by Kim Fielding
They strolled the cemetery for a long time, crunching the fallen leaves underfoot and pausing to read the inscriptions. Time hadn’t altered Elliott’s fascination with the place. He wanted to know every person interred, wanted to find the bits of their existence that had been buried under the decades and bring them once more to light. And Simon apparently wanted to hear about them. He asked a lot of questions, clearly fascinated by Elliott’s impromptu lessons on the history of the region.
Although Simon appeared willing to keep going, Elliott eventually saw the lines of pain deepen around his eyes. “I’m thirsty,” Elliott announced. “Want to try out that saloon?”
Walking down the hill was harder on Simon than going up. By the time they reached the level ground of Main Street, Elliott was honestly worrying whether Simon would make it. Luckily, the saloon was at the closer end of town and there were plenty of vacant tables.
Simon collapsed onto a chair with a loud groan. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I try not to whine—most of the time. I could’ve ended up way worse. Or dead.”
Elliott shuddered at the idea. What if he’d never met Simon? His life would be so much poorer. “You can whine all you want. And I’ll buy you a drink. What’ll it be?”
Simon’s mouth quirked into a grin. “Sarsaparilla, pardner. I’m driving.”
Elliott wandered to the bar, where the bartender proved to be laid-back and friendly. He poured Simon’s drink with a good deal of panache before filling a glass mug with beer. “You want something to eat?” Elliott called to Simon. “They have pizza.”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
They sat contentedly with their drinks, looking at the old photos on the wall. This place had been in business for over a century and a half and had undoubtedly seen some lively times. This afternoon it was quiet, however, with a couple of locals sitting at the bar and a quartet of retirees in one corner. The bartender brought over a basket of peanuts and encouraged Simon and Elliott to throw the shells on the floor.
Simon dug into the snack but was hesitant to toss the shells. “My mother would murder me for throwing garbage on the floor.”
“Your mother doesn’t work here.” Elliott took the debris from Simon and let it drop.
“I still feel guilty. I’ve swept too many restaurant floors, I guess.”
“When did you start working at the Pita Palace?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. Mom and Dad opened it when I was a preschooler, and I think I spent more waking hours there than at home. Even when I was really little, I’d help out. I remember stacking endless plastic cups after they came out of the dishwasher.” The softness in his expression suggested these were fond memories, not resentful recollections of forced child labor. “Did you work when you were a kid?”
“Not like that. My father was a supervisor at the glass factory, and my mom worked as a dental receptionist. No place for a child in either spot. Ladd knew how to hustle up money—he’d mow lawns and stuff like that. All I ever did was pet sit.”
For some reason, that answer delighted Simon. “Pet sit?”
“Sure. Neighbors would go away, and I’d take care of their dogs and cats. One family had a boa constrictor.” That had been a short and easy gig—he just checked on the snake daily and refilled its water.
“I didn’t take you as an animal lover.”
Elliott scowled. “I love animals. Do you think I’m some kind of ogre or something?”
“You don’t have any pets,” Simon pointed out. “At least as far as I’ve seen. I guess you could have a fish tank hidden away somewhere.”
“I don’t.” Elliott cracked a peanut, but Simon, grinning, snatched the meat away before Elliott could pop it into his mouth. “Ladd used to be allergic to anything with fur, and my mom said fish die too much. Reptiles were out since they eat live food—Mom put her foot down about that.”
“Your mom doesn’t live with you,” Simon said, clearly pleased to throw Elliott’s gentle gibe back at him.
Actually, Elliott wasn’t sure why he’d never adopted a pet. Sure, it would have been a challenge in college and grad school, when he’d moved often from one apartment to another. But why not afterward? Maybe because nothing in his life had felt permanent, either with John or in the aftermath.
“I might get a dog someday,” Elliott said. “When I’m more . . . settled.”
The retirees noisily gathered their belongings and left. When the bartender came over to clear their table, he brought Elliott and Simon more peanuts.
“I guess you don’t mind if we hang out here awhile, huh?” Simon asked.
“I can spare the table. Anyway, that’s what saloons are for.” He sauntered away with a bit more ass swagger than was strictly called for, leaving Elliott to wonder if the bartender had tagged him and Simon as a couple. Simon wouldn’t have tripped Elliott’s gaydar. Actually, neither did the bartender. Maybe Elliott’s gaydar was defective.
“So this weekend I have family stuff,” Simon said. “And Christ, it feels like I spend the whole week with doctors and PT. But I have some time free. Can we plan a third date, or is it too early?”
Elliott leaned closer and dropped his voice. “Not too early. I want more of you.”
It was gratifying to watch Simon’s cheeks color and his throat work. He even licked his lips—not like he was trying to be sexy, although that was very much the effect. “Ditto. So when can we get together?”
“You name the day and time. I’m wide open. I’ll plan the itinerary, but it’s going to be hard to top today.”
Despite Simon’s smile, he seemed a bit troubled by something. So Elliott added a proviso. “Don’t worry. I’ll find us somewhere uninfested by your relatives.”
Still frowning, Simon waved the comment away. “El, what do you do all week?”
The nicknamed distracted Elliott enough that it took him a moment to respond. “Um, I have my classes. I run. I read—obviously. Sometimes I putter in the garden or do a little housework. Why?”
“You do all those things by yourself, right? Even the classes—you’re not talking live to the students.”
“I’m not a recluse.” Elliott remembered Ladd comparing him to the Collyer brothers. “I interact with human beings on a regular basis.”
Simon lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Really?”
After John’s arrest, Elliott had spent an unfortunate amount of time being interrogated by police officers who were convinced he’d played a part in the embezzlement. He wished he had his lawyer at his side again. “Ladd. And my sister-in-law, Anna.”
“And?”
“Sometimes I hook up with a guy. Did hook up. I haven’t since I met you.”
That got him a quick flash of a smile before Simon put his cop face back on. “And?”
“Not long ago, I had dinner and coffee with Anna’s coworker, Kyle. Also before I met you.”
“Once. Okay. And?”
“I see people during my run on the greenbelt path.”
Simon raised his eyebrows slightly.
Elliott tried not to wilt as he rummaged in his mind for other examples. The disastrous Skype interview? Mike Burgess and his endless complaints? The literary Girl Scout and her mother? “I go shopping,” was what he finally came up with, and he knew exactly how pathetic that sounded.
Simon wasn’t looking at him with pity, which was good. Pity would have damaged Elliott. But Simon did look worried, and that was bad enough. “Have you always closed yourself up so much?” he asked.
If they had been gold-rush prospectors, a question like that never would have arisen in conversation—Elliott was quite sure of that. Nineteenth-century miners drank heavily, got into gunfights, and often wasted away from consumption, but they were not in touch with their feelings. He envied them. But Simon was silently unrelenting, and Elliott finally sighed. “More or less,” he admitted as he pulverized a peanut shell.
“Do you want that?”
“I’m wondering whether you’re a major introvert—which is totally fine—or if there’s something else going on.”
Elliott shot him a sour look. “Maybe you should be a psychotherapist instead of a cop.”
“Maybe I should,” Simon replied easily. “Or maybe I should mind my own goddamn business.”
A big part of Elliott wanted to say that was a wonderful idea. Another part considered ordering a second beer—or maybe something stronger. Then the door opened and five young women strolled in, talking loudly. They all wore high heels and a lot of makeup, with their hair carefully styled, although they were dressed in jeans and casual blouses. They took a table next to the one the retirees had vacated and began a lively discussion about what kind of alcohol to order.
“Bachelorette party,” Simon offered quietly.
“Really? Here?”
“Sure. They’re going to have a dinner at the City Hotel tonight and spend the night there, and one of them will get married here tomorrow. She’ll be in a traditional white dress, but I bet the groom will wear a cowboy hat. They may ride off in the stagecoach after they exchange vows.”
Elliott squinted at the women. “Which one is the bride?”
“The one in the red shirt.”
How Simon could deduce that, Elliott had no idea. “I see you can tell a story with a little base material too.”
“I have attended ten thousand weddings.”
“Ten thousand? You’re sure of that?”
Simon laughed. “More or less. Most of them have been in a church with the reception at the Assyrian center in Turlock, but they’ve had themes. And I can tell a bachelorette party when I see one.”
“Okay. But where’s the groom and his pals?”
“Dunno.” Simon dropped a couple of shells on the floor and looked guilty about it. “Getting drunk somewhere else. Is there somewhere else in Columbia to get drunk?”
Elliott thought for a moment. “There used to be a Mexican place.”
“There you go. The boys are throwing back shots of tequila.”
Simon was every bit as bright as John. And there was something so easy about Simon. From the very first, everything with John had been complicated, one of those games with a rulebook as thick as a Bible. With John, Elliott had to consider every move, worry about the implications and consequences, wonder how John would take it. Even though the budding relationship with Simon was still amorphous and uncertain, Elliott felt free to act without strategizing first.
“I’m a snail,” Elliott said.
Simon gave a somewhat startled blink.
“You know those really big ones that get in the garden and eat all your seedlings? That’s me.”
“Um, okay. I don’t have any seedlings. Sometimes I accidentally step on one of those snails when I go to fetch the mail. Then I feel bad.”
“Yeah. I’ve done that too. Yuck.” Elliott shuddered. “Nobody’s stepped on me yet, but I’m one of those snails.”
“You run pretty fast for a snail.”
Elliott drank the last of his beer and set the empty glass down with a slight thud. “So the analogy’s not perfect. Bear with me.” He received a nod from Simon and then continued. “I’ve always been, well, not quite a loner, but not the life of the party either. I spent a lot of time studying. Reading. When I was a kid, I mostly tagged along with Ladd and his friends.”
“You guys are pretty close, huh?”
“He’s eleven months older than me. We didn’t have a lot of choice.” Their parents had never divulged whether the spacing had been intentional or an accident. In either case, two babies so close together must have scared them off, because they never had been interested in adding more to the family.
“Are snails loners?” Simon asked.
“No idea. Historian, not a biologist. Anyway, when I paired up with John, my social life really narrowed. I was busy with grad school and then my job—earning tenure is tough—but also John . . . The secrecy got in the way.” Because Elliott couldn’t tell anyone about his relationship, he couldn’t open up enough to form a true friendship. Damn it, how the hell had he thought that was all right?
Simon wasn’t pressing him to hurry up with the tale. Instead, he shelled a nut and handed it over. “Do snails like peanuts?”
“I guess.” Elliott popped it into his mouth, taking a moment to savor the saltiness. Ah, saltiness. That had been his original point. He traced a fingertip along the scarred wooden table—slowly, like a snail. “As long as I was with John, I crawled along. But then that whole fuckup happened and . . . and it was like a snail confronting salt. I protected the vulnerable parts of me by tucking myself into my shell. And I haven’t come out since.”
“But you have.” Simon laid his hand alongside Elliott’s, their fingers not quite touching. “You built your library. You asked me out. And you came here with me today.”
“God, I’m really glad I did.”
Simon’s smile was brighter than a shining gold ingot and twice as precious. “Me too.” Then rapidly changing gears, Simon clapped his hands and said, “Hey, how about some ice cream?”
***
They stayed in Columbia for several hours more, not doing much except strolling, people watching, and eating. Elliott bought several volumes in the small, crowded bookshop. Both of them tried candle dipping, but the results did not turn out well, much to the amusement of some schoolkids. The students marched back to their buses, and as the daylight waned, the shops closed. Elliott and Simon had an early dinner at the Mexican place. No groom’s party was in evidence, but Simon opined that they were all at the City Hotel, eating chicken and prime rib with the wedding couple’s families.
Even after their stomachs were full from an excellent chicken mole, Elliott and Simon were in no hurry to get home. They walked to a little grassy area near the old city jail and sat across from each other at a picnic table. With music and faint voices wafting from the saloon, they tipped back their heads and looked at the stars. They didn’t have to talk; they could just be. During that snippet of time, Elliott had the epiphany that sometimes people’s injuries made them whole again.
“This feels right,” Simon whispered, stealing Elliott’s thoughts. His warm, strong hands grasped Elliott’s.
“Yes.”
“We could spend the night. The wedding party might have City Hotel booked, but there’s always the Fallon.”
“I overheard one of the guides today. She said both hotels are haunted.”
“I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.” Simon smiled and squeezed Elliott’s hands.
“I didn’t bring any condoms.”
Simon scrunched up his face. “Me either. I wasn’t planning a seduction.”
The nearest grocery or convenience store was several miles away in Sonora. Making a run there and back just so they could have sex felt tawdry somehow. So Elliott squeezed back. “Another time, all right?” He promised himself that whatever he planned for the third date, he’d make sure to have supplies handy. Just in case.
It was nice to drive back together in the dark with few other cars on the road. Sometimes Simon hummed along with the radio. Sometimes one of them rested a hand on the other’s thigh. As far as Elliott was concerned, they could have passed Modesto and kept on going forever, and he wouldn’t have complained.
But eventually they were in his driveway, the porch light just barely illuminating the little rainbow flag. Simon kept the engine running but shifted into Park and, as if for good measure, engaged the emergency brake.
“Thank you,” Elliott said. “I think this was the best date I’ve ever been on.”
“I like that you don’t need fancy things. I had a really good day too.”
The kiss began sweet and tender, just a delicate brushing of lips and the exchange of warm breaths. It soon grew more demanding, until Simon tilted Elliott’s head back and nibbled and suckled on his neck, beard bristles sharp against tender skin. Elliott was a
t an off angle and couldn’t find anything to do with his hands, so he clenched them into tight fists and moaned.
“You’re not a snail,” Simon said breathlessly. “You’re . . . you’re . . . Shit. I don’t think I can do analogies. No, wait. I got it.” He sat up straighter. “I’ve met people who could use drugs now and then for years and it was no big deal. They could take or leave it. Get high and then walk away. And I’ve met others who tried just one hit, one dose, and bang! They ended up so hooked that all the clinics in the world couldn’t clean them up for good. You’re like that to me, I think.”
“I’m methamphetamine? I think I’d rather be a mollusk.”
“You’re Elliott Thompson, and you’re under my skin. We’re going to make this work. Somehow.”
Elliott kissed him once more before heading inside, hoping some of Simon’s optimism would be contagious.
Chapter Ten
“Hello? Is this Elliott Thompson?”
Elliott had just returned from a run on Monday morning when his phone began to ring. He turned off the music before answering and stood sweating and panting on his front porch, the phone in his slippery palm. “Yes.”
“Hi, this is Ginny Holmes. I’m chair of the history search committee at Nebraska State University. Is now a good time?”
Hoping his heavy breathing didn’t sound too odd, Elliott wiped his forehead with his free hand. “Yeah, sure. Sorry. I was just jogging.”
She sounded genuinely amused when she laughed. “The joys of cell phones, I guess. None of us ever has a moment’s peace. I’ll make this short. The committee is impressed with your application, and we’d like to conduct a phone interview. Are you free at ten Central Time on Wednesday morning?”
Ten Central would be eight Pacific Time. That was doable. He was free anytime except Thursday afternoon, when he’d be having a third date with Simon. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
“Perfect. Is this a good number to reach you?”
“Yes. You don’t do Skype?”
Another laugh. “Our university’s hiring practices are inscribed in stone and haven’t been changed in decades. We consider ourselves lucky we’re allowed to use telephones. Don’t worry, though. Other than that, we’ve mostly progressed into the twenty-first century.”
