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Jesus. He had to take care of some pressing needs, right then. With his own hand.
They sent more letters, back and forth: the texting was fantastic, but they both, Burne thought, loved the tangibility, the sensation, the bloom of emotion upon seeing, touching, each other’s handwriting. He had a small collection of Devon, now. He kept the letters carefully stacked on his bedside table.
He learned, though he’d known the outline from one of those profile pieces, that Devon’s parents had split up when he was very young; the stress, Devon said, and even his handwriting seemed sad. They’d tried to make it work, but they’d argued about money, medical bills, fault and genetics, protectiveness and frustration and the best care for a sick child, not having planned for this to be the way their lives went. It’d taken a toll.I know it wasn’t my fault,he elaborated via text, when Burne tentatively mentioned having read that section of his letter.But it felt like it was, when I knew it was all happening because of me. They’re happier now, and we’re all okay. And my sisters—when Dad remarried, she had two kids already—are great, and so’s June, my stepmom.
It isn’t your fault,Burne told him,but you know that. I get why you’d feel it. I think it’d be hard not to, at least a little. You can know that it isn’t your fault, but the emotions are harder.
Devon was quiet for a handful of seconds. And then sent him a simpleThank you.And, after another couple of seconds,Yes.
He told Devon about himself, too. He wasn’t complicated, a big open book; he said whatever he was thinking, everything he wanted Devon to know. How much he loved his family. How much he liked both teaching and research. The fact that he’d helped build garden beds for his sister-in-law last summer. His dislike of grape jelly and liking of mountain-bike trails. The Scottishness of his ancestry, which in theory came with a tartan and a significant name, lost somewhere back in the annals of time. These days most of his family lived in Arizona.
He offered up, after Devon’s comment about exes, the truth that he himself was extremely single and had been for a while. Some casual dates, a few guys here and there, but he’d been busy with work, teaching, graduate student advising, grant applications, and then this leave. He admitted,I think sometimes I’m too intense. Guys don’t seem to be into someone who’ll lecture them about salinity levels and local ecosystems during a romantic walk on the beach.To which Devon sent back instantly,Their loss. I like salt,which made Burne nearly trip over a rock because he was chortling while walking.
He told Devon that he loved doing field work, and he’d been thrilled to get this grant and the leave from teaching, but three months on an island was starting to feel long, when he couldn’t meet up with friends or family for a get-together, when he literally needed a boat to come home across the water and the space.
He wrote,I’m glad I met you, and it was true, it was the truest sentence he’d ever written, it was more real than the rocks and the wind and the endless rhythm of the waves.
With just over two weeks to go, on a bone-cold night of sea-fog and wind, he texted Devon a photo of the popcorn machine for movie night. Devon had been quiet all day, no doubt absorbed in acts of genius. The museum construction was commencing shortly.
Devon answered, after a short delay,I know this might be a bit strange, since we haven’t in fact done this yet, but…can I call you?
Burne stared at the screen. And then put Mike in charge of dinosaur-related films, popcorn, pizza, and cold sodas; and ducked out of the meeting room into the hall.Of course you can, are you okay?
Typing. Dots. Blankness. Typing again.Not exactly. Yes but tired. Talking might be easier. Is this a good time?
Yes please!He was walking back to his own building, next door: connected by a walkway, because the whole research station snuggled up together, starlings in a nest. The wind lifted his hair like an omen.
Devon called promptly. Burne caught it while opening the building door and ducking inside. His room was the first door, small and nondescript and practical; it held a desk, a bed, a dresser, the door to the connected tiny bathroom. Some sea-rocks he’d picked up, on the windowsill. His glittery birthday card, on the desk shelf. Devon’s book on the corner of the desk, next to the bed.
“Hi.” Devon’s voice; oh, that was Devon’s voice. Amber-warm, soft-spoken not in the way of shyness but like someone who had no need to be loud or strident. Lightly accented, but nothing Burne could place: that tangle of inheritance, spanning countries and families, from Singapore but growing up in London, from Wales but living in New York, Filipino but also Portuguese, and then Los Angeles and the California coast, cosmopolitan and storied.
And exhausted. Burne heard it, even through the torrent of lust and want and yes, as Devon went on, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Were you busy? You said you had a movie night…”
“Dinosaur-related marathon. Nothing we haven’t seen a million times. This’s more important. You’re more important.”
Devon laughed, wearily. Burne would’ve flown hundreds of miles, brought him hundreds of types of tea, for that laugh. “I’m not, but thank you. I just…wanted to talk to you, I think.”
“Totally here for all your talking needs. Did something happen?” He kicked off his shoes, grabbed an orange soda from the fridge, settled onto his generic research-station standard sofa.
Devon hesitated. Then gave in. “I had a…rather bad day, in fact. I was in a meeting, earlier…not the modern art museum, that’s going well, but a historic hotel…I don’t normally do renovations because I like to design from the foundations up, but it’s a famous property and it needs so much work and so much love, and they asked for my input…”
“And you can solve anything.”
“I tried. But it was so…they were arguing so much, on the call—not about me exactly, but a bit about me. About paying me, and the budget and designs and history versus innovation and the future, and various directors on various committees started shouting, and I had a headache already, and I…please don’t be too worried, I’m doing better, I only felt like…it would feel nice to be with you, right now.”
“Anything you want. I’m here.” With you, he thought. Please. Oh God, please. Let me help.
“I said I was going to make tea, and that was the plan, but when I stood up I…well, fainted, honestly. With the camera still on. I felt it—I knew I felt dizzy—and I tried to sit down first, so I didn’t fall. I’ve got a lot of soft rugs.”
Burne understood, then, why the rugs; and then he tried not to picture that why, because his own pulse had become a jackhammer and his hand was tight on the phone. “Are you okay? Did you…I don’t know, call someone? Can someone take care of you?”
“They called emergency services when they saw me on the floor.” Embarrassment painted that precious-stone voice with pink. “They didn’t need to—I would’ve been all right—but I suppose it got everyone to stop arguing and agree on something…”
“You needed help. Of course they—wait, should you be at the hospital, or—”
“No, no, I’m fine. I was waking up by the time the EMTs arrived. It happens, I told you. They did a check-up and told me bed rest and no work for a day or two. Nothing new, just the normal warnings about stress and blood pressure and my heart rate.” That one came with a tiny frustrated grumble. “I’m only a bit tired. And mortified. I don’t usually collapse in front of clients. I feel awful about it.”
“They understand. You’ve got—I mean, they know you—you’re not…oh, fuck, I don’t know how to say it. They know you have a…a heart condition, right?”
