by Alice Archer
I swallowed hard at the sight of the laden tray—sliced ham, black grapes, carrots, cucumber slices, a bowl of what looked like hummus, thick slices of brown bread, tall glasses of iced tea. “Wait. Seriously?”
Oliver passed me a plate and shrugged. “Dig in.”
“I want to clean up your workshop,” I blurted, grateful enough for the food to want to return the favor. It wasn’t what I’d planned to say. A big bite of ham and bread shut me up. I stuffed in a few grapes to make sure I wouldn’t talk for a while.
Slowly, as if under the influence of a stronger gravity, Oliver loaded his plate. “You could do that, if you really wanted to, but it would be in addition to your main assignment this week, which is to stock the kitchen. I’d like you to do the grocery shopping, food preparation, and cooking. I started a painting project. If I don’t lay in some easy meal options, I’ll gnaw on ice cubes and call it a meal. You can have half of whatever you make. There’s a chest freezer on the side porch, so there’s plenty of space. At the end of the week, I’ll give you access to the outdoor kitchen in the courtyard. Not a complete kitchen, but better than cooking at a campsite.”
My mouth was full, but I couldn’t swallow. The folding panels in the courtyard hid a kitchen. I chewed and swallowed until my throat opened up again. “Okay.” My plate was already clean. I set it back on the tray.
Oliver gestured with a cherry tomato, which I took to mean, You can’t possibly be finished. Eat more or I’ll be offended.
So I did.
The awkward stretch of silence while we ate ended when I remembered the painting on the side of the house. “How old were you when you did that painting on the side of the house? The Adventures of Young Oliver and His Pals, or whatever you call it.”
“Eight.”
“Eight. No way. Holy hell. You must have taken a lot of art classes as a kid.”
“Yes. No. Not… formally. Just here… at home. Granddad, my dad’s dad, was an artist. He lived with us. Or, I mean, my dad and I lived with him, until he… died and it became Dad’s house. Dad was an artist too. Between the two of them, they had about every medium covered.”
“That’s why you have so many art supplies and tools. You inherited all of it? No siblings?”
Oliver shook his head.
“How long since your dad died?”
Oliver put down his half-eaten sandwich. “The electrical outlets in the courtyard are hard to find. You can charge your phone in the one under the rose trellis.” With a little jerk, Oliver sat forward to dig around under the tray. He came up with a blue pencil and a corner torn from a sketchpad, on which he drew a rose trellis and the location of an electrical outlet.
I took the scrap of paper. “Uh. Thanks.” I was stuck on my question about his dad.
When Oliver’s warm fingers touched mine, he looked up at me. “Why do you need to camp out? Why don’t you have a job, or a home, or anyone to help you?”
“Well, Jesus Christ, Oliver. Don’t brace me for the tough questions or anything,” I huffed. “Or bother answering my tough question.”
Oliver only stared at me, intent and waiting.
Onion-poking standoff.
I could be the better man and give a little. “I mooched off my wife, Laura, for a decade, until she got fed up. Haven’t had much luck since. My family in Eastern Washington wouldn’t be interested in helping me, not in a way I could live with.”
“You didn’t work while you were married?”
“Sure I did. I worked full-time, but not in, like, a career type of job.”
“Copy shop?”
I nodded. “Copy shops. We moved a few times. So, where’s your mom?”
Oliver’s golden brown eyes narrowed. “I’ll put recipe cards, grocery list, and cash in the glove compartment of the van by ten tomorrow morning. Add whatever you’ve been craving to the grocery list. My treat. Get enough of everything for big batches, so there’s a lot to freeze. Also, Freddie’s back on Vashon tomorrow afternoon. I’ll need the van by two.”
I couldn’t believe it. “You order me around, expect me to answer your invasive questions, but you won’t answer mine? That’s not fair.”
With a shrug, like what I thought of him didn’t matter and I was dismissed, Oliver picked up his sandwich.
I took the hint.
I left food on my plate, even though I wasn’t full.
Chapter 37
Oliver
On Thursday and Friday, the days Grant cooked in my kitchen, I thought about helping him, to try again to find out what had led him to my woods. I also thought about asking to see the self-portrait he still hadn’t showed me. Instead, I painted. I painted to redirect my guilt about Grant and my fears about Freddie.
When I had to leave my bedroom while Grant was in the house, I’d power walk to minimize contact. “Smells great,” I’d tell Grant as I breezed past. “Yum. Looks delicious.”
Friday afternoon, Grant finally finished up and left. I shouted a goodbye through the bedroom door.
On Saturday, Freddie showed up with a boner.
“Hey, you. How was Whidbey?” I asked.
Freddie pushed me against my closed bedroom door. “Who cares? Let’s go to bed. I want you now, and that guy could come around any minute.”
“His name is Grant.”
“Grant doesn’t respect your mailbox flags.”
“True.”
“And you let him get away with that shit?”
“Apparently. He’s been doing some work for me.”
My phone pinged with a text message.
“How nice. Turn off your phone and let’s get private in the bedroom.”
The bedroom was off limits, due to the mural, but I had to give Freddie something. He’d cut his Whidbey trip short for me. Plus, I wanted him receptive when I asked him to be more committed.
“Library.” I pushed him off me and took his hand.
“Have you put up curtains in there?”
“Dad hated curtains.”
“Yeah, but it’s not his room anymore and curtains mean privacy, like from oddball men who nose around uninvited.”
Freddie’s complaints about Grant sounded like jealousy. Maybe I could use that. I pulled him past the art corner, through the archway into the other half of the house, and took a right into the library, where he plopped onto the blue velvet couch.
“Come here.” Freddie patted his lap, his expressive eyes broadcasting need.
I straddled his legs to perch on his knees, but when he leaned forward to kiss me, I leaned back. “Wait.” I flattened my palm on his chest. “I need to ask you something first.”
“What?” He stared at my lips.
“What would you think of us being exclusive?”
Freddie answered immediately. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Well, where do you see us going?”
With a leer and an arm around my shoulders, he tried to lay me onto the couch.
I shifted my knee to stay upright. “No. Wait. Do you see us going anywhere… more with our relationship anytime soon?”
“Not really,” Freddie said with a frustrated sigh. “But it sounds like you do. What brought this on? It’s that guy, isn’t it?”
“His name is Grant, and why are you being hostile?”
“I don’t trust him.”
“You’ve spent zero time in his presence when you weren’t being hostile.”
Freddie laughed and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Touché. But I have to wonder if it’s a coincidence that you’re asking about being exclusive a week after he arrived?”
I thought about that, tried to put the situation into words I’d be willing to share with Freddie. “It’s not a coincidence. The state of Grant’s life is making me look at what I want in my own life. What I want is to get seri
ous—with you.” I smiled and kissed Freddie’s forehead.
He made a circular motion with his hand. “Okay, then. Go on.”
“Grant is… lost and alone. Struggling. You and I are not any of those things, but I’ve been… floating long enough. I want more.”
“Like what?”
“A family. Kids.”
“You do?”
I nodded and put my hands on Freddie’s sturdy shoulders.
“With me?” He seemed pleased about that.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m not around much. Why would you want a family with me when I’m usually thousands of miles away?”
“It would basically be what we’re already doing, just… more, maybe plus a kid or two.”
Sadness wasn’t what I wanted to see on Freddie’s face. He pulled me close and patted my back. It felt like an attempt at comfort before a letdown. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of a slut,” he said.
“You have been. But you’ve also said you want kids.” Freddie’s heart pulsed steady and regular. My own heart raced.
“I like being with you when I’m here, Oliver. I’m exclusive with you when I’m on Vashon. But, hey, one of the joys of world travel is traveling the world’s bodies. You know how I feel about that.”
“I know you sleep with other people when you’re on your big trips.”
“Honey, I hooked up on Whidbey.”
I pushed back against Freddie’s arms until he dropped them. That didn’t feel far away enough, so I stood.
“Wait. Hey.” Freddie reached for me, but I slid away.
I’d been with other men, but not for a long time. For more than a decade, I hadn’t been with anyone except Freddie, even though I knew he slept around.
It had never bothered me before.
I lifted the pillow from an armchair and sat with it on my lap. Freddie watched me with an affectionate smile, arms spread over the back of the sofa, waiting for me to get up to speed with reality.
I tried. Freddie staring at me didn’t make it any easier.
I remembered the text message and checked my phone, in case it was Talia reporting on her meeting with the neighbors to discuss Edward’s suspicious presence in the vicinity of a dead chicken.
It wasn’t Talia. Grant had sent a photo with a message: Week one self-portrait in sticks and stones. Somehow, he’d arranged natural objects into a recognizable image of himself. He even looked stubborn and angry. With a grin I couldn’t suppress, I tapped the photo to enlarge it.
Freddie’s patience with my silence ended at that point. He cleared his throat and lifted an eyebrow in a silent request for me to rejoin our conversation.
I blew out a breath, put away my phone, and tried to focus on the issue. Or issues, the most immediate of which was whether I wanted to have sex with Freddie if he didn’t want to be exclusive.
Freddie snorted and nodded at the window. “Check that out.”
Grant strode into view from the right, hands waving as he talked. Kai and two girls I didn’t know walked behind him in a line. A papa duck and his ducklings.
“What a weirdo,” Freddie said. “Should he be hanging out with kids? I wish you’d be more careful about giving him so much access.”
“He’s harmless. And maybe I like having someone around more often.” What I wanted, I realized, was for Freddie to want me the most, enough to forswear all others.
With a sigh, Freddie said, “Even if I were willing to be exclusive, I wouldn’t be here very often. I’m a single-minded, egotistical bastard fixated on a Pulitzer. That’s my destination. Hookups are side trips.”
“I’ve been a side trip?”
“The very best kind.” The twinkle in Freddie’s eyes reminded me of all the good times we’d had with our bodies.
“I think… I don’t want to be a side trip anymore,” I confessed.
“I get that. But you’ve got a lot going for you, babe. Don’t settle.” His gaze flicked to the window.
“Yeah. You’re right. I should look around for someone I can be exclusive with.”
That made Freddie sit up. I’d found a fracture in his bring-on-the-men attitude.
“Wait. You mean…” I could see him connecting the dots. “You’d be exclusive with someone else, so we wouldn’t get together? Like, ever?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“And if you and I were exclusive, you wouldn’t want me to be with anyone else, even when I was away from Vashon?”
“Well, yeah, Freddie. That’s the whole idea about being exclusive.”
“This is about Grant, isn’t it?” His expression turned hard. “Don’t lie to me.”
“This is about me wanting to be more than your kept man—here for you when you need to get off, but otherwise forgotten. We’ve been friends a long time. I’ve been available to you physically since we were seventeen. Casual, familiar, and occasional has worked for both of us for years. Now I’m ready for more, even if you aren’t.”
“But… Grant?”
I threw up my hands in exasperation. “For the love of all that’s holy, this is not about me trying to get with Grant. He’s not in the same league as you. I want to move up. If I can’t move up with you, I want to find someone who’s better for me than you are. Obviously, that’s not Grant. But if you don’t want to be exclusive, then I’m going to… you know… look around.”
Freddie scoffed. “How? Like on a dating app?”
That made me laugh. “No. I know a lot of people on Vashon. I’ll ask around. I can ask my friends who they think I should meet.”
“And then go on dates?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“You’d be under a microscope if you dated on Vashon,” Freddie said.
“So we’ll go on dates in Seattle or Tacoma, or go for a hike on the peninsula. Why do you even care?”
Freddie frowned. “We haven’t gone hiking in way too long.”
I didn’t say anything. I was reeling him in. I needed him to keep drawing conclusions.
Freddie drew out his next words. “Hypothetically, if we were exclusive, I wouldn’t get with anyone when I traveled and you wouldn’t get with anyone here while I was away?”
I nodded. I had to work hard to keep my smile to myself.
“Well, then I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you.”
“But, Oliver, hey, you could come with me on my trips.” Freddie’s face lit up. He took his arms off the back of the couch and leaned toward me. “If you were with me, being exclusive would be a lot easier. Man, we could have so much fun. I could show you places that would blow your mind. Think of the art you could create from those new experiences.”
As if the distance between us remained fixed and unchangeable, Freddie’s forward lean made me sit back in my chair. The best response I could come up with was to parrot Freddie.
“I’ll think about it.” I said.
His suggestion perturbed me. He’d never asked me to join him on a trip. Ever. It rankled that he’d turned my bid for exclusivity into a negotiation.
Freddie slouched back into the couch. “Remember when we made out in the DeVille?”
“What on earth made you think of that?”
My dad’s pride and joy had been a 1968 Cadillac Sedan DeVille he’d restored to mint condition. Shined to a high gloss, she’d lived in the garage down an offshoot of the driveway. Except on rare occasions, Dad had only driven the DeVille on Saturdays for our weekly trip to town for groceries and errands.
“I miss the DeVille,” Freddie said. He’d ridden with us sometimes, as had Aza. “Did your dad ever find out?”
“No.” I shivered at the thought. “Hell no.”
“God. You were so worried and hot and cute and distracted. I could have
done anything to you if you hadn’t shut us down. It would have been fantastic.”
“For you maybe. The possibility of cum on the leather was a boner-killer. I would have been grounded until I was thirty.”
“At least.”
I laughed my agreement. “What made you think of the DeVille?”
“Let’s take her for a spin.”
“We, um… can’t.” My throat constricted. “I… Well… I sold it.”
The shock on Freddie’s face seemed genuine. “You did not.”
“I had to. My heart was… broken. The DeVille… It was too much… Dad.”
“Well, shit.” Freddie stared at me for a while. “Who bought it?”
“Some guy in Oregon.”
“When?”
“Long time ago.” I waved a hand, ready for Freddie to accept it and move on. “You haven’t answered my question about what made you think of the DeVille.”
Freddie looked into my eyes. “Remember what you said after we stopped making out?”
“Stopped trying to make out.”
“Failed to make out.”
“No, I don’t remember.”
“You said, ‘You’ll go away and be famous and I’ll stay here and be famous.’”
“Oh. Yeah. I do remember.”
I expected Freddie to ask me why I wasn’t famous yet. Or to get up from the couch and try to kiss me again. But he didn’t. He only slouched and stared out the window.
He’d said he would think about being exclusive. I’d said I would think about traveling with him. Maybe that was progress. I had too many new questions to be sure.
I stood and went to the kitchen to make us something to eat.
Freddie’s hand on the small of my back as we talked, as I stood at the cutting board to chop celery for a chicken salad, felt too familiar to be uncomfortable and too tentative to comfort.
Chapter 38
Oliver
The mural obsessed me.
After Freddie left on Saturday, I sat on a stool in front of the mural and began to paint the plants around the man’s bare feet. His and the boy’s discarded shoes lay half-buried in the tall grass, roughed in with a ghost of beige paint.
