“I don’t want it,” Morgan said. “It’s too bulky. I do have a sleeve?—”
“Fine, where is that?” Jack had no idea what a sleeve was, at least not in this regard.
“In the suitcase,” Morgan said. “It’s still wrapped.”
Getting out the sleeve, which was made of woven bamboo threads, and helping tug it over Morgan’s knee gave Jack something to focus on.
Helping him stand. Helping him into clean briefs and sweats and T-shirt made it possible for Jack to ignore, at least for a while, the ripped shreds of the happiness that had taken root upon their safe arrival home. And which had blossomed at that first sweet kiss.
All that was behind him now, and would, it seemed, remain a onetime memory. Following Morgan down the hallway to the kitchen, toward the warm smell of boiling potatoes, he said, “I can leave when this storm clears.”
“Fine,” Morgan said. “I’ll pay you for the month.”
“I haven’t worked that long.” Jack went to the stove, putting his back to Morgan as if none of this mattered to him and the conversation was an everyday one.
“IsaidI’ll pay you for the month,” Morgan said. “Jesus, let me do that, at least, after?—”
Jack turned the heat up under the stew. He wanted to askAfter what?But fear stopped him—fear that Morgan would blame him for what had happened the second they’d gotten inside the door.
It would be better if he left. He could, of course, leave on the 12:39 train that night, running alongside it to grab hold of an ice-coated metal ladder, and hope, by some miracle, for an open boxcar to climb into.
It had been Star’s idea to come this far north in October, so maybe all of this was Star’s fault. Or maybe it was merely Jack’s own bad luck to land in a town like Hysham—friendly, cute, comfortable (well, except for his near arrest for not having his ID on him)—only to have it turn sour.
He served up two bowls of stew, complete with smashed potatoes beneath, and thought about finding the wine and pouring himself a glass, but didn’t.
Not because it would be rude to have it when Morgan couldn’t, but because he didn’t have the energy. So he ate his dinner, staring at the middle of the table, at nothing.
“Look,” Morgan said suddenly, putting his spoon down. “I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this.” He took a breath and settled his shoulders. “I gave you shelter because I wanted to,” he continued. “And then it turned into something else. I took advantage of you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m going to pay you for the month, and at the first sign of good weather—safe enough to drive—I’m taking you to Billings and putting you on a plane to Santa Monica.”
“But—” Jack didn’t want the money or the plane ticket, charity he’d never asked for.
“But nothing,” Morgan said. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Sure,” Jack said. “Fine. Whatever.”
He might as well pray for good weather, and he’d find some way to refuse the plane ticket. As for the money, he hadn’t needed any before Hysham. He wouldn’t need it after.
In the meantime, he’d focus on what was in front of him, the small details: The dishes. Putting Morgan’s meds on the counter where he could get at them.
Then, as Morgan rose from the table and took up his cane, words came out of Jack’s mouth that he’d not thought he’d be saying. “You need to sleep on the couch.”
“No, I’m fine in the bedroom.”
Jack moved to stand in Morgan’s way. “Look,asshole,” he said. “It’ll be warmer in the parlor. I’ll get the fire going again. And if you need anything in the night, I’ll be right there.”
He wasn’t the kind of jerk to leave Morgan on his own in a cold bedroom. Plus, it’d be nice to have him near while the storm raged outside, even if they were both trying to pretend there wasn’t one inside.
“I said I’ll be fine in the bedroom,” Morgan insisted. “Let’s not argue about it.”
CHAPTER 27
morgan
After all that, they ended up spending the rest of the evening in the parlor with Morgan set up on the couch, a blanket covering his lap and a baggie full of ice draped over his knee. A little TV tray held what remained of the rhubarb crumble. A small fire crackled happily in the stove, sending out waves of warmth. On a stack of pillows, carefully arranged by Jack, was the laptop, and they were watching one of the Bourne movies.
Jack sat cross-legged on the futon, back curved forward as he focused on the screen. Warm firelight shone on his hair, making it look like it contained threads of brass.
From outside in the cold, still air, the darkness lit only by faint starlight, came the long, slow, mournful howl of a train whistle. It was far too early for it to be the signal of the 12:39 approaching the railroad crossing. This had to be a rogue train coming up the tracks. Rerouted from another derailment or, perhaps, simply lost in the storm.
