William

by Anyta Sunday

  She beckoned him to the stairs, where he assumed his bedroom would be found on the upper level. But then she stopped suddenly, slapping a palm to her head and rolling her eyes in an internationally recognized ‘silly me’. “But of course! You can’t care for all this information right now; you must want a shower and a nap!”

  He had to admit, both those things sounded more than delicious. Especially the shower part, and getting out of these possibly quite rank-smelling clothes.

  “I’ll get your things to your room, William. You can go right in there”—she pointed to the ground floor bathroom—“and take a good soak.”

  “You can call me Will,” he said, smiling. He didn’t want to be rude, but he really didn’t like the name William. It sounded so pompous, and he felt it would just exaggerate his flaws—his particularity—when it came to certain things. Will made him sound a tad more easy-going.

  Vicky frowned briefly before schooling her expression. “William is a fine name. I’d rather keep using it, if you don’t mind?”

  She asked it as a question, but there was something in her steady look that made it more of a statement. Behind him, through the open frame of the kitchen door, he heard Heath sigh, and chair legs scrape across tiled flooring.

  “Heath?” Vicky called out, “Could you take William’s things to his bedroom.”

  The answer came back hard and fast: not mean but almost—panicked? “No.”

  Vicky’s jaw tensed and the smile she put on seemed more than forced. “Fine, I’ll do that. Could you at least get him some towels before you disappear off into that hut of yours?”

  Heath strode out of the kitchen, brushing past Will none too friendly-like, and around a bend in the hall. Vicky smiled and motioned for him to follow her son. He hesitated, not sure he wanted to; Heath was grating on his nerves a bit.

  In fact, maybe he wasn’t that attractive after all. He had a lazy walk, scraping his feet over the floor; he wore too much deodorant, like maybe he was compensating for not showering regularly; a terrible taste in music; and obviously, he didn’t like Will being there.

  Will sighed. “Real nice son you have.” As soon as it left his mouth, he immediately cursed himself.

  Vicky, thank-his-lucky-stars, missed the sarcasm and nodded. “He’s a good boy. Helps me out more than he should, probably.”

  Will let out a relieved breath. Dammit if this year he wasn’t going to train his big, fat mouth to keep shut until he’d thought things through. It was always like this: he tended to say exactly what was on his mind without pausing first to consider how appropriate it was. Or the consequences that came with it.

  He’d have hoped he’d learned something after Karl, after that horrible family dinner scene . . . The memory of it, combined with exhaustion, had tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. Quickly, he turned from Vicky and ploughed toward the bathroom—

  And right into Heath, making him drop a set of towels.

  Of freaking course. This was his life after all.

  “Crapity.” He bent to pick them up, but Heath got to them first and handed them to him. Will took them, but blimey, he had a hard time not to touch those hands as he did. They were large, with fingers thicker than Will’s slender ones, and they looked more used somehow—but in a good way—tanned with experience or something. “Ah, thanks,” he hurriedly mumbled.

  “Towels and flannels we keep in the hot-water cupboard,” Heath said. “If you don’t have anything to wash with, you can use my stuff.”

  “Your stuff,” Will repeated, still flustered.

  “Unless you want to go around smelling of daffodils and vanilla or whatever—up to you.”

  With that Heath pushed past to leave, his elbow ever-so-slightly brushing against Will’s arm. Their skin touching sent a bucket-load of static dancing on his skin. Heath paused there for a moment. Did he feel that too, or did he just have some other smart-ass thing to say? He wanted to believe it was the former, especially considering the way the guy’s eyes widened, but most likely Will was projecting. ’Cause, damn, he was good at projecting. Which really wasn’t anything to be proud of, considering.

  Will met Heath’s gaze with a sideways one, but just as they clashed, Heath shook his head and moved away.

  Before he knew it, he was soaking his tired limbs under sheets of warm water, lathering himself with Heath’s spicy shower gel. The acoustics in the shower were simply divine and he found himself shifting his voice between falsetto and chest as he sung and strung consonants and vowels together. Hodl-oh-dee-oh-hodl-ooh-ay-ee-do.

  And the sounds worked to erase some of his tiredness. Suddenly the less-than-warm welcome from Heath and touch over-bearing Vicky didn’t bother him anymore; all he could be was thrilled, excited, over-the-freaking-moon. He was here. End of the world. The furthest anyone in his family had traveled. And boy was he going to enjoy every freaking moment of it.

  He dried himself with the fluffy red towel, curious to know what the room he’d be in was like—and wishing Vicky had shown it to him before ushering him into the bathroom. He didn’t want to parade his half-naked self around to ask.

  Thankfully, he didn’t have to. Sneaking upstairs, he found his bags peeking out of a room at the end of the upper hallway.

  He shoved his stuff all the way inside and shut the door before taking in the furnished room. A double bed took up most of the space, and had been nicely made with one side of the sheets and comforter pulled back, and a tri-pillow set in the middle. Square patches of sunlight hit the bed from the large windows and Will flung off his wet towel and sat in one of the warm spots as he noted a closet, some empty bookshelves, and a desk with a box with William scrawled down the side peeking out from behind a lamp.

  After slipping some socks over his cold feet, and while he was at it a tee-shirt and training pants, he checked the box. In it were some pens and lined paper, and a book he thought suspiciously looked like a bible, but when he pulled it out found it was a collection of poems.

  Thank God.

  Er, no pun intended or anything.

  He put the poems down, not sure what they were for, but the paper and pens were a thoughtful touch—gave him something to use when he met with his supervisor tomorrow, in case he hadn’t the time to shop for stationary.

  Staring at the box, and breathing in the slightly musty air of the quiet room, a chill crept up his spine. He looked around once more at the foreign room and his euphoria from the shower threatened to slip.

  He was here alone.

  Thankfully—or not so, he wasn’t sure—he had no time to dwell on it, as a harsh rap came at the door. He could tell by the attitude of the knock it was Heath. Only when he jerked open the door, Heath wasn’t standing before him but was half-way toward the stairs, back resting against the wall and cap back on, he looked frustrated at being there, fists practically balled at his side.

  “Dinner will be in an hour and a half,” he grunted, and started off.

  “Are you freaking serious?” Will called after him. That had Heath pausing, and Will took it. “Christ, I mean, what happened? At the airport you were nice and now . . . you don’t want me here, that’s obvious, but do you have to be such a prick about it?”

  Heath looked startled, but only for a second, then he shrugged and continued walking away, Will not missing his quieter, “Sorry, but maybe that’s exactly what I need to be.”

  * * *

  After that, Will took a short nap. A cramp in his stomach, and the smell of meat and gravy, woke him.

  He sniffed it all the way to the kitchen. About to enter, he paused at Heath’s heavy voice over the clattering of dishes. It held the tone that suggested a private conversation and Will didn’t want to walk in on it. Neither could he walk away. Because damn, he was curious. Curious at Heath and why he was wound up so tight. And if this offered some insight . . .

  “Don’t be afraid of that, honey. That’ll never happen. Maybe, do you want to go back to counseling?”

  “No,
I don’t need that. I’m doing . . . I’m doing fine. I just don’t want you to build this into something it’s not. And don’t say I didn’t warn you when this all turns to shit.” An oven door slammed shut.

  “Watch your mouth.”

  A sigh. “I’m sorry, I just . . .”

  “I know,” Vicky said. “You care. I know. But this is going to work out all right.”

  “Well something needs to because I’m so tired of it not.” An extended silence. Will hovered, not sure he should walk in that moment to break it or not. Just about to step in, Heath continued, “I really wish you’d speak with Dad again.”

  A strangled sound came, like a cross between a huff and cry. “That’d take an effort on his part too, and I’m not sure I’m ready.”

  “It’s been a year and a half, how much longer do you need?” The tone didn’t come out an accusation but more in confusion—or, hurt, maybe?

  Something slunk past Will’s leg and nipped at his fingers. He jumped, yelping in fright. When he looked down, his heart beat faster. He jerked back into the hall and away from the dog.

  Vicky called out. “William, are you up?”

  Slowly, he crept into the kitchen keeping the dog—a chocolate Labrador—in sight. “I did—didn’t realize you had a dog.”

  “It’s outside most of the time,” Vicky said, jaw tightening, as she set a pot on the table.

  “Murky,” Heath said quietly. Then he looked at Will. “His name is Murky.”

  Quickly Will choked out a smile to disguise any trace of fear on his face, but the guy, damn him, didn’t take the bait.

  “You have allergies or something?” Heath asked.

  It clicked. That’s why Vicky had asked him whether he had allergies. Here he thought it might’ve been because she was worried if he ate a peanut or strawberry he’d go into anaphylactic shock or something.

  No-no. Just a dog.

  Dog! Freaking hell.

  He shook his head to answer Heath, and in return he raised one eyebrow.

  “No. I’m fine,” Will said. “I’m good. Murky, yes?” He stepped back—subtly, he hoped—when Murky moved toward him. Quickly he blurted to Vicky, “Just gonna wash up before dinner.”

  On the way back from the bathroom after soaping his hands and convincing himself to chill—it was just a dog!—Heath cornered him. Well, not really cornered him—there was room to wriggle past him on either side, but that didn’t seem to matter. Will took one look at the guy and volunteered to stop in front of him. What was he hoping? That Standing Guy would reappear? Good god.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  Heath rubbed the back of his head, looking like he’d wished he hadn’t stopped so he could back out of whatever-it-was he was going to say. Finally he just blurted it: “Are you afraid of dogs?”

  Will felt a none-too-welcome flush creep up his neck, and jumped to defensive mode. “I was just taken by surprise. That was all. I’m fine with dogs.”

  He didn’t know where and why the lie came to him, but there is was.

  “You’re fine with them?” Heath repeated, brows arching. As if on cue, Murky trundled into the hall behind Heath.

  Will held himself from squirming or stepping back. “Yeah, I am. Move and I’ll prove it.”

  But Heath didn’t move, just stared hard at him, unnerving him in his intensity.

  “Move,” he said again.

  “I’ve never met anyone so scared of a dog before.”

  “I’m not scared.” Oh hell yeah he was. He cleared his throat and tried for a confident voice, that came out with squeaky edges. Damn it. “Come here, Murky.”

  The dog loped forward and Will’s pulse jumped into a sprint. What was he doing? What was he trying to prove? Really, he was a scaredy-cat at heart.

  “Get outta the way,” he said again, this time stepping into Heath’s personal space, hoping that would get him freaked enough to step away, but Heath didn’t so much as flinch.

  “It’s okay if you don’t like dogs, you know,” Heath said. “And Murky there is a real sweet thing, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Will wasn’t sure if Heath was being sincere or not. For a second, he thought he glimpsed Standing Guy again, someone genuinely wanting to make sure he was okay. But he couldn’t be sure. Maybe Heath was just trying to make him seem even more pathetic; it wasn’t just that Will was afraid of a dog, he was now afraid of a sweet, harmless one.

  Which was it?

  Either way, he didn’t want Heath thinking he was freaked out by dogs.

  He stepped a half-inch closer, so close their noses would meet with barest incline of his head. Then he pressed his hands onto Heath’s hard chest and, maybe it was the shock of the slight shove, but it had Heath stumbling back and out of his way.

  Then, with much shakier legs than he’d have liked, he shuffled to Murky.

  It’s just a dog.

  Swallowing, he tentatively reached out to pet Murky’s ear but pulled back just before he did. Crap. He tried again, this time landing a hand on his ear. With two rapid pets, he everything but leaped back.

  Ugh, he really needed to wash his hands again. Now.

  He felt Heath move behind him, approaching, maybe to say something or laugh, but was interrupted when Vicky stuck her head out the door. “You two ready? Dinner’s on the table.”

  Barely exchanging a glance, Heath moved into the kitchen calling Murky while Will went to scrub his hands twice in the bathroom.

  When he came back into the kitchen, Vicky waved him to one of the seats as Heath steered Murky out the sliding doors and across the lawn.

  He’d barely sat when Vicky began dumping spoons of mash potato mixed with carrots on his brown floral plate.

  He swallowed, trying to motion her to stop as she shoved some meat next to the mash, touching it. Only when she grabbed the gravy, did he find his voice. “No!”

  Startled, she stopped before pouring. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to do it?” She gave him an embarrassed smile. “Habit.”

  “Sorry. I just”—He took a breath and smiled again. He could manage with this—“This all looks wonderful and I’m really thankful you went to the effort for me.”

  She waved her hand like it was nothing. “We do this every Sunday. No biggie.”

  Heath re-entered the room and slid into his chair, immediately digging into the food Vicky had piled—no, mountained—onto his plate. “Thanks, Mum. Tastes great.”

  “So, William,” Vicky said, “What is it you’ll be studying this year?”

  “I’ll be doing a masters on data mining: how to effectively process large amounts of data into something more meaningful.”

  “Uh-huh,” Vicky said, “I’m confused already.”

  He tried to break it down for her, but he was afraid he’d lost her again at ‘terabytes’. In the end, she just nodded and smiled. “Sounds like you’re passionate about it.”

  “It’d probably be tedious if you didn’t like math.”

  For the next half an hour they continued to chat together, though by together he meant him to Vicky and Vicky to Heath.

  The only communication he and Heath had were the occasional glances at each other—then only when they thought they could do it without the other seeing it. And when they did catch each other they exchanged excuses. Heath beckoned for the peas in front of Will, though he hadn’t touched the ones his plate; and Will asked for the carafe of water.

  Neither particularly creative. Granted.

  And all the while this game of dodge-and-seek was happening he was picking out the carrots from the mash into their own little pile, or scraping the potato off the meat. He took bites here and there, but only when he was sure nothing was mixed.

  “Are you not a fan of carrots?” Vicky asked.

  “Um, no, I like carrots all right.” He stared at his plate while he tried to think of the best way to explain his particularity. But perhaps he was too tired because instead he laughed.

  Heath had it wrong. There
was nothing wrong with Vicky—it wasn’t her that would crash and burn. It was him.

  He was the one afraid of dogs, who couldn’t eat foods that were mixed together, who couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. Honestly, it was no wonder he’d never found someone who’d really loved him. He was a mess.

  He laughed again, eliciting an inquisitive, half-worried look from Vicky.

  But what made him calm down, what tempered his bout of almost-hysteria, was the way Heath cocked his head in amusement and, for the first time since Standing Guy had vanished, smiled.

  * * *

  Early next morning, he ambled downstairs, busting for the bathroom. When he’d finished, he was about to crawl back to bed, when he heard someone humming from the kitchen. He poked his head around the corner, and stopped just before announcing his presence. There, with his back to him, sat Heath at the dining table, with a pen and something spread out on the table before him. He circled and scribbled, and when he got to the chorus of the song he was humming, he broke out into verse, bobbing his head up and down.

  Something thumped against the sliding door and both he and Heath looked up. There was Murky butting his head against the glass.

  “Perky-Murky,” Heath said, getting up and opening the door. “You want to go play? You do don’t you? I can see it in your big, soppy eyes. What was that?” He craned his ear toward the dog. “You want treats, do you? How about one of your favorite crackers when we get back from our run? No-no, you can’t have one now.”

  Will continued to watch as Heath slid the door shut and strolled across to his hut. From what he could tell, he came out again with a leash. Heath threw something to Murky and the dog went wild. A big smile stretched across Heath’s face and he let Murky lick his cheek.

  Ugh. That was closer than he ever wanted to get to a dog.

  He moved away from the doorway as Heath and Murky moved closer to the sliding doors, and took the stairs two at a time to his room, a rather curious question entering his mind: how was it someone who was assholey to him could be, well, such a softie? Because what he saw of Heath when he wasn’t looking?—it was the guy he’d first met at Dunedin airport. It was a guy he liked.