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Fact: Metamorphic rocks always begin as another type of rock. Metamorphic literally means changed form.
“Excuse me, what?”
“A tree fell on Nick’s cabin,” Martin repeated, even though he knew Simon had heard him perfectly well the first time. “He’s staying with me until we can get it repaired.”
There was a very loud silence on the other end of the line.
“The murderous chainsaw guy is staying in your house—while you sleep?”
This was why Martin had waited a few days—fourteen of them, to be exact—to actually call Simon.
“What was I going to do, Simon? Kick him out? The cabin was his home, and I agreed to let him live there for the duration of the Davies agreement.”
The man in question had showered and left the cabin midmorning. Martin didn’t know what he was doing, and it wasn’t Martin’s business where Nick went. Martin was not his parent and barely his roommate. The fact that Nick had starred in several of Martin’s recent dreams without his permission was a nuance that just added to all the weirdness—and indicated that, regardless of their age difference,parentalwas not the direction Martin’s feelings for Nick were headed.
“The hell.” Simon’s voice rose. “Does he not have friends he can stay with? He doesn’t have any, does he? And you know why, Martin? Because he’s an asshole.”
While Simon was ranting, Martin took a deep breath in through his nose, held it for a moment, then released it. As he counted to ten, he also vowed not to let on that he was very much attracted to Nick.
“He… can be a bit rough but he’s not an asshole, and he does have friends but—really, Simon, I don’t need to justify my actions to you. And you, of all people, know I’m not the type to refuse to help someone who needs it.” And Nick had rescued a kitten, which made him a hero in some circles.
“I know, I know.” Simon sighed, probably remembering how Martin had helped him out when he was a young doctoral student. “I just don’t want him taking advantage of you.”
Martin smiled. It was nice knowing someone had his back, even if he lived miles away.
“Sleeping on the floor is not taking advantage, believe me.”
Maybe Nick was going to Aberdeen to see a massage therapist. If Martin had slept on that camping pad for two weeks, he’d be needing surgery by now.
“I suppose it’s not,” he conceded. “I warned you that couch was too short. How long?”
Martin decided Simon was asking how long until repairs were finished, not the couch’s dimensions.
“The guys I hired are hoping to come out before the holiday, but they’re not making any promises. In the meantime, I’ve pulled out the cabinets and counters. It’s all going to have to be redone. Luckily, the rest of the cabins weren’t damaged any further. And the new windows are on schedule for January, maybe even next week.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. How long are you going to let him freeload? Is he going to pay you with pornographic chainsaw art?”
Martin laughed, glad he hadn’t told Simon about the penises. “Maybe he is. But he hasn’t been doing much of that recently. He’s actually been helping me out.”
Nick had helped Martin unpack the rest of his boxes and figure out where to put all of his things. Martin suspected it was because Nick didn’t want to trip on them, but then, neither did Martin.
He’d gone on to hang the flat-screen TV above the fireplace across from the too-short couch. They’d celebrated by spending a few evenings watchingLaw and Order,CSI, then the newReacher. Nick was under the false impression thatCSI: Vegaswas the best of the lot. Martin would change his mind soon enough.
The artwork Martin had deemed worthy of his new home was now hanging on the walls—even if it would have to come down when he decided on an interior color. Even better (or worse, although Martin wasn’t embarrassed to admit his phobia, everyone should be afraid of spiders), an early morning arachnid encounter in the kitchen meant Nick discovering Martin’s fear of spiders.
“It’s just a tiny spider!” Nick exclaimed while Martin bravely attempted not to cower. It was all he could do not to grab a rubber spatula off the counter and smash it to smithereens. Then burn the spatula.
“I don’t care if it’s a little old granny spider who sits in her spider rocking chair knitting little baby spider hats.” Martin pointed at it. “It’s got to go.”
Laughing, Nick scooped it up—with his bare hand!—and tossed it outside. “You’re gonna feel bad when you find Granny Spider curled up in a little ball and dead,” he said when he came back inside.
“No, I will not. I will rejoice.”
“That’s a bit harsh.” But Nick said it with a smile, and Martin counted it as a win.
Thus, Nick had been the one to empty out the shed. And then he refilled it with the knickknacks Martin was saving for the cabins and which were also now packed safely inside secure plastic containers to keep them from getting damp.
“Huh,” Simon said, bringing Martin back to the present.
