8. Silas
EIGHT
SILAS
Vaughn stares at me like I’m something he’s not entirely sure is real.
I understand the feeling; after all, I stood on this porch for approximately five minutes before knocking and I’m already questioning several of my own decisions, starting with the one where I told myself that showing up at the home of the man I’m supposed to be protecting under the pretense of a casual visit was a reasonable and professionally sound plan.
It’s not a reasonable plan, but it’s the only one I have.
“You’re more than welcome,” he says. “Come in. As long as you need.”
I pick up my bag and step inside.
The house is the opposite of Vaughn’s old apartment in Denver where Rowan still lives.
The one I used to visit until it became too much like seeing Vaughn.
I like the modern but warm feel here. The furniture is all new and modern-looking, but the bookshelves are filled with novels he’s read and the couch has more than a few throws on it.
It’s a lived-in house that suits Vaughn perfectly.
I set my bag down near the entrance before following Vaughn into the kitchen.
He moves around the central island where he’s unpacking a bunch of groceries, and I stand like a fool, suddenly realizing how this must seem to him, especially after our last time together, which feels like way longer ago than a few days.
“After Warsaw,” I say, pulling myself back to the script, “my boss made me take personal time. It appears I’ve been accumulating it for years, and they’ve decided I need to use it.”
Vaughn glances at me over his shoulder. “Forced vacation.”
“More or less. I figured … I figured I’d take you up on the offer. See the farm. Help out if there’s anything useful I can do … Keep busy.”
The last part is true, at least.
Vaughn turns to face me properly, but before he can say anything, there’s a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” I say, because I’m closer and because I need a moment away from him to rearrange my brain.
The woman on the other side of the door is carrying two large canvas bags and appears approximately Vaughn’s age. She looks at me with frank, immediate curiosity.
“Hello,” she says. “I’m Tess.”
“Silas.”
“Lovely,” she says, and walks in.
I step back because there really isn’t another option. Tess moves through the hallway and into the kitchen with familiarity, sets her canvas bags on the counter, and leans over to press a kiss to Vaughn’s cheek.
“Welcome home, honey.”
I’m not jealous. She’s just a friend.
Tess moves around the kitchen, opening a cabinet to retrieve a plate without asking where it is, shifting one of the grocery bags to make space without asking if that’s all right.
Okay, I’m jealous.
“Bread,” Tess announces, producing two large loaves from the first bag.
“Sourdough and a seeded one because I know you prefer the seeded but Clayton always eats the seeded first if I make only one.” She produces a third item, wrapped in cloth.
“Apple and cinnamon loaf cake.” A fourth.
“Lemon drizzle. And,” a fifth, smaller item, “a little rosemary focaccia because I had the oven on anyway.”
Vaughn takes in the spread on his counter.
“Tess,” he says, “you’re a lifesaver. This is genuinely everything I needed today.”
She waves away the sentiment. “You seemed tired when I bumped into you at the Bookshelf, and that was before your trip. I can only imagine how tired you are now after the long flight and those time zones I can never get my head around.”
She begins transferring the baked goods to the plate she retrieved. “You’ll eat properly now and feel better.” She glances at me, then turns back to Vaughn. “I wanted to talk to you about the festival.”
“Yes, yes. I know it’s in three weeks,” he says.
“Did Clay tell you about Brenda?”
“He did. He thinks she’ll place.”
Tess nods confidently. “She’ll do more than place.” She leans against the counter. “But that’s not actually the latest gossip.”
“Do I want to know?”
She rolls her eyes, as if to imply Vaughn’s silly for even asking.
“Chris,” she says conspiratorially, “from Riverside Outfitters joined the festival organizing committee.” She pauses for effect. “And he’s proposed a new category.”
“What category?”
Tess straightens. Glances at me. Then, with the expression of a woman who has fully committed to this delivery, says, “A phallic gourd competition.”
I make a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a cough and is entirely involuntary. “A what?”
Tess turns to me. “Any vegetable grower can enter. The category is for vegetables that are”—she makes a hand gesture unambiguous in its meaning—“you know. Shaped like.”
Vaughn has gone slightly pink.
I, on the other hand, feel the first genuine smile I’ve had in several days breaking across my face. “That’s hilarious.”
“It’s a legitimate horticultural category, apparently.”
“Who wins?” Vaughn asks. “The one with the biggest … vegetable?”
Tess rolls her eyes again. “It’s all about size with men, isn’t it?”
Vaughn goes red. I shrug, because she’s not wrong.
“The winner,” Tess says, “is determined by realism. Not size. There’s a judging panel.”
“Who’s on the judging panel?” I ask.
“The Knot Today crochet club has volunteered.”
Vaughn stares at her. “Aren’t they all—”
“Eighty,” Tess confirms. “Actually, the average age has gone down since they had a few young ones join recently.”
“And they’re judging a—”
“They volunteered enthusiastically,” Tess says. “I think we can assume they’ve seen a variety of shapes and sizes over the course of their lifetimes and feel qualified to assess.”
I look at Vaughn.
Vaughn looks at me.
“I’m staying for the festival,” I say.
“The festival is in three weeks, and it lasts five days.”
“I know.”
“You’re staying for four weeks?”
“I have the time,” I say.
He stares at me for a moment with an expression I can’t fully interpret.
Tess, meanwhile, has been watching this exchange with the focused attention of someone who came for baked goods and is leaving with considerably more information than she arrived with. She studies me with a frank, assessing quality.
“So,” she says. “Who are you, exactly?”
“Old friend of Vaughn’s.”
I avoid his eyes when I say it.
He doesn’t correct me.
He doesn’t say Silas is Rowan’s best friend or he’s basically family or any of the things that would be accurate and natural and what I expected. He just lets it sit there.
Old friend of Vaughn’s.
Tess nods slowly. “Well,” she says, “welcome to Pine Ridge.” She collects her empty canvas bags. “I’ll tell you the same thing I tell everyone who comes here. The town has a way of grabbing the good ones and making them stay.”
“I’m not sure I’m one of the good ones.” It comes out more honest than I intend.
Tess stops folding her bags and looks at me directly, taking in my full measure, quick and thorough and without particular judgment, in about two seconds.
“Nah,” she says. “You’re definitely good people. I can tell these things.”
She picks up her bags, says something about Clayton and the harvest schedule to Vaughn, presses another kiss to his cheek, and lets herself out.
The front door closes, and it’s just Vaughn and me again.
The kitchen is quiet.
I feast my eyes on the loaves and cakes arranged on the counter, at the herbs, at the worn patch on the corner of the kitchen table.
“Hungry?” Vaughn asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m hungry.”
I watch him prepare a feast of sandwiches, cake, and apple slices before we take it to the living room and sit on the couch.
The setting sun casts a warm light into the room. He has an electric fire, which is the opposite of what I’d expect from him, but I can understand that after a long day at work he probably doesn’t want to tend to a fire but still enjoys the light and warmth.
“Does Rowan know you’re here?” Vaughn asks.
“He does,” I say. “That’s how I got the address.”
Vaughn nods, like this confirms something. “He didn’t mention it to me.”
“I asked him not to. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
Vaughn picks up his sandwich. “Why haven’t you visited before?”
There it is.
“Work,” I say. “It’s been busy. The travel schedule is—”
“Silas.”
The way he says my name is not unkind. It’s the tone of someone who is not going to pretend the answer they received was adequate.
“It’s been a busy few years,” I say.
“You’ve been to Denver,” Vaughn says. “Rowan mentioned it. More than once.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
Vaughn watches me eat my sandwich and then the cake with patience.
I don’t fill the silence, and he doesn’t push.
We eat until the only thing on our plates is crumbs. Vaughn leans back against the couch cushions and examines his hands for a moment. Then he looks at me.
“We need to talk about Warsaw,” he says.
“Okay.”
“I want to make something clear,” he says. “I haven’t said it before because I didn’t think it was necessary. After Warsaw”—he pauses, like he’s choosing his words—“it’s not just necessary. It’s vital.”
I wait.
“I’m not going to pretend I’m not attracted to you, Silas,” he says. “I’m not going to insult either of us by doing that.”
My heart beats so fast I might need to see a doctor.
“I know there’s a thirteen-year age gap,” he continues.
“I’m aware of how that looks. But I met you when you were a grown adult, and I can’t …
I can’t help what I feel.” He makes eye contact with me when he says it, which is the most Vaughn thing he could possibly do.
No deflection. No softening. Just the truth.
He holds my gaze.
“But nothing can happen,” he says. “Between us. Because of Rowan.”
The words are quiet and final.
“I know,” I say.
“Silas—”
“I know. And I hate it, because I’ve been attracted to you for longer than I’d like to admit. Years. And it’s actually a relief to say it out loud. I’ve been carrying it around for a long time.”
Vaughn is very still beside me.
“But Rowan … I love him. He’s my best friend, and I would never do anything to jeopardize what we have.
Not for anything.” I look at my hands. “He came to me when I didn’t know how to let people in.
When I couldn’t figure out how to connect with anyone, Rowan just decided we were friends and didn’t give me a choice about it. He’s the only family I’ve ever had.”
The room is quiet.
Then Vaughn says, simply and without ceremony, “He’s not the only family you have.”
I shift toward him.
“You’re family,” Vaughn says. “Not just Rowan’s. Mine too. You have been for a long time.” He holds my gaze. “I need you to know that. Whatever else is true, that part doesn’t change.”
“I really want to kiss you right now,” I say.
Vaughn freezes, his mouth slightly open, unintentionally tempting me. I have to look away or I won’t be able to do the right thing.
“I’m not going to,” I say. “Because if I start, I won’t be able to stop, and we’ve just agreed on a very sensible course of action, and I’d like to respect that for at least the next five minutes.”
“What if I don’t want to be kissed?” Vaughn says.
The way his lips curl a little at the corners only makes me want to kiss him more.
“Please,” I say. “As if.”
Something breaks in his expression, and he laughs. And just like that, the weight of the last ten minutes, maybe thirteen years, lifts slightly. Not gone. Not resolved. But lighter.
I have more information than I’d like to have, and so does he, and we’ve agreed to do nothing with it, and I am going to be sleeping down the hall from him for the next four weeks while I try to figure out who wants him dead, and the cake is excellent, and Tess was right.
I’m definitely staying for the festival.