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Not everyone should be a parent. His mother and father, his grandmother, Ken….worthless.
The rage that had long burrowed inside his chest, the thing he kept locked away lest it turn him into a monster, started to reappear. It made his hands tremble and his breathing shallow and the moment he was free of the antiseptic-smelling, cloying air of the hospital, Barrett collapsed onto a bench on the edge of the parking lot. It was too late to make the calls he needed to in order to help Val, but at least he could go get Dandelion and get her set up at Val’s place.
He could be useful tonight. Tomorrow, his rage would fuel the next steps.
His phone dinged and a message from Ambrose appeared.
From: AmbroseI’m quite sorry about yesterday. I don’t do well when people offer me assistance. It’s a fatal flaw. But yes, I can check on your plants. I hope your nephew will be okay. Please text me if you need anything else.
His neighbor’s oddly formal message made something kick in his chest. The rage burrowed there was pushed back down for a moment. It took him a few tries to get his fingers to work, sliding across the smooth glass face of his phone.
From: BarrettHey, no worries. We’re all fucked up in some way or another. Some of us more so. We can swap war stories over the dinner I promised. You know I make a mean fish filet. Thank you for checking on the plants, and the house. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.And Forrest, my nephew, is in a coma. I hope he’ll be okay but we don’t know anything yet.
Barrett put his phone away and gave himself one minute to get his shaky breathing back under control before hopping in his truck and heading for the kennel. His phone didn’t ding again, but that was okay.
Ambrose let Barrett’s text sit. Worry focused on a child he didn’t know wasn’t helping, but he could worry about the man he wanted to get to know. His own hot-and-cold, back-and-forth attitude wasn’t doing anyone any good. And it was unfair to Barrett, who seemed like a good man stuck in an untenable situation.
Gods, he let himself get in his own head too much. He was being old Ambrose, stuffy and curt and unkind. He’d moved to his own place to be alone, but alone didn’t mean…
Deep in his heart, Ambrose knew he could love and be loved in return. He knew his hang-ups, his issues with his mother, all his flaws got in the way of most relationships. His friends were close but distant because they knew Ambrose needed his time and space. There were some dates, a few relationships that lasted months, maybe even half a year.
And then Preston and the four years afterwards. Bliss. Then not.
The cold shoulder. The lies. The hiding. The cheating. So much that neither of them could rectify when it all fell apart. Preston had cheated first, then Ambrose in revenge. He knew that made him an ugly person, a sad one.
He wasn’t that Ambrose anymore. Angry at everyone and everything and lashing out where he could. He wasn’t ugly or sad anymore. No more anger. No more noise, no more annoyances.
But he waslonely. He could see that now. He’d assumed himself irredeemable years ago, after that angry, sad fuck at a hotel with a stranger who had flirted with him at the bar and not ten minutes later had him against the bathroom wall, his mouth around Ambrose’s cock.
He’d been so stupid. And then he’d confessed, and Preston had followed him down that very dark hole. All their sins out in the open, all utterances and secret touches with clammy hands admitted to. Forgiven. But it had brokenthem, and that was it.
Ambrose had felt himself withdraw in those days and weeks afterwards. Like a fucking crab with a too small shell, desperate to stay hidden among the reefs. And here he was four years later, still convinced that shell fit.
He pushed inside Barrett’s cabin, scrounging for the switch he knew was nearby. Most of the cabins had the same or similar floor plan, so unless he was going into some kind of upside-down land, the switch would be…there.
Ambrose gazed around, astonished. Yes, it was the twin to his cabin in room size and layout but this wasgorgeous. Barrett’s cabin was a modern delight, all bare beams and gray wood floors, matte appliances and mounted records and bookshelves so packed they groaned. Okay, maybe it had been wrong of him to assume the cabin would be cozy but dated, maybe decked with one too many blankets knitted by arthritic hands and a fireplace that seemed to never run out of wood. But this was just visually fucking amazing. It looked lived in but clean, sleek but not slick. It invited his senses to play about, begging for his fingertips to run over nubby fabrics and leather book spines and trace over perfectly preserved record sleeves.
But the wall on the far side of the living room was what pulled him under. Three guitars, all pristine replicas of famous models, hung there. Waiting. So lovingly cared for it made him want to pick them up, but he wouldneverwithout permission. A musician’s instrument was sacred.
But he did ache with desire to know more about the man. His neighbor. Someone he maybe wanted to befriend.
The world felt a little askew. It wasn’t a bad feeling, necessarily, but it did its damndest to knock the wind out of him as he walked over to the kitchen and found the plants. Two massive violets on their own stands, a few cacti that were certainly fine, and a stunning pink hibiscus, the flowers bigger than his own hand. Two of them were halfway open, with three more buds just waiting.
A quick check of the soil told him only the violets needed water, but as he stood before the hibiscus, unable to take his eyes from its beauty, he got out his phone and snapped a picture of it.
From: AmbroseThe plants are watered. I left the cacti alone. What about this beauty?
The reply came quickly.
From: BarrettMeet Stella. I’ve had her for ten years and it’s my longest relationship. She’s okay for a few days more. Thanks for swinging by. I owe you dinner.
From: AmbroseYou’ve said that twice now. You’re really not indebted to me. Stella is glaring right now, if you can’t tell.
His phone rang and, startled, Ambrose fumbled with it for a moment before answering. “Barrett?”
The other man was chuckling into the phone. “Ah, shit. You have no idea how much I needed that laugh this morning. Thanks.”
His face was getting too warm already. Praise always felt strange, both too foreign and too close. “Sure. Though I refrained from taking pictures of the three yet to flower and making bud jokes.”
