Leap Year (Reconstruction Book 1), page 13
“I don’t know. He’s so good with Robbie.” Patrick described yesterday’s swimming and cookout, and only admitted to making out with Russ in the kitchen. The other details weren’t as important as how he felt when he was around Russ. Well, except for this afternoon, but they’d gotten carried away with the rough sex and hadn’t been mindful of Russ’s injury.
An injury he was incredibly curious about, but it also didn’t feel right to snoop. Not yet.
“Does this Russell guy know about Robbie?” Bryan asked. “The truth?”
“No. The only person in Reynolds who knew Robbie wasn’t biologically mine was Mom. And a few people in the school district records who needed his birth certificate for enrollment.”
“Could you see yourself being honest with Russell about Robbie’s paternity?”
“I could, yeah. He knows a little about you and what you did for me. I didn’t tell him the truth about Lawrence, I kind of implied he was a random hookup that went bad, and I think Russell wanted to give you a medal for trying to make things right.”
“I know I’ve apologized, brother, but I am so sorry for what happened with Lawrence. I’m sorry I was so blinded by my own ambition and desire to please a dead man that I didn’t see how much you were hurting until it was too late. I’ll never be able to make that right.”
“You’re making it right now by being where you are. And I hope with every bone in my body that next week’s hearing goes your way. Robbie was just a baby when you went in and I know he can’t wait to see his Uncle Bryan again.”
“Me too.” Bryan’s voice got rougher, almost tearful. “I’ve missed him. But we made the right choice. All of us.”
“I know we did.” It hadn’t been easy but it had been right.
“So are you ready for some big-brotherly advice?”
He swallowed against the annoying, persistent lump in his throat. “Always.”
“I’ve never heard you speak so…happily about a guy before, not like you’ve done both times we’ve talked about Russell. If you think today was a misunderstanding and not him kicking you out after sex, then give him time to get through the migraine. Call him tomorrow. Talk about it. I know being proactive isn’t your best event, but tell him he hurt your feelings. The only way—” He coughed hard. “The only way a relationship can work is if you’re honest about how you feel. And I know I’m not the oracle of successful relationships but that’s what I’ve learned. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes as me.”
Patrick snorted. “Don’t worry, I’m making all my own mistakes. Some of them more than once.”
“Maybe work on that?”
Bryan’s teasing tone made Patrick chuckle. He opened his eyes and studied the main house. The lack of movement or light for so many hours unnerved him, but Russ seemed to know what he needed to get through his pain episodes. It wasn’t Patrick’s job to butt in. They were barely dating, much less anything close to boyfriends. Patrick was a caregiver and he wanted to help, but he couldn’t force his help on anyone, much less a new friend he’d only known for a few weeks.
“I’m doing my best,” Patrick said. “It’s all we can do, right?”
“Exactly.”
A mechanical voice interrupted, telling them their call would end in sixty seconds. Patrick hated how short these calls were, even while he understood the prison had a lot of prisoners and only so many phones available. He and his brother couldn’t shoot the shit for an hour; they had to keep their calls to the allotted time.
“Listen to your gut about Russell, okay?” Bryan said.
“I’ll try. Stay safe in there.”
“Always do. Later, little bro.”
“Bye.”
The same mechanical voice told him the inmate had ended the call. Patrick put his phone down and stared across the yard to the glimmering pool water, and he recalled last weekend’s conversation with Russ. Maybe he’d obfuscated some truths but no one told all their deepest secrets to someone they’d only known for a few weeks. Some hurts were too raw to expose to others before some sort of emotional scab had grown over it.
Some wounds never grew those scabs.
Russell hated the morning after a bad attack. It was worse than any hangover he could remember, because most of the time not a single fun thing had happened prior to the discomfort. Only agony, hours spent in the dark, trying not to move, brain hazy with drugs. Waking all sluggish and sore and confused, and hoping he could get to the can before he either barfed on or peed the bed.
A glass of water still sat on his nightstand, which he sipped to try and wash some of the fuzz out of his mouth. He only vaguely remembered Patrick bringing his pain pill, giving him the water to sip. And then…
Patrick had obviously left; he couldn’t have stayed the night. Even if they’d been dating a lot longer and Patrick had been through one of these episodes before, he had Frog at home.
His entire body felt weighed down with wet sand and his stomach gurgled its displeasure. He shambled into the bathroom, didn’t turn on any lights, and took a long, steamy shower. It helped knock more of the fog from his brain. His shoulder was tender but no longer radiated its hatred of yesterday’s amazing sex. He went downstairs to make coffee and finally caught the time on the microwave clock. After ten.
There went his morning work time.
The work loss, the pain, the morning after? All worth it for every moment he’d spent with Patrick yesterday. He’d gotten a tad rough with partners in the past, but he’d never lost his mind so hard and fast with another guy. Fucked like they were one body, both desperate to come, to soar together. He hated how things had ended but didn’t regret it.
After sucking down a mug of black coffee, it occurred to him to check his cell phone. He wasn’t sure where it had ended up during the clothing-loss frenzy.
His clothes were neatly folded on the bathroom sink, his cell right on top next to his wallet. He had the vaguest memory of Patrick saying he’d collected their clothes but didn’t recall what else they’d said to each other.
One text from Patrick, sent about two hours ago: Hope you’re feeling better.
Nothing else.
What else is he supposed to say? There aren’t exactly any e-cards that say “Sorry we fucked you into a migraine.”
He sat on the closed toilet seat and agonized for way too long over how to respond. He could have more easily walked across the yard and knocked on Patrick’s door, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Yet. His body was still a bit shaky. In the end, he chickened out.
Russell: Awake and moving around. Might go for a swim after lunch.
He typed and erased Want to join me? at least four times before sending the message without it.
He had a small bowl of dry corn flakes down before Patrick responded: Glad you’re up and about. Talk to you later.
Russell stared at the text, annoyed at how Patrick seemed to be blowing him off after such an amazing date. Had their great sex meant less to Patrick? That didn’t fit, not after what Patrick told him about wanting to get to know his sex partners first, to find some measure of trust before he got naked.
Since he wasn’t feeling his new painting passion project, Russell did a load of laundry in between fooling around online. He did check his storefronts and a few forums he regularly chatted in, mostly for puppet artists, and answered a few private messages. The time seemed close to when Frog should get off the bus, even if he didn’t remember exactly when, so he changed into a clean pair of trunks and undershirt, and went outside to swim.
The water felt amazing, and he often wondered why the particular motions of swimming actually helped the tender muscles and angry nerves in his shoulder. No therapist could completely explain it, but if it kept his use of pain pills to a minimum? He’d do it as long as he had easy access to a pool. Hopefully, Angelo remained in love with this house for a long time and didn’t want to sell. It was the perfect house for a family, large or small, and the carriage house was a great rental or in-law cottage. Not that he or Patrick had any in-laws to offer it to—stop.
He paused in the deep end and grabbed the side of the pool with his right hand, annoyed at himself for the stray thoughts. He and Patrick had only begun casually dating. Russell had no business imagining a future with them sharing a house, raising Frog, giving Bruno his own bedroom, and maybe a dog one day?
Nope. No dreams, no crazy plans with Patrick. He needed Patrick to speak to him again, damn it. To make sure they were both still on the same page about yesterday. To prove to himself that his occasional need for care and attention because of his injury hadn’t scared Patrick off. He’d already nursed his ill mother for a year. What if he didn’t want the responsibility of a boyfriend with medical issues?
The newly-familiar rumble of a school bus trundling past the house perked him up. He must have missed Patrick leaving for the bus stop during one of his laps, which didn’t hurt his feelings. Patrick was very respectful of Russell’s routines, especially his water therapy, and never interrupted him while Russell was swimming.
Russell climbed out and toweled off, then waited by the fence nearest the carriage house door. A few minutes later, a tall figure and a short figure ambled up the drive. Russell grinned, eager to see them both. He hadn’t been able to ask Frog about his first day of school yet.
As they came up the driveway, Patrick spotted him. His steps didn’t falter but Russell swore his shoulders stiffened. Frog, on the other hand, bolted toward the fence, beaming at Russell. “Hey, Big Bear! I got my first star sticker today on my science quiz.”
“Congrats, pal,” Russell replied. “I didn’t know schools still did the sticker thing.”
“We do in Mrs. Price’s class. I wanna earn enough for an eraser. There’s one with a red-eyed tree frog on it that I want to trade for.”
“Sounds like a great goal to set for yourself.” It was also a decent, early lesson in earning and spending that young kids could understand. “So you like your new teacher?”
“Yeah, she’s really nice but she talks funny.”
Russell chuckled. “Not from around here?”
“She’s French-Canadian,” Patrick replied, his eyes barely making it to Russell’s chin. “Slight accent is all. Frog’s just used to us Southerners.”
“And even down here the accents vary.”
“Yes, they do.”
Russell couldn’t think of anything else to say. Oblivious to the slight tension between the adults, Frog prattled on about his teacher, his classmates, and the field trip they were already planning to a sports center south of Reynolds in October. Frog caught himself mid-explanation of his upcoming spelling test and said, “Was Bruno out yet today?”
“For a little while around lunch,” Patrick replied. “I think he’s still getting used to the new place, his bigger tank, and you not being around all the time, because he hissed at me twice, so I put him back upstairs.”
“Okay!” Frog raced toward the carriage house, backpack bouncing, eager to see his pet.
“I didn’t realize lizards hiss,” Russell said.
“Some do. They bite, too, if they don’t like you.” Patrick put his hands in his shorts pockets and rocked on his heels, his discomfort obvious in his posture, even though his expression remained even. Polite. Neighborly.
“Look, I’m real sorry about yesterday,” Russell blurted out, not liking this distance between them. “I should’ve known all that activity would end in a migraine, and I didn’t give you a warning about it, so I get it if you’re mad at me for gettin’ sick. The headaches aren’t easy to handle, especially if I throw up. I didn’t throw up, did I?”
“No, you didn’t.” Patrick finally met his eyes, his expression wary now. “I have a kid, I can handle vomit and people getting sick.”
“Then why do I feel like I did something wrong? Did you not like the sex we had?”
“I loved it.” He blushed and crossed his arms. “I really loved it, Russ, so you dismissing me after hurt.”
“Dismiss?”
Patrick scowled. “Does sending me off to take a shower and telling me don’t bother watching me lay here ring a bell?”
Russell searched back through his hazy memories of anything he said or did post-orgasm but there wasn’t much there. Telling Patrick he could shower sounded like him, sure. He vaguely recalled Patrick asking if he needed anything else before he left. “Not really, no,” Russell said. “You left, which I get. Watching someone lay there and sleep is boring, and you had Frog to look after. But your texts were so…” He flapped both hands in the air, searching for the words. “They were clinical. Felt kinda cold to me is all. Like maybe yesterday didn’t mean as much to you as it did to me.”
Patrick’s face softened into something calmer, but not quite a smile. “It meant a great deal to me, Russ. That’s why when you told me to go shower, I felt like I was being dismissed. Told to go home and leave you alone.”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that, I promise. I honestly don’t remember everything I said, because the migraine hit me so fast and hard. But I know I wasn’t sending you off like I was done with you. I don’t want yesterday to be a one-off. Never did.”
“You mean that.” Not a question.
“Yeah, I do. I don’t ever want you thinking I took advantage after one date. I’m not that guy. Not that kind of guy. I’m obviously not the guy who hurt you before, and do I sound like a fool?”
This time Patrick smiled for real. “No, you sound sincere. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”
“Well, I’m real sorry for hurting your feelings. I never meant to.”
“I know. Accepted, and I apologize for jumping to conclusions. I let old hurts color my perspective of us and I shouldn’t have.”
“I don’t blame you. We’re still gettin’ to know each other.”
“We are, and talking like this is how we get to know each other better.”
“With a fence between us?”
“Yes, exactly, talking with a fence between us.” Patrick laughed, and Russell had missed that sound. “How do you feel? For real?”
“Uh, still a little sore and fuzzy but that’s pretty typical. Swimming helped. So will a good dinner.”
“I can cook.” He snorted and unfolded his arms to lean against his side of the fence. “I mean, yes, I can cook, but what I meant was, I can cook us all dinner tonight. You, me and Frog. At our place.”
“I’d love that. No one’s cooked for me in years.” Takeout and dine-in didn’t count, and neither did the few times Angelo threw a fresh-bake pizza into the oven. And even if all Patrick made tonight was a frozen meal, it was still special.
Patrick tilted his head to the side, his smile almost shy. “I’m no gourmet, but I do this baked chicken dish that Frog loves, and I was planning to make it this week so I have all the stuff.”
“That sounds great. I love chicken.”
“Good. How do you feel about chicken mixed with onion soup mix and apricot preserves?”
Russell frowned, not sure about those flavor combinations. Then again, he wasn’t much for anything fancier on his pizza than sausage and pepperoni. “Sounds interesting.”
That sweet, shy smile only widened. “Trust me, King Size. Trust me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“It’s called Tropical Chicken,” Frog announced proudly when Patrick placed the sizzling pan of orange-glazed chicken on a trivet in the center of the dinette table.
Patrick inhaled the familiar aroma of the baked chicken as he nudged the bowl of white rice to the side, making just enough room for the food and their three dinner plates. He wasn’t supposed to make this dish until Thursday night, which meant the chicken breasts had still been frozen, but a few minutes in the microwave had helped solve that problem. Tonight was supposed to be leftovers, but they could eat those for dinner tomorrow.
Meal planning seemed silly to some people; for Patrick, it was a sanity saver. And he was forever grateful to be back on a semi-schedule again. A schedule he hoped would change soon, whenever his first new tutoring student called about a lesson. So far, his phone had been annoyingly silent.
“There’s nothing really tropical about it,” Patrick said to Russ. “It’s mostly the color. It’s more of a sweet-and-sour style chicken.”
“Well, it smells delicious,” Russ replied. “I was dubious when you told me what was in it, but life’s too short not to try something new once in a while.”
“Agreed.” Depending on the circumstances, of course. Patrick was always willing to try new foods or drinks, but he wasn’t about to go sky-diving just for the experience. He had his limits. “It works great with plain rice, because it’ll soak up the extra sauce.”
Patrick served his guest then made plates for Frog and himself. Bruno clung to the front of Frog’s shirt. He wasn’t usually allowed at the dinner table, but Frog had made a good case that this was Big Bear’s first real visit, and every member of the family should be there. How could Patrick argue?
He watched Russ take his first bite of the chicken, thrilled by the way Russ’s eyes lit up. The recipe had been a staple in his house growing up, because it was tasty and idiot-proof in its making, and Mom always had instant onion soup mix in the house. He loved sharing the experience with new people and surprising them with how good it was. Sharing a part of himself and his family with others.
“This is fantastic,” Russ said after swallowing his second bite. “I am impressed, Patrick.”
“Thank you. I wish I could say I invented it but I got it from my mother. I’m not sure where she found it. Maybe on the back of a soup mix box.”
“Or those recipe books that came out in the seventies and eighties that were all about a specific brand, like Campbell’s soup or Philly cream cheese.”
“Could be. I’m glad you like it.”
“A new covert!” Frog cheered.
“Convert.”
“I thought that’s where nuns live.”
Patrick chuckled. “That’s a convent.”
