by Amy Lane
“I wouldn’t know,” Skip said weakly. He had nothing. “I just don’t want you to go.”
Richie reached up and stroked his cheek. “Hardly any stubble,” he said with a small smile. “Did he really hit on you?”
Skip captured his hand, turned, and kissed his palm. “No. He said he was interested. But he got it. He’s a friend.”
Richie nodded. “Okay. I’ll set the alarm and leave real early.” He arched up and kissed the corner of Skip’s mouth. “If this guy’s stupid enough to let you go, I should be smart enough to stay for a while.”
Skip kissed him for real, and like they tended to do, this kiss went on for a while. When he was done, Richie was half-asleep and still kissing. Skip laughed a little and reluctantly got off the couch. He helped Richie up, and the two of them walked, naked, toward the bedroom. Richie stopped in midmarch and started gathering his clothes, pulling his phone from his pocket as he did so.
“No texts,” he said with some gratification. “Dad fell asleep. He’ll wake up at six—if I’m up at four, I won’t have to deal with his bullshit.”
“That’s a shitty time to get up,” Skip mumbled. God—four in the morning?
“Maybe five,” Richie conceded with a grunt. He moved in front of Skip, and just the heat from his silhouette radiated comfort.
“Are you still putting the place right?”
“We’ve got about four, five more days’ work to go,” Richie confirmed. “Dad says we’ll work through Thanksgiving and do the family thing Friday.”
Skipper let a sound of protest escape, and Richie looked behind him, grabbing his hand. “Yeah, I know. No long practice on Friday. I know we were going to… you know. Come out, do the whole thing with the team together, but not this week.” He sighed. “I’m so sorry, man.”
“It’s all right,” Skip muttered, stowing the hurt away. Friday’s practice was sort of special even without their grand plan to talk to the team, but his eyes were on the long game now. “It’ll be worth it if you can get away during the weekend.”
Richie stopped in the doorway and turned into a full-body, naked hug. “Being with you is worth anything,” he said simply. “Let me get my dad settled. Let me feel like I’m not deserting him. And then it’ll be you and me, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” Skip mumbled into his hair. “Yeah.” Anything, just stay with me tonight. Just sleep in my bed, be there in the morning.
He didn’t say it out loud, but they slid into bed. Skip was the big spoon, and he didn’t let go all night.
RICHIE’S PHONE buzzed at ass-crack-thirty, and Skip got out of bed with him to make coffee while he was in the shower. Richie’s car was more than comfortably ruffled when Skip went out to get Richie’s travel coffee mug—it was full of fast-food wrappers and even had some butts in the ashtrays. But Skip didn’t say a word, just had Richie’s coffee ready, lots of cream and sugar, by the time Richie was dressed.
Richie took the mug from Skip’s hands and smiled gamely at him. “You trying to spoil me into staying?” he asked playfully.
“Will it work?”
Richie took a sip and winked. “It might.”
Skip went in for a kiss, and Richie gave him a brief one but then pulled back. “No killer kisses, ’kay, Skipper? I’ve got to go clean up my family shit. Can’t do it all day if I’m thinking about your kiss.”
Skip kissed his temple instead. “Love you, Richie.”
“Love you back.”
Then he was gone.
Castles in the Sky
“YOU LOOK like shit,” Carpenter said to him that morning. “What happened?”
Skipper groaned, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Richie stopped by last night.”
“Do you feel used?” Carpenter asked, horrified, and Skip had to laugh.
“Yeah, sort of, but in a good way. No, his life just got crazy complicated. The chimp brothers actually ripped off the family, his dad is getting more psychotic by the nanosecond—but you know what?”
“What?”
“He left that all behind for me. He’ll do it again.”
Carpenter let out a breath. “Yeah. Sure, Skip.”
Skip could tell he wanted to say more, but at that moment Skip’s phone rang. Mason was on the other end, asking in a kind and professional manner if Skip could help him with his browser. Skip had a job to do that he didn’t hate, and a little bit of hope. It would do.
THE HOPE sustained him for the rest of the week. On Wednesday night he baked seven loaves of basic bread, and called up Galvan, Jefferson, and Owens and asked them if they wanted some. He brought two over to Carpenter’s parents’ place and kept two for him and Richie, wrapped tight in tinfoil after the initial cooling period. He’d had a couple of pieces of one of the loaves, and it had turned out yeasty and comforting, which as far as he was concerned was all bread should be.
Carpenter’s parents lived up in the foothills, in one of the developments back by Auburn/Folsom Road. The houses there were amazing, and since Skip and Carpenter were driving up from Carmichael together, Skip got several chances to tell Carpenter how much he sucked because of it.
“Seriously? ‘Just come up to my parents’ place, Skip, it’s got like seventeen rooms—’”
“Fifteen,” Carpenter said uncomfortably.
“And maid’s quarters—”
“She doesn’t stay overnight!”
“And a ginormous fucking garage for our three different Rolls-Royces!” Skip finished viciously as—at Carpenter’s direction—they pulled into one of the larger houses in the rather fantastic development. “Holy fuck, Carpenter—that brick house has turrets. This is fucking Granite Bay and that house has turrets. And maid’s quarters, I don’t care if she goes home to her family. You couldn’t have warned me about this?”
“What’s to warn—”
“You can fit my house in your family room!” Skip gestured to the grand monstrosity in front of them. “I could have at least worn a tie!”
Carpenter grunted. “You can’t make a big deal out of the money,” he said, sounding like it was a rule.
“Carpenter—”
“And you have to call me Clay. My parents think we’re friends.”
“We are friends,” Skip said. “You took me golfing. I think that makes us brothers.” He pulled his teeny tiny car to a stop behind five other cars—Lexus being the least premium among them—and dragged his hands through his hair. He’d gotten his hair cut on Saturday, and he and Richie had been so… otherwise involved that he hadn’t had a chance to ask Richie if he liked it. About four years earlier, Skip had gotten a Bieber, and Richie had been the first person to come right out and say it looked like crap and for fuck’s sake go get a real haircut like a man. Hearing that it looked good from Richie would have meant something.
“Well if we’re friends, the money shouldn’t matter!” Carpenter said triumphantly, pulling Skip out of that line of thinking. “This is a perfectly normal house in a perfectly normal suburb!” He was balancing a big dish of something on his lap, or Skip was pretty sure he would have been gesticulating madly to try to convince Skip that the boogie man did not live in a big house in Granite Bay.
“We are friends,” Skip said bitterly, “but dude.” He looked at this big house with the nice yard and the cars. “Dude.” He should have known—seriously, he should have known. Carpenter’s dad had a tee time at the Fair Oaks golf range the weekend before Thanksgiving—Skip totally should have known. But he hadn’t, and the extent of the… the opulence shocked him. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he read Richie’s message, grateful for the distraction before he started to hyperventilate.
We’re finally fucking done. Happy Thanksgiving to me, I can go to sleep now.
Oh God. Richie had been texting him at nine o’clock at night for the past three nights. The night before, while Skip had been waiting for the last batch of bread to bake, he’d gotten a string of pictures, from the morning when Richie first walked in and saw that the
lot had been vandalized to the day before, when it had been cleaned and rearranged and made—hopefully—ready to start up business on Monday.
There wouldn’t be much business. There couldn’t be. There was quite simply not that much left.
Seeing those pictures, Skip had gotten a bigger picture of Richie’s reasons for staying close to his father. Richie had been the one by his dad’s side, cleaning up the business that his dad had built from a few used cars in his driveway. Richie had been the one who had drawn up the insurance papers and entered everything into the computer. The tech school training that his dad and Kay had constantly given him shit about was going to allow his dad to keep buying inventory and to hopefully reopen on the Monday after Thanksgiving. Maybe.
Richie felt needed, and Skip couldn’t hold that against him. And looking at those pictures, he hadn’t been able to argue with Richie leaving his bed to go back out and help. Hell, when Skip had Wednesday off—even without seeing the pictures—he’d texted that he was coming over to help. He’d nearly gotten there before Richie called—catching him while he was stopped at the McDonald’s drive-through for coffee—and begged him not to do it.
“Please, Skip. Dad’s just… he’s not rational right now, okay? I don’t know how Paul and Rob being douche bags came down to being your fault, but after Sunday night, I can’t take a leak without him blaming you for making me have to pee.”
“Does he know you left?”
“Yeah, he figured it out Monday night when he asked me if I had any beer.”
“Ugh… yeah—sort of needed to cover your tracks.”
“I’m saying. But don’t come and help, okay? I mean, I know you mean well, but he’s just going to yell at you and say ugly shit—”
“Has he been saying ugly shit to you?” Oh God! Richie!
“Yeah. Yeah, Skip, he has. But don’t worry about it. We should be done Thanksgiving, and we’re having dinner Friday. He’s not going to get ugly if all his and Kay’s family are over—especially not when Rob and Paul are in the fucking wind. Just hang in there, Skipper. I know you just want to help me, but if you can wait until Saturday, and the game, I should be able to come see you, okay? After that, you and I can get a little back to normal.”
That had been yesterday morning. Today, Thanksgiving, when Skip finally had something to be thankful for, he was stuck staring at the ginormous castle Carpenter had hauled him to and wondering what he’d ever imagined as normal.
He picked up the phone and texted, I miss you so fucking bad. I should be there with you.
“This is normal?” he asked Carpenter weakly when he was done.
“How’s Richie?” Carpenter asked gently.
“He gets to sleep on Thanksgiving, and I apparently still don’t get to come on the property.”
Carpenter sighed. “C’mon, Skipper. Let’s go inside and you can meet my folks and my aunt and uncle. They’ll question you about your childhood and try to feed you tofurkey, and afterwards we can go to your place and eat hamburgers and play video games.”
Skip looked at him mournfully, thinking that was probably what he’d be doing with Richie if Rob and Paul hadn’t been horrible people.
And if Richie’s dad hadn’t decided that no amount of mentholyptus could cover the smell of sex.
“Yeah, okay,” Skip said, resignation washing over him. He wasn’t going to see Richie tomorrow. Richie was going to have his Thanksgiving tomorrow, and Skip wasn’t invited.
Skip wanted to cry.
“C’mon,” Carpenter said gently.
Skip swallowed and smiled gamely at him, letting his misery show for maybe the first time since Richie had texted last Friday. They’d played—and lost—without Richie that Saturday, and Skip had bailed on the pizza and beer, claiming exhaustion. He hadn’t been able to tell everyone he just couldn’t socialize, couldn’t laugh and smile, not when he knew Richie was working his ass off and Skip didn’t get to help.
This was stupid, he told himself resolutely. Richie wasn’t dead. He wasn’t deployed or in another country. But nothing worked, because the point, Skipper was beginning to realize, was that he wasn’t there.
Skip needed him there.
“Yeah,” Skip heard himself saying from far away. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s go be family.”
CARPENTER’S MOTHER and father were tanned, attractive, fit people, and at first Skip sort of expected to hate them on sight. A part of him was pretty sure their tanned, attractive fitness had come at Carpenter’s expense.
But you didn’t just greet a couple of people inviting you into their home with “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter, so how did you make your son fat?”
Instead he said “Hi!” and handed them two loaves of bread, still warm from the oven he’d pulled them out of that morning.
Mrs. Carpenter—Cheryl—was delighted.
“Oh, how lovely! You made this?”
Skip nodded, taking kudos for the world’s easiest bread recipe. It had been something his mom had taught him before the divorce, and he’d managed to hold on to it into adulthood. “Yes, ma’am. It’s one of maybe five things I can cook.”
“So is it leavened or unleavened?”
“Uh, it’s got yeast—”
“What kind of flour did you use?”
“Uh, the multipurpose kind, you know—”
“So not gluten-free?” she asked, looking disappointed. She was one of those fiftyish women who looked late thirtyish if you didn’t count the deepness of the smile grooves by her eyes. Her hair was frosted and held up at her nape with a clip. Skip thought wistfully that she looked like the kind of mom any boy would want as an adult.
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry. Carp, er, Clay didn’t tell me if you had any allergies.”
“No, no,” she said, smiling bravely as though they’d all get through it. “It’s just that wheat flour is so bad for you. But that’s okay. It’s Thanksgiving and we’re having vegan cheese in with the mashed cauli-tatoes and salty gravy on the tofurkey—we can afford one more indulgence.”
Skip smiled at her, feeling like he’d just gotten a pat on the head for a macaroni necklace, and Cheryl Carpenter disappeared into the kitchen.
“I should have brought wine,” Skip said in an undertone.
“If it’s less than two hundred dollars a bottle, they use it in the gravy,” Clay said, and Skip shot him a killing look. “I’m serious!” Clay maintained, hands up. Then he cast a determined smile over Skip’s shoulder. “Hi, Dad!”
“Clay!” Skip moved so Clyde Carpenter could come embrace his son.
Yeah, a little awkward, and when the vegetable plates came out, Skip heeded Clay’s frantically waved hands and stayed the hell away from the dip. But Clay’s parents were friendly, and very liberal, and they were as supportive as possible of their slacking, video-game-playing son, even when he was overshadowed by his rather spectacular sister.
Skip sat on the cushioned stone of the fireplace apron in a room with a plush berber carpet and cream-colored walls that were pristine and flawlessly painted. He sipped really expensive wine and noshed on stuff he’d never heard of while listening to two people sincerely intertwine the adventures of their flawless perfect daughter with the more modest accomplishments of their son.
“Sabrina is doing really well at Stanford,” Clyde said as Skipper tried to forget he’d just eaten bean curd and sprouts. “She’s earned another grant, Clay. She was sorry she didn’t make it up, but they’ve taken the twins to help volunteer at a child cancer ward for Thanksgiving.”
“I miss them,” Clay said, and although his voice, too, rang with sincerity, Skip was pretty sure he detected some understandable relief.
“Of course—and you met with Austen, right?”
“Yeah, but Skip and I were sort of ahead of the group during golf. I didn’t get a chance to talk.”
Skip looked at Carpenter quizzically and he shrugged. “Austen’s my sister’s brother-in-law,” he said weakly.
Skip stared at him, be
cause they’d both blown the guy off for a prick, and if Skip had known he was family, he probably would have made more of an effort.
Carpenter smiled innocently back and then said to his family, “I, uh, joined Skipper’s soccer team.” As a diversion, it worked perfectly.
“Clay!” his mother said delightedly. “You didn’t tell us that! Skipper—how’s he doing?”
“He’s doing great,” Skip said with enthusiasm.
“Well, he never was very fast,” Clay’s uncle Carter said with a pitying look. “He couldn’t make it in any of his high school teams.”
“Yeah, well, high school coaches don’t have any patience,” Skip said staunchly. “He sort of got thrown into the deep end, really. At first we just needed him to sub for the defense, and he did a real good job there—smart player, listens, thinks on the field. But after the first game, I got sick, and the next game Richie—uhm, er, our, uh, forward”—he charged on through the blush—“couldn’t play last week, and he played both games like a champ. Last week it was like he’d been there for years.”
“That’s wonderful, Clay!” his father said, beaming. “I always knew you could enjoy sports—sometimes it just needs to happen at the right time, you know?”
“So what made this the right time?” Uncle Carter said, narrowing his eyes.
Skip and Clay exchanged glances, and Clay shrugged and held out his hand. “You were doing fine,” he said, smiling.
“Well, mostly he was just fun to talk to, and Richie liked him, so it was great to have him on the team.”
“Is Richie cocaptain?” Carter asked, all curiosity. Uncle Carter had a wife, Candace, who was playing games with their children in the adjoining room, and Skip wished he’d wandered in there.
“Uh, no,” Skip said and then decided to go for broke. “Richie’s my boyfriend. His opinion’s sort of important.”
“Oh!” Carter said, laughing—but not unkindly. “You’re right. His opinion counts. Why isn’t he here today?”
