Epilogue
Two years later...
Blake tilted his head to look at what Rusty was watching on the TV, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
If this was what passed for their national sport, he didn’t understand howallAustralians weren’t gay.
“Those shorts are so tiny,” he said.
“It gets hot out there,” Rusty explained. “Even in the winter. Footy’s brutal.”
“Did you ever play?” Blake asked.
Rusty laughed. “It was kind of mandatory. But I’ve got the trophies to show for it. Or mum does, anyway.”
“They’re in the garage,” Rusty’s mother said. “In a box labeledRusty’s trophies, if you want them.”
“I wanna see them,” Blake said, turning back to the game. He didn’t know anything about it, but then, he didn’t know anything about American football, either. Not much, anyway.
“So how come they don’t wear helmets?” he asked, since Rusty hadn’t gotten up to get the trophies yet. He’d wear him down.
Rusty wasn’t great at celebrating his achievements, but Blake intended to teach him to be. Even things he’d achieved when he was a kid.
There were probably photo albums out there, too, and he wasdesperateto see baby Rusty.
“We’re smart enough not to smack into each other’s heads out here,” Rusty teased. “They’ve changed the rules since I was a kid. Used to be you’d see players climbing up each other’s backs to take a mark.”
“Take… a mark?” Blake asked.
“Catch the ball,” Rusty’s father translated.
Blake was glad he’d come around. He even seemedhappyto see them, and he’d been nothing but charming to Blake.
He and Rusty still butted heads from time to time, but Blake could see now that it was just how they were. And that maybe, all Rusty had needed was someone to stand by him.
“I see you pair managed to get yourself in the papers,” Rusty’s father added, passing them each a plate of toast.
“Thanks, dad,” Rusty said absently, leaning forward to watch the TV more closely.
“Made it to the print edition of the Herald,” his father continued, offering Blake the newspaper in question.
There was a grainy picture of the two of them kissing at the airport taking up a third of the page. Blake remembered Rusty kissing him andsayingit was for the papers, but Blake hadn’t thought he was serious.
He’d come to learn since that Rusty’s father was actually a little more famous than he’d assumed. When Rusty had told him he was an independent politician, Blake had taken that to mean that he wasn’t going to get anywhere.
He’d been extremely surprised to learn that he’d won the election. Australian politics were weird.
“Good,” Rusty said after a moment, glancing at the picture in Blake’s hand. “Not a bad picture. We should call the paper and see if we can get a copy.”
“Straight to the pool room?” Blake asked, hoping he was using the phrase in the right context.
“Listen to this one,” Rusty’s dad said, laughter in his voice. “You’ll make a real Aussie out of him yet.”
“He’s perfect as he is,” Rusty responded, taking a bite of his toast and making happy noises.
Blake liked the sound of that. Rusty hadn’t stopped being the kind, caring man he’d shown himself to be when Blake first dragged him to Hope Springs.
It didn’t look like he was ever going to.
