The Blue Jays lost 5-1,a score that excited the kids and some of their parents, because their last game had been a shut-out. Melissa declared they were celebrating with dipped cones at the Dairy Queen. Even though Malcolm kind of wanted to buyhimself a banana split, he didn’t want to start an argument with the kids. Liss budgeted every single treat.
Heading to the saloon this early in the evening would look a little crazy (maybe even slightly stalker-ish) to the other employees, when he wasn’t known to hang out there more than a few nights a week. Three nights in a row was unusual. So, he puttered around the garage, working on that live edge table, and then helped Melissa put together supper for everyone.
Once dinner was cleaned up and the kids dispersed to various parts of the house or their street to play with neighborhood kids, Melissa cornered him on his way out the kitchen door. “Are you and Iggy Donohue starting something up again? Because you had a brand-new smile today at the game, and it wasn’t for Tommy’s batting stance.”
Malcolm sagged against the wall by the door. “Honestly? I don’t know what we’re doing other than…being kind. Talking. Working our way up to discussing the night everything went to hell.”
“How long do you need to work up to that? You’re adults. Can’t you just sit down and each tell your side of the story? Put the whole thing out there?”
“I mean, I’d like to. I’d rather we be direct about this, but fuck, Liss. I’m also scared that if I push too hard, push him before he’s ready? He’ll shut down completely and shut me out like last time.”
“But he’s going to be in town for a few weeks, right? To take care of Howie? It’s not like he can hop on the first plane back east if you piss him off.”
“No, but he could have me banned from the saloon property. He does that and I’ve got no chance of fixing anything.”
“Ugh, that’s true.” Melissa squeezed his forearm. “I hate this for you, little brother.”
“Thanks.”
“I guess all you can do is keep proving you’re a safe person? A safe place to let his guard down?”
“That’s what I’m tryin’ to do.”
“So, invite him over for Sunday brunch tomorrow.”
Malcolm blinked dumbly at her. “Sunday brunch? Since when do we cook brunch?”
She shrugged both shoulders and grinned. “Since now. I think I’ve got everything I need to make a tater tot casserole, and I just got three dozen eggs from Susan Sutter. Her hens have been going crazy laying this month. We can go to the early service, get home, and if Amy can do a little prep for me, I’ll have food ready to eat by ten-thirty.”
Melissa and her three youngest attended the Methodist church out on the highway, but she told her kids they didn’t have to go if they didn’t want to after the age of twelve, so Amy no longer attended by choice. Melissa herself had been a sporadic church-goer most of her adult life, but she’d found extra comfort in the community of her church after Tomás died.
Malcolm wasn’t overly fond of organized religion, but he preferred to judge people as individuals and by their actions, not superficial group labels.
“Okay, I’ll ask him,” Malcolm said. “As long as I’m not about to get tricked into doing last-minute housecleaning in the morning.”
“Nah, I’ll find a way to trick the boys into it.”
“No doubt.”
“You walking or driving tonight?”
“Walking again.” The weather was gorgeous, no chance of rain, and besides, he really hoped he’d get a ride home from Iggy—in the morning. Even if all they did was hold each other, it was light-years better than his cold, empty bed in the camper.
“Well, have fun for both of us.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Malcolm trotted across the backyard to his camper so he could take a quick shower and change shirts. He considered shaving, but the stubble didn’t look so bad. He usually grew out his beard in winter to keep his face warm, and then shaved it off come spring. The beard also hid his baby-face, which Liss teased him was a blessing, but he didn’t think so. Not when his own damned father had bullied teenage Malcolm about his lack of beard growth…
He and Iggy had talked about facial hair once, two months or so before That Night. He was spending the night at Iggy and Howie’s place, and their trio had watched a marathon of Charles Bronson flicks. Later, in Iggy’s room, sipping at a contraband bottle of vodka, Iggy said he wanted to see 80s porn-staches make a comeback. He found them sexy.
Malcolm had argued they seemed as sexy as making out with a hairbrush. That had somehow devolved into a discussion of pubes, giving head, and most of the rest of the conversation was lost to memory and the haze of alcohol consumption.
The plus side of being a self-employed adult was no one telling him what to do with his facial hair.
The saloon was hopping when Malcom strolled down the access road later that evening, not a legal parking space to be seen in the lot. He greeted the hostess, then threaded his way past the packed dance floor, over to the bar where Iggy was doing his own practiced dance with glasses, bottles, and garnishes.
Malcolm patiently waited for his turn to be served, and Laurel passed him his first beer with a knowing wink. A moment later, Iggy looked up from his station and met Malcolm’s eyes. Only for a brief flash of time, but it was enough. Contact.
