by Jerry Cole
“You’ll be all right out here?” Evan asks, pulling Scott out of his thoughts. “It won’t get too cold. I’ll run the heater.”
Scott gives him a small smile, willing down the bundle of nerves vibrating in his chest. “I’ll be fine. I probably could have just driven home, though.”
Evan laughs, a sound like wind chimes, and looks pointedly at the window. Outside, the rain is falling in thick and heavy sheets, curtains of water pouring down. Scott can barely see a foot past the glass, the ocean beyond completely obscured. He doubts he could make it to the village down the road in this weather without sliding off the road, much less all the way back to the city. “Could you?”
Scott gives him a self-deprecating chuckle in reply. “Point taken.”
When the bed is made up, Scott takes a seat at the edge of it, leaning back on his hands and fixing Evan with a silent look. Evan doesn’t seem to mind the scrutiny. He putters around the living room, tidying up fallen cushions and stray dishes, tucking everything neatly back into its place. His hair is starting to dry from the rain soaking it had gotten earlier, and it curls up in fluffy waves at the base of his neck and around his ears. Absently, Scott wonders if it would be soft to the touch, and then wonders why the thought even crossed his mind. His fingers twitch.
“You were hard to find, you know,” he says instead, pulling his gaze away from the droplets of water still clinging to the skin of Evan’s neck.
“Was I?” Evan pauses, his hand on a book, hovering stationary halfway between his chest and the shelf he’s reaching for. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Something in the tone of his voice is melancholy, an echo of the cavernous feeling that had made a home in Scott’s chest before he met Frances and Mitchell. “You don’t mean that,” Scott says, gentle. “They miss you a lot. Are you sure you wouldn’t come back?”
Evan gives a little huff of amusement, finally moving to place the book gently back on the shelf. When his hands are free he steps closer to Scott, taking a seat on the edge of the coffee table and pulling his legs up to sit cross legged against the wood. “They didn’t tell you why I left?”
“I don’t think they know, actually.”
Oddly enough, that gets a smile out of Evan, even if it’s small and sad. “Do me a favor,” he says, in lieu of an explanation. He looks the same as Frances had in the graveyard. Melancholy, only a tinge of hope outlining the edges of his expression.
“Hm?”
“Don’t make them think I’m coming back right away.” He pauses, looks down at his hands. “Frances and Mitchell, I mean. I don’t want them to get their hopes up too soon.”
Scott blinks, surprised. “You still want to hide?”
Something pinches in Evan’s expression, flashing across his face for a split second and then vanishing. It makes him look worn, sad and tired despite his handsome features, and Scott feels a sudden urge to reach forward and smooth the worry lines away from his brow.
“I’ll talk to them eventually,” he says. “I just don’t want them to get all excited to see me again just to find me like this.”
Like what, Scott wants to ask, but he has a feeling he knows the answer already. There’s hints of himself in Evan’s expression, hints of the person he’s finally unlearning how to be.
“You think they would care?”
Evan opens his mouth, pauses, then closes it again. “No, you’re right,” he says after a moment, “They wouldn’t judge me. They’re always so nice. I just don’t know if I’m ready to face up to it yet.”
A wave of pity rises up in Scott’s chest, curling through him in ripples. He leans back a bit to stretch his leg out further, bumps his shin against Evan’s knee hanging over the edge of the table. Evan looks up with a start. “If you won’t talk to them,” Scott says, forcing the words out before he can stop himself. “Will you talk to me?”
“You?”
Scott shrugs, a little sheepish now that the request hangs in the air between them. Evan’s surprise is written across his face when Scott looks up at him, open and more youthful without the distress lines across his forehead. Scott wonders if he could have done this a year ago, a month ago, if he could have driven out of the city to return a book to a stranger, if he could have curled up in a bed that wasn’t his own. Something in him feels adventurous, new despite the fact that this really isn’t a situation to write home about.
He wonders if April would have been proud of him, if she would have been happy that he’s stepping out of his shell for the first time in five years. If he tries, he can picture the wide smile on her face, the tone of her voice as she teases him for being a shut-in, the warmth of her arms around him when she tells him she’s happy that he’s moving on, finding new people to smile around. The familiar pang of loss squeezes tight around his ribcage, reminding him that if he takes this step forward and decides to let Evan into his life, it just means he has one more thing he can lose.
“You don’t have to,” he amends, feeling warmth blossom across his cheeks even through the chill of the night air. His gut twists, protesting the idea of letting Evan just fade away so easily. “But I’d like it if you did.”
Evan fumbles for words, opening and closing his mouth a few times before settling on a simple, “Why me?”
Scott blames the late hour and the eventful day for the way the truth falls unfiltered from his lips.
“Because I think I fell in love with your photographs.”
Evan coughs sharply, and his cheeks flare bright red. It’s a cute reaction, Scott thinks, from someone who claims to make a living off his camera. He wonders how often Evan gets complimented on his photography. He’d guess not much, judging by the surprised reaction, but that doesn’t seem in line with the level of skill and personal emotion he could find in each one of the photographs pasted into the album. Evan should be complimented on his work, Scott figures, even if he has to be the one to do it.
“You’re forward, aren’t you?” chuckles Evan after a moment, and his wind chime laughter chases the tension from the air.
“I call it like I see it,” says Scott. The nervousness bleeds from his shoulders, leaving him relaxed. He could get used to this, he thinks. Evan is easy to be around, dangerously easy, with his effortless smile and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and his nose scrunches up when he laughs. “Really though, you have talent. More than I’ve seen from a lot of people.”
Evan huffs good-naturedly, unfolding one leg to kick out gently at Scott’s. “And you know so much about photography?”
A smile spreads across Scott’s face before he can stop it, unbidden. “I don’t know a thing about photography, actually.” Evan’s leg is warm against his own, a single point of contact that Scott finds himself not quite ready to give up. It’s been a long time since he’s been this close to another person. He wants to savor the feeling. “But I don’t have to be a photographer to know when a picture makes me feel things.”
Evan doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, coloring slightly and pulling away to fold his legs again. Scott half wants to chase the warmth, to reach out for some kind of contact again, but stops himself short. Maybe it’s the easy camaraderie he’s found in Evan, or maybe he’s just been so touch—starved over the past five years that he finds himself reaching out to the first person that’s shown him any sort of intimacy.
That can’t be right though, he thinks. Frances had been just as forward, just as friendly and affectionate, and being around her had never made his chest curl up and do cartwheels like it is now. All at once, Scott feels like he needs to push through the moment, cut the strange tension in the air, just so he can breathe again.
“Tell me about them?” he asks, reaching out with a hand to place his fingers on the leather cover of the photo album. It sits on the coffee table, just barely out of reach. He has to lean forward to touch it, and Evan follows the movement. “Frances wouldn’t say much.”
Evan seems to hesitate for a moment, weighing the reques
t, and Scott is almost ready to take it back when Evan nods and pulls the book toward him. He opens it like a fragile thing, running his finger along the edge of the cover before turning it, resting the book open in both palms.
“Why was it with you?” Scott asks, tilting his head. “In the city, I mean. You don’t seem like you get out there very much.”
Huffing a laugh, Evan looks back up to meet Scott’s gaze. There’s something reserved, sheepish in his expression. “A good luck token, maybe,” he says, his voice pitching up at the end into a question. “I wouldn’t have brought it with me, but it was already in the bag I was taking when I left and I didn’t realize it. There’s a bookstore I was visiting, and I took it out to make room for the new books I was buying and must have left it on the subway on my way back. I’m glad it was sent to you, though. I didn’t like the thought of losing it.”
***
Evan stands up, and the moment dissipates like early morning fog into mist over the coastline. Scott pushes away the train of thought running through his head, chalking the experience up to the closeness of being alone in Evan’s house for the night. Willing his hands to stay put, reminding himself not to reach up and brush back the stray curls poking up haphazardly from Evan’s hair, Scott watches as Evan shuffles past the couch and toward the hallway.
As he walks by, he drops a hand lightly onto Scott’s shoulder—a fleeting touch, barely-there and gone as fast as it came. “Sleep well, yeah?” he says, more a whisper than anything else. The flutter comes back, takes up the cavernous space in his chest, and Scott pushes it back down. “I’m just down the hall if you need me.”
Chapter Seven
Thanksgiving comes in the blink of an eye. It’s barely a week after he first meets Evan that Frances brings up the idea of getting together for a dinner and celebration after Mitchell’s shop closes for the night, and Scott is more surprised at himself for jumping at the chance than anything else. He hasn’t spent a holiday with someone else in a long time, but something in him buzzes with anticipation the closer it comes.
He finds himself at Evan’s the day before. Against all odds, Evan had somehow gotten him to make good on his promises to keep in touch. Scott’s phone is one number heavier, going off with texts at all hours of the day, and the moment he can find some free time, he dials Evan’s number to ask if he’s got some time available to talk.
Scott has a plan, one that he hopes can fix Frances and Mitchell’s problem even if his own are too far gone for repair.
So he makes the drive, takes his car out of the loud, smoky city and into the mountains, drives parallel to the waterfront and pulls to a stop on the curb outside of Evan’s house. It’s the same as it had been on Scott’s first visit, violently pink with an absurd fuchsia trim and white railings, something out of a Tinseltown postcard, a jarring splash of color against the sandy beige and storm gray of the beach in winter. Evan bustles out of the front door just as he shifts his car into park, an oven mitt on one hand and his curls tied up into a little ball of a bun at the top of his head.
“You didn’t have to drive all the way out, you know,” he calls, jogging down the steps as Scott climbs out of his car. “We could have talked over the phone.”
“And missed out on your cooking again? Hell no.”
Scott closes the door, turns around to face Evan. Evan leans forward, rocking a bit on his heels like he’s not quite sure whether or not to reach out for a hug. After a second of deliberation he lifts his arms, patting Scott’s shoulder stiffly.
It’s messier this time when Scott steps into Evan’s house, but not by much. The smell of seafood fills the air, and the kitchen countertop is spread over with a ridiculous assortment of spice bottles. The living room still sports its sparse stacks of books, but more seem to be taken down from the shelves this time, scattered across the tables and floor in piles.
“Spring cleaning?” Scott asks, eyeing the clutter, and Evan chuckles nervously.
“Something like that,” he replies. “I just like keeping things minimal, that’s all. Helps if I ever have to pack up and move.”
Blinking, Scott picks up a bottle of oregano from the counter, shakes it around to watch the dried flakes scatter and resettle. “Are you planning on moving? I mean, the house is a little eccentric, sure, but I figured it would be nice to live out here by the ocean.”
A melancholy expression flickers across Evan’s face, there and gone again so quickly Scott isn’t sure whether or not he saw it in the first place. “I like it here,” he says, and it sounds like a hundred things he’s trying not to say. “I just don’t know if I’m ready to face up to my sister yet.”
Scott bites his lip, leans back against the bar counter. It’s now or never. If he wants Evan to come to the city again, to reconcile with his family, this is his chance. “That’s what I came to ask you about, actually.”
***
Evan almost doesn’t show—almost.
There’s a knock on the door just as Mitchell lowers the knife down into the turkey. It’s quiet, almost impossible to hear over the dull ambience of the music and the conversation, but it cuts through just enough to make her freeze in place, knife hovering over the golden brown skin.
“Are we expecting anyone else?” Frances asks.
Mitchell shakes her head. “I don’t think so,” she replies, and suddenly Scott has a very good idea of who could be standing outside the door. Standing up, he waves off Frances’ inquisitive glance and makes his way to the front door. There’s another knock just as he reaches it, and when he swings open the door, he can hear the shocked intake of breath from the girls behind him.
The vice grip around his lungs loosens.
Evan stands on the other side, a bottle of champagne in one hand, looking for all the world like he’s about to bolt and book it back to his house. He shifts from foot to foot, eyes darting back and forth between Scott’s face in front of him and the girls huddled around the table. When Scott pushes the door open further, stepping back to let him in, Evan darts a hand out and grabs the door handle to keep it from opening too wide.
“Are you sure about this?” he hisses, low enough that only Scott can hear, standing on his tiptoes to lessen some of the height difference between them. “Did they know I would be here?”
Scott softens his expression. “I didn’t even know you would show up,” he says. “I didn’t tell them anything, but I don’t think they’d be upset to see you.”
A quick look back at the table confirms his thoughts. Frances is white, looking as if she’s staring at a ghost, Mitchell is frozen in place, expressions surprised edging on hopeful.
“Come on,” whispers Scott, stepping aside. “They’ve been waiting for you to come home.”
That seems to do the trick. Evan steps past him cautiously, like a cat with tape on its paws, testing each step as if the floor is about to split open underneath him.
“Mitch,” he breathes, and Mitchell’s head snaps up, gaze whipping between Evan and Scott. “Frances, I—”
He’s cut off almost immediately by a loud clang, and Scott realizes Mitchell has dropped the carving knife to the table. Frances scrambles for it, picks it up before it can fall to the floor, but Mitchell is too busy striding forward, expression hard and angry.
She draws her arm back, winding up a fist, and socks Evan in the arm hard enough to make Scott wince.
“Ow, Jesus, what the f—”
“Five years?” Mitchell growls out, ignoring the way Scott steps forward to placate her. “Five years without a word from you, and you show up at my front door like it’s all okay?”
Evan grimaces, hunches in on himself an imperceptible amount. “I’m sorry, Mitch, really, I—”
“I bet you are, you ass,” she hisses, before collapsing on him all at once in a vicious hug. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”
It’s heartwarming, a moment Scott knows he isn’t really a part of, so he takes the champagne and steps into the kitchen to chill
it while Evan talks with the girls. There’s a strange sense of accomplishment welling up in his chest. It spreads through him like honey, slow and sweet and content. He might not have been able to get April back, sure, but he managed to bring Evan back to his family, and that’s something to be proud of, he thinks.
When he finally steps back into the main room, there’s one more place laid at the table, and three bright, teary smiles shine up at him.
It’s the best holiday he’s had in years.
Chapter Eight
Scott slides into the diner booth across from Gabriel with a smile and a wave, shifting down the length of the padded bench until he can lean up against the wall. It’s a tight fit, the diner packed in close in order to fill up the meager square footage, but it’s by far the best greasy, all-American, twenty-four hour joint this side of first street, and Scott has spent more than his fair share of college hangovers in this very booth, with Gabriel right across the table like he is now.
He isn’t sporting an alcohol-induced headache now, and somehow the diner looks so much more appealing when he doesn’t have to look at it through a haze of morning-after pain and exhaustion.
Sliding one of the menus across the table to Gabriel, he claps his hands together and opens his own. Gabriel looks at him like he’s grown a second head.
“Are you drunk?”
Scott blinks. “What? No.”
Gabriel squints at him, peering over the top of his menu dramatically, and Scott scowls.
“There,” says Gabriel, sudden enough to startle Scott. “That’s more like you.”
“What?”
“You seem… different, for some reason. More like you used to be.”
Scott’s scowl slips off of his face, replaced by open surprise, although he’s not quite sure why. Most people tread on eggshells around him after they find out about April, but Gabriel’s never really held back from speaking his mind when it comes to Scott. It made for a nice change of pace in the early days, when his blunt and open way of conversing helped badger Scott into staying mostly functional despite the grief that had settled over him like a heavy winter coat. Now, though, now, Scott does well enough for himself. It’s been a long time since Gabriel’s had cause to call out his behavior.
