29. Good Grief
twenty-nine
Good Grief
The shepherd’s hut nestles on a cliff top beside a farmer’s field near the edge of town.
Black paint has faded to charcoal and peels from the wooden sides of the cabin, decades of salt-heavy rain has rusted the tin roof, and bindweed has wrapped itself around the cast iron wheels, ensuring the wagon can go nowhere without a hefty spot of gardening beforehand.
Signs of an ancient footpath meander towards the little painted steps, but since then masses of spiky gorse have swallowed it, rendering the place inaccessible to living humans.
And it’s so far out of the hotel grounds no other ghost besides Jeanie could reach it.
But Jeanie has more important fish to fry at the moment. If she’s not boinking Peter on the back of the head with a lead pipe—ohhh, lead pipe, I get it now—she’ll be awaiting Angel’s release from the station.
Inside the cabin there’s a bed frame with no mattress, a surprisingly mould-free chintzy armchair, a tiny bookcase with an array of water?damaged crime novels, and a log burner. It’s dusty, smells of damp, has an infestation of spiders and pipistrelles, and yet, it’s perfect.
“We can pretend there’s an actual bed,” Trystan says.
And then, as if by magic, though I highly suspect the all-seeing, all-knowing Magnus might have a hand in this, a sumptuous twelve?inch?deep mattress thumps down onto the now unbroken frame. A handsewn patchwork quilt lies atop it, accompanied by feathery soft pillows.
I mouth a silent “Thank you” to Magnus and climb onto the bed.
Trystan copies me and gasps. We can feel the bed. Its squishiness envelopes me, cradles me.
“Oh my god,” he whimpers.
“I know.”
After a few moments, Trystan leans up on his elbows, crowding me into the hut wall. “Do you know, I think that both of our unfinished businesses must have been finished and we must have moved on, because right now . . . I’m in heaven.”
I reach up, lock my fingers in his unruly blonde curls, and pull his face to mine, kissing him as though I might wake up from this wonderful dream any second.
Without pulling away, Trystan unzips my overalls. He trails warm, breathy kisses down my neck and pushes his tongue into the divot between my throat and collarbone.
I know I’m dead, but this moment right now surely has to be the highest plane of ascension one can ever reach.
“Get these fucking Venkman pyjamas off. Let me see everything,” he says, as he leans up and strips his own shirt and racer-back off.
I sit up, scoot my coveralls and boxers off my butt, and pull my vest over my head, and Trystan watches me.
His eyes travel down my chest, my belly, my cock, and back to my stomach where they rest. He bites his lip, pulls his eyebrows into the sexiest frown, and moans.
Then he smiles to himself, as though he’s won some kind of jackpot prize.
“I can’t believe this is my reality,” he says.
I can only mutter a “Same” in reply.
“Two months ago, I was ready to end all of this, move on and take the chance that things would be better somewhere else, and then you came along and I didn’t know it could be like this .
. .” He breaks off when he sees my face.
I’m grimacing, though I don’t mean to be.
“Oh, god. I’m being so corny right now. I’ll stop it. ”
“No, please don’t,” I plead. “Sorry.”
I feel the negative thoughts brewing, the ones that tell me I’m not good enough for him.
The ones that have insisted over decades of my life that no matter how kind you are, Gary Runcorn, no matter how smart, how considerate, how funny, how generous, the only things that mean anything, the only way you could ever be lovable, is by having or being something you never will.
Taller, slimmer, more handsome, richer. I shake the notions, physically shake my head to get rid of them.
The most beautiful person to have ever graced the planet has his hands all over my tummy and his lips tracing the stubble on my jaw.
“You’re not being corny. It’s just that I’m not used to it. I’ve never really had people say nice things to me like that. My brain wants to reject every compliment immediately to protect my heart. It only ever believed my grandma . . .” I laugh. “She would say the silliest stuff.”
“Like what?” Trystan draws the softest lines across my shoulders and arms with his fingertips.
Ordinarily, I’d hide my face while I recount this, but Trystan makes me feel a level of comfortable I’ve never felt before. “That I was her big, strong, brave boy. That I was always very helpful around the house, and I was the cleverest kid she ever knew, and that I was so loved.”
And fuck, I’m crying now.
“Those aren’t silly at all. You are all those things.” He kisses the single tear from my cheek. “Oh my god, it’s salty.” Then he licks my face and laughs. “Sorry, I got a bit excited then. You are strong, and brave, and clever, and so, so loved.”
I sob and laugh at the same time. “You’re just trying to make me cry so you can taste something again.”
“I could taste something else . . .” He wiggles down the bed, grabs my cock with his hand, and licks the precum from my head.
And I simply forget to care about anything else. There’s no time to feel self-conscious or down about things that could never be changed when Trystan Retallack has those beautiful lips of his wrapped around me.
Afterwards, after at least half a dozen rounds each, Trystan and I lie in a wet patch almost as big as the mattress itself.
It’ll evaporate at some point, so neither of us cares.
He rests his head on my chest and curls his legs over mine while I finger comb his golden hair.
Through the mottled hut windows, the sun stains the morning sky with watercolours of orange, pink, and lavender.
“I have something I want to say to you,” I tell the top of Trystan’s head. “But I’m frightened that if you say it back to me, it’ll be enough to move me on to the next realm.”
He leans back, gazing into my eyes. “I feel the same. You are my unfinished business. I know that now. So, what if we never say those three words to each other? And then we can stay like this forever and ever.”
“I’m worried I might accidentally say them, though,” I say. “They’ve been floating around in my head for ages, and I’m scared that you’re going to look at me in that puppy dog way you do, and the words will just fall out of my mouth.”
“I nearly said them earlier when you came for like, the fourth time.”
“See?”
“Okay . . .” He takes my hand within his and pushes himself into a seated position. “What if we both said them at exactly the same time, and if we move on . . . we move on together?”
“Okay, okay. I like that.” I lean forward, thread my free hand into his hair, and kiss him deeply. A just-in-case-this-is-the-last-kiss kiss. “Ready?” I ask pulling away enough to look into his eyes.
“After three?”
I steady my breaths. Trystan chews on his lip.
“One.”
He’s so incredibly beautiful. The curve of his brow bone, the line of his nose, the dip above his full top lip.
The freckles on his cheeks and nose, impossible to count but unbearable to look away from.
The honey-gold curl that rests on his tan forehead.
The creases at the corners of his eyes from squinting into the sun.
His ocean?blue eyes that swirl with unfathomable galaxies.
I cram every detail into my memory. Photograph it with my mind.
“Two.”
Do I know where “on” is? Do I understand where ghosts go after they stop being ghosts? No, but I don’t care. As long as I’m with him, nothing can hurt me ever again.
Trystan swallows. I grab his hand tighter.
“Three.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
. . .