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"No, Thomas. " His mother surprised him by speaking. "Let him say what he's going to say.
"This is your dream, your husband's. Even Rory's. Not his. He loves you. That's why he's here and part of what makes me love him, frustrating though it is to love a fucking noble idiot. But don't give me the slightest opportunity to take it away from you, the way you're trying to take it away from him, because I will. His art is his soul.
You attack his soul again like that and I don't care who the fuck you are to him. Clear?" She stared back at him, making no acknowledgement, though her shoulders quivered with the effort of holding the pose under that intimidating glare. It was the most cowed Thomas had ever seen her.
Marcus nodded as if he'd gotten the answer he expected, turned on his heel and left the store.
Thomas ignored his brother's demand for an explanation, his sister's murmured reassurance to their mother and went after him, spell broken. When Thomas caught up with Marcus at the car, he grabbed his arm, bringing him to a halt.
"What the hell was that? What is wrong with you?" Thomas was angry at him, but he was more furious with his inability to figure out what the tumultuous current of murky waters under the surface of the whole scene was about. He wanted answers.
Marcus ran a hand over his face, the back of his neck. When he raised his head to meet Thomas' gaze, it was as if the act took great effort.
"I thought. . . if you couldn't leave, I could bring it here, give you a way. . . " He shook his head, moved away from Thomas' touch and got into the car. The window was down, but what was swirling around Marcus, the fact he'd removed himself from Thomas' touch twice now, didn't encourage Thomas to take immediate advantage of the opportunity the open window provided.
Fitting the key into the ignition, Marcus held it there. Thomas felt a spear of apprehension as a shudder seemed to run through his arm. Marcus stiffened, his expression shutting down again as he turned over the ignition.
"You may be right. An artist needs light. And I bring my own darkness. Maybe we don't belong together, Thomas. I don't know. I really don't know anything right now. " Reaching out the window, he put a key that was sitting on the dashboard in Thomas' hand. "The house is in both of our names. Move in if you'd like. Maybe I was just. . . maybe I'm just fucking crazy. "
"Marcus. " Changing his mind, Thomas put his hand on the window ledge and leaned in, not caring who might be watching. Touching Marcus' face, he ran his knuckles along the slope of his rigid jaw. "Stop," he said softly. "Just stop, and slow down. Trust me. Will you ever trust me?"
Marcus closed his eyes, his lips pressing together, so Thomas moved his touch there, fingers tracing them. Something was terribly wrong, and none of the rest of it mattered.
"No," Marcus said at last, opening his eyes and looking directly at Thomas. "I can't trust anyone. It's just not in me. Not now. Not ever. I've got to go. " He hit the window control then and Thomas had to pull back his hand or have it trapped. "Marcus, dammit. . . "
But Marcus had already put the car in reverse in almost the same movement and backed it. Normally, he was a smooth, confident driver, but now he pushed down on the gas like a teenager learning how to work a clutch. Thomas had to move back fast to spare the toes of his fortunately chosen steel-toed work shoes.
He didn't want to go back into the store. Everything in him was saying he needed to jump in the store's truck, run Marcus' ass down and figure out what the hell was going on. Marcus had never been like this. So dead, so final. An hour ago, he'd been threatening to set up house just down the road. Despit
e Thomas' doubts, he'd gotten him hoping, considering. Wondering if it was as impossible as it sounded.
Now Marcus acted like. . . he didn't know where they were now. Thomas tried to ignore the feeling that Marcus had just started the beginning of the end between them.
Over a fricking phone call.
He went back into the store, steeling himself. Something in his face must have warned them, for even Rory said nothing, back to making a quiet clinking sound on the nail aisle. Or perhaps they were both waiting for their mother to detonate. To break down. Instead, she was looking at Thomas' face. "Are you okay, son?" she asked softly.
He swallowed. "Yeah. But I don't think he's okay at all. And he won't tell me why. " She pressed her lips together then jumped as the ledger book she'd opened on the counter began to twitch and make a buzzing sound. "What on earth - "
Les flipped up the ledger book to find a cell phone there. On the third vibration, the ring tone kicked in and Rory's brow creased. "Is that. . . "
"Highway to Hell. Marcus is a closet AC/DC fan. " Thomas said absently, then shook his head at Rory as he snickered. "No cracks about closets. " Moving to the counter, he picked up the cell. It was an extension of Marcus' arm. For him to be upset enough to forget it made Thomas question the wisdom of allowing him to get behind the wheel of a car.
"Mom, what's the area code for Uncle Ren in Des Moines?"
"515. "
Thomas stared at the phone. Iowa. Marcus was getting a phone call from Iowa, and a quick press on the call listing button told him it was the same number his last call had come from.
"Thomas," his mother said. "What are you doing?"
"Getting some answers. " He flipped it open. "Hello?" The line was crackling with static, so he had to repeat it.
"Marcus. . . is John. Have a crappy connection out here. You there?"
"Yeah. "
Thomas waited, straining his ears to hear through the crackling. When Les started to speak to their mother, he shook his head, made a sharp hand gesture for quiet and hoped no customers came in.
