The Little Library

by Kim Fielding

  Simon reached behind himself awkwardly, attempting to urge Elliott’s hips forward. “Yes! Don’t stop.”

  Elliott didn’t stop, but he did take his time, relishing every additional centimeter of enveloping heat. Due to the pillow, he couldn’t reach Simon’s cock, which was a shame. Not that Simon seemed to mind—he was pushing backward into Elliott’s thrusts, moaning encouragement the entire time. Some of what he said was not in English, but that was okay because Elliott suspected a smattering of Serbo-Croatian words fell from his own mouth as he approached his climax.

  When Elliott came, his eyes were squeezed shut, but still he saw sparkles. It felt as if his entire body burst into tiny particles, only to come back together slightly better than before.

  He realized he was still plunging into Simon’s pliant body, but a heartbeat or two later, Simon called out loud enough to make Ishtar bark from the living room.

  Then Elliott was laughing too hard to do much but roll off Simon and be gathered into Simon’s arms. “Good?” Elliott asked.

  “Yeah. Um, you’ll need to wash that pillowcase.”

  That sent them into more laughter.

  After they’d calmed and done a minimal cleanup, Elliott let Ishtar in. Her loud grunt as she collapsed onto her bed said she didn’t approve of their nighttime shenanigans.

  “Some sex goddess,” Elliott muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  Simon sucked briefly on Elliott’s earlobe. “Happy Halloween.”

  One thing Elliott knew for sure—whatever happened between them, his memories of Simon would haunt him in a wonderful way.

  ***

  Rain persisted over the next several days. Not a deluge, but drizzles and showers. Elliott couldn’t get much running in, which made both him and Ishtar restless. It turned out Ishtar hated rain as much as she hated sprinklers, and she seemed to hold Elliott personally responsible for the bad weather. He’d let her out into the backyard, and she’d stand in the doorway, gazing up at him reproachfully. Then she’d hurry to the front door, only to look disappointed when she learned it was raining there too.

  The good news was that the little library held up well despite the moisture. Elliott checked carefully each day, and the books remained dry. The titles rotated at an even busier rate than before, maybe because the weather caused people to spend more time reading indoors. The other good news was that despite his stress levels, Elliott did not buy any new books. He spent time working on his classes and spelunking the internet for sources on homosexuality during the gold rush. He even put those pieces together by developing an impromptu lesson plan on the subject and offering his California history students extra credit for writing an essay. This was the time of year when they were eager to bolster their grades, so he was confident some of them would take him up on the offer.

  Elliott also made some progress on Ishtar, signing her up for an obedience class that would begin in January. Well, he signed them both up. Ishtar was a bright girl who grasped things quickly; Elliott suspected the class would mostly involve him learning how to communicate effectively with her.

  “It’ll be like learning another language,” he told her. “I wonder if it’s as hard as Croatian?”

  Ishtar didn’t have an answer. She was too busy licking peanut butter out of a large rubber toy that looked disturbingly like an extremely uncomfortable butt plug.

  Simon was putting in extra effort with his PT and had even bought a treadmill so he could walk no matter the weather. Now that he’d decided on a career path, he was serious about rehabilitating his leg. He came over to Elliott’s house almost every night, and they’d have dinner together, watch TV, and usually enjoy a sleepover. It was the most domestic arrangement Elliott had ever experienced, and it was wonderful in spite of the uncertain future hanging over their heads.

  Exactly two weeks after Halloween, on the first really chilly night of the year, Simon brought dinner from the grocery store—rotisserie chicken, a bagged salad, a deli salad made with green beans, and a couple of rolls.

  “Where’s the cane?” Elliott asked as he set the table.

  Simon beamed. “Semiretired. I’m going to get a folding one to have handy just in case, but I should mostly be able to manage without one.”

  Elliott set down the silverware and gave him a celebratory kiss. “You know, once you have full use of that leg, we can get more adventurous in bed. More positions.”

  “You’re bored with me already?” Simon’s tone was joking, but his eyes betrayed a hint of insecurity.

  “I am not. We could never have sex again, and I’d still be endlessly fascinated with you. But I hope we do have sex again, because you knock my socks off.”

  Simon pulled him close and palmed his ass. “Socks off, huh?”

  “And everything else.”

  So they temporarily abandoned the meal to go work up an appetite in bed. When they came back to the kitchen, Elliott had to reheat the chicken, but it was totally worth it.

  After they sat down and started filling their plates, Elliott noticed that Simon took smaller portions than usual. “Feeling okay?” he asked. “Do you want the other drumstick?”

  “I feel dandy, and I don’t want more food. I’m trying to drop a few pounds.” He grimaced.

  “Why? You look great. I mean, you’d look great no matter what, but—”

  “I know you think I’m sexy, El.” He rubbed his belly as he spoke. “The problem is that extra weight isn’t good for my stupid knee. And it won’t help me pass the physical agility tests either.” He snagged a piece of breast meat with his fork.

  “Okay, that makes sense. A long as you know I’d lo— Shit.” His throat tightened with the enormity of what he’d almost said, and he laid his fork on the table.

  Simon chewed and swallowed carefully, all the while keeping his gaze locked on Elliott’s face. When his mouth was empty, he stroked his beard a few times, and his voice was deep and quiet when he spoke. “That was a big word that almost slipped out.”

  “Not really. One syllable. Four letters.” Elliott’s laugh sounded slightly hysterical.

  “Unconstitutionality is a really long word, but it’s not nearly as big as what you almost said.”

  Nodding, Elliott conceded the point.

  Simon reached across the table to take Elliott’s hand. “I really want to hear you say that word. I really want to say it back. But I know I haven’t earned it.”

  “Me either.”

  They avoided the subject for the remainder of the meal. As they put away the leftovers, Simon “accidentally” dropped a bit of chicken for Ishtar. Elliott washed the dishes while Simon dried and put them away. They ended up on the couch in their usual spots, and while Elliott was startled to realize they had usual spots, he was also comforted.

  Simon took possession of the remote control and put on a cop show, mostly because he enjoyed making fun of them. Fictional police work, he said, had little to do with the reality of the job.

  “Thanksgiving plans?” he asked during a commercial.

  “Nothing big. Ladd and Anna order one of those grocery store meals. I bring wine. Do you spend it with just your parents or the whole clan?”

  “Whole clan. But it’s complicated because the location is a point of family contention. Mom and Dad like to host, which Dad thinks should be his right because he’s the oldest. But his next-oldest brother has six kids and a zillion grandkids and thinks superior procreation gives him hosting rights.”

  As usual, a tale about Simon’s family made Elliott smile, even if there was a sad edge to it. “Is that Ashur and Miri’s father?”

  “Nope, that would be brother number three. But due to a disaster he caused at Pita Palace long ago—stuff caught on fire—nobody trusts him anywhere near a kitchen. So it’s just Dad and Uncle Isaac fighting over it, which is just as well.”

  Elliott snuggled closer against him. “And how is this resolved?”

  “By doubling the agony. M
om and Dad host on Thanksgiving proper, and then even though we all have leftovers, we go to Uncle Isaac’s the next night for another meal. And even more leftovers.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. And as if all the eating wasn’t exhausting enough, there’s the drama. Thanksgiving comes in third on the family-crisis scale, after Christmas and Easter. Somebody always ends up not speaking to somebody else for at least a week.”

  Elliott squirmed around to see Simon’s face. “I bet you’re never any of those somebodies.”

  “No.” Simon’s sigh was long and loud. “I try not to get in the middle of it.”

  “Sounds wise.”

  Simon slammed his hand against the arm of the couch, “Damn it, you and I should be spending the holiday together!” He left unspoken the rest of that complaint—that they might never have a Thanksgiving together. Next year, Elliott might be freezing his ass off in Nebraska. Or Simon might have decided that continuing their relationship was too risky.

  “You could come over to Ladd and Anna’s with me. Anna’s dying to meet you anyway.”

  “Except I can’t. I can’t get out of the family thing. And I’d love to invite you, but—”

  “I know.”

  And there went another conversational topic into the dead zone.

  Despite Simon’s warmth, Elliott felt chilly. He walked to the bedroom and pulled a gray microfleece throw from the closet. Soon he’d need his down comforter too, especially for the nights he slept alone.

  After returning to the couch and the crook of Simon’s arm, Elliott spread the blanket over their laps. “That’s cozy,” Simon commented after a few minutes.

  “Hmm.”

  “I was thinking about something.”

  “Hmm?” Simon was gently stroking Elliott’s arm—just a light whisper of his fingertips—and between that, dinner, and sex, Elliott was too drowsy to say much else.

  “I’ll make a good salary as a ranger supervisor.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And if I stopped being chickenshit about coming out to my parents, you and I could move in together. Your place or mine. That would save a lot on expenses. So if you weren’t earning a huge amount with the online or part-time stuff, no big deal.”

  This thought had crossed Elliott’s mind too—more than once. If it weren’t for their respective issues, keeping separate residences a few blocks apart would be absurd, especially given that Simon usually spent the night anyway. Elliott would love to share a bed with Simon every night, wake up to him every morning, just . . . have him around.

  “It’s not only the money,” he said.

  “If you’re freaked about not contributing absolutely equally to the mortgage and stuff, don’t be. We’d be partners, and that means we each contribute what we can.”

  Elliott lifted Simon’s hand and kissed the back of it. “Socialism. I could deal with that. I was referring to my job situation, though. There’s nothing wrong with teaching online or at community colleges, but it’s not what I’ve worked toward. I’m . . . Shit. A scholar?”

  “You can’t be a scholar without the fancy university? It seems to me like you can write your books no matter who you work for. Maybe even better if you can control your own schedule.”

  “That’s not how it’s done.” Elliott shifted uncomfortably.

  “Seems to me you should do stuff because you want to do it, because it makes you happy. Don’t let somebody tell you how it should be done.”

  Mulling over those words, Elliott remained silent. Why did he so badly want an academic job at a research institution? Simon was right; he could write anywhere. While community college students were different from students at a four-year university, teaching them could be equally rewarding. He’d just always assumed he’d be a university professor—that’s what everyone he went to grad school with had assumed. John had certainly nurtured that expectation, giving him long lectures about the quality of various institutions and the need to aim high.

  What was the payoff? If Elliott went to Nebraska State—hell, if he went to fucking Harvard—what would he get in the end? A scholarly reputation among the few dozen people who gave a crap. Maybe an award or two to hang in his office, a small grant now and then to fund his travel. A research assistant to do grunt work. Nice enough things. But were they nicer than the embrace that currently enfolded him? The embrace that might or might not last?

  He had no answers to any of that. Time to bury this conversation as well.

  Chapter Nineteen

  On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Elliott wondered why he’d chosen to give exams so close to the end of the term. He had a zillion of them to grade, yet finals were in only three weeks. No doubt the students were cursing him too. While they at least had the comfort of knowing that the current tests would help them prepare for finals, however, Elliott had no such consolation. His brain was numb, and his eyes were sore and gritty from staring for so many hours at the computer screen.

  Luckily the rain had stopped, and the cool weather was perfect for exercising. He and Ishtar had already taken a long morning run, but by midafternoon he decided it was time for a walk. Ishtar sensed good things as soon as Elliott got up from the laptop and stretched. Tail wagging, she trotted beside him as he fetched his shoes and coat.

  “Do you need a coat too?” he asked as he snapped the leash onto her collar. It wasn’t an issue when they ran—the exercise was enough to keep them both warm. But her fur was short and not especially thick, and didn’t some of her ancestors come from a pretty balmy part of Africa? By now he’d read some books on dog care, but they’d been silent as to whether a ridgeback mix needed winter outwear in the Central Valley.

  “Guess I’ll just have to keep a close eye on you,” he told her. She seemed okay with that.

  Most of the people they encountered on their walk knew them—well, knew Ishtar anyway. They stopped to pet her and chat with Elliott for a minute or two about the weather or the holidays. One of Ishtar’s biggest fans, a retired woman with carefully styled hair and a pink-and-gold track suit, pulled a dog biscuit from her pocket.

  “Do you mind?” she asked Elliott.

  “Nope.”

  Ishtar took the treat with her usual care—then gobbled it in two bites.

  “Were you carrying that just for her?” asked Elliott.

  “Yes, I was. I was hoping I’d see you two today. She’s a very good girl, and I thought she deserved a little reward.”

  Elliott chuckled at Ishtar, who was nosing hopefully at the woman’s pocket, looking for more. “She thinks so too.”

  “I’m off to San Diego tomorrow to spend a week with my daughter and her family. I’m looking forward to a little vacation, but not the travel part. How about you?”

  “Staying home.”

  “Well you two enjoy!” She patted Ishtar once more before continuing on her way.

  Ishtar smiled up at Elliott. Look. That lady loves me. She gave me a cookie!

  “I should start a fan club for you. We could have patches and pins and a monthly newsletter.” Judging from her expression, she was fully on board.

  Usually Elliott checked the library when he returned from his walks. But today when he turned onto his street, he saw a familiar pickup in the driveway. Ignoring the library for the time being, he headed for the porch, where Simon was leaning back against the door. Elliott let go of Ishtar’s leash—she was dragging him along anyway—and she raced to Simon and threw herself on him as if she hadn’t seen him that very morning. Laughing, Simon rubbed her ears with both hands.

  “If you pet her like that, it only rewards her for jumping on you and she’ll keep doing it.” Elliott had been reading a bit about dog training.

  Ignoring Elliott completely, Simon went nose to nose with Ishtar and informed her that she was the bestest wittle doggy in the world. She agreed.

  “God, I knew who’d be the strict parent,” Elliott said without thinking—then realized what had just escaped his mouth. Simon
raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything, which was a blessing.

  Eventually Ishtar put all four paws back on the ground, and Elliott pushed past them so he could open the door. Ishtar paused just long enough to allow Elliott to remove her leash, before racing for her water bowl. Meanwhile, Simon paused to pick up a large plastic bag with the Target logo. Something rattled inside.

  “What’s that?” asked Elliott.

  “Peace offering.”

  That brought Elliott up short. “For what?”

  “Oh, you’ll find out.” With that dire warning, Simon came into the house. He put the bag on the couch but remained standing, doing something on his phone. While Elliott stood in the entryway, watching with curiosity and dread, Ishtar came back into the living room, sniffed the bag, then huffed with disappointment and headed for her bed. Okay. So it wasn’t anything she considered edible.

  “Simon—”

  “Go change. I’ll wait.”

  Elliott looked down at himself. He’d already toed off his shoes, so he was wearing jeans, a sweater, and socks. “Change into what?”

  “Comfy clothes.”

  Nagging at Simon wouldn’t get him to spill the beans any quicker, so Elliott frowned and obeyed. In the bedroom, he pulled on a pair of green flannel lounging pants—ugly, but soft and warm—a gift from his parents the previous Christmas. He switched to a sweatshirt with slightly frayed hems and the Fresno Bulldogs logo on the front, a souvenir from Ladd’s college days. Elliott kept his socks on.

  As soon as he returned to the living room, music began to play from his Bluetooth speaker. “Um . . . what’s that?”

  “Nat King Cole. ‘Unforgettable.’”

  “I know the song. But why is it on?”

  Simon waved his phone. “I made a playlist. It’s part of the peace offering.” Before Elliott could ask again why a peace offering was needed, Simon picked up the bag and held it out. “Look.”