by K. C. Wells
Greg couldn’t help himself. He burst into laughter, picturing the scene in his head. “You’re evil, aren’t you?” he said to Micah. “How could you scare your little sister like that?”
“Duh. Because she was my little sister.” Micah rolled his eyes. “Dad thought it was hilarious.”
“Until Mom gave him a smack upside the head and told him he ought to be ashamed of himself,” Naomi added. “The stories I could tell you about Micah….” When Micah glared at her, she gave Greg a sweet smile. “But I won’t, because that would be mean of me, and I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his chances.”
“Chances?” Greg was at a loss.
“Well, seeing as you’re just his type…” Naomi gave Micah a wicked grin. “He is, isn’t he?”
Greg slowly turned to gaze at Micah, who had suddenly become very still. “Your… type?” Then it hit him. “You’re gay?”
Naomi let out a gasp. “Oh my God. You didn’t know.”
“It’s not like it’s a secret, right?” Micah gave a shrug. “So I’m gay.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
Micah frowned. “Why would I? It’s not like I introduce myself to people by saying, ‘Hi, I’m Micah, and I’m gay.’ It doesn’t define me, it’s just… part of who I am.”
“Given the conversations about our fathers’ history these last few days, I think that would have been a good point to bring it up.” He knew that wasn’t what was bothering him. Greg was still hurting that he hadn’t shared his own sexuality with his dad.
“I’m sorry. Naomi shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t mean the outing me part, I mean the implication that I’m… attracted to you. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“Why would I feel uncomfortable?” Greg’s heart hammered. “Either she’s being a brat, and you’re not attracted to me, or… it’s true, and you…” He took a breath, forcing himself to keep calm.
“Look, I’m sorry too.” Naomi flushed. “A lot of straight guys I know flirt with my gay and bi friends, and vice versa, but if you’re not used to that, I can see how it might be awkward.”
“Yeah, it might.” Greg lifted his chin and looked Micah in the eye. “If I happened to be straight, that is. Which I’m not.”
Silence fell around the table. Joshua looked from Greg to Micah, then back to Greg again. “Okay, something I need to ask here. Is there a gay gene that they’ve just discovered? Because the odds just seem astronomical. Hayden, you, me, Micah….”
“Not quite as astronomical as Micah being the one to find me on that particular road,” Greg said softly. “And my dad never knew I was gay. I guess we ran out of time before I could tell him.” His heart quaked.
Micah’s brown eyes were warm. “I’m so sorry.”
Greg swallowed. “This wasn’t exactly how I imagined coming out would be.” When three pairs of eyes focused on him, he gave a half-smile. “I never told anyone before, not even my mom.” Only that wasn’t quite true, and he knew it. Micah’s family weren’t the only ones who knew he was gay. Then he told himself that he hadn’t once said he was gay that awful night. He hadn’t needed to: his online profile statements had told those bastards all they needed to know.
“Can I ask… is this a recent thing?” When Greg arched his eyebrows, Joshua sighed. “Sorry, that didn’t come out the way I intended. I meant to say, if you’ve only just come out, was it only recently that you thought you might be gay?” Joshua studied him closely. “Are you okay? Do you need a drink or something?”
Greg smiled at him. “I’m fine, thanks. And to answer your question, I guess it’s fairly recent. One day I’ll tell you about my epiphany, if I can call it that.” He looked across at Micah. “Do you know how lucky you are? You have a wonderful family.”
Naomi’s face glowed, but she remained silent. Micah glanced around the table. “Yeah, I know.”
Joshua cleared his throat. “Seeing as we all still have a drop of wine left, would you raise your glasses, please?” In silence, they did as instructed. “To family. Those who are with us, those we’ve lost, and those who are new to us.”
Greg’s throat tightened. “To family.” The words echoed around the room. He took a sip of wine. Micah smiled at him.
“Careful. That drop might just be the proverbial straw.”
Greg laughed. “I’ll take my chances.”
This was shaping up to be the best Thanksgiving he’d ever experienced, and he knew that was due solely to the three people sitting with him.
It wasn’t until Greg had lain awake for more than an hour that the reason for his insomnia came to him.
He’d forgotten to take his meds. Although it could equally have been that his stomach was still trying to digest the volume of food he’d guzzled. Then there was the conversation from after dinner. He hadn’t anticipated that turn of events. Either way, he wasn’t about to lie there in the dark, listening to the occasional gurgle from his gut. Maybe some warm milk would help. Not to mention a couple of capsules, because the ache in his thigh was just verging on becoming painful. Then he reconsidered. Pain meds plus wine were not a good combination. He’d have to put up with the pain.
Greg got out of bed, wincing as he took that first step with his crutches, before hurriedly lifting his leg off the ground. He inched his way to the kitchen, leaned against the countertop while he negotiated opening the fridge and holding a crutch, then removed the milk.
It wasn’t until the milk was heating in the microwave, and Greg was staring out into the inky darkness, that he realized it wasn’t totally black out there. A light was shining from somewhere close to the house, muted by a drawn shade. When the microwave stopped whirring, Greg swore he could hear music playing, very faintly. Piano music.
The milk forgotten, Greg made his way carefully to the back door at the end of the hallway. It wasn’t locked, so he opened it as quietly as possible, peering through the gap to the rear of the house. The light came from a double garage, and the music was definitely coming from there too. Greg was relieved to find someone had cleared a path from the back door step to the side door of the garage, but ice glistened on the paving slabs. Carefully, so carefully, taking small steps, he went along the path and up to the door. He tried the handle, pushing down while holding onto one crutch. When it swung open, Greg felt warmth on his face, a welcome change after the cold night air.
“Greg? What are you doing out of bed?” The piano music came to an abrupt halt.
Greg stepped into the garage and caught his breath. “So this is your studio?” Everywhere he looked, there were paintings. They covered every available inch of wall space, and in some places they stood on the floor, leaning against each other, four or five canvases deep. Photos hung there too, images of landscapes taken in all seasons. The roof rose up to a point in the middle, and a ladder climbed up to a mezzanine floor that took up half the roof space. From where Greg stood, he could see yet more canvases. The only place not occupied by canvases was where a worn couch stood against the wall, but even then, paintings leaned against each arm, bracketing it. Near the large door stood a unit with a sink and a hot plate.
Micah sat behind an easel at the far end, partially obscured by a large canvas. He stared at Greg, a paintbrush still in his hand. “I was going to show you this place, once you were getting around more easily. Dad had a garage built at the other end of the house, so that I could use this one as a studio.” He gazed at his surroundings. “This is every painting I’ve ever done.”
“How old were you when you started painting?” From what Greg could see, Micah had a lot of talent. He’d hoped Micah wasn’t one of those artists who slashed across a canvas with two or three bold stripes of paint, and declared it finished. Greg preferred paintings that were obviously something. Not that he would ever denigrate someone else’s taste in art, but he knew what he liked, and he loved Micah’s work.
Micah pointed to the upper floor. “Up there are paintings I did when I was eight or nine. Mom m
ade me keep them.” He gestured to the canvases piled around him. These are for my first art showing.”
“Seriously?” Greg beamed. “That’s great. When?”
“Next year. There’s an art gallery in Gillette, the Frame Shop. They’re giving me the space for a week. I’m making sure I have enough paintings. So far, the count is about fifty canvases.”
Whatever reply Greg had intended to make was forgotten when his leg throbbed painfully. “I think I’d better… sit down.” He stumbled over to the couch, lifting his leg onto the cushions. He sagged against them. “I might have overdone it.”
Micah growled unhappily. “I knew I should have stopped you from having wine with dinner. You can’t mix pills and alcohol. Is it hurting?”
Greg nodded. “But it’s better now that I’m sitting.” He peered at Micah. “Joshua told me you weren’t a night owl. And I’m surprised to find you painting. He also mentioned something about you preferring natural light.”
Micah chuckled. “Sounds like you and Dad have had quite a few conversations about me.” He sighed. “He’s right though. Usually, I’m not a night owl, but I couldn’t sleep, for some reason. I thought if I came in here and worked for a while, it might help.” He huffed. “Not that I’ve painted anything. And no, that wasn’t because of the light. I’ve been sitting here, just… thinking, I guess.” Micah stared at the canvas on the easel.
“What are you working on?” When Micah hesitated, Greg hastened to reassure him. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. For all I know, you don’t usually let anyone see your paintings until they’re finished.”
Micah gazed at the canvas. “This isn’t like the stuff I normally paint.” Then he expelled a breath, picked up the canvas, and brought it across to where Greg sat. He turned it around, and Greg caught his breath.
“Is that… your mom?” He was gazing at a portrait of a woman, with shoulder-length brown hair, deep brown eyes and a warm smile. The resemblance to Naomi and Micah was unmistakable. “It’s beautiful.” The rich copper sweater she wore accentuated her coloring.
“It’s not finished.” Micah stood it against a pile of canvases, then sat beside Greg on the couch, avoiding his leg. Micah perched on the edge of the seat cushion, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them, his gaze focused on the portrait. “I started painting it about five years ago. It was going to be a surprise for Dad’s fortieth birthday. Only we never seemed to find enough time when he wasn’t around. And then, when she got diagnosed with a brain tumor….”
“I’m so sorry.” Greg’s heart went out to him.
Micah stared at the portrait. “They operated and removed it. They said they got all of it. But she was never the same after that. She complained of double vision, amongst other things. She used to say there was a Gremlin inside her head, messing around in there. Then two years ago, in the week leading up to Christmas, she collapsed. We called for an ambulance, and they took her to Campbell County Memorial Hospital. She never recovered consciousness.”
“Oh, God, Micah.”
Micah twisted to face him. “She didn’t die right away. The day after she arrived there, they were going to declare her dead, but when they turned off the machines, her heart kept right on beating. So the docs turned the machines back on. Then they said they couldn’t declare her dead because there were still drugs in her system.” He shook his head. “We saw the brain scans. We knew she couldn’t come back from that. But no, they still wouldn’t declare her dead. The third day—that was Christmas Eve—they finally made a decision and turned off the machines. We sat with her all day, watching that damn blip on the monitor, listening to her heart slowing down.”
It was so close to what Greg had experienced with his dad, it was scary. “I know. I’ve been in that place too.”
“Yeah?” Micah reached out and grasped Greg’s hand, squeezing it. “It got to two in the morning. Dad and Naomi had stepped out to find some coffee, because we wanted to be awake when she…” His face tightened.
“I get it.”
“Anyhow, at two-twenty-five, an alarm sounded, and God, it made me jump. It wasn’t until later that I realized what it was.” He smiled. “I reckon Mom set it off, to warn us to get our asses back to her bed before she went.”
In spite of his heartache, Greg smiled. “I like that idea.” Micah’s fingers were laced with his, and it was a comforting feeling.
“By the time Dad and Naomi got back to her room, Mom had just gone. I held her hand while the line flattened out. Then I kissed her goodbye.”
Micah’s words finally registered. “So Christmas Day is—”
“Two years to the day that she died. Last year—Oh, God, Greg, last year was just awful. Thanksgiving was a mess, but we muddled through it. But then Dad wouldn’t put up the lights. He refused to buy a tree. And when the day came, I wanted to just curl into a ball and cry myself to sleep. Only, I couldn’t. Naomi and I talked about it, and we pasted on a brave face and shoved our tears way down deep where Dad couldn’t see them.”
“You were being there for him.”
Micah nodded. “And we got him through it. Of course, we didn’t celebrate. Mom would’ve been so angry with him. She was a Christmas nut. Every year, as soon as Thanksgiving had come and gone, out came all the holiday movies, and believe me, she had about a ton of them.” He tilted his head to one side. “Maybe this year will be different.”
“How so?”
Micah gave him a shy smile. “I’m hoping you’ll still be staying with us, for one thing.”
Greg stilled. “Really?”
“Sure. Unless you really wanna go traipsing across the country back to California. You’re more than welcome to spend the holidays with us. It may even do Dad some good, to have another face around the place. You never know, he might even agree to us putting up a tree.” Micah’s smile grew sad. “She’d like that.” He peered at Greg. “So? Will you stay?”
He needed to think about this. It couldn’t be a spur of the moment decision. This required reflection and—
“Yes, I’d love to.” The instant the words left Greg’s lips, he was so happy he’d said them. Micah’s face lit up.
“Great. I’ll tell Dad in the morning.”
Greg smiled. “It is the morning.”
Micah let go of his hand and stood up. “Then maybe it’s time we were both in bed.” He bit his lip. “I mean, our own beds.”
Greg snickered. “It’s okay, I got that part.” Come to think of it, he was suddenly bone tired. “Maybe you’re right.”
Micah held out his arms. “Then allow me to help you back to your room.”
The way Greg’s leg was aching, he needed all the help he could get. “Done.”
By the time Micah had gotten him to his room, Greg’s body was crying out for sleep. Micah surprised him by helping him out of his robe and into bed, pulling the comforter over him with care.
“Try to sleep. I’ll see you in a few hours.” Then Greg’s heartbeat raced as Micah bent over and gently kissed his cheek. “Good night.” The door closed softly behind him.
Greg lay there, his mind going over Micah’s story. If he’d thought the family was wonderful before, that was as nothing compared to his opinion of them now. They’d gone through so much, and yet they’d emerged strong, connected… together. He closed his eyes, and Micah’s image was right there, those deep brown eyes so like his mom’s, the short, brown hair, the sweet smile.
Don’t forget sexy. Because it surely was a very sexy smile.
The warm, sexy smile of a gay man who’d just kissed him good night. Now that was something to dream about.
Chapter Eleven
“Come on, Greg. Three more. Just three more.”
Greg glared at Fran. “You want three more? Fine. You do them.”
She sighed. “Okay, I know you’re aching, and you’ve probably had enough, but you’ve been doing so well today.”
It didn’t feel that way to Greg. As far as he
was concerned, the whole of their physical therapy session had been one complete ball ache from beginning to end. They’d only started working together the previous week, so he knew it was early days, but he hadn’t anticipated how much it was going to hurt.
“Sorry to interrupt your torture—I mean, exercises—but I’m making hot chocolate. Would you like some, Fran?”
She glanced over at Joshua and beamed. “I’d love some, Mr. Trant, thank you.” She peered at Greg. “You can have some as a reward for doing the last three.”
“Fine.” He glared at her again. “Only I think he got it right the first time with ‘torture’.”
Fran grinned. She waited until Joshua had gone into the kitchen, then leaned closer. “You have no idea. So let’s get these finished, then you can grab a shower before your cute friend finishes working out there. Wouldn’t want to be all hot and sweaty when he walks in here, would ya?” Greg gaped at her, and she laughed. “These eyes don’t miss much.”
Greg narrowed his gaze. “You are evil.”
Fran buffed her fingernails on her shirt. “Thanks. It sorta comes with the job.” She put her hands on her hips. “I’m still waiting.”
Grumbling to himself, Greg slowly lifted his left leg off the ground to a height of a couple of inches, held it there for a moment, then slowly lowered it again. Sweat popped out on his brow, but he repeated the motion two more times, before dropping his arm across his eyes. “No more.”
Fran patted his arm. “No more. You did good.” She helped him to sit on the couch, and then rolled up the mat on which he’d been exercising. “Okay. We’ll carry on next week. In the meantime, try to do a little exercise every day? Just don’t overdo it. You’re still not ready to put your full weight on that leg yet, so don’t even think about.”
