“Where?” Nimble jumped up, ready to be of use.
“I thought I saw a bottle over the fridge,” Morgan said, remembering how he’d been poking around and used his cane to open the high cupboards in the kitchen. “Bring glasses,” headded as Nimble whirled out the door. He knew he shouldn’t be drinking with his meds, but a little sip wouldn’t hurt.
Nimble returned carrying a squat brown glass bottle in the shape of a monk. There was even a pale beige cord around its middle. Frangelico, then. That was the ticket.
Nimble clonked the bottle and two jelly jars on the table, then quickly built up the fire while Morgan poured a small dose into each glass.
When Nimble took his seat on the couch again, he tossed back an entire shot, then licked his lips and smiled at Morgan for the first time since Morgan had suggested he call home.
“In vino veritas,” he said unexpectedly.
“What?” Morgan almost choked on his own small swallow.
“It means?—”
“I know what it means,” Morgan said, trying not to let on what he was wondering, which was how a guy hopping trains knew Latin.
“Star,” Nimble said. “He’s a Val Kilmer fan. That and he reads a lot. Always had a book in his hand.”
“Star and Blue,” Morgan said. “You mentioned them before. They’re your fellow boxcar boys, right?”
“Theywere.” Nimble shook his head, dark hair falling against his face. “Was riding with them for a long time, but when the train stopped here, I got off for water and food, and when it started going before I was back on, they didn’t throw me my stuff. They kept it.”
Nimble’s voice sounded hollow, and Morgan’s mind filled in the blanks.
He had no idea what it would feel like to be in Nimble’s position. Most of his life had been governed by regular patterns and rhythms, and he’d always thought other people were the same. That you had no major problems as long as you paid your bills on time. Boy, had he been wrong.
“I’m sorry,” Morgan said.
“Not your fault.”
“I know,” he said. “I just feel bad not knowing all that and making you call your dad. I’m not an asshole, really.”
“No, you’re not,” Nimble said with certainty and warmth, as though Morgan had been the one left behind. “Now your turn. Who’s Bradley?”
“My ex.” Morgan licked the rim of his glass, not avoiding Nimble’s gaze, because what did it matter, any of it, now? “The car accident and the knee surgery left me a little more needy than he liked. My knee will heal, but Bradley didn’t want to deal with it. Or me.”
“I don’t mind bringing you your pills.” Nimble’s voice was soft. “Or cooking or all the rest of it. I’m earning my keep.”
Morgan finished his drink and held out his glass.
“No more for you,” Nimble said, stern. “With you tilting sideways like you are.”
“I’m tilting?” Morgan asked, just as the room began to swim a lazy breaststroke all around him. He hung his head. “I’ve been stupid again. Drinking with Percocet.”
“You should go to bed,” Nimble said.
Morgan should do that. Go to bed.
He should also stop looking at the pleasant eyeful that Nimble was, the glow of the fire on his flushed cheek, his eyes glittering like distant green stars. He should remember how young Nimble was. And forget that Nimble liked boys.
Nimble was standing and reaching for Morgan and?—
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you up.” Nimble bent close to tug on Morgan’s arm. His hair, dark as the cedars of Lebanon—where had Morgan heard that line before—brushed Morgan’s forehead, and the tails of that flannel shirt moved warm air across his face. “C’mon.”
Once more, much to Morgan’s dismay, Nimble helped him to bed. He took off Morgan’s robe and sneakers, pulled the covers back, and guided Morgan to the mattress.
