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Something like vulnerability flickered in Ambrose’s gray eyes. “Well, I’m going to take that as a compliment, I guess.”
Barrett grinned. Watching Ambrose twitch even under faint praise was endearing in a way that sidetracked his thoughts for a second. But it was also like digging for treasure in sand. Sift a little, find more sand. Sift more. And eventually you’d find a piece of something pretty surrounded by yet more sand.
Ambrose waved him into the kitchen and he followed, taking the chance to look around. The place was shockingly more lived in than just a few weeks back. Not a box in sight. Art on the walls, countertops and floors gleaming. As he stared at the dove gray sofa dotted with a few orange and yellow pillows, a paisley blanket artfully thrown over one arm, a lump formed in his throat. Ambrose’s sofa was almost exactly where Perry’s had been. It made sense, facing the big windows and the fireplace, television mounted over the hearth.
They’d had some great nights in front of that hearth; just them and a bottle of bourbon and stories from their lives. Sometimes Perry would tell him about a new fishing spot or how his herbs were coming in. Sometimes they’d play cards, something Perry sucked at but still enjoyed. His friend had never made him feel young or inexperienced. They were simply two neighbors - two friends - enjoying each other’s company.
It was hard, being in this house without Perry.
Barrett sighed and turned to see Ambrose yank the apron over his head and toss it into where he knew the laundry room was. He held out the bag of food and thermos in silent offering, which Ambrose took with a nod and a small smile. “You really didn’t have to.′
He shrugged. “Made plenty, even after I prepped everything for the week.”
“Meal prep is smart.” Ambrose sat on one of the barstools on the other side of the counter. “Join me? You did make it, after all.”
That got him a smile in return. “I didn’t want to intrude.”
“Hardly.” Ambrose dug out two spoons from a drawer and Barrett took the seat opposite him, extremely grateful. Focusing on the food would keep him from staring at Ambrose’s tight,tightt-shirt. Damn thing was nearly painted on and Barrett did not want to get caught ogling. Staring.
No, he’d been ogling. Fuck.
They were silent as they shuffled containers and cups and silverware around, as Barrett heaped blueberries into his oatmeal and watched Ambrose do the same. They ate in companionable silence for several long minutes.
Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Hey, so I gotta go to town and get some supplies, groceries, what have you. Do you need anything?” He nodded at the counter. “I’m guessing driving might be tricky.”
Ambrose’s reply was quick and pointed. “You don’t need to do that. I’m stocked enough for a few days.”
Barrett winced. Ambrose was going to be laid up with a badly sprained ankle for more than “a few days“. Should he push? Ask again? What were the rules in a situation like this? So he did the only thing he knew to do right then: run his mouth. “I’m guessing the doctor told you no driving, running, shoveling. Limited walking until the swelling goes down. It’s no trouble to pick up some things -”
Ambrose plunked his coffee cup down and shook his head. “I’m good.”
“Ambrose -”
“I’mgood.” The other man’s stare was piercing, the set of his jaw firm. “Thank you for the breakfast. If you don’t mind, I have some work to catch up on after spending all day at the doctor.”
And just like that, he was dismissed, his things put back into the bag and thrust at him with a nod. “Right. I uh…well, yell if you need anything.”
“I will.”
Barrett knew Ambrose wouldn’t. Whatever vulnerability he’d gleamed earlier was now gone and replaced with a cold decisiveness. It wasn’t even stubbornness or pride, but something that cut deeper, bled slower. A wound years in the making.
His own pride was a little scuffed but he’d live. Whatever was bothering Ambrose was being pushed on in the moment. All he could do was back off. “All right, well, have a good one.”
Ambrose nodded and turned his attention solely to the cooling pie on the counter. Barrett shoved his feet into his boots, his arms into his coat, and left his dead friend’s old house. Wondering if making a new friend was worth it as the scent of apple pie lingered in his senses.
Two weeks later
The dead of winter brought with it a blistering cold, the kind that chapped noses and cheeks before it settled into one’s bones. Ambrose didn’t dare step outside the house without being completely bundled up, leaving only his eyes uncovered. He’d lived in this area his whole life but the snap of true cold always left his eyes and nose stinging. His ankle was better now, but it was still tender, so he made do with getting things delivered.
Music bled into the air, soft and lulling, floating from Barrett’s house. Ambrose picked up on it as he hauled the trash bin to the road. His ankle protested the rubbing of his snow boot, but it was a short walk and it felt good getting back to normal. He paused in the driveway and listened. A guitar, played slowly with skill. But the fingering was a little unpracticed. Guitar was the first instrument of many he’d learned and it was still his go-to when he needed to breathe. Playing helped him calm down and focus, helped him drive away some of the anxieties that blew ghostly behind him.
Ambrose hadn’t talked to Barrett since that abrupt end to their breakfast. He’d instantly regretted his actions but like any fallible person, hadn’t found the courage to apologize. Yet. It had been an instantaneous reaction, a flare of pain and anger at being offered help. Like he was a small child.
And yet.
He knew it was unreasonable, cruel even. The look on Barrett’s face had flickered briefly between confusion, disappointment, and hurt. But Ambrose had still pushed him away. Rejected his kindness and his generosity and after the big man was gone, hidden away in his house, the warm oatmeal and strong coffee souring in his mouth. He did this all the time, the shove away to gain some distance and regain traction. But it wasn’t even traction, was it? That implied a steadiness, a surety. Ambrose didn’t feel either of those things. He felt very alone, trapped in a situation of his own making.
He hadn’t even given Barrett the pie. It still sat in the freezer, carefully wrapped and waiting. He’d been baking for him. His rescuer. A friend in the making, perhaps. And then he’d done a full Ambrose and pushed and here they were.
