Compassion

by Neal, Xavier

  “Jaye...” Calvin's voice sounds faint. “Um. You there?”

  The corner of Archer's lips slightly slide upward.

  “Jaye...”

  I shut my eyes, the tugging of logical attraction and the inexplicable one, giving me a headache.

  This is a brand new problem. Not sure that I like it.

  “Can I think about it?”

  “Sure,” Calvin cautiously agrees. “I understand.”

  “I have to finish making dinner, but we'll talk again soon.”

  “Looking forward to it. Have a good night.”

  “You too.” Hanging up, I let my smile expand. “How was your shower?”

  “Good.” He nods. “It helped.” His approach for the counter space beside me is slow. “About earlier-”

  “Archer-”

  “If you want to back out-”

  “I don't-”

  “But if you do.” He raises his voice. “I understand. I respect that. I can't...I don't...Hurting you would....”

  Told you. Told you he would never in his right mind hurt me. Well I can't overly worry about his 'wrong' mind. The best I can do is have a plan for it and see about getting him some professional help.

  “I know,” I hum.

  Silence settles until the pan in front of me reminds me of it's presence with the excruciating heat. Needing the reminder, I turn it down, and mumble, “Damn it...”

  “Need some help?” He repeats.

  “I'm gonna start to cook the fish, but do you wanna cut up the spinach and avocado slices?” He nods his compliance so I point down to the cabinets that are to the left of me. “Down there is the cutting board and across from you are the knives.”

  Archer grabs the board, a knife, and starts the process as I try to focus on the food in front of me. Casually I mention, “I noticed that you um...you shaved.”

  “I did.”

  My eyes steal another glance of him. “But you've still got scruff.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  Thoughtlessly I state, “I think you look great.” Realizing what I said, I quickly try to add, “I mean, it's a great look. Your hair, it's um...it's short. How do you keep it that way?”

  “Scissors,” he answers at the same time the fish hits the pan. “Found an old pair in the early days. Helped keep my hair down then my beard too. Switch every time I find a newer, sharper pair. I find ways to keep the pair sharp I have in the meantime.”

  Impressed, I sigh, “Resourceful.”

  “Survivor,” Archer counters. The sound of searing fish fills the kitchen in the silence that's beginning to nestle between us. In a lower tone, he questions, “You're not going to ask me about what caused by PTSD?”

  I finish glazing the fish with a thin coat of butter. “Nope.”

  His chopping stops, which drags my eyes over to him. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you'll tell me when you're ready.” When he gets a small smirk, I point my tongs at him. “See...I'm learning.”

  He gives me a crooked smile. “So, what are we having?”

  I turn my attention back to the skillet and flip the contents. “Fish tacos.”

  “Sounds good. Where'd you learn to cook?”

  “My mother.” Pride shoots through my body. “She is actually a fantastic cook. We're talking award winning. She loves finding new recipes and trying them out. It's her favorite hobby. Growing up she always said 'cooking soothes the soul'. In fact that's one of things that bonded our parents’ families together.” The memories of my parents and Chris' gathered together with glasses of wine and appetizers fill my mind. His laughter echoes in my ears, which causes a hard twitch in my chest.

  He had a nice laugh. It was one of those that collected the attention in a room. Made you wanna be a part of whatever he was.

  A sniffle starts to come from me, which is when I shake away the thoughts. “What about you? Where'd you learn to cook?”

  “My last foster mom,” Archer answers. “They were great. She made sure I knew how to cook and clean properly, while he made sure I knew how to fix shit around the house. He was a contractor. Install and uninstall just about everything. He used to preach the necessity of knowing more than how to flip burgers.”

  “A good thing to know,” I agree turning the fish once more. “Do you know what happened to your birth parents?”

  “No.” Archer let's lets the question roll past him. He returns to the previous topic promptly. “My last job before I went into the military was actually plumbing.”

  “Oh yeah?” Turning to give him a playful look I ask, “Did you used to have plumber's butt?”

  He stops cutting to let a genuine laugh escape. The sound erases any drifting dejection effortlessly.

  Nope. We don't need to talk about it. Just let me enjoy him.

  “No,” the laughter lightens up. “No, plumber's butt. Speaking of, if you want, I can take a look at that leak in the shower downstairs. Give it a fix.”

  Removing the fish from the pan, I joke, “You hate the upstairs bathroom?”

  “Couldn't if I wanted to. I'm just ready to earn my keep.”

  “Your keep?” I bite my bottom lip briefly. “I like that.”

  Suddenly Archer slides behind me, his voice over my shoulder. With his body pressed lightly against me, the presence of his strength and an undeniable protection has me struggling to breathe. There's a thrumming thumping between my thighs. “You like the idea of keeping me?”

  I carefully look up at him, one hand still gripping the pan handle.

  Of course I do. Wait. Not like that. Maybe like that. No. No. Not like that. Ignore what's going on with me down south.

  He reaches for the lime on the counter beside me. “Gonna add a little lime to keep the slices from browning.”

  “Right,” breathlessly comes from my lips.

  His body lingers for a moment too long, hips lightly previewing what my mind is convinced will become a permanent fit. Instinctively my body arches against him, which is when an unexpected mixture of a sigh and a growl falls into my ears.

  Did you hear that too?

  Archer briskly moves away from me, heading back for his work station. Without another word he finishes his task while I silently begin to construct the entree.

  The process of putting it all together is swift and filled with light conversation about our feeling on other fish based foods as well as tacos in general. Once we're at the table the topics oscillate between other dishes we enjoy and cooking itself.

  Between bites he compliments, “These are probably the best I've ever had.”

  “Yeah?” I reach for my glass of white wine. “I like these because the fish is light and the sauce is spicy. For a while I didn't get to make them because Chris hated spicy things, but, I don't know, I've always loved the kick.”

  “The hotter the better?”

  Instantly, I coo, “God yes.”

  Archer's smile expands. “There was this little Cuban restaurant in Florida that served this thing called spicy mojo Cuban chicken with this mango avocado salsa. It was one of my favorite places to go.”

  Thankful he shared something personal with me, I lean forward. “Did you go with friends? Or...maybe a girlfriend?”

  Lets blame the curiosity on this glass of wine complimenting complementing our meal. Liquid courage or whatever.

  There's a light chuckle as he leans forward too. “My girlfriend never came to visit me while I was there.” A distant look comes in to his eyes. “I would've taken her if she had.”

  “Her loss,” I quietly sigh, running my finger around the rim of the glass. Instead of letting the silence settle, I move onto a different topic. “Can I ask you something?”

  He pushes his plate away. “Sure.”

  “Don't take this the wrong way,” my voice softens, “but you were awfully clean to be homeless. Your hair. Your teeth. Even your smell, wasn't...wasn't at all that strong or bad...How?
” When he doesn't answer I quickly shake my head. “That was rude wasn't it? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I-”

  “It's fine.” He lifts a hand. “It's a fair question. Being in the military triggered my brain for survival, so when I lost everything, those skills set in motion. Sometimes maids at cheap motels would let me sneak in for a quick shower. Sometimes I would do under the table work for a few bucks and a place to rinse off. Once I got away from the downtown area where I had to worry about my food being stolen or being beaten up for it, I began to see the 'burbs are easier to live off of. Most of you throw out shit that can still be used. Ends of soap bottles. Ends of shampoos and conditioners. Blankets. Coats. You name it and in a 'burbs trashcan, it can be found. Most of you are so....wasteful, it's pathetic.”

  Hearing the truth causes my body to tense.

  “I learned early on, you're also very routine based. That I could squeeze in the perfectly timed use of a hose here-”

  “Or the properly timed digging of a trash can there,” I casually insert.

  “Exactly.” Archer clears his throat, stands up, and grabs his plate. “Are you all done?”

  I give my plate a glance. “Yeah.”

  He stacks mine on top of his. “I'll do the dishes.”

  “But-”

  “Let me,” his insistence pushes me back into my seat. “I want to.”

  A warmness fills my cheeks but instead of responding I swirl the liquid around in my glass. Archer slips past me back into the kitchen, taking my eyes with him. Intently, I watch him start the water as an unknown feeling creeps through my veins.

  Can I really do this? Can I really move a complete stranger into my house and help him restart his life?

  Noticing a small smile slipping onto Archer’s face during the first scrub motion, I can't help but grow one of my own.

  Maybe it's not just his life that needs restarting. Maybe it's mine too.

  Archer

  To call this past week anything less than unbelievable would be an understatement. Living with a constant roof over your head after years of the opposite is just remarkable. Jaye offered to let me sleep in the guest room, but I know it's best for me stay in the garage for now. Don't look at me like that. You know exactly why me sleeping in the house would be a bad idea. The garage isn't so bad. My air mattress is comfortable. The space heater kicks ass. Even made myself a dresser area for my backpack, the tablet that I use as a T.V. and the few new clothes Jaye bought the other day. She's brought down a few of Chris' nicer things that fit. Most still had tags. I took them. I didn't want to be a dick about it but it feels wrong to wear them. Hell at times it feels wrong to just be in his house. With his fiancé. Let's not fucking talk about it, okay?

  Jaye bounces down the stairs just as I enter the house. She pauses on the last one allowing my eyes to soak up her deliciously displayed curves.

  What do you fucking want from me? This is the most time I've been around a woman in years. It doesn't help that she looks like something my fantasies cooked up. She's all sexy angles and smooth lines. Not a rough edge to her.

  Unable to control themselves my eyes travel across her tight red tank top where her perky tits are commanding the world's attention and down to her lower half where a pair of skin hugging yoga pants are cradling her tight ass.

  With my tongue not the only thing swelling, I somehow manage to state, “Morning.”

  “Morning,” she happily says back.

  “Guess we're not going to the hardware store?”

  “We are! We totally are,” she rushes to say. “I just have to get to yoga first.”

  “Yoga.”

  “Yeah. I usually take a yoga class on Saturday morning at my gym. Wanna go?”

  A sarcastic look comes on my face. “To yoga?”

  She giggles and shakes her head, the high pony tail swaying. “No. You can use any of the other equipment if you want. Weights. Treadmill. Whatever. Afterwards we can hit the hardware store and a few places nearby for applications.”

  I hesitate to reply.

  “Unless you're not ready for that. We can hold off on the applications for a couple more weeks. We can do whatever makes you comfortable. We can-”

  “Jaye,” I calmly cut her off. “It sounds good.”

  Warmly she smiles at me.

  There's not much I wouldn't do to see that smile.

  “Let me get my sweatshirt and shoes on. Why don't you go get the car warmed up?”

  Taking the suggestion I head for front door, grabbing the keys off the hook.

  It's not that I don't want to get a job. Wanting a job isn't the problem. Applying isn't even hard. The hard part is waiting to be offered one. The rejection process. Going in for an interview to have them prod and poke into your life only to tell you 'you're not a good fit'. You think I wanted to be living on my ass like I have? You don't think I went down this path and tried every tom, dick, and asshole who had a for hire sign? Reality kicks in. It's one thing after another that stops my application from getting to the top of that pile. No home address. No credible recommendations. Too long since my last job. My limp. Heard 'em all. Any excuse and every excuse.

  Just as I'm getting in the passenger side I hear, “I don't buy that you're friends for one second.”

  Glancing over my shoulder to look at the woman who is essentially responsible for my situation changing as abruptly as it did, I shrug. “You don't have to.”

  “Good,” she scolds. “Because the second I can prove otherwise and believe me, I will, you are going to be locked up where you belong.” A hateful expression pastes itself on her face. She steps closer. “You're street trash. A waste of existence and proof my hard earned tax dollars are being spent poorly.”

  Rage builds speedily. My teeth clench to stop my response.

  How do you think she'd feel if she knew I fought for her fucking country? Took a hit for her fucking country? Risked my life so should could sit comfortably at home on her pedestal where she judges those that got fucked over by this joke of a government.

  Suddenly Jaye's angelic face starts towards us. All hate that was sparking is smothered from the sight alone. Unsure how she does it, but simply relieved it has happened, I feel myself starting to grin.

  “Morning Mrs. Prescott,” Jaye states coldly. “You're not bothering my friend are you?”

  “He's not really your friend,” she mutters bitterly.

  “That's where you're wrong,” I correct her. “She is.” Pride settles a bit before I say to Jaye, “Sorry, I didn't get the car started. I was...interrupted.”

  “Mmm,” Jaye hums. “She does that.”

  We don't say anything else to the cranky neighbor. Once we're in the car and the door shuts Jaye grunts, “She's such a bitch.”

  Hearing her curse makes me smirk.

  Doesn't sound disrespectful so much as adorable.

  I buckle my seat belt. “Has she always been that way?”

  “Always.”

  “Make sense why her husband is cheating on her.”

  “What was it in her garbage that gives you that idea?”

  “You can tell a lot about a person from their garbage. For instance there are two different types of condom boxes in their trashcan. A traditional set, most likely for a woman who is stuck in her ways, happy in missionary only. Basically a bored, prude of a house wife who is not experimental in the bedroom. There's that box and then a non-traditional one.”

  “Like ribbed?”

  “And lubricated for his and her pleasure with warming gel.”

  Jaye wiggles a little in her seat. The sight spars my curiosity, the desire to ask about her condom use, or any sexual use screaming at me loud enough to give me a headache.

  Nope. Still haven't rubbed one out yet. I don't intend on it even though these blue balls are getting questionably painful.

  I give her another glance, the small change in her breathing, trying to change mine.

  Friends. That's it. Maybe naked friends? No. Definitely c
lothes on only friends.

  “I guess that could...give you that impression.”

  “As does the different receipts for hotels under his girlfriend's name.”

  Jaye's jaw drops.

  Makes you wonder what you're neighbors are really up to doesn't it?

  At the gym, Jaye signs us both in before heading to the left where a yoga class is clearly setting up. Looking around at the many people in motion, I see the same types of people I did at the grocery store. People like Mrs. Prescott and her lousy husband. People sporting their perfect polished bodies in too tight clothing or watching their muscles flex in the mirror reminding me of the outsider I was starting to forget I actually am. My fist clenches as I march towards the treadmill, determined to not let this situation get the better of me.