“How early is earlier?” When I don’t answer, Remington has his answer. He picks up the koala and hands it over. Then he bends down and rests one hand on my knee. I wrap the koala in my other hand. Remington’s brown eyes look directly into mine. “I’m going to get you something to eat and drink. I wantyou to sit right here for me, okay? This little guy is going to need someone to take care of him. He might be scared and lonely right now since he was left here accidentally. Can you make sure he feels safe?”
My eyes dart between Remington, with his now soft voice, and the koala. It’s fur is soft and the eyes are the same color as mine. A pretty blue that Paul always said sparkled in the sunlight. I smile and run a hand over its head.
“You sit here and think of a name for him, okay?” Remington waits until I nod before going off. When I’m sure he’s out of hearing range, breaking all kinds of health code violations for going behind the counter without proper gear or training, I open my mouth to talk.
“I’m sorry you got left behind today, Mister Koala,” I whisper. “I got left today too. Well, three years ago. My Daddy left me. He was hurt really bad in an accident and didn’t make it. He was the best Daddy ever. We would play blocks and he gave me a whole collection of animals just like you. He sang silly songs while we did bath time and did funny voices during bedtime stories.” I hug the koala to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut. I can feel myself wanting so desperately to slip into that comforting Little space. To let the problems of the world slip away for a while. I can’t, though. I don’t have a Daddy to take care of me when I’m that vulnerable. I bury my nose in the fur between the koala’s ears. “I’m sorry you were left alone. No one should feel like they’re alone.”
“Austin,” Remington’s voice is somewhere around me, but I don’t open my eyes this time. I cry harder, letting out sobs that have built over the years of pretending to be strong and put together. “It’s okay, Austin. Let it out. I’m right here. I’m right here with you.”
Warm arms wrap around from behind me. Some part of my brain registers that Remington is sitting in the chair behind me. His arms come around my middle and rest lightly, his chest pressing with just enough pressure against my back that it comforts me more than suffocates. He remembers that I don’t like heavy things on me. I move one hand from the koala to rest on his hands on my stomach and listen as he mumbles soft words, reminding me that I’m not alone tonight.
When I think that all of my tears are dried up, I cry a little more. At some point I moved from being hunched forward to leaned back against Remington’s chest. I’m not the smallest guy either. At thirty-years-old, I’m close to six feet and have built a little bit of muscle. Nothing intentional, but I joined a gym and go on nights I can’t sleep. Which is a couple times a month, at least. My torso is half twisted so my cheek is pressed against Remington’s chest and the soothing sound of his heartbeat calms me further. His fingers are carding through my short hair.
“I’m—”
“Austin, if you apologize for crying on today of all days, I’m going to be upset. I’m glad I could be here for you. Do you feel better?”
“Not really,” I answer honestly. “I feel like I should probably go home and sleep.”
“Can I ask you something and you promise to not get mad at me or shut me down?”
I sit up slowly and look at him. Mister Koala is still in my right hand, clutched tightly. “I don’t know?”
Remington’s features are all soft and earnest. He’s kept his hair short for years now. It isn't shaved, but nowhere near long enough to flop in his eyes like mine does sometimes. Hismuscles are more prominent, intentional with his workouts. It’s been years since I saw him in the gym, but he and Paul had a routine for a while and it looks like he keeps up with it. His eyes are kind, a soft brown with little specks in them. His nose flares slightly at the nostrils, the Higgins curse he would always joke. His lips are surrounded by a mustache and a beard that hits his chest.
“Do you want to slip into your Little space tonight?” Remington’s hand traces down my back, stops mid way, and moves back up to my shoulders. “I’m not trying to invite myself over or do anything untoward, Austin. But I heard what you said to the koala. I’m not the best at voices, but we can do PJs and I can read you a story. I’ll slip out once you fall asleep.”
Chapter Two
I drive behind Austin, making sure not to lose him. He’s moved out of the house that he and Paul shared and into a small, two-bedroom cottage style house. It’s quaint and the yard is kept intact, mostly.
As a property manager, I notice the small things. Like the bushes out front have been trimmed down, but they’re not even. Walking behind Austin, up the stairs, I notice that the mulch bed is definitely in need of some fixing.
Inside is much the same. It’s nice, homey. But there are things that catch the eye when looking for more than a glance. The bookshelf with all the books Paul liked to read has a layer of dust. There’s an empty plate and cup on a tray table, which tells me that Austin most likely eats his meals in front of the TV.
Maybe I can get him to eat something at the table with me.
He never ate the bag of chips or the wrapped sandwich I found in one of the fridges. I put the food back before we left, untouched. Even though I know that Paul never lived in this house, the framed photos and the touches of him still remain. It makes my heart hurt to know that Austin still misses him so much. We all do, but I know it hit him harder than anyone.
“Um, so…” Austin stumbles over his words and I give him a small smile as I take off my jacket. We closed the door the second both of us were inside. It’s making out to be a cold winter this year, for sure. “I don’t really know…”
“I want you to go put on your comfiest jammies that you have,” I direct. “And I’m going to make you something to eat. And we’ll eat together and then read a book.”
Austin looks like he’s going to argue the plan but instead of words, a surprise yawn filters in and he relents without a discussion. I nod, tamping down the urge to say good boy to him.
I turn to walk through the rest of the house. The front door opens to a big space. There are three doors on the left wall, two bedrooms and the closet presumably. Then straight across from the front door is the bathroom, set into a half wall that separates the bathroom from the open dining area. I know that because I catch a glance when Austin sheepishly opens it and slips in quickly.
The space is longer than it is wide. There is a three-cushion sofa on the wall separating what I’m assuming is the kitchen. On the right wall is a fireplace with shelves on either side. Random knick-knacks throughout Austin and Paul’s relationship, photos as well, sit on those shelves. I recognize myself in two of the photos. The TV is sat between two windows, which evenly split the wall into thirds. The bookshelf is the first thing I passby, only a foot away from the front door. There’s a basic two tone rug covering most of the floor.
The dining room is as simple. A few photos sitting on a mantle against the back wall, the table large enough to fit six chairs. It's the same one he and Paul had in their home. The kitchen is homey, more like a grandma’s kitchen than modern chrome. The appliances don’t match, the fridge is basic white with no ice maker, the counter tops are a laminate style.
In all of my quick discovery of Austin’s life over the last three years, I notice one thing. There is not a single thing pointing toward his Little side. Sure, most people don’t parade it around and some are only looking for a scene here and there, but Austin was a lifestyle Little. He loved playing with blocks and had the colorful racecar rug where I had, more than once, raced him around the track, only to lose again and again to his delight.
Paul always had a basket of toys in the living room, ready to be played with. He would have colorings and artwork from Austin pinned everywhere proudly. Stickers were a must have thing too.
I continue thinking about my best friend and all the good he did for Austin over the years as I head to the kitchen. There isn’t much food in the cabinets, which I add to my list of concerns to bring up. I’ll have to stop by more often. I always felt like I was crowding him, being that person that hung around too long and reminded him of times past. I only want the best. Paul made me promise I would take care of him if anything happened and I hope I’ve done an okay job. At least physically.
I’m stirring a pot of noodles when Austin clears his throat behind me. I look over my shoulder and see him fiddling with the zipper of the onesie he’s wearing. A dark line starting at hiscollarbone and trailing down the middle of his chest catches my eye before he zips the outfit closed and folds his arms nervously around his body. It doesn't look like a scar, something like that I definitely would have noticed before. More like a tattoo.
