“He—” Nimble shook his head.
“You’re giving me a crick in my neck. Why don’t you sit down.” Which sounded like another order.Morgan needs this. Morgan wants you to do that. Why was he such an asshole?
“Hey,” he said, more softly, patting the seat beside him on the couch. “Can you tell me what happened? I’m happy to listen.”
Nimble’s shoulders sagged. He dipped his chin to his chest, his hair falling over his eyes.
Morgan looked at him, his long legs and long fingers. The hard wristbones poking out from beneath flannel cuffs.Dampflannel cuffs, as though Nimble hadn’t taken the time to roll his sleeves up before starting the dishes, like he usually did.
There was a flick of green eyes from beneath that dark hair. As though Nimble wanted to trust him, but couldn’t.
Morgan didn’t blame him. Nimble said he’d left home because his dad was a jerk, but there was more to the story than that. And while Morgan didn’t need to know, maybe Nimble needed to tell him.
“I’m a good listener,” he said, hoping it was true.
He shifted on the couch, and his knee twinged. He’d waited long enough for those meds, so he took the Percocet and blood thinner. He’d save the muscle relaxant for later. When he was done being a good listener.
“Talking it out can help,” Morgan said, wincing at the triteness of the statement. “Sometimes.”
Yes, it only worked sometimes, but Morgan was going to do his best.
“Do you need the fire built up?” Nimble asked, voice thick.
“No.” He patted the couch again. “It’s fine. Maybe later. But can you tell me what happened? I’ll be on your side, I promise.”
Nimble huffed a laugh, like he was flirting with the idea of being completely amused by Morgan.
“I will,” Morgan said, like a vow. “Come on, sit. Talk to me.”
When Nimble did sit, gingerly on the edge of the cushion, Morgan felt his own body relax.
“He won’t send money,” Nimble said flatly. “And he doesn’t want me home. Ever.”
“Did you know?” Morgan asked. He leaned forward and saw the twitch of muscle along Nimble’s neck. “What his reaction would be, I mean.”
“Yeah.” The word was a breath, like a sigh. And finally, finally, Nimble pushed back his hair, rolled up his sleeves, and looked at Morgan.
“All kinds of things wrong at home. Why I left. Why I can’t go back. Don’t want to.” He sighed out loud this time, then sat a little straighter. “Just want to go to the beach, buy a hot dog from one of those vendors, and eat it with my toes in the sand. Watch the sun on the water.”
The way he said it made it sound like something someone else had taught him, because it was like a picture postcard. Too perfect to be real. Although, to be honest, Morgan wouldn’t mind a little sun on the water right now, either.
“I’m sorry I made you call him,” Morgan said, and when Nimble shook his head, he added, “It seemed like a simple solution, but I didn’t know how it was for you. What made it so awful, anyway?”
The question was out before he could stop it, but even though it was none of his business, he wanted to know. Maybe it was time for him to quit being so detached from everything and everyone.
“It was those Bryn Mawr types,” Nimble said with a sudden laugh. “They were everywhere.”
“Bryn Mawr?” Morgan asked. “Didn’t think you’d know about a place like that.” He shook his head. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I got the idea that you didn’t—Never mind.”
“It’s fifteen miles from my parents’ fucking house, man.” Nimble scoffed, as if Morgan was foolish not to know that. “Those girls drive in to go to dive bars and corner shops, smoking at the bus stop so they can meet boys and have stories to tell when they get back to their dorms.”
“You ever date a Bryn Mawr girl?” Morgan asked. So Nimble came from eastern Pennsylvania.
“Few times.” Nimble looked like he was chewing the inside of his cheek as he stared at the timid flames flickering inside the cast-iron stove. “It was either them or church girls.”
“Church girls?”
“We went to Bethel Mar. Episcopalian, I guess. My mom made us go. Dad would drink and gamble after. Now it seems he does that all the time.”
