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Dad was focused on the television again, so Michael went into the kitchen. Found the bottle of vodka he’d put in an upper cupboard yesterday and poured himself some over ice, while he checked on the chicken. A note on the counter from Josiah said it should be done around six. Just enough time to cook up some instant potatoes from a box. Not exactly gourmet, but Michael was also a big fan of subscription meal kits, takeout, and delivery, so when he had to cook he liked shortcuts. And mashed potatoes were soft enough for Dad to swallow without a lot of difficulty.
Once the potatoes were done and the meat thermometer in the chicken pleased him, Michael fixed two plates. He cut Dad’s meat as small as he dared without tempting the man’s wrath, then carried the tray into the living room. Dad insisted on trying to feed himself with his left hand. Michael ate slowly, watching Dad most of the time in case he spilled. But his left arm wasn’t used to guiding utensils to his mouth, and after his third try, the potatoes missed and slid down Dad’s chin.
Michael reached out with a paper napkin, only to get his hand smacked away by Dad with a terse, “I can clean up after myself, boy.” Annoyed at the rebuff when he was only trying to help, Michael gave him the napkin.
The rest of dinner was a test of Michael’s patience, and sometimes he couldn’t tell if Dad was being difficult on purpose, or if he was truly struggling. But the man’s pride didn’t let him accept help from Michael tonight, unlike dinner last night when he’d practically fed Dad his entire bowl of pureed vegetable soup without a single complaint. What the hell had changed?
After the fifth spill, Michael put his own fork down, temper sparking. “That’s it. If you don’t let me feed you, then I’m buying you a big old bib tomorrow. You’re ruining your fucking shirt, Dad.”
“Fine.” Dad shoved the spoon at him, and Michael didn’t catch the thing before it pinged to the floor.
Biting back anger and frustration, Michael picked up the spoon, took it into the kitchen, dropped it into the sink, and returned with a new one. He plunked down, scooped up a bit of everything—chicken, gravy and potatoes—and held it out. “Say ‘ah.’”
If someone’s face could flip the bird, Dad’s did. Then he opened wide, and Michael put the food inside. Dinner was pretty tense and quiet after that, and Michael wasn’t sure why. Okay, so feeding his father like he was an infant wasn’t anything he’d ever expected to do in his lifetime, but this was what Dad needed. It was what Michael, as his only child, was willing to do so his father could regain his strength and independence. So why was Dad being such a stubborn son of a bitch about it all?
Instead of engaging, Michael slowly fed Dad until he was full, then gave him his evening meds with the rest of the pudding cup from lunch. Once he’d cleaned everything up, he nuked his own plate and finished eating. Dad focused wholly on the television program, so Michael tuned him out. If this was how things were going to play out, then so be it.
With Dad’s attention elsewhere, Michael stored the leftover chicken and washed the dishes, kind of wishing the house had a dishwasher to simplify life, but it didn’t. Dad had always refused to get one, even after Mom died and he complained about having to hand-wash the dishes every meal. Well, until Michael got sick of hearing about it and volunteered for dish duty so Dad could disappear into his workshop faster and leave Michael the hell alone for a few hours. The kitchen was as tidy as it was going to get, so Michael went upstairs. They didn’t have any Epsom salts, so he ran a tub of hot water and soaked in it for a while, allowing the heat to soothe sore muscles.
As he luxuriated in the soak, his mind wandered back to today’s brief interactions with Josiah. His gentle smile and quiet calm, and the sad things that always seemed to linger in his eyes. He seemed like a man desperate to be happy but resigned to simply existing, and that bothered Michael. Michael had only known him for a handful of hours so far, but he liked Josiah. Probably more than was prudent.
Josiah was also nothing like the guys Michael was usually attracted to. Like so many others, Kenny had been brash and assertive, perfectly comfortable in his own skin, and wickedly funny. Josiah was none of those things (so far) but something about him intrigued Michael. Made him want to be Josiah’s friend, which, even if Josiah had been into him, was all they’d ever be now that Michael was his boss. Michael needed to focus on his new job, selling his house, and deciding where to go from there.
Because once Dad was back on his feet and able to survive without constant supervision, Michael was out of there. Out of the house, out of Weston, and maybe this time, completely out of Texas.
It was beyond time to reinvent himself somewhere new.
Josiah had texted Seamus a few times during his day, mostly because Seamus liked updates when Josiah had a new client. He wasn’t sure if it was protectiveness, paranoia, or a combination of the two, so Josiah did as asked to ensure Seamus’s calm side when he got home. Seamus knew tonight was leftovers night, because they needed to clean out the fridge before things spoiled and Josiah abhorred throwing away food. He’d spent too damned many nights sleeping hungry to ever waste things if he could help it.
Leftovers weren’t Seamus’s favorite thing for supper, but after Josiah explained it all in great detail, he’d actually acquiesced and accepted Josiah’s side of an argument. Those moments were rare, but also treasured for their scarcity.
His phone pinged right as Josiah pulled into the driveway.
Seamus: Got a call. Might be a late night. Don’t wait up.
Josiah’s stomach tightened. As the county sheriff it wasn’t unusual for Seamus to get a late call he needed to respond to, or a crime he needed to be present for, but they’d been happening more and more frequently these last few months. Sometimes he worried it wasn’t really work—he didn’t have the nerve to call up the county office and make sure Seamus had actually been called out—or simply Seamus not wanting to go home.
Possibly Seamus being out with someone else, socially or romantically.
For all that Josiah longed for the tender moments of their first few months together, he didn’t dare go out and find other comfort. He was too terrified of Seamus finding out and what he would do in response. Josiah also didn’t have the courage or means to leave the man and find someone else. Someone who didn’t treat Josiah like an object he owned and could play with whenever and however he wanted.
Josiah also wasn’t sure he needed better than what he had now. He had a roof over his head, a car that worked, and food in his belly—things he hadn’t had for so long as a young person, and he’d never take them for granted now. No matter what the cost to his physical and mental health.
With Seamus out late, Josiah made himself a mixed plate of leftovers, glad to clear two small dishes from the refrigerator. One might have been slightly off, but living on the street for nearly a decade had given Josiah a cast-iron stomach, and he’d probably have to eat rancid, moldy raw meat to get sick.
He ate alone in the little home’s screened-in back porch, enjoying the quiet evening. The yard was fenced in, and he’d often imagined a dog or two romping around in the grass, chasing bugs and sticks and entertaining him and Seamus. But Seamus was very anti-pet, so Josiah had nothing. No siblings, no kids, no pets, no one to shower his attention on besides his clients and their families.
Michael’s exhausted smile flashed in his mind, and Josiah grinned at the back fence as he ate. He enjoyed talking to Michael, who seemed as uncomfortable in Elmer’s house as a nun in a strip club, and it was both endearing and strange. Michael had grown up there, after all. But he’d also spent half of his life away, living in a big city far from this simple country life.
A country life Josiah sometimes longed to escape from, but where would he go? And with what money?
No, dreams were for dreamers, and he’d long ago forgotten how to dream under the crush of real life and survival. Making it one meal to the next, one night safe to the next. No one was going to swoop in like a conquering hero and whisk Josiah away to a happy life somewhere far from here. Those thoughts were fantasies for children, not for grown-ass adults who knew better.
Survival mattered.
Dreams did not.
Chapter Six
