Devon kissed him on the cheek, quick and brief, and drew him into the cottage. He did not let go of Stanley, but with one hand, he picked up the rifle to look at it. Stanley picked up the canteen, allowing himself to be drawn into the peace and quiet of the cottage. There was a fire flickering in the stone-lined fireplace, and a sprawl of papers on the kitchen table.
“You’ve been gone for days,” said Devon. He took the canteen and placed it and the rifle on the table, not paying attention that several pieces of paper drifted to the floor. “Days, Stanley.”
“It was only an hour,” said Stanley, feeling somewhat faint, as though he’d not eaten in ages, nor slept, nor had any peace. But Devon’s touch grounded him, letting him know that he was safe.
“I saw you go,” said Devon. He turned to Stanley and held his face, shaking his head. “With my own eyes.”
“Saw me go?” asked Stanley.
“When I was taking the pictures, and turned on the flash—”
“It was like bombs were exploding in front of my eyes—”
“You turned like you were stepping through a doorway, an opening.I swear, I fucking swear, I could see the trench behind you, and the edge of the opening to the bunker, and the radio, I saw thefuckingradio—”
“The radio’s broken,” said Stanley, horrified that there was a crack in his voice, as though he’d been split wide open with the realization of it. “I didn’t make it through.”
“You’re here now,” said Devon, all of his attention on Stanley, his arms around Stanley’s waist. “You’re here now and you’re going to stay here. With me.”
“I don’t want to go back.” Stanley trembled with the idea of it, of going back to the battlefield with the trenches and the mud and the exploding shells—and of leaving Devon, which would hurt most of all. “Ever. I want to stay here with you.”
“And I want you to stay,” said Devon. “So don’t leave, okay?”
There was that word again. The way Devon used it bolstered him up, though Stanley swayed a little on his feet, feeling faint and hungrier than he’d ever been in his life. Devon had said he’d been gone for days, though it had only been an hour to Stanley. Back in the trenches they’d long since finished their biscuits and coffee, and then Isaac had said—
“You’re nothing like Isaac,” said Stanley.
“Isaac?” asked Devon. “The one you liked, right?”
“Yes.”
Isaac and Devon couldn’t be more different, for Isaac was brimming with flyboy charm, and Devon was studious and intense. They seemed to care about Stanley in the same way, though if he were here, now, and wanted to be with Devon, was that being disloyal to Isaac?
“I never told him,” said Stanley, startling himself with the realization. “Though even if I had, it never would have made a difference.”
“Maybe it would have, but I’m glad you’re here with me,” said Devon. He hadn’t yet let go of Stanley, and his embrace was warm and sure. “It’s hard to live with regret, that I know. Never mind that. Are you hungry? I haven’t been to the store. I didn’t want to leave in case you came back, but I have a frozen pizza I could heat up. Then we could go to the store, and you could see the village.”
Stanley nodded, though he didn’t know what a pizza was, except maybe it was something that Bertie had mentioned, that boys from the Italian neighborhoods would eat.
He felt as though he could fall asleep standing up. Devon brought him clean clothes and directed him to the bathroom, where Stanley went through the same ritual as before, taking off his uniform carefully so Devon could look at it while he showered. He knew all about the taps, now, and which was the hot water and which was the cold, so his shower took no time at all and, besides, he would rather be with Devon.
He got dressed in the clothes that Devon had given him and picked up his uniform from outside the door where he’d left it, a little surprised that Devon hadn’t already unfolded the garments and spread them out so he could take notes about them. Instead, Devon was at the table, busy gathering up the papers that had fallen, collecting them into a pile with the others, and folding the metal—the laptop—so that it became even thinner.
He placed a large round circle of hot pizza on a wooden board and sliced through it with a circular blade.
“Come on, while it’s hot,” said Devon. “I’ve got milk and I’ve got beer, so let me know.”
“Milk,” said Stanley. He was so grateful when Devon handed him a glass that he drank down half in one gulp.
CHAPTER TWENTY
As Devon watched Stanley eat, shoving slices of pizza into his mouth till his cheeks bulged, he was reminded of a feral cat the guys in his dorm had found in a snowstorm. They’d fed the cat, left trays of dried food and fresh water in the alley all for a lark, though Devon privately thought that every one of them had serious intentions of being kind.
This had gone on for weeks, each guy trying to outdo the other by leaving toys, or catnip, or open cans of the most expensive cat food. Finally, one of the girls on the co-ed floor who was moving into her own apartment caught the cat in a box, took it home, and the last time Devon had seen it, it had been a sassy and sleek tiger-striped cat, sleeping in the sun on the arm of a couch.
Stanley should be that comfortable and happy, should be able to eat without looking over his shoulder. He should be able to have a second and, yes, third glass of milk without acting like he thought it would be his last treat until the end of time. Stanley should be sleek and well-petted and loved and at home, home with Devon.
When Devon opened his mouth to say something about it, it felt a little abrupt and too soon. He promised himself that before too long,he would be telling Stanley how he felt and about second chances and about saying things when you thought them. Also about love and about Stanley coming home with Devon to the States.
