Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
I nodded. “I know. I think they’re beginning to catch on that I’m probably not going to settle down with a nice guy or girl and have a few kids.”
“Why? ’Cause you’re old?”
“Watch it, junior,” I chided. “And no, it’s not about age. It’s like I told you. I’m not the kind of guy who sticks around. But I have cousins picking up the slack in the family and kids department.”
“Hmm. What about siblings?”
I let go when I ran out of wire. “It’s just me.”
Joe tucked the end of the strand into a far branch and stood. “Same. My dad died when I was seven. Lung cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
He swiped his palms on the apron. “Thanks. I barely remember him. He went for treatment in Albany when I was five and stayed there a lot. I think my mom went out of her way to keep the ugly parts of his illness from me. As a result, my only memories are of a shadowy man in a hospital bed with a terrible cough. Then he was gone and she said, ‘It’s just us now, Joe.’ To me, it was always just us. And my uncle, Gary. But I was the only kid. And I was a wild child. I always wished I had a brother or sister or even a few cousins around. You’re lucky.”
“Maybe so.” I inclined my head in acknowledgment as I stepped aside to examine the sparkly tree.
And out of the fucking blue, I was overcome by a memory I’d thought I’d buried six feet under in a sealed container that had no chance of seeing daylight again. I was eight years old, so excited I couldn’t sit still when my father handed me a box of tinsel and told me to go for it. My brother and I hung the silver strands with great care on the tree…until it got boring. Then we started tossing it willy-nilly.
Voices I hadn’t heard in nearly forty years infiltrated my mind with stunning clarity. My mom’s hearty laugh, my brother’s—
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I swallowed hard and pushed the memory firmly aside. “Uh…yeah. Are you hungry? It’s lunchtime, right?”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s three o’clock.”
“Oh, I need to eat. My manager made arrangements for frequent deliveries. I’m pretty sure I saw a pot of chili and a container marked chicken noodle soup. There might even be cold cuts for sandwiches. What do you say?”
My overly eager smile and manic tone were dead giveaways that I wasn’t all right.
I needed the company. I needed a distraction that wasn’t a complicated mystery.
Joe cocked his head and squinted as if that might help penetrate my brain. He gave up after a few harrowing seconds. “Sure. That sounds good.”
5
Joe
Kicking back with a bowl of chili at a worn wooden table in a clean but hopelessly dated kitchen with the bestselling novelist who’d come all over my ass a few days ago was very fucking surreal. But nice too.
We heated the chili and popped a baguette into the oven as per the attached instructions, chatting amicably about easy topics like food. We agreed that chili was the ultimate winter meal and that pasta fit all seasons. I told him about my favorite Italian restaurant in Little Italy and the time I’d closed the place down, singing “O Sole Mio” at the top of my lungs while my date did a striptease that almost got us arrested.
“She unbuttoned her blouse and was about to undo her bra when one of the cooks ran out of the kitchen, yelling at us in Italian. I don’t speak the language, but ‘Get your clothes on and get the fuck outta here’ was easy enough to translate.”
Cameron hooted, smacking his knee as if it were the funniest damn thing he’d ever heard, while I spooned a healthy bite of chili and stole an admiring glance. I hadn’t felt this comfortable with another person in a long-ass time.
It made me want to dig up silly memories for his entertainment…just to get a piece of that smile. And keep it there. His earlier melancholy bothered me. It hinted at a deep-seated pain I didn’t think I was supposed to notice.
He sobered with a sigh and tapped his spoon to the side of his bowl. “What’s it like to be queer in a town this small? Was it ever hard?”
I’d taken my tool-belt-slash-apron off when we sat down to eat, so I was free to grab my junk on cue. “Not at the moment, but the potential is there.”
Cameron’s heated gaze grazed my crotch. “Good to know. Does that mean you’d prefer not to answer the question?”
“No, no. I don’t mind. No one here cares that I’m queer. I’m just Joe. Either I went to school with them, or they know my mom or have a story to tell about my dad or my uncle.”