Storm Season

by Elle Keaton

  How was he supposed to ask a complete stranger to Thanksgiving dinner? Not complete stranger, he reminded himself; they had been introduced, as well as Micah literally falling into the man’s lap. What was Sara up to, anyway? Micah was worried that it wasn’t Sara behind this invitation; that her dad, Ed, was also involved. Ed was a well-known character around Skagit. Micah liked him, but wasn’t certain he wanted him involved in—

  Micah cut the thought off. He wasn’t thinking it. It wasn’t going to happen. Because he had agreed to it, he would figure out a way to invite Adam Klay for Thanksgiving. But that would be it. Nothing else needed to happen or be expected to happen.

  Liar, whispered a quiet voice. Liar, liar, liar.

  Nine

  Adam hadn’t been able to sleep. He rolled out of bed at half past five, thinking he would grab coffee and get a head start. He’d forgotten it was November and the sun didn’t even rise until nearly nine, and that was if there wasn’t cloud cover. It was sheeting rain, again. He went to the Booking Room and nursed a coffee and scone until Sara started giving him funny looks. Maybe it was the scowl.

  On his way out he ran into a startled Micah, who took one look at him and backed away, out from under the protection the tiny awning offered. Fat rain drops immediately poured down the back of his neck. Adam grabbed him and pulled him back under the shelter, in the process bringing their faces so close they could have been sharing a kiss. For some unfathomable reason this made Adam grumpier. He jerked his hand off Micah’s coat and stomped out into the deluge to his crappy car. In the rearview he could see the poor guy standing there with his mouth open. Hopefully Sara would rescue him soon.

  He supposed the sun was up by now. It was kind of lighter than it had been, anyway. The Subaru bumped up and then down the sparsely graveled drive to the parking area of Gerald’s place. No other cars this morning. Ed had probably changed his mind. Adam didn’t blame him. When his car windows steamed over completely he got out, grabbing the gloves and industrial trash bags he’d picked up. The massive trash container was supposed to have arrived yesterday, but Adam couldn’t see it lurking anywhere. Another fucking phone call he’d be making.

  Twenty or so bags of trash later he heard the rumble of a big engine. Ed’s decrepit truck was leading the way for a huge flatbed truck with wooden sides. He was grinning like an idiot. “You need one of those cell phones, Adam!” he yelled. “I coulda called you and let you know we were waiting for Don to finish up. This’ll work better than one of those dumb-sters, and Don is donating.” Adam recognized Don. He’d been around a bit back in the day. And of course Adam had a cell phone. He hadn’t thought to give his number to Ed.

  “If you’d waited a bit at the café, I would’ve found you.” Ed looked sideways at him. “Sara said you were in quite a humor. Strong words for her. Sounds like you owe that Micah Ryan an apology.”

  Adam wanted to disappear into the earth. This was a handy reminder why—weather notwithstanding—L.A. was so much better. Anonymity.

  “Micah Ryan, huh?” His brain had one single track.

  “That boy has a story, for sure,” Ed said.

  Adam didn’t think of Micah as a boy, but thought better of telling Ed that. “Huh.” World’s most proven way to extract information.

  “His entire family was killed in a terrible car accident ’bout ten years ago. Mother, father, sister. He’s never been the same.” Ed chuckled sadly. “Well, he was always kind of kooky anyway. But, yeah, pretty much crippled him. He came home from graduate school. Moved into that house and didn’t really come out for a couple of years.” Ed’s voice was quiet; Adam moved closer. “Big blow to the community, too; rumor had it Micah’s dad, Brett Ryan, was thinking about running for election. His mom, Lucinda, was a professor at the university, history or something. And of course his sister Shona, so young, only like ten or something. Until Oso it was the biggest tragedy around here.” Ed shook his head and Adam nodded in agreement.

  Six of the most miserable wet hours that Adam had ever spent later, about a quarter of the actual trash in the yard was loaded into Don’s truck. They still had to go through and pick what could be considered recyclables: washing machines, unidentifiable hunks of metal, two or three rusted-out shells of cars. And they hadn’t touched the storage sheds yet. To his horror, Adam had found the skeletons of at least two small animals (he thought they were cats) nestled in the cars’ interiors. A fridge dating from the 1950s was probably hazardous waste. There were microwaves that had sat out in the weather year upon year. And more. So much more. His dad had done a pretty good job of hiding what he had on the property from his neighbors, though they had all thought of him as eccentric. To Adam’s mind eccentric did not equal hoarder, but what did he know? He was overwhelmed. Monumentally overwhelmed. He surveyed the yard and it didn’t look like they had accomplished anything. He was soaking wet, freezing, and had passed hungry several hours ago.

  Adam wanted a molten hot shower and clean clothes; he wanted a drink and maybe a fuck. The fuck was negotiable since he hadn’t had sex in so long he’d probably forgotten how to do it. He hadn’t wanted to have sex in a long time, his workload had been so brutal. Probably wouldn’t happen tonight, either. An anonymous hookup in Skagit would be less anonymous than he would like, but he could use a drink.

  Adam remembered to give Ed his phone number; he was Ed’s second contact after Sara. Adam had a laugh with him about that. They agreed to meet up again the next day. Ed knew a few guys who might take the cars for scrap.

  One not-hot-enough shower later, Adam was debating delivery for dinner versus going out in public. Micah’s image drifted across his consciousness. Adam had no idea what it was about the guy that drew him. Micah was tall and lean. He’d always been envious of those with a runner’s body. So, yeah, when he had dated he’d tended toward Micah’s physical type, but in all honesty it was probably Micah’s eyes. Micah had the most expressive eyes Adam had ever seen. They told a story so well, Micah probably didn’t even need to speak. While Adam didn’t know if Micah was gay or not, he was betting on yes. He hadn’t gone to cop school for nothing. Regardless, he a) didn’t know Micah at all, b) couldn’t be certain he was gay and available, and c) couldn’t assume a positive answer to b meant he wanted to have sex with Adam.

  Was there a gay bar in Skagit? That would be a big change. Probably more likely to be one south, toward Seattle.

  Lo, the internet came to his rescue. Yes, there was a gay-friendly bar on Steele Street, the Loft. Adam got dressed, pulling on blue jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt and topping them off with his black boots and leather jacket. With his phone and wallet tucked into his coat he was good to go, maybe even a bit overdressed. Smiling to himself, he left the motel.

  ***

  At the Booking Room the next morning, Adam looked up from reports he was not supposed to be working on and saw Micah exiting the police station. Huh. He’d never seen Micah deviate from his usual routine before. He now stood on the sidewalk looking a little lost and maybe angry, before turning and walking in the opposite direction. Adam felt a twinge of something, spear his chest. The Loft had been disappointing. Maybe it was the day of the week, he didn’t know for certain. The space itself had been nice enough, an old style store front that looked small on the outside but surprisingly large on the inside. A mahogany back bar was nicely complimented by the bar itself, it was long probably sat at least twelve. Flashy liquor bottles against an inset mirror with several tap handles in front. There was a dance floor as well, although he hadn’t seen anyone dancing last night.

  The bartender had been friendly enough, asking a few questions then leaving him to brood as he wished. Maybe it hadn’t been the bar so much as Adam’s frame of mind. He’d caught himself drifting into thoughts about Micah Ryan, wondering if he danced or even went out much. He hadn’t, yet, had a ‘real’ conversation with the seemingly shy man, what was he doing thinking about him so much?

  “Enjoying the view, city boy?”

/>   Adam started, disturbed that his inner musings had been spoken aloud. Jack Summers had taken the seat opposite him and was watching him watch Micah. He hoped Jack thought he was looking at some woman, not the handsome man who was walking away. Adam wasn’t in the closet, but he hated having his private life out for public debate.

  “Yeah, lovely,” Adam muttered.

  Jack Summers was an arrogant asshole; Sara had that right. Adam had no doubts that he used his position on the SkPD to make the people around him afraid. He also thought he was God’s gift to humanity in general, and women especially. Unfortunately, Jack had seen him a few evenings ago and remembered Adam from high school. Revisionist history had them best friends.

  “Well, it’s nice to look at, but I can assure you that pool is co-old to swim in!” Jack laughed at his own joke.

  His curiosity got the better of him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Small town, Adam, only so much to go around. She’s a real bitch.” Jack nodded toward the window. “Natalia Verdugo. Thinks she’s better than everyone else. Not much to it, really. She’s an ice-cold bitch.”

  Adam spotted a Hispanic woman, probably late twenties or early thirties, also walking away from the police station. By “bitch,” Jack probably meant the woman had refused his advances at some point. She deserved a medal.

  “She runs that young-adult shelter. Always harboring punks and pieces of shit who run there and cry wolf when Mommy and Daddy pull the hammer.”

  Adam wondered how many times Jack had been through sensitivity training, and if his behavior had been even worse before.

  Luckily Jack’s coffee was ready and he departed with a, “Let’s get together later; you can catch up with some more of the guys.” Jack had a very different memory of high school than Adam did.

  Most winter days in Skagit the clouds were so low it seemed as if Adam should be able to touch them without even stretching. The heavy gray underbellies hung close and threatening, smashing right up against the Cascade mountain range. They could stay there for days, hunkered down. There were even different degrees of rain. He had complained about getting caught without an umbrella and Sara had looked out the window, declaring, “This isn’t real rain.” She followed that with a lecture about how real northwesterners don’t need umbrellas. He’d wanted to choke her, but she hadn’t given him his coffee yet. Besides, Ed was growing on him.

  As a child, Adam had never thought about leaving the Skagit Valley. He’d loved the time spent hiking around his dad’s acreage and, when he was fifteen, he’d talked Gerald into getting him a kayak, which he’d wanted more than a car. When he did leave, he’d never planned on returning. Being back was awkward. Memories kept popping up, reminding him that his time here had not been entirely painful, and that was confusing as hell.

  The independent bookstore he had spent hours in as a child and young teen was, remarkably, still in business. The building it claimed as home was a cheery mint green now, defying the grim Skagit skies. On the other hand, the open fields he remembered were gone, paved over and packed with cheap housing or those strip malls that always had the same five stores in them but no customers.

  Ten

  Operation Ask Adam Klay to Thanksgiving was not going smoothly. Micah had seen Adam through the Booking Room’s window and thought today would be the day. He kept replaying the weird exchange two days earlier when Adam came storming outside and stopped to glare at him for a heartbeat before practically ripping the door off an aging SUV and driving off into the pelting rain. Except, he’d touched Micah’s neck and the skin there still burned hot.

  Putting Adam out of his mind for the time being, he set himself up at “his” table, working for several hours before coming up for a breather. Adam Klay wasn’t the only person on his mind. He was still irritated about his field trip to the SkPD headquarters. The whole experience nagged him.

  Part of the problem was that he didn’t know the procedure for what he wanted to do, or if he could do it. Jessica Abrahams concerned him. She had once been a part of the Ryan household, almost a second sister to Micah. When Shona and Jessica were about nine and Micah had been home for the summer, his parents had thought he should babysit one evening. The little creeps had locked him out of the house, but Micah’d had the last word when he disconnected the cable from outside. Their outrage had been magnificent and completely worth the scratches from the blackberry bush he’d had to clamber through to get to the box.

  Micah hadn’t seen Jessica in years. Maybe at the funeral, but certainly not since then. The young woman who had sat across from him the other day was a far cry from the girl who had played tricks on him with help from his younger sister. She was too skinny and looked like she needed a shower. Something was wrong, seriously wrong. Micah wanted to report her missing (he couldn’t find her) or maybe endangered, but she was an adult now and not related to him. The officer at the front desk had been entirely unhelpful, hardly bothering to take notes.

  If he didn’t find her in the next few days he would go out to her parents’ house. Not that he thought that would get him very far. Even as a child, Jessica’s relationship with her parents had been strained. By the time she and Shona hit their tween years she had spent more time at the Ryan’s house than her own.

  Proving he had somehow developed an Adam Klay focused compass, the front door of the café opened. Before Micah looked up he knew it was Adam. Their eyes met when he scanned the room for a table, because Micah was still stupidly staring directly at him. Adam grinned, grabbed his coffee from Ira and began walking in his direction.

  “How about coffee today? Your cup is empty, can I buy you another?” Micah really should have said no, because at this point he wasn’t going to be able to walk a straight line. Not that he could anyway.

  “Uh, sure. I mean, yes, that would be great.” Dying on the inside, what were they going to talk about?

  Sitting back down at their table Adam leaned closer, “Just so you know, I had Ira make yours a decaf.”

  Narrowing his eyes Micah couldn’t help but chuckle. “It probably won’t make a difference but nice effort. You sure know how to impress a guy.”

  “Is it working?” Adam waggled his eyebrows.

  Yes, it was working, but Micah refused to confirm or deny, only shook his head with a smile. And so they shared coffee together, under the watchful eye of Ira and the other patrons. It was very pleasant.

  Adam was surprisingly easy to talk to. Micah knew who he was of course, once Ed had said his name. If a person lived in Skagit for anytime at all you knew who Gerald Klay was, his paintings and prints were everywhere. When the elder Klay had been found dead from an apparent heart attack, the town went into mourning for their beloved icon. Gerald Klay’s paintings had put the tiny town on the world map, as far as collectors were concerned.

  Micah hadn’t known Gerald Klay had a son, he had never met the artist in person, only seen pictures. Adam looked a lot like his dad, except where Gerald had been tall and fairly thin, Adam was built solid and probably topped out at about 5’9”. A very nice package. He immediately flushed, and of course Adam noticed.

  Eleven

  Adam ended up at a place called the Beaver that night. He’d had every intention of going to the Loft again, but as he’d been walking down the street he heard a voice calling out to him. It was the woman Jack had pointed out, Natalia Verdugo, who ran some teen shelter. What Adam wanted was a stiff drink, not chat-time with a woman he didn’t remember from high school, but for some reason he couldn’t seem to tell her no.

  His inner twelve-year-old chortled at the name of the dive bar, one of the few in town that had resisted any kind of gentrification. Giggles aside, they offered the best beers in town, and a great bar to brood at. Maybe he could brush off Natalia and head to the Loft after.

  The place had a cozy atmosphere with its worn wood flooring and old-timey black-and-white photos of Skagit from the 1950s and ’60s. It was long and narrow, with the bar crammed against on
e wall and booths on the other. In the back room, an antique shuffleboard with wax beads strewn across it listed slightly under a blackboard displaying the names of people waiting to play next. The chunking sound of the pucks hitting the board reverberated in the quiet of a Wednesday evening.

  A couple of guys were hanging out in the way back gossiping and throwing darts with extremely poor aim at a newish-looking dartboard.

  He and Natalia sat in a corner booth, the faux-leather seats creaking under their weight. The jukebox hadn’t been updated since the mid-’80s, if the classic collection of Tom Petty and Bruce Springsteen was any indication.

  Ashley or some other similarly named server brought them menus and water, greeting both of them with a familiarity Adam did not share. He’d probably gone to high school with her, too. When she came back he ordered a pint and a side of fries. The smell of food hit him hard; he couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last. Except, yeah, cold leftovers from the Mexican place, in his room, around lunchtime. Natalia ordered a glass of chardonnay. She seemed determined to chat and relive old times. Adam mostly nodded, reminding himself he needed to be polite.

  Service was slow. He checked his phone discreetly for the time. The conversation was excruciating, and Adam couldn’t recall what his motivation had been for accepting her invitation.

  Finally, Natalia left, excusing herself with a cheery goodbye. The entire time she had sat there chatting he had been unable to remember her from high school. At all. Not one mention of “that kegger at the beach” or “the time we partied out in the county” had rung any bells. Adam was starting to think they had gone to different schools or graduated at wildly different times.