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Josiah exchanged the bowl and fork for the mug of coffee, still slightly unnerved by how calm Seamus was tonight. No yelling, no blustering, no demands. He reminded Josiah of the man he’d first met two years ago. The man he thought he was renting a room from. Nothing like the man he eventually turned into. The man Josiah both cared about and feared.
“Sit,” Seamus said. “Drink your coffee.”
The quiet demands sent Josiah into autopilot. After putting Seamus’s bowl and fork in the dishwasher, he sat across from him with his own mug of black coffee. Josiah used to prefer sweet drinks with syrups and whipped cream to black coffee, but Seamus had disabused him of that habit quickly.Cheapandsimplewere two of Seamus’s favorite words.
Didn’t matter that he had both of their incomes at his disposal.
“Do you want a toothpick?” Josiah asked.
“Sure.” Seamus was busy reading something on his phone, so Josiah took his time getting a toothpick from the box in the cabinet. Walking back to the table with it. Placing the toothpick next to Seamus’s coffee mug. Sitting in the chair opposite Seamus at the round table.
Josiah sipped at his coffee while Seamus drank his, did something on his phone and picked at his teeth. Familiar things, sure, but it was all almost too easy. Too quiet. Josiah was braced for an explosion of some kind.
An explosion that never happened. After finishing his coffee, Seamus quietly went into the living room to watch TV. Josiah cleaned up their mugs, wiped down the table, put all leftovers away, including a portion for Seamus to take for lunch tomorrow, and then set the dishwasher to run. After thirty seconds of talking himself into it, Josiah followed Seamus into the living room.
Some science fiction movie they’d seen before was playing on the television, which relaxed Josiah even more. Old favorites meant Seamus was in a good mood, unlikely to lash out or demand anything from Josiah tonight. When Seamus raised his arm and beckoned Josiah to join him, Josiah did, settling on the couch next to his...boyfriend?Roommate?He never knew what word to apply to Seamus.
Whatever the label, they existed together in peace that night.
Precious, fleeting peace Josiah clung to for as long as possible.
Chapter Two
Michael didn’t pull into the driveway of his childhood home until after ten that night, and his entire body hurt from so much sitting and driving in one single day. Not to mention the still-lingering remnants of last night’s binge. Dad hadn’t woken up for the hour or so Michael had visited before a nurse politely asked him to leave, and that was okay. He’d probably do better seeing and talking to Dad after a good night’s sleep.
The property had become almost twice as cluttered in the twenty years since Michael had last seen it. More metal artwork along the fence line, more iron sculptures in the yard of various animals and a few abstract things he couldn’t begin to name. The fifth wheel was still parked in the side yard, lights off and probably empty of tenants, since the only other vehicle there was Dad’s trusty old 1955 Ford truck with Elmer Fudd painted on the hood.
Michael had several bags with him, but the only one he grabbed was his overnight nylon bag for now. He still had a key, but the sagging, ancient two-story home wasn’t locked. The paramedics who’d scooped Dad up and run probably hadn’t thought to bother. Not that burglary was a high crime out here in the middle of nowhere. While Weston and Daisy probably had their fair share of drug addicts looking for something to steal, there wasn’t a pawnshop within thirty miles to hock their shit.
He let himself into the cluttered living room, not surprised to see previously empty spaces filled with boxes of metal and spare parts and all kinds of things Michael didn’t have the energy to identify tonight. A half-finished puzzle of a tranquil lake scene took up most of the dining room table. The wedding photo of Dad and Mom still hung on the wall, the frame dusty and glass filmy from age. Dad had never been the best housekeeper, but the state of the place made his nose twitch and skin crawl, especially after living with Kenny and his OCD about cleanliness.
Whatever, that was a problem for tomorrow.
Michael chugged down a glass of water from the kitchen spigot, forever grateful they had their own well, then took a second glass upstairs with him. Every single step creaked with age, and one groaned so loud he half expected his foot to fall through. The place had seriously fallen into disrepair since Michael had last been here, and it was likely to collapse if Dad didn’t do something.
Again, another problem for tomorrow. Or maybe next week, depending on Dad’s condition and recovery expectations. A stroke was a big fucking deal.
His old bedroom was still a mix of Michael’s own things and other crap Dad had added to it in the form of sculptures and boxes of more clutter. The bed was only slightly musty so Dad had to have been changing the sheets every once in a while, and there wasn’t too much dust on surfaces. The Green Day and Foo Fighters posters were still on the walls, probably brittle enough to crumble if Michael dared take them down. He’d grown up in this room, had his first girl-kiss in this room, and realized he was very much gay in this room.
Let a much older family friend who’d had too much to drink take his virginity in this room. At least he could take comfort knowing that pervy old bastard had died of pancreatic cancer a few years ago.
Michael shoved those thoughts away, opened a window for some fresh air, and got ready for bed. His entire body and soul were exhausted after being dumped, going on a bender, and losing his dog, and now he had to figure out how to care for his dad for an unknown length of time, all while selling his overly expensive home back in Austin. More thoughts for tomorrow.
He changed his clothes, brushed his teeth, drank more water, and finally settled in his lumpy, somewhat stale bed, but when he shut off the light, it was too fucking quiet. Not a cricket, not a fan whirring, not even passing traffic. So he downloaded a noise machine app on his phone and set it to Play. The constant, soothing sound helped ease him into sleep for a little while, only to wake to the jarring noise of someone pounding on something downstairs.
He leaped from the bed, chilled by the cool air trickling in from the open window, and hauled ass downstairs, vaguely aware the sun was starting to rise. Disoriented and a little concerned, he grabbed what looked like part of a jack handle and held it by his side like a baseball bat as he approached the front door. Peeked around the pleated sunflower-pattern curtains his mother had sewn a lifetime ago.
A tall man in a sheriff’s uniform and a belt too tight around the middle stood there, sunglasses on but hat in his hands. Waiting. No flashing lights on the car, which eased Michael’s apprehension a fraction and he put his weapon down. Unlocked and opened the door. “Can I help you?”
“Sorry to disturb the house so early,” the man said, “but I was passing by and happened to see your vehicle. I’m Sheriff Seamus McBride.”
“Michael Pearce. Can I do something for you, Sheriff?”
“I take it you’re related to Elmer Pearce?”
“Yes, he’s my father. I got the call yesterday about his stroke and drove up from Austin. I didn’t realize staying at my father’s house was suspicious.”
McBride’s eyebrow twitched. “Under normal circumstances, no, but your father had a burglary a few months ago. I was simply trying to watch out for the property while he’s in hospital.”
