The flowerbeds needed some tending, though. New mulch, too.
Malcolm parked next to Uncle Howie’s rusty station wagon and turned off the engine.
“You’re coming in?” Iggy asked.
“Yep. Promised Howie I’d bring him his own pajamas today. Can’t do that with my mind, you know.” He got out and immediately reached into the bed for Iggy’s suitcase and carryon.
Dumbfounded by the audacity of Malcolm inviting himself inside, Iggy followed him up the unfamiliar ramp. Malcolm produced a single key on a blue carabiner and unlocked the storm door, then handed the key over to Iggy. Their fingers almost brushed.
Iggy stood in the middle of the trailer’s living room, surprised at how familiar it all looked and felt. The stove and fridge were new but the dated cabinets were the same. The couch wascovered in a new blanket, but the same old blue plaid peeked out from the corners.
He could smell countless dinners of canned ravioli, Hamburger Helper, and garlic bread made from split hot dog buns (or whatever bread was available at the nearest bakery outlet). They ate cheap but Iggy had never gone hungry, not once. He’d turned sixteen in this house, lost his virginity in this house, laughed and played and cried. Loved and lost. It was the most stable address of his entire life.
Home.
He wasn’t aware of anything changing until he was sitting on the couch with Malcolm beside him, a hot, heavy hand on the small of Iggy’s back. Malcolm’s deep, comforting voice kept repeating that he was okay, everything would be okay. Moisture dotted Iggy’s cheeks, which also flamed with shame over showing weakness in front of Malcolm. Over needing someone to comfort him right now, much less that someone being Malcolm.
“Howie’s too fuckin’ stubborn to let this keep him down, okay?” Malcolm’s coffee-scented breath fanned over his cheek, across his lips. “You know that.”
“He’s the only family I’ve got.”
“You’ve g—you aren’t alone. I know we haven’t talked in a long time, but I’m here.”
“For now.”
He felt more than saw Malcolm flinch. “I’m out now, Iggy. I don’t not-date because I’m hiding who I am, I just haven’t found anyone worth the effort.” The hand on Iggy’s back slid higher, resting between his shoulder blades. “And I’ve spent every day of the last seventeen years trying to make up for failing you back then. Failing us.”
“No.” Iggy launched himself off the couch so hard he stumbled and had to brace against the dinette table so he didn’tfall over. He twisted around, both hands up. “We’re not doing this today, Monte. We’re not going back there.”
“I’m sorry.” Malcolm rose slowly, carefully, and didn’t approach. “God, I still hate seeing you upset. Not hugging you right now is killing me.”
Do not give in. Do not give in just because you’re lonely and scared, and he looks so fucking good in those jeans. Did he always look so good in jeans?
Yes, Malcolm looked good in anything (even better in nothing), and he gave the best hugs on the planet. The kind of hugs that made the world fade away, every hurt ease, and the future seem bright and full of possibilities. Iggy needed one of those hugs more than he needed to breathe.
But the hug would eventually end, and Iggy wasn’t here to stay. He was here for his uncle.
“I don’t want your comfort.” The words were ground glass in Iggy’s throat but he forced them out. “Thank you for the ride, but you can go.”
“Iggy.”
“Please?” That wasn’t supposed to be a question, damn it.
Malcolm took two steps closer. An arm’s reach away. The intensity in his eyes burned away Iggy’s resistance. “Please what?”
“I don’t…”Want you here, want you to hug me, want you to leave, want to be alone. Please.“I don’t know.”
“Iggy, I’m sorry.”
Three blunt words. Three words he’d wanted to hear for years landed like a hydrogen bomb on top of Iggy’s resistance. Resistance to physical affection, resistance to acknowledging the past, resistance to hoping for a dynamic future different from his stagnant present. Iggy wasn’t sure if he reached out first, or if Malcolm saw the change and moved, but the end result was that Iggy was being held.
He wasn’t alone.
He pressed his face into Malcolm’s neck, something he’d done a hundred times before, and breathed in a new scent. Spicier, more masculine. A grown man versus an awkward teenager. Stronger arms circled Iggy’s waist and held him tight to a broader, more muscular chest. Everything about this hug was unique and new.
So why was it so familiar?
“I’m sorry about everything, Iggs, so fucking sorry,” Malcolm whispered. Hands stroked Iggy’s hair and neck, familiar pets that made Iggy want to purr as much as hiss. “Sorry about Howie, sorry about us, so fucking sorry.”
