Vaughn
THIRTY-FOUR
Silas is crouched at the far end of the root vegetable bed, digging out weeds and adding straw. His lips are moving, so I bet he’s talking to them.
And what am I doing? I’m standing at the kitchen counter with my coffee, watching him. Because some days I still can’t believe he’s here and he’s mine.
Fall has settled in.
You can feel it in the mornings, that particular chill that comes down from the mountains overnight and hasn’t fully left by the time we’re up, and the light of the setting sun going golden earlier.
The vegetable patch is winding down. Everything that was growing through the summer has been harvested or finished, and what’s left is the autumn planting that Silas put in three weeks ago.
There isn’t much for him to do now that the weather is cold more often than warm.
Which is why the greenhouse is arriving next week.
It’s currently sitting in a warehouse outside Denver, flat-packed and waiting. It’s a good one, with glass panels, solid framing, large enough to grow a variety of vegetables, and with a heating system that will keep it warm through the Colorado winter. Silas is going to be able to grow year-round.
I can’t wait to see his face.
I worried, when he first said yes to Pine Ridge, it would be too quiet for him.
Silas spent ten years traveling the world, living in the spaces between things, doing the jobs no one else could do. And now he’s on a farm in a small Colorado town, not entirely divested of its drama, but still tame when compared with killing bad guys.
I worried it would feel like nothing after everything.
He told me, one evening on the porch, some of what the job had actually involved. Not in detail—for which I was grateful—but enough for me to understand the scope of it. The targets. The years. The cost of being very good at something that required him to be less than fully human.
I still can’t entirely reconcile it.
The man who has crouched in my vegetable patch talking to kale is not a man I can map onto the job he’s described, and I’ve decided that’s okay.
That both things are true. That the person he was and the person he is exist in the same body, and I love the body and the person, and I’m not going to spend my life trying to make them fit together neatly because they don’t need to.
He’s happy.
That’s the thing I keep coming back to. Whatever it cost him to get here, he is happy and settled. I know it because he tells me all the time.
Pine Ridge has done what Pine Ridge does best.
It kept him.
“Stop ogling my best friend.”
I turn.
Rowan is in the kitchen doorway, leaning his good shoulder against the door frame.
“I’m just looking out the window at my vegetable patch,” I say with all the innocence I can muster.
“You’re ogling.” Rowan comes to stand beside me, and we watch Silas in his favorite place on the farm. “I’m really happy for you both, Dad.”
“You’re not just saying that?” I haven’t gotten any unhappy vibes from Rowan, but it doesn’t hurt to check.
“I mean it,” he says. “You both deserve to be happy. You’ve both been alone for too long.” He leans into me, a gentle tap. “And yes, it’s still a little weird that my best friend is my—”
“Don’t say stepdad.”
“I wasn’t going to say stepdad,” he says, like someone who was absolutely going to say stepdad. “I was going to say that the two people I love most in the world are happy, and that’s what matters. Even if one of them is out there talking to your vegetables.”
Silas has moved to a different bed and appears to be having a separate conversation with the winter spinach.
“It’s adorable and weird in equal measure.” Rowan shakes his head. “I always knew Silas had an old soul. I just didn’t realize it was a farming soul. Thank goodness I’m going back to work before this happiness disease takes hold of me.”
“You’ve been cleared?”
“Got the results from the physical yesterday,” he says. “Passed everything. The assistant special agent in charge called—they want me back in a couple days, so I have to go back tomorrow.”
My son is strong and stubborn, so I’m not surprised he’s ready to go back to work, but maybe I’m the one who isn’t ready for him to go.
“Rowan.”
“Dad,” he says in a pre-emptive tone.
“I’m proud of you,” I say. “I’m always proud of you. I’m never going to stop worrying about your safety, which is my right as your father, but I’m going to miss having you here.”
“I promise to visit more,” he says. “Now that Silas is here, I’ve got a buddy for river adventures. Hux has been asking when we’re coming back.” He grins. “And Chris is already planning a rematch for next year’s phallic gourd competition.”
“God help us,” I say.
“Between me and Silas,” Rowan says, “you’re going to have a very full life.”
“Between you and Silas,” I say, “I’m going to go to an early grave.”
Rowan laughs just as the back door opens and Silas comes in, still in his garden clothes, with soil worked into the cracks in his hands. The way he smiles when he looks at me will never cease to bring me to my knees.
He comes straight to me and wraps his arms around me, rests his head on my shoulder, and turns to Rowan.
“What are we talking about?” he asks.
“We’re discussing how you’re going to murder my dad.”
Silas laughs. “If I didn’t kill him when I was getting paid well to do it, I’m certainly not going to do it now that I have access to other considerably more enjoyable personal benefits.”
Rowan makes a sound of profound suffering. “I walked into that.”
The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” Rowan says, leaving the kitchen.
Silas faces me.
He gets his hands on my waist, and I get mine on his.
I kiss him because I can. Because he’s mine.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask when we break apart.
“For a potluck dinner with what feels like the entire town of Pine Ridge? Absolutely.”
“They’re going to be a lot,” I say.
“They’re always a lot. That’s why I like them.” He kisses me again, quick and warm. “I’m going to grab a shower. I’ll be right down.”
“We could—” I eye his chest, knowing exactly what he looks like all wet and pliant under the shower spray.
He considers me with an expression that suggests he knows exactly what’s on my mind.
“We could,” he agrees. “But we’d take at least half an hour, and that would be rude to our friends.”
We drop our embrace, and he goes upstairs, leaving me staring at the shape of his ass in those shorts that fit him way too perfectly.
Tess comes through into the kitchen, followed by Clay and Rowan. She’s carrying two casserole dishes that smell extraordinary. She sets the dishes on the table. “This was the best idea. I don’t often have an excuse to cook for friends.”
I snort. “Tess, you literally bring me food at least three times a week.”
She waves me off and starts pulling plates out of the cupboard.
Kai and Atlas show up just as Silas comes back downstairs. Shortly after, we’re joined by David and Mark from the Bookshelf Café and then Priya and Dom.
Dante arrives with Hux and Chris.
The house fills up with more people than it’s ever held before.
As everyone fills their plates, Silas comes over to me.
“Is everything okay?” he says quietly.
“Yeah. I was just thinking about the first time Tess knocked on my door with bread, and look at this place now.”
“Maybe it’s a little selfish, but I don’t hate having so many friends. After all the years of keeping everyone at bay, I like this.”
My feelings exactly.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s fill our plates before the good stuff is gone.”
“Baby, look at it. All of this food is good food.”
I hang back as Silas overfills his plate until he has to balance it carefully on the table before he spills everything.
If anyone had told me a few months ago this would be the life I was about to gain, I’d have laughed.
The food is extraordinary. We’d planned to eat at the big table, but there isn’t enough space for everyone, so most of us end up standing in small clusters of conversations divided by topic.
Clayton shares his research for next year’s pumpkin as we eat.
“There are cultivation techniques I haven’t tried. And Vaughn, I know you have all the fancy knowledge, but Silas has the raw talent.”
Silas, who’s in a group with Atlas and Kai, perks up. “You got it, Clay.”
There’s a brief discussion about naming rights for this new pumpkin that’s still a good six months from germination, and then Dante, the eternal bartender, pours wine for whomever needs it.
Later, when our bellies are full and the dishes are mostly dealt with, we move outside to the firepit.
Since the last time Atlas and Kai joined us, I’ve bought new chairs. They’re Adirondack-style, in a dark wood that will weather well. I have a feeling they’ll be used a lot.
The fire is burning strong. Clayton took charge of it, and everyone has arranged themselves to avoid getting faces full of smoke. Tess has somehow provided blankets, and Dante has produced more wine.
I sit in one of the new chairs. Silas proceeds to ignore the one next to mine and makes himself comfortable on my lap instead.
This is the kind of geographic arrangement I’m on board with, so I get my arms around him, and he leans back against me as we gaze at the valley together in the firelight.
The mountains are dark against a sky spattered with stars and a brilliant moon. This is the most peaceful place I’ve ever been in. Maybe because it has always felt like home, even before I allowed myself to be claimed by it. And now with Silas here, it couldn’t be better.
“I love you,” I say against his ear.
He looks at me with those big dark eyes, his smile framed by the short beard. He’s so beautiful.
“Kiss me,” I whisper, and he does. It’s soft, unhurried, and filled with the words he doesn’t need to say out loud.
If there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s communication—apart from that one time.
Life is too short to let what you want escape through your fingers.
He breaks the kiss and turns back to gaze at the fire.
I keep my arms around him.
The fire crackles.
The sky is bright with stars.
And this right here—the people and the fire and the mountains and the man I love on my lap—is the life I have now.
I couldn’t be happier.
I didn’t know this was possible.
Here it is anyway.