Love Has No Direction

by Kim Fielding

  Parker felt that if only they could stand like that for a long time—a week, a month—he might leave the embrace with a permanent sense of who he was and where he wanted to go. He might never make a bad decision again.

  Wes snuffled into the crook of Parker’s neck. “God, this is…. We need to not do this.” He didn’t loosen his grip, however.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

  That made Parker laugh. “Do you think I’m some kind of blushing maiden? Or a child?”

  “No, I think you’re a man who’s gone through a lot in the past two days.”

  That was true enough. Still, Parker ordinarily wouldn’t have hesitated to jump Wes’s bones. But the sensible little voice inside his head—the one that rarely spoke up—told him if he and Wes fucked now, that would be the end of it. The next day Parker would find his way back to Portland somehow, and he’d never see Wes again. He didn’t want that.

  It was physically painful to unwind himself from Wes, but Parker did. Still, he felt fortified by the hug. Well, fortified and half-hard. He sat on the couch and smiled up at Wes. “Tell me about your grandfather.”

  WES’S STORIES came slowly at first, little dribbles of sentences without much detail or emotion. But then the words came faster, the memories grew lusher, and he talked almost nonstop as he prepared dinner and then while they ate outside under the canopy, as if they were camping. Parker enjoyed having opened the verbal spigot and loved hearing about Wes’s grandfather, who’d taught him carpentry.

  “If we had gone to Wyoming,” Wes said, a bottle of beer in hand, “we could have visited the Reliance tipple.”

  Parker, with his full belly, felt more relaxed and comfortable than he had in ages, even though the night air was cold. “I have no idea what that is.”

  “It’s this place where they used to sort and load coal. They haven’t used it in… I dunno. Decades. But the structure is cool. Big and sort of postapocalyptic industrial, out in the middle of nowhere. I’ve, uh, seen some photos.”

  “I would like to visit a tipple.”

  Wes flashed him a grin. “Or there’s the desert. Or maybe the ocean.”

  And then Wes was off again, describing the history of transpacific sailing. Parker listened, realizing Wes probably didn’t get much chance to talk to other people, at least not at length. Parker was usually surrounded by people—coworkers, acquaintances, customers, roommates—and it was nice to have just one conversation going, to have somebody focused only on him.

  He continued to listen while he washed up the dinner dishes, and then he and Wes went into the bus. Just as Wes was asking Parker what music he’d like to hear, Parker’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and sighed. “My mom. I’m gonna take this outside, okay?”

  Wes nodded, and Parker stepped out of the bus.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “You doing okay, Gonzo?”

  He looked up at the sky, where a few stars peeked through tattered clouds. “I’m fine. Not kidnapped or anything.”

  “You’re still with Wes?”

  “Yeah. I’m an adult, and—”

  “I’m not calling to tell you what to do.”

  That made him blink. Rhoda was generally pretty free with advice—not just to him, but to everyone who ventured within her sphere. “Oh?” he said carefully.

  “I just wanted to tell you I love you.”

  “I love you too.” He waited for what felt like a long time, but she didn’t say anything else. Didn’t hang up either, though. Eventually he puffed out a lungful of air. “You’re sure you don’t want to tell me that running off like this was irresponsible? Or that Wes is a complete stranger who Jeremy and Nevin hate?”

  She laughed. “You already know those things, kiddo. I don’t have to tell you. If you need some space to sort out your head and your heart, then I respect that.”

  He wandered over to the covered area and plopped into the chair where he’d sat for a good chunk of the evening. Something rustled in the trees nearby. Maybe just a bit of breeze. Or maybe… raccoons? Possums? He’d spent his life in cities and suburbs and didn’t know what might be lurking here. Still, it wasn’t scary to sit out here, even alone. Wes had hung some lights here and there, and they cast a cheery little glow.

  “I have no idea what I need,” he admitted. “Or what I want.”

  “Like I said—maybe you can sort yourself out a little now, wherever you are.”

  “Maybe. But Wes….”

  “I don’t know what Nevin and Jeremy have against him. I’m sure they have a good reason to be angry. But I thought he seemed very nice. And brave, for standing up to those two to apologize.”

  Parker nodded to himself. “I like him.”

  “Good.”

  Perhaps Rhoda’s tacit approval shouldn’t have been important, but it was. For one thing, her instincts about people were rarely off.

  Wes hadn’t closed the curtains in the bus, and Parker caught glimpses of him through the windows, moving around as if he were arranging something inside.

  “Mom, I don’t know when I’ll be back.” Or how he’d get there, but that was a problem for another day. “Am I leaving you shorthanded at P-Town?”

  “A little, yes, but don’t worry. I have backup plans.”

  Of course she did. Rhoda was prepared for everything and never jumped into stupid decisions. “Okay,” Parker said.

  “If you hear from the police again, let us know, all right? And do you want to talk to that lawyer Jeremy recommended?”

  “Not really. Can you do it?” Because that was totally what an adult did—ask his mom to take care of his legal issues.

  Maybe Rhoda expected this, however, because she didn’t hesitate before responding. “If you want. I’ll let you know if she needs information from you, though.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate you, Mom.”

  “You should.” She chuckled. “And I appreciate you too, Gonzo. Good night.”

  After the call ended, he stayed outside for several more minutes until he realized he was shivering. When he returned to the bus, Wes had settled into a chair with a book on his lap.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  Creedence Clearwater now played through the speakers, John Fogerty singing about the Midnight Special. Parker hummed along as he made himself comfortable on the couch. “You’re probably thinking I’m too old to be checking in with Mommy.”

  “Nah, I get it. You’re close.”

  There was a hint of longing or sadness there, and Parker scrutinized him. Wes had spoken a lot about his grandfather but hadn’t mentioned the rest of his family. “You’re not close with your parents?”

  Wes shrugged. If he was trying for nonchalant, he didn’t quite pull it off. “They divorced when I was little. They both remarried and started new families. I was kind of a leftover. A reminder of failure. They shuttled me back and forth, you know, but I didn’t fit in with any of them.”

  That sucked. No matter what disasters Parker brought on himself, he was always rock-solid in his knowledge that he belonged to his mother, and she to him. “Are your folks around here?”

  “Nah. My mother ended up in Nevada. My dad and his kids inherited the rest of Grandpa’s property but sold it right away. Somebody rents the land, the house is empty, and my dad’s in California somewhere.” Wes lifted his chin. “But I have my five acres and my bus and my furniture business. This is mine.”

  The song ended and another began: “Fortunate Son,” in fact, which was rather ironic timing. Wes stared at Parker. “Do you want a ride back to Portland now?” His voice was quiet.

  Parker’s throat tightened and he lurched to his feet. “I’m imposing. I’m sorry. I’ll—”

  But Wes was out of his chair and resting a hand—hard calluses and hot skin—on Parker’s forearm. “You’re not imposing. I just….” He took a step back, letting his hand drop. “I’m not good for you.”

>   If Wes’s expression weren’t so somber, if Parker weren’t feeling choked, he would have laughed. “Good for me? Like health food or something? ’Cause I’m not a big fan.”

  “I’m not….” Wes bit his lip, clearly struggling to get the words out. Then he shook his head. “My life here is really boring.”

  Breathing became easier when Parker saw the doubt in Wes’s eyes. Wes didn’t want to get rid of him. “I like it here,” Parker said.

  “Why?”

  A reasonable question, but Parker had a hard time answering. It was difficult to express. “I like the quiet,” he said, but there was more to it than that. And if Wes was willing to put up with him, the guy at least deserved a more complete response.

  After a brief hesitation, Parker took two steps, which brought him to the opposite side of the bus. He ran his fingertips down the side of a bookshelf made of a red-hued wood, polished to a warm glow. A swath of blonder wood was inset in a random serpentine pattern that looked as if a lazy river or wandering country road flowed down the bookcase to the floor. “You made this, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Stroking the wood seemed to help organize Parker’s thoughts. “My parents opened P-Town when I was in high school. It was a ton of work—getting the shop physically set up, collecting all the right permits and stuff, hiring and training people, deciding on menus and suppliers…. Even now, all these years later, Mom probably puts in eighty hours a week. She doesn’t have to. But she wants to. Her dream. Maybe it’s a dumb little coffeehouse to everyone else—”

  “It’s a really nice coffeehouse.”

  Parker smiled. “It is. But in the end, it’s really not much more than a place to get sugar and caffeine, and Portland is full of those. Still, P-Town’s almost always busy, and regular customers come from all over the city even though parking can be a pain in the ass. And I think the reason why is that people can tell it’s not just some corporate outpost or a way for someone to make a few bucks. P-Town is my mom’s happy place, and that gives off vibes that make other people happy too.”

  Funny. Parker had never really thought about this before, but the words rang true as he said them, and Wes was nodding as if they made sense to him as well. That was pretty cool. If Parker had made this speech to any of his exes, most of them would have laughed and asked what he’d been smoking. But since Wes wasn’t laughing, Parker continued while caressing the bookshelf.

  “This place—your bus, your workshop outside—it’s like that. You’ve put your heart into it, just like Mom has into P-Town, and that makes your home a good place to be. It’s a warm energy, you know?”

  Wes regarded him, wide-eyed. “Yeah.”

  That made Parker so pleased that he hugged himself, as if holding his body together.

  They settled back down again, Wes in his chair and Parker on the couch, Credence still twanging away. Usually Parker would have played on his phone, but after eyeing Wes for a few minutes, he instead stood and examined the books on the shelf. “Can I borrow one?”

  “Sure.”

  Parker had always considered reading a chore rather than entertainment, but after he snuggled back into the couch with Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, he was absolutely content to dip lazily in and out of the story as he listened to the music and to Wes turning the pages of his own book. Even better was when Wes disappeared outside the bus for a few minutes and returned with steaming mugs of minty tea. He set one atop a coaster on the little table beside Parker, then rooted in a cabinet before producing a bag of chips. He poured the chips into a couple of bowls, handed one to Parker, and sat back in his chair with his own.

  Yeah. Pretty close to perfection.

  An indefinable time later, Parker looked up when Wes began to yawn. “Long day, huh?” Parker asked.

  “For both of us.”

  The memory of what had happened to Logan resurfaced from where Parker had attempted to bury it, and he grimaced. “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Your choice. We can make up the couch into a serviceable bed. I’ve slept on it before, and it’s pretty comfortable. Or….” He gestured toward his own bed.

  Ordinarily Parker wouldn’t have hesitated to jump onto that nice wide mattress—naked, with lube and a rubber in hand. He’d thought Wes was hot the minute he laid eyes on him outside P-Town, and the longer they’d spent together, the sexier Wes had become. Tonight, though, a rare hesitancy poked at him. If he and Wes fucked tonight, it would probably be fun. And they might fuck again in the morning, maybe again tomorrow night. But then what if that was that? It would be sort of like sitting down to dinner and eating dessert before you got to the main course. After a big slice of chocolate peanut butter cake, that plate of grilled zucchini wasn’t going to be as appealing. And that would be too bad because grilled zucchini tasted damned good—and was long-term healthy to boot.

  Parker had the feeling that getting to know Wes more deeply would make for a very satisfying main course.

  On the other hand, Parker wasn’t in the mood to be alone on the couch, even if Wes was only a few yards away.

  Wes waited patiently, eyebrows raised and head slightly cocked. He wasn’t rushing Parker into a decision, which was nice.

  Compromise. “Your bed, please. But, um, no sex. If that’s okay.”

  “That’s fine.” If Wes felt disappointed, he didn’t show it.

  Half an hour later Parker was glad for his decision. Wes’s bed was cozy, enclosed on three sides by the walls of the bus and with a painted starscape on the ceiling above them. Wes had shut down the stove, and the room temperature was cooling, but they had flannel sheets and a heavy down comforter that smelled pleasantly of Wes: wood shavings, Dr. Bronner’s soap, and mint tea. Wes snored softly beside Parker. They weren’t touching, but Parker could touch him if he moved his hand a little to the side. Maybe tomorrow.

  Chapter Six

  WES COULDN’T remember the last time he’d awakened with another man in his bed. It was a little strange, especially since he’d just met this particular man the previous afternoon and then enjoyed an oddly domestic evening together—and they hadn’t fucked. Hadn’t even kissed. Parker was also a decade younger and looked especially youthful in his sleep: orange hair spread over the white pillowcase, long lashes fanned above cheekbones, wide mouth hanging open a bit. Wes hadn’t closed all the curtains before they went to bed, and now the morning light bathed Parker’s beautiful face and one hand, lightly curled, sticking out from the blankets.

  Wes wanted to run his fingers through Parker’s hair and across his cheeks. He wanted to taste Parker’s lips. He wanted to press their bodies together and bury his nose in the crook of Parker’s neck so he could inhale the early-morning scent of him. Instead Wes simply looked, several miles of inches between them.

  Then Parker opened his eyes—varied tones of warm brown, like bits of polished rosewood—and smiled. “Morning.”

  Wes cleared his throat to get rid of the hoarseness. “Breakfast?”

  “Wouldn’t say no to that.” Parker stretched luxuriously. “But let me help, okay?”

  Wes was well aware his home setup was unconventional; you had to brave the morning’s outdoor chill to simply use the bathroom and wash up. He was used to it, of course, but he expected some grousing from Parker. He didn’t get it. Parker seemed cheerful about everything, in fact, and cooked eggs and toast while Wes showered. Wes repeatedly glanced at him over the top of the wooden shower enclosure, and Parker shot him occasional quick grins.

  They took their breakfast into the bus to eat. “The eggs are good,” Wes commented after a couple of bites. “You put stuff in them.”

  “Just threw in a few herbs and spices.”

  “Coffee’s good too.”

  Parker chuckled. “If there’s one thing I can do really well, it’s brew coffee.”

  “It’s a handy skill.” Wes lifted his mug in a toast. “I appreciate it.” He took another sip.

  “In the grand scheme of things, it’s not a big deal.
Not like making fancy furniture.”

  Wes laughed. “And how many people get to use my fancy furniture? A handful. Rich ones with money to burn. Coffee making, however, delights the masses.”

  Parker rolled his eyes, apparently unconvinced, but let the matter drop. “Did you plan to work today?”

  “Yeah. But if that sounds boring, we can—”

  “It doesn’t. I’d like to watch, if it’s okay with you.”

  “Sure.” Wes had never had an audience before. He suspected the show would grow tedious pretty fast.

  After Parker helped with the breakfast cleanup, he settled into a chair under the tarp with a blanket on his lap and fresh coffee in hand—and stayed there most of the morning. He asked a few questions about what Wes was doing and listened carefully to the explanations. Wes showed Parker the planks of weathered white oak salvaged from an old barn and talked about his hopes for the current project, explaining that the numerous nail holes would simply add to the coffee table’s character. If he cut and joined everything correctly, the tabletop would evoke the keel of a sailing ship. An appropriate piece of driftwood, currently waiting in one of the sheds, would curl around it: a sea monster pulling the ship to its doom.

  When alone, Wes had a tendency to mutter to himself as he labored. It was a nice change to talk to another human being. Especially one who was easy on the eyes and willing to fetch him hot drinks. Parker tried to bring him tools as well, but it soon became clear he didn’t recognize much beyond a hammer.

  “Your mom never taught you handyman skills, huh?” Wes glanced over and smiled.

  “No,” Parker answered with an amused snort. “I don’t think she has any of those skills.”

  Wes hesitated a moment before posing the next question. “What about your dad?” Parker had mentioned his parents, plural, a couple of times, but although he talked about Rhoda in some detail, he’d said very little about his father.

  Parker laughed softly. “He was even worse at projects than her. He used to call himself Captain Klutz, which was an accurate description.”