my ass outside of the changing room, but I didn’t mind it.
Not one bit.
“Dad, you’re an objectively good-looking guy. It’s okay if a gay guy thinks you’re hot.”
“Thanks, I think.” I stole his fork and nabbed another bite from his plate. “So … what do you think is hot?”
He shook his head as he snatched the fork back. “No. We’re not doing that.”
“What? Part of the reason for taking this trip is to get to know you better. And that includes your taste in men.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?” I grinned and leaned forward. “Is it embarrassing? Are you embarrassed by the guys you like?”
He pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth. “I’m not embarrassed. I’m just not discussing it with you.”
“Why? We’ve had discussions about safe sex. Safe gay sex, to be specific.”
“Yes. I remember.” River shuddered. “Half of the therapy I go to these days is to get over the trauma of that conversation.”
I balled up a napkin and tossed it at his head. “Shut up.”
He batted away the napkin, his lips threatening to quirk up. “Most gay guys have parents who don’t give a shit about them. I get the one dad who’s, like, all up in my business about it.”
“Oh, poor River. Your dad wants you to have a healthy sex life.” I wiped away pretend tears. “Must suck to be you.”
“Don’t say suck in the middle of a discussion about sex, Dad. I beg you.”
My hands went to my face, which was approximately the temperature of the sun.
“Oh, did you want to know about my blow job technique?” he asked, his eyes lighting up.
It was my turn to shudder. “No. Absolutely not. I just wanted to know about the kind of guy you liked. You’re a very good-looking guy; I’m sure you’re everyone’s type.”
Pulling his plate back for another big swirl of spaghetti, he muttered, “I doubt I’m anyone’s type.”
“Whatever.” I gave him the raspberries. “Sure, the all-black attire is an acquired taste. But I am absolutely certain there are men who would want to acquire you.” I held up a finger. “That sounded a lot more human traffick-y than I intended.”
River rubbed his forehead. “I’m embarrassed for you, and we’re the only ones here.”
I stuck my tongue out at him.
“Oh, real mature,” he said with a soft laugh.
We went quiet as he finished off his plate.
Honestly, it was the most comfortable quiet we’d shared in a long time.
“Your mother would be laughing so hard at me right now.”
River avoided my eyes as he stood up from the table. Walking with a slight limp over to the sink, he washed his dish, dried it, and set it back in the cabinet.
Maybe I wasn’t done stepping in it after all.
“I’m sorry,” I said, desperate to get us back to relaxed. “We don’t have to talk about her.”
He was still facing the kitchen sink. “No, it’s … it’s fine.”
“She was really proud of you, Riv,” I said, because I just couldn’t shut the fuck up.
He gripped the counter. “I doubt it.”
His tone gave me pause. He wasn’t just contradicting me to contradict me.
“Your mom and I had really good communication, even after the divorce. She really loved and wanted to support you.”
“Yeah, she was pretty supportive of my art.”
“No, son. Not just your art. She was supportive of you. All of you.”
He turned around, setting his butt against the edge of the counter. “She wasn’t like you.”
I bit at my inner lip. Should I ask a question? Should I just stay quiet and let him speak? Maybe if I—
“Did she talk about me being gay with you?” he asked, crossing his arms. “She didn’t say a lot that day I came out.”
“As opposed to me, who asked if you were transgender,” I joked.
I got a half smile for that one.
“Seriously. Did she… How was she after all of that?”
A good question with a hard answer. It was all chaotic back then.
“I think she was thrown,” I said finally. “And not just because of your announcement. Divorce is always hard, even when it’s friendly. Selling the house and splitting assets and finding a new place to live… It was all super stressful and happening all at once.”
I stopped talking because those were all starting to sound like excuses in my head.
He nodded and dried his hands on the kitchen towel. Then grabbed his walking stick and started heading back toward his room.
“River? How was she with you?”
“She was fine.” He thumbed a gesture to his room. “I’m gonna take a shower and get ready for bed.”
Which meant it wasn’t fine at all.
I wanted to dig into that, ask a bunch of questions, but I had my therapist in my head. “Let River come to you when he’s ready.”
So, I changed the subject.
“I’m kind of looking forward to the rope swing tomorrow.”
River snorted as he opened the door to his room. “Ten bucks says you scream like a little girl.”
“Nuh-uh.”
Another half-smile, even a half-laugh. “You are such a dork.”
I eyeballed his walking stick. “Do you think you’ll be able to do it? Like, actually swing on the rope?”
“Oh my God. Dad.” Big eye roll. “Stop stressing over my fucking hip. There’s nothing I can’t do, even if I hafta do some of it limping.”
“That’s a really good attitude to have, son.” I held up my finger. “Though you should also know that I worry just as much about your ankle.”
“Ugh.” He stuck out his tongue. “Dork.”
“I love you too, son.”
He shot me a quick glance, and maybe it was just my imagination, but I’m pretty sure that was warmth I read in his eyes.
Either that, or he was coming down with something.
I stuck my fingers in my hair, gripping my skull as I examined the empty living room. Maybe I’d start a fire and read a book. Try to relax.
Or, you know. Overanalyze all the words not being said in between our silences.