by Sidney Bell
Or Church might be pissed off. Resentful that he had to depend on someone who’d betrayed his trust. The idea of seeing Church choke down his dislike because Miller was doing him a favor sounded about as pleasant as taking a cheese grater to his skin.
Miller sighed. This was exactly the kind of thing that made him want to live in an igloo on a glacier. Even penguins seemed like too much company at a moment like this.
Eventually he got out of the truck, only to crash into someone—a guy, bigger than he was, or taller at least. The body against his was lean, little more than bones and sinew and long, flat muscles, obvious beneath his thin T-shirt. Miller took in tough, ropy forearms, a strong throat and dark stubble. His jawline was a knife, his eyes dark and narrowed, and his slightly hooked nose fit the size and shape of his face well enough that he was striking, if not exactly handsome.
His hands landed on Miller’s arms, steadying him, and there was a weird, stretched moment of recognition and shock as his brain put it together, the delay coming mainly because the most prominent trait of the boy from his memories was that ridiculous mop that spazzed out all over his head, black and thick and coarse, and this boy—this man—had shaved it all off, leaving just enough to give away the color.
Miller asked blankly, “Church?”
Those familiar but foreign features quirked into a rueful, wary smile.
“Yeah.” His voice was deeper too. Miller wasn’t sure how he’d managed to forget that it’d been five years, long enough that Church would’ve changed, would’ve become this startling, shockingly...
Suddenly they were hugging, he had Church tight against him, firm and strong, and all he could think was that this man might be a stranger in some ways, but his Church was in there somewhere, whole and safe and healthy. He smelled of cheap soap and cigarettes and adult masculinity, more complex than the boy scent he’d had before, something that was Church but also somehow not, and there was a moment of real... There wasn’t a word for it, but Miller’s stomach tightened into a fist at the sensation. He pulled back abruptly.
“You look good,” Miller managed. “I mean, you look grown-up. Hell, that sounds patronizing, doesn’t it?” He cleared his throat. “You’re taller than me.”
“Six foot two. Still skinny though.”
“Not that skinny,” Miller replied, because it was true. But when Miller realized how he’d said it, the back of his neck went hot. Jesus.
Church rubbed a hand over his buzz cut, looking into the distance, squinting in the sunlight. “You’ve gotta come in and fill out some stuff.”
“Right.” Miller nodded, grateful for something to do. “Yes.”
As they walked toward the doors, Miller asked, “So what am I supposed to do here? Am I your...” He stalled out, unsure if friend was the right word.
“You’re listed as a Prosocial Influence,” Church said. “It’s taken care of. You’re not anyone I’ve gotten into trouble with, you have a job and you don’t have a record, so it was easy to get you approved. They just need you to sign some stuff saying you won’t lie for me or let me deal drugs out of your place or anything like that.”
“They don’t know you very well, do they?” Then Miller frowned, because the Church he used to know would never get involved with drugs, but this Church could very well be someone entirely different. Miller might not know him any better than they did.
* * *
They got through the paperwork without fuss, and soon they were on the highway. Church’s stuff—two trash bags of clothes and a knapsack with toiletries—was in the truck’s bed, flapping in the wind, and he was slumped in the passenger seat, wondering if any of this could possibly feel as weird to Miller as it did to him.
Probably. Miller looked like he was on his way to get dental surgery. Church studied him, trying to be slick about it, no doubt failing.
He was still beautiful.
When they’d met, Miller had been in his boxer-briefs, a baseball bat on one shoulder, his eyes red-rimmed from sleep, and there’d been enough muscle on his frame that he could’ve torn Church’s skinny ass apart with his bare hands. Church had struggled to tear his attention away from all that bare, lightly freckled skin, and he hadn’t known whether to run for it or swallow his tongue.
Not that everything was the same. For one thing, memory-Miller had still been rocking some baby fat, but those cheeks were hollow now. Lines spanned outward from his eyes. He wore his hair shorter, and it made his bone structure stand out. He wasn’t as big as Church remembered, but Church had been shrimp-sized back then, so that was probably a perspective thing. Miller was as sturdy as ever, though.
Church had tried not to look, but as they’d been climbing the stairs to the main office, Miller had gotten ahead of him, and...yup. Jeans fit as nice as ever. Worn to whiteness along the back pockets, and clinging to a firm, round ass.
So, yeah. Still beautiful.
And still straight, Church reminded himself. Get it together.
If nothing else had convinced him of Miller’s straightness (like, say, that hellish night five years ago), that hug would’ve done it. For a heartbreaking second, Church had been able to feel those broad shoulders, that hard chest. He’d been able to inhale the subtle, clean scent of Miller’s soap—no change there, either—and feel the warmth of Miller’s skin against his cheek. Best thing he’d felt in years.
Until Miller had leaped away like Church had gone zombie and tried to eat him.
“You okay?” Miller asked now. He didn’t look over. His attention was so fixed on the road, in fact, that he was probably scaring the asphalt.
“Yeah. It’s weird, that’s all. Being out on my own.”
“I bet.”
Church looked out the window and wrinkled his nose at the stench made by the dog-food factory and oil refinery as they passed through Commerce City on their way into Denver. He’d been off campus before. Day trips with staff and other boys to go to the movies or the mall as rewards for good behavior. That’d been different, though, because it was hard to pretend you were a regular guy when everyone had to go to the bathroom together if someone had to take a piss so no one could get “lost.”
And he’d always gotten searched when they got back.
They fell into silence again. Miller changed lanes. Church stared out the window.
It was so fucking awkward.
“Is there any chance in hell that we can get past this without talking about it?” Miller asked.
No, Church thought, although the idea was tempting. “Really?”
“Could work.”
Miller sounded so hopeful Church almost let it go. But, embarrassing as it was to admit, Church was supposed to be a grown-up these days, so he added, “My therapist said I should tell you some stuff.”
“I’m okay with you being gay,” Miller said in a rush. “I know I said—But I’m okay with it. I promise.”
“Oh. Uh, that’s great.”
“I won’t be an asshole.”
“Okay. But we should still talk—”
Miller winced. “Maybe if we both say we’re sorry, even though you don’t really owe... You don’t have to mean it—”
“I do mean it.”
“Me too.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” The tension in Miller’s whole body evaporated. “Good.”
Church wasn’t convinced by a long shot, but the silence was a little easier as Miller steered them toward the Quebec exit. The same road as before, so Miller probably lived in that same older town house with the big picture window and the decent-sized yard. The area was nicer than Church remembered Stapleton being, though. More shops. Better cars.
“What was it like?” Miller asked. “Being in detention? Scary?”
Church wasn’t sure what to say. There were a million answ
ers he could give, some of them outright lies, but the real answer was too much: Yeah, but only because I fit in so good.
“At first,” he said. “Roseburg’s a shithole. They’ve got some mean fucking guys in there. Woodbury is one of the newer diversionary programs, though, so they only let in guys that they think can be upstanding citizens. It was mostly a lot of therapy and school and job training so we wouldn’t end up leading lives of crime. That wasn’t so bad.”
“But you were safe?”
Church frowned. Then, as Miller’s meaning became clear, he exhaled hard, a sound that was half laugh, half scoff. “No one raped me, dude, if that’s what you mean.”
He could tell by the embarrassed shift of Miller’s expression that he’d somehow thought he could get a satisfying answer without acknowledging what he was actually asking. In classic Miller style, he changed the subject rather than forge ahead. “What do you have to do? Parole-wise, I mean.”
“I’ve got a meeting on Monday, but I’m supposed to start job-searching today. A friend’s gonna help me.”
“Transportation?”
“The bus. And don’t offer.”
“Bossy,” Miller pointed out. “I can offer if I want to. My work schedule hasn’t changed, so anytime outside of that, you’re free to use the truck. And since I took today off to get you squared away, it’s all yours for job hunting.” He hesitated before adding, “I pulled some of your stuff out of storage and, uh, got you a phone. It’s a cheap one, but it’ll do the trick.”
Church worried at the weather stripping at the base of the window with one finger. “Thanks. I mean...yeah, thanks. I’ll pay you back when I... But, look. I’d, uh, consider it a favor if you’d try not to be nice. I gotta stand on my own this time, Miller. I can’t let my guard down, because if I lose it again, I might not be me on the other side.”
“You’re not him.” Miller parked in the driveway and twisted sideways in his seat to look at Church head-on. “You’re nothing like your father. I know it.”
This was classic Miller too, doing everything he could to avoid a conversation up until the moment he thought it was something Church needed to hear in order to be happy, and then he’d open his mouth even if he’d rather drag his naked body over red-hot coals.
Church got caught by Miller’s eyes. They were usually wry, more likely to drop than return a gaze, but right now they were direct as hell. They’d always been his best feature, dark and thickly lashed and intelligent, and Church’s breath lodged in his throat. He’d missed Miller’s blind faith in him so much, missed Miller’s determination to see Church through.
But Miller had always cut Church more slack than he deserved, and it’d never been more true than right now.
“It’s great of you to say,” Church said. “But you’re wrong. I nearly beat a guy to death. Whoever it is you think you know, that’s not me.”
He shoved the door of the truck open and climbed out, feeling like an old man, tired of everything. Miller followed, letting them into the house with slow hands, like he was thinking about whether Church was right.
Church stopped in the middle of the living room, wondering if you could have an aneurysm from an overload of déjà vu. The carpet, furniture and the crap on the shelves were all the same, although some of the electronics had been updated.
“That old TV finally die?” he asked.
Miller tossed his keys on the counter. “Yeah. Couple years back.”
“Flat screen this time.”
“Well, I had to consider the spines of any young would-be robbers.”
There was a soft meow, and Church turned to see Francis Bacon, bony and lethargic, padding down the hall. “Hey, buddy,” he murmured, crouching to scratch at the bald spots. A rush of tenderness hit him square in the chest as the cat sniffed at him. “Remember me? You’re getting old, aren’t you?”
“He’s twelve now.”
Church stroked the cat for another minute, then put his trash bags and knapsack to one side next to a small cardboard box of his old stuff. There was a cell phone on top, and he picked it up, fiddling with it while he stood there, suddenly at a loss. He didn’t know what to do. His only plan for the day was to get a job, but he wasn’t sure how. Thank God Ghost had volunteered to help him. Church had never had a job before.
“Thanks,” he managed finally, holding the phone up. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Sure, whenever.” Miller gestured toward the kitchen. “Thirsty? Hungry?”
“Uh, no, I’m good.” Church’s eye lingered on two unfamiliar framed photographs hung on the wall. The first was of Miller’s sister, Shelby, and her daughter, Em.
“Wow. Em got big.” Church shoved the phone in his pocket and wandered over. “What is she, sixteen?”
“Fifteen.” Miller jammed his hands in his pockets. “Don’t get her hooked on any music that’ll have Shelby yelling at me, all right? I don’t think she’s in remission from that System of a Down phase yet.”
Church was relieved to see a smile on Miller’s face, so he smirked. “No promises.” He gestured at the second picture. “That’s your dad, huh?”
“Yeah.”
While Shelby and Em had been here often enough that they’d all grown comfortable with each other, Church had never met Miller’s father. From things Miller had said in the past, Church expected an old-fashioned butch type of guy, and he wasn’t disappointed. Gus Quinn was big, rough-hewn and granite-jawed, with thinning pale hair and ruddy skin. He was standing in the parking lot of Quinn’s Contracting Supply with his arm around Miller, who was wearing a coat and ball cap Church didn’t recognize, but he wasn’t much younger in the photo than he was now. The man’s expression was warm with good-natured resignation, while Miller’s smile looked strained. Church wondered who browbeat them into the frame.
“What does he think about me being here?” Church asked.
“He passed. Two years ago come December. Car accident.”
Church jerked his head up. “Oh. Shit. Sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Miller’s voice was raw and his eyes flitted away.
Back in the day, this would be the point where Church would start pushing Miller to talk, but it felt awkward now. Like he didn’t have the right. So he only asked, “You’re, uh, okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay.”
“I don’t have any pictures of my parents,” Church murmured, turning back to the photo. He wasn’t sure he believed Miller, but he couldn’t do anything about it. “I could stand forgetting what my dad looks like, but I wouldn’t mind having some of my mom.”
“Could you call her?”
Church shrugged. “I don’t think he’d be too happy if he found out. I don’t want to cause her any trouble.”
“Do they know you’re out?”
“Doubt it. Day of the arraignment he said that they’d never see me again, and I wasn’t about to beg him to change his mind.”
“I’m sorry, Church.”
He wasn’t sure how he found those simple words so soothing when Miller delivered them. They sure didn’t mean much coming from anyone else. He cleared his throat. “It is what it is. Hey, this is a shitty topic, huh? Can I see what you’re working on instead?”
Miller nodded and Church headed toward the hallway. Past the bathroom was the larger of the two bedrooms, which Miller had been using as a workshop before. Back then, a large workbench had dominated one entire wall, while the rest of the space had been crowded with work stands and metal bookshelves laden with both handheld and portable tools.
It was different now. Library-different. Like, the wall-to-wall bookshelves covered in biographies and those fancy coffee-table books kind of different.
“Where the hell is everything good?” Church demanded.
Miller chuckled. “Browning finally let me build
that shed out back.”
Church remembered Miller’s many grumbles about his tightfisted landlord and snorted in secondhand satisfaction. “Paid for it yourself, did you?”
“Yeah, but I was sort of angling to. If I’d left it to him, I’d have ended up with something that would blow over in the first windstorm.”
Church almost nudged Miller with his elbow, then reminded himself not to touch. He limited himself to saying “Well?”
“All right. Let me get the keys.” He sounded grouchy at Church’s bossiness, but there was no hiding the flush in his cheeks. For someone so private about his woodworking, Miller had always gotten a dopey amount of happiness from Church’s interest.
They trooped outside, where Church stopped dead at the end of the tiny patio. An immense gray shed took up most of the yard, nearly as big as one of those temporary houses set up for flood or hurricane victims. An autumn-orange elm tree stood guard, its limbs already half-naked.
“Compensating, huh?” Church asked, nodding sympathetically, and Miller punched him on the arm just hard enough to hurt. It made him grin, it felt so good. “Seriously, though. What are the dimensions of that monster?”
“Fourteen feet by thirty-one.”
Church whistled. “I bet Browning shit a brick when he saw this.”
Miller was clearly trying to be mature about it, but for that to work, he would’ve had to drop all the smug. “Two bricks.”
The heavy door squealed when Miller opened it. He plugged in some extension cords and work lights burst into brightness. This was where all of Miller’s migrating equipment had landed: the big bench was here and all of the tools were on racks. There were new shelves as well, loaded with lumber. He had a bigger shop vac and a dust extractor too. The miter and circular saws were set up next to the table-saw cabinet.
But most of that slid right on past Church’s close attention. He was too busy staring at the sideboard shoved to one side. When Miller saw what’d caught his attention, he said, “Oh, wait, that’s not—”
