“The past is kind of in bed, isn’t it?” Malcolm couldn’t help the lame joke.
Iggy didn’t laugh. “I’m serious, Malcolm. What happened with Darren really hurt me. Genuinely, badly hurt me. I promised myself I wouldn’t fall into another relationship that would hurt me like that again, and we’ve already hurt each other once before. I don’t think I could handle starting anything with you, even years-late break-up sex, without worrying I’d just stuck my heart in a blender with tequila and ice.”
Malcolm turned that over in his brain a little bit. Iggy wasn’t turning him down, exactly; he was asking for caution. To not leap into anything physical between them, because the emotional stuff was still too raw, even after all these years. And he wasn’t wrong, damn it. Everything between them had been amazing once, almost too good to be true—until everything went to hell in less than twelve hours.
“I hate it when you’re right,” Malcolm groused.
“No, you don’t.” Iggy offered a sideways smile then found his phone on the back of the sofa. “Look, it’s not even six o’clock. How about we just…hold each other a while yet? And then I’ll treat you to pancakes over at the Laughing Fork. We drove past them the other day, right?”
“Yeah, they’re still around. And that sounds good. I promise not to cop any feels.”
“Okay.”
Iggy was perfectly willing to be the little spoon and let Malcolm curl as tightly around him as he could without suffocating them both. The trailer was cool, a wobbly ceiling fan moving the air and creating a repetitive whir that had lulled Malcolm to sleep last night. Okay, earlier this morning. It lulled him again, along with the cadence of Iggy’s breathing, until Malcolm woke again to Iggy struggling.
“Hey, you okay?” Malcolm asked.
“Yeah, gotta pee. Let me up before things get really awkward.”
Malcolm released his hold, and Iggy climbed out of the squeaky sofa bed. He couldn’t help but watch Iggy’s ass as he walked down the short hallway to the bathroom, which was tucked in at the back by Howie’s bedroom. Even with the bathroom as a kind of sound barrier between Howie’s bedroom and Iggy’s, neither of them had been keen on sexy shenanigans when Malcolm had spent the night indoors.
He’d spent the night more frequently those last few months, when Malcolm’s old man was really on a tear about things. Howie always said Malcolm was welcome anytime he wanted to come over. Malcolm had never admitted to any of the physical abuse, but…well, his dad’s temper was known around town. It didn’t take a genius to guess why he hated going home.
Play practice was his only real respite from home. He wasn’t allowed to play sports; hiding his bruises in the locker roomduring gym class was hard enough. He wasn’t smart enough for most of the academic clubs. For a little while, he’d lied and said he was tutoring other students in history, but Malcolm was the one who’d needed tutoring, and Dad was furious when he found out the truth.
Iggy interrupted his painful trip into the past by poking his head out of the bathroom door and shouting, “I’m going to take a quick shower. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge, I guess. There’s not a lot, but nothing should be spoiled.” He mumbled something about cleaning as he shut the door again.
Malcolm had no desire to investigate the fridge. He grabbed the pillow Iggy had slept on and hugged it tight, inhaling Iggy’s faint scent. His phone chimed with a text, which he checked only because he suspected it was from Melissa.
Yep.
Had fun last night, bro. Hope you did too. See you at Tommy’s game.
Unsure how to explain his night/morning/whatever in a coherent text, he sent back a thumbs-up emoji, then played a game while he waited for Iggy. Once Iggy was done, Malcolm cleaned up in the bathroom. His shirt wasn’t too wrinkled, and his daily wardrobe was an unoriginal lineup of simple plaid button-ups in mostly shades of blue and white, with some green mixed in. He doubted anyone they might see this morning would notice he’d worn the same shirt to the saloon last night.
Iggy was waiting for him by the door, keys in hand. Riding in the station wagon again sent a blast of nostalgia through Malcolm. Part of him wanted to check the rear compartment for sleeping bags and flashlights. The thing was over thirty years old, and while it rumbled and groaned a lot during the brief drive, it still did its job.
Things lasted if you took care of them.
They parked across the street from the Laughing Fork Diner, a red-brick building on the eastern end of Old Main. Familiar, comforting scents of coffee and fried pork products greeted them when Malcolm pulled open the door. Longer than it was deep, it had traditional black-and-white checked linoleum flooring, red and chrome stools at a long red counter, and wooden booths along the front windows. A perky hostess led them to a booth by the window and handed them each menus. Malcolm immediately turned over his coffee mug, sure he’d probably suck down at least four of those small mugs-worth of coffee before they finished eating.
“So, did you go gluten-free and vegan while living the city mixology life?” Malcolm asked. “The bar chef life?”
Iggy snorted. “Very much no to either. While I have an appreciation for food allergies and sensitivities, and I’ve done a few inflammatory detox diets over the years, you can pry my whole-wheat toast and sunny-side eggs from my bacon-greasy fist.”
“That your order?”
“Probably. Everyone who serves breakfast can do eggs and toast.” He skimmed the menu. “Oh there, see? Even comes with home fries. You?”
“I’m a sucker for their blueberry pancakes.” Malcolm nearly moaned with joy when Cathy, their waitress, brought over the coffee pot.
She already knew what he was going to order and quickly turned her attention to Iggy. “What for you, honey? You’re Howie’s nephew, right? I’m so sorry to hear he’s sick.”
“I am, and thank you, he’s on the mend.” Iggy asked for his two-egg platter. Once she left, he dumped a bunch of cream and sugar into his coffee.
Malcolm blew across the top of his mug, allowing the fragrance to wake him up a little. “How likely is it, do you think, that Howie will be sprung this weekend?”
“Hard to say. His doctor is being cautious, because of his age and because he’s never actually seen a case of botulism poisoning in his career, but you know hospitals. They need to keep turning over beds, keeping them free for the really sick people. I’m sure I’ll get an update later when I go see him.”
