The F Words

by Anyta Sunday

  Wherever that was.

  It was screwed up to say the least.

  So was his Sunday. He wasn’t able to concentrate on anything and by the evening he couldn’t remember what the hell he’d done all day. Except for avoiding his laptop.

  He still winced every time he replayed those last minutes in Eric’s kitchen. The truth had stung.

  Rory went to bed and stared at his ceiling in the darkness, and tried to think like his uncle would. In facts.

  Fact one) What Eric had done hurt.

  Fact two) Rory had hurt Eric like that and worse before.

  Fact three) Eric had forgiven him.

  Fact four) Rory had resorted to running away. Again.

  Fact five) Rory had wanted only to move on.

  Fact six) No matter his intentions, Eric had been there to help.

  God, thinking in facts was making him see how he might have overreacted. Why couldn’t Rory forgive and forget that lash of pain? Why couldn’t he be as magnanimous as Eric?

  And sure, it hurt that Eric thought of him as a way to make himself feel better—but could he blame him for wanting that? No. In fact, maybe Rory should be thankful that was the case or he might still be as stuck as he was—and probably in some rural part of New Zealand, still looking over his shoulder to make sure his demons hadn’t followed him.

  Fuck.

  He sat up, switched on his lamp, and grabbed his laptop.

  His inbox had one email from Eric.

  To:

  rory_a_phillps @ gmail.com

  Subject:

  Sorry

  Sorry.

  I like being around you.

  I wish that could continue.

  Reading the simple message was like a balm to his wound. He replied:

  To:

  ericgraham8 @ gmail.com

  Subject:

  r.e. Sorry

  I’m sorry too.

  Overreacted.

  Bing!

  Eric chat-messaged him.

  Eric:

  So . . .

  Awkward

  But I can’t sleep

  me:

  That makes two of us

  Eric:

  Huh, yeah.

  Work’ll be fun tomorrow

  As always

  Look, I’m sorry. It was never the only reason.

  Rory read the last message again. He was sorry too, and just chatting like this made his statement all the clearer. Eric wouldn’t have cared nearly as much as he did if it was only atonement or whatever. He could try to deny it, but that would be stupid—he’d felt there was more there. Even if neither of them had said it outright.

  me:

  I’m sorry too.

  Forgiven and forgotten.

  Eric:

  Thank you.

  Will I see you at the pool tomorrow evening?

  me:

  What time?

  Eric:

  5.30?

  me:

  I’ll be there

  Five thirty. The thought had Rory’s mind ticking. There was something he’d wanted to do in the days he had off next week, over Christmas. If Eric would be working the day until five thirty . . . well that would give him the whole day to start.

  Rory popped up at the end of his sixth length, and searched the lanes and the people milling at the entrance to the changing rooms for Eric. Every two lengths he’d check, and with each stop the fucking beehive in his gut buzzed louder. Stung stronger. It was five-forty-five already and he’d been anticipating the moment he’d see Eric since they’d finished chatting last night.

  Would it be weird? Were they back a couple of squares in their . . . friendship-thing?

  With shakier limbs than he was used to, he completed another two lengths. Though he reckoned he must have looked like a drowning dog. Bad form all the way.

  And it was all Eric’s fault.

  Christ, but he was going to lose his nerve if the guy didn’t show up soon.

  He tried to let the buzzing settle by resting against the edge of the pool taking long, deep breaths. But someone flipping and twisting at his end sprayed water into his mouth and he choked.

  Of course, that was the moment Eric strutted out of the changing rooms. Rory’s back stiffened. He thought he heard the whisper of his name—at least, over the sounds of children screaming, water splashing, and the diving board bouncing, it sounded like a whisper.

  But maybe it was his overactive imagination, because Eric had come to a stop a few meters from the lanes and hadn’t seen him yet.

  Rory took in the guy as he stood, feet slightly apart, arms hanging casually at his sides, hands brushing up against the slightly loose material of his swim trunks. The tattoos on Eric’s firm, faintly defined stomach and chest shimmered in the light and for a moment it looked like the fern tendrils were creeping toward his heart.

  Eric’s gaze finally landed on him. His face softened from narrowed and searching to something akin to relief. A small smile pulled at his lips, and then the mouthed word: “Rory.” And it sounded soft, just the way he’d imagined it before.

  A wave of renewed buzzing seized his gut, and Rory knew there was going to be no more swimming tonight or he’d fucking drown.

  He pushed himself out of the pool, and walked his dripping self to Eric.

  They stood opposite each other, wet to dry, gazes skimming then locking together.

  “I’m sorry,” Eric said. He looked like he was about to say more, but Rory shook his head, and he stopped.

  “Can we,” Rory said, and then coughed to clear his throat, “can we skip the swim?”

  Eric frowned. “Sure. If you want.”

  “Good. Because,” Rory’s insides went from buzzing to flipping in two seconds flat, “we need to talk.”

  Rory couldn’t stop the shivers wracking over him as Eric let them into his place. He took off his shoes and followed behind the guy, twice reaching out to stop him before he got to the living room, and twice dropping his arm.

  Yowler trotted down the hall, slowing their progress when Eric stopped to pick him up. “Huh, what are you doing out here, Mister?”

  Rory waited behind him, watching over Eric’s shoulder as his large hand swallowed the kitten in a long stroke. The purr Yowler made at that had Eric chuckling, but it didn’t sound as relaxed as Rory’d heard it in the past. In fact, it sounded nervous, and suddenly he realized it wasn’t just him.

  They were both jostled with nerves.

  Maybe Eric picking up Yowler in the hall was his way of stalling, of procrastinating what was to come.

  Rory let out a breath and stepped beside Eric, reaching over to pet the kitten too. His pinkie slid down the side of Eric’s and they both looked up at the contact.

  “Rory,” Eric said, and Rory clamped his clammy palm down on the back of Eric’s hand, stopping him from speaking further.

  He stepped toward the closed living room door, their hands sliding apart. “Come in here.”

  With his back pressed to the wooden door, eyes on Eric, he felt for the brass handle. When he had it in his grip, he swallowed and twisted, pushing it carefully open.

  He chickened out then and shut his eyes, his body molding to the door as if he were a part of it.

  The whoosh of Eric scented air caressed over him as the man passed into the room, but as soft and sweet as it was, it didn’t persuade him to open his eyes.

  His heart skipped erratically sounding so loud to Rory’s ears, it could have been a dull thumping against the door.

  The seconds stretched. As did his ears, trying to tell by sound how Eric might be taking in the walls he’d spent the day painting. The sound of padded feet against the floor stopped, and all that was left to Rory’s senses was the smell of fresh paint.

  It felt like forever before he heard the sound of footsteps again.

  When warm breath danced over his cheek, he tensed.

  A hand landed on his shoulder. “Open your eyes.”

  He cracked them o
pen slowly. Eric stood in front of him, Yowlerless, his one hand still firm on him, only now with the soft back and forth brush of Eric’s thumb.

  “You did this, for me?” Eric cast his gaze into the room over the warm beige walls. With the coatings of paint, the living room looked welcoming, and much warmer than before.

  “I still think you need a couch and a rug in here,” Rory said, slowly peeling himself off the door. “Some curtains too. But this place has so much potential.”

  “Why—how—no, why did you do it?” Eric dropped his hand and walked around the room once more.

  Rory moved to the table, gripping the top of a chair and resting his weight on it. “Think of it as an early Christmas present. I-I haven’t finished yet. I want to get all your walls done.”

  “This is too much. Thank you. But you don’t have to do more.”

  Rory squeezed the chair top, then dragged it out and sat. “No, it’s not too much. It’s nowhere near enough. I have to finish it.”

  Eric shook his head, and stood at the end of the table overlooking Yowler’s chair. He sucked in his bottom lip, shifting from foot to foot. He said softly, “It was you, wasn’t it? All those little fixes—the skirting board, the squealing door, the toilet chain . . . Not luck. Rory.” He smiled as he said it, and the impact shot straight to Rory’s core.

  Eric patted Yowler on the chair. “That’s why he suddenly liked you. You’ve been spending time with him.”

  “Whoa. Like me? No. We’ve just come to an unspoken agreement where if he shuts up, I’m cool, and if I let him keep his chair, he’s cool. We tolerate each other.”

  “Why, Rory?”

  “Why I tolerate the furry devil? Because you like him.”

  “No. Why do you want to do this?” Eric gestured toward the walls, then set his green eyes on him.

  “Just because, okay?”

  Eric moved to his side of the table and rested his hip against it at the other end. He folded his corded arms, waiting for more.

  Rory ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “Because I want you to know how sorry I am for the past, for being a prick. Because I want to say thank you for not judging me about William. And for being there when I needed a friend. Because I want to show you that I understand the reasons you had for sticking it out with me and I don’t blame you.”

  Rory stood up, too restrained on his chair. He paced to the fireplace and back again. “Because I like hanging with you too, Eric. And because . . .” He stopped a foot in front of him, “I want that to continue.”

  Eric stepped closer, and then paused as something caught his eye. He glanced from Rory to the kitchen.

  He knew exactly what he’d seen. A little card stuck to the fridge with a blue magnet. He watched as Eric hesitated between coming closer and moving to the card. Rory helped him decide by stepping back.

  He had to step back. The air was thickly charged between them, another wave of nerves had assaulted him, and he needed a second. Or five.

  As Eric took the card off the fridge, Rory fidgeted with the outer seams on his jeans and babbled, “I’ll get the rest of the place done this week. But, since you know now . . . Think I could have a key to your place? I keep cutting my finger climbing into your bathroom window. Which, by the way, I’ll fix as soon as the door becomes available. . . ”

  Eric stared at the card and read it out slowly. “Friendly, fun, fantastic, fucking fine . . .”

  He placed it on the bench and crossed to him. Rory sucked in a breath when Eric lifted his chin with a crooked finger. “There’s a key taped to a rock under the cabbage tree. It’s yours.” Eric swept a thumb over Rory’s stubble. “I am sorry for hurting you, Rory. I want you to know there was always more behind wanting to help you. Yes, I wanted to do the right thing and you were an opportunity—”

  Rory shifted, and Eric slipped his hand to the back of his neck to keep him there.

  He continued, “You also intrigued me. From the second I saw you with Willow at the playground, I wanted to know more about you. Every time after that we met, there was something more I wanted answers to.”

  The hand at his neck lifted slightly, and then fingers were pulling lightly at his hair. He wasn’t sure Eric was even aware of doing it. There was a pause for a moment when it was just them staring at each other.

  Eric glanced down to their feet as he said, “I was—am—attracted to the different sides of you. I hate seeing you so sad and lost about William. I can’t say how glad I was to hear you say that you wanted to move on. But I hated seeing you hurt and I wanted—needed—to stop that.”

  Eric’s hand slid to his shoulder, and he shuffled forward until their socked toes were touching. Sighing, Eric leaned in, pressing his forehead against his, the pressure solid and warm.

  Rory closed his eyes and just breathed Eric and his words in, “I was shit scared when I thought you were leaving—I didn’t even know you so well, but that fact didn’t matter, I felt I needed you right here. Need you still.

  “All this me helping you. . . I think it’s the other way around. You are helping me to move on, because being with you I feel less alone. Having you there gives me the hope that one day soon I’ll be able to let my grandpa go.”

  At some point, Rory’s hands had moved to Eric’s hips. He trailed fingers toward his back and pressed firmly, drawing Eric against him.

  Eric’s voice fell to a whisper. “I want to kiss you again so badly.”

  As Rory tilted his lips, there came the echo of a sharp knock on the front door, and the sound startled him out of the moment.

  “What freaking timing.”

  Eric glanced at Rory’s lips as if he wasn’t going to care about the door. But then another rap came, and Eric muttered under his breath. “I’ll be right back.”

  Rory let go of breath when Eric left the room and wrapped his arms around himself as if it would replace the warmth that’d been Eric only seconds before. It couldn’t.

  He stumbled back to the table and clumsily sat on the edge. There was nothing around to prod Yowler with, and therefore nothing to distract him from remembering.

  Remembering how much he needed to run after seeing William in that Forster boy. How he’d broken down to William’s image as if it were real. The raw moment when he saw Eric standing in the doorway and he was so broken he didn’t care about anything anymore. How gentle Eric had been with him . . .

  When Eric re-entered the room, his mood had one-eightied. His shoulders were slumped and he was rubbing his brow with the back of his thumb.

  Rory slipped to his feet, moving to him. “Who was it? What’s wrong?” That was when he noticed a piece of paper half-crunched in Eric’s other hand. He pried it out of Eric’s grasp.

  Eric let out a hollow laugh and crumbled into the chair Rory had first sat at.

  One glance at the page, and Rory went cold. “They’re looking for Yowler?”

  Eric rested his head in his hands, elbows propped on the table.

  “But, it’s been weeks . . .”

  “They were on holiday. The kitten was meant to be a Christmas present for their kid. They’d hired someone to look after him. Needless to say, they didn’t do their job, but now the family’s home and they want their cat back.”

  Rory screwed the page into a ball. “Fuck that. They can’t have him. He’s yours now.”

  “They can though, and they will.” Rory couldn’t see Eric’s eyes, but he caught the splash of a single tear on the tabletop. “The Hardys are coming back in twenty minutes with a carrier.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tuesday morning, Eric woke to a scratchy cry. He stumbled out of bed, half-asleep, and made his way to the kitchen. He pulled out an opened can of chicken-tuna from the fridge and shoveled it into Yowler’s bowl.

  Only once the tin dinged into the bin did Eric remember.

  Yowler wasn’t there anymore. He was with his new family now. He must have imagined the cry.

  A cold shiver ran from the nape of his
neck to his toes. He rubbed his arms and it sounded loud in the empty house. His breathing quickened, short and shallow, and he hugged himself tighter, moving his gaze to his grandpa’s apricot jar urn.

  The jar was just meant to be temporary, but right now, he wanted to buy a permanent one, something that would always stay.

  Somehow he was across the room, one hand curled around the jar. Why did he always end up losing those he loved? The pattern frightened him.

  Eric slunk to Yowler’s chair, his birthday card was there, dented and faded from where he’d curled up, and little grey hairs clung to the surface.

  It was only a kitten.

  Except that losing him brought back all the feelings he’d had when his grandpa died.

  An eerie calm descended over him and Eric dressed, brushed his teeth, put on his shoes just like he did every morning.

  When he got to work and walked into the building, Marc sent him a wary smile. Eric’s gaze lifted to the clock over his shoulder. Ten past nine. He could guess what Marc’s apologetic expression meant.

  He passed him and made for his office. Just like that first week, the boss sat at his desk.

  “This is the second time you’re late in a month.”

  Eric didn’t respond. That would take too much energy, he waited and listened.

  “I’m going to have to give you a written warning this time. . .”

  A half-hour later, Eric left. He claimed he was ill and just walked out.

  In his pickup, he sat and stared into the distance, the green hills spotted with houses blurring.

  He fumbled for his phone and found himself dialing Will. When he only got his voice mail, Eric dropped his phone on the passenger chair.