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The voice on the other end laughed. “Right? Sleep like a baby up there.”
“Okay, I’m off. I’m not sure who to scold here so talk to you later, Daveed.”
“Stay warm, Bear.”
There was that nickname again. Or handle. It made complete sense but still struck Ambrose as faintly juvenile for someone so sharp as Barrett. “Okay, couple of hours to kill. Thankfully, this is not the first time I’ve been stuck in an FL.” He rooted around and dug out a battered box of crayons and two coloring books. “We’ve gotSprinkle’s Perfect DayorRainbow Garden. You’re injured, you pick.”
Ambrose almost laughed. This was the weird cherry on top of the strange sundae and he found he didn’t mind too much. “Well, how does one say no to rainbows? Or gardens?”
And with nary a smirk, Barrett brought the coloring book and crayons over and then sat on the floor opposite the coffee table as Ambrose slowly moved to the little sofa. “I don’t know, that Sprinkle looked mischievous.”
“How does one measure the mischievousness of a candy-colored goat?”
Barrett’s face was flat as a river stone as he said, “You have clearly never had goats. From the moment they can hobble around, they create chaos.”
Unbidden, the image of a goat leading Barrett on a chase rose in his imagination and Ambrose snorted. “I have not, though if social media leads me to believe anything, it’s that tiny goats are automatically granted pardons for their many, many crimes.”
“Little thieves, every single one.” Barrett plucked up a red crayon and started coloring in a tulip. “So, are you an amateur ichthyologist?”
“More like a very thorough fixator. I’ll find a hobby, get in deep, and then when I surface I feel as though I’ve become more than well-versed.” He shrugged. It really wasn’t a big deal. His intelligence had made him a target for bullies and buffoons all his life, so he didn’t go out of his way to talk about it. He could have gone on to law or medical school or been a research scientist. But that all sounded very stressful and so Ambrose wasn’t interested.
When he said he wassensitive, he meant it. And stress made him jumpy and nervous (and then maybe he didn’t sleep for three days in a row and nearly fell out of an open window. He’d hallucinated it was a door.)
“Still impressive.” Barrett swapped his red for orange just as Ambrose finished coloring in a daisy with bright pink, so it looked more like a cosmos. “So fish, music -”
“The music isn’t a hobby.” Ambrose dropped his crayon and sat back on the sofa. “It’s a passion.” A fierce possessiveness rose up in him. His music washis. It wasn’t the same as sharing the scientific name of the common carp. Anyone could look that up. Those notes, those chords, came from his mind. But he had to swat all of that away in order to say, “It’s meaningful for me. An outlet of pure joy or sadness or whatever I’m feeling in the moment.”
He looked away, not sure if Barrett’s silence and nonjudgmental, but too dark eyes were expressing something Ambrose simply couldn’t understand.
Chapter seven
Theanklewassprainedbut not fractured or broken. Ambrose counted himself lucky, said as much, but Barrett still felt guilty. About what, he wasn’t really sure. It’s not as though he could have magically known Ambrose was on the trail below before seeing the man’s text. And reflecting on that text that evening, he realized that Ambrose hadcared. In as much to text him and ask if things were all right. So he’d remembered Barrett was a forest ranger, saw the ambulances, assumed Barrett would be in the middle of it.
He couldn’t help but wonder what else his neighbor tucked away inside that brain. He seemed the kind of man to stand against a wall at parties, nursing one beer that went warm over hours, and listening to everyone else’s conversations.
All of that piled into his head as he made up a massive thermos of coffee and took it, along with containers of oatmeal, eggs, and fruit over to Ambrose’s. He knew the man was up, had seen him limping about salting his walk. Instead of fighting with himagainover Barrett helping him with some tasks - like they had the night before when Barrett dropped him off - he decided food might pave a smoother path.
Fightwas a strong word for it. Barrett had offered his help. Ambrose had shook his head and said no, thanks. And when Barrett offered again, something flashed in Ambrose’s eyes and whatever it was told Barrett to shut the hell up.
He fired off a quick text.
From: BarrettHey, I’ve got some coffee and oatmeal I can leave outside if you want. Had extra, thought you might be interested.
His phone dinged thirty seconds later. Barrett had to laugh at the fact that Ambrose put his full name into Barrett’s phone. Like he knew anotherAmbrose.
From: Ambrose TilliferYou can come in. Front door’s open. Don’t mind the smell.
That was a….surprisingly neighborly answer. Even with the threat of a mystery smell. A few minutes later he stuck his head inside Ambrose’s front door. “Am I walking into a bomb range?”
Then it hit him. Something sweet but tart, buttery yet crisp. Saliva pooled in his mouth. It smelled just like -
“Sorry.” Ambrose hobbled into view, wearing a red t-shirt, black track pants, and no socks. Flour dusted his bare forearms but the black apron over his front saved him from the worst of it. “Had to pull the pie out of the oven.”
He stepped aside and let Barrett in. “No worries. But…” He was staring at the streak of flour on Ambrose’s right arm. “Mind the smell? You mean the scent of fresh apple pie.”
Ambrose huffed. “It’s not a scent everyone likes.”
“Maybe if they’re insane. Or allergic to apples.”
