‘Tell me,’ Basil repeated.
Derek dragged a hand down his face, then signed, ‘I don’t haveall the signs, but I’ll try. My friend Sam,’ he then spelled wheelchair and Basil nodded his understanding, ‘is having trouble. Custody,’ he spelled. ‘I want to help him, get him a lawyer, but…’ His hands stilled and his cheeks went pink.
Basil waited, then reached over and gently touched his wrist in support. ‘It’s okay.’
Derek shook his head. ‘My dad. My dad was a politician when I was a kid, but he was not nice. Abusive,’ he added, spelling most of the words, but Basil had no trouble following along with the stuttered pace. ‘Abused me and my brother. We ran away at fifteen, and there was an investigation. They found evidence of abuse from Sage’s diary. Not enough to convict, but he lost his reputation. He’s sick now, dying. I need to ask him for help, but it means…’ He didn’t finish what it meant, but Basil didn’t need him to.
He had never suffered that kind of treatment, but it didn’t take more than a little imagination to know what that would cost Derek, and his stomach roiled with anger and desire to stop him from putting himself in that position. If he had any other way to help, he would have. He would cut himself and bleed if it meant Derek didn’t have to feel what he was feeling right then.
‘I’m sorry,’ he finally offered.
It was such a sad, pathetic, sorry thing to offer, and yet somehow Derek brightened at the sight of Basil’s fist circling his chest. His shoulders lightened, and his smile was genuine. ‘Thank you.’
Basil glanced around, then decided that they had to get out of there. They could sign together, he could help Derek immerse himself in it, but they didn’t need to be formal. Not tonight. Derek needed something else, and Basil could give that to him.
He quickly rose, holding out his hand, and he felt a jolt up his arm when Derek took it. He was profoundly grateful when Derek didn’t resist or force him to explain in the frustratingly slow signs, because in all honesty, he wasn’t sure what his plan was. He just knew they had to get away.
Derek’s hand remained firmly tucked in his, palm to palm,feeling so right it made his head spin, and he found his feet leading him across the street, two blocks over, and coming to a stop at the back door of his shop. At that point, Derek did pull away and he raised an eyebrow at him.
‘Work?’
Basil couldn’t stop the laugh which bubbled up his throat, vibrating in his chest with the force of it. ‘I have ice cream,’ he told Derek.
Derek looked surprised, but the smile on his face was enough to show he was in, and Basil quickly unlocked the door and led the way in. He immediately flicked on the lights, flooding the back room with pale white halogen brightness, illuminating all the buckets of flowers waiting to be wrapped and tied and organized into their final stages.
He shed his coat as Derek took a few steps around, his hand darting out as though he couldn’t help it, fingertips brushing along the petals of yellow roses which were waiting to be made into wedding centerpieces. He leaned his face into a bucket of petunias which were still planted in the dirt, and Basil could see the way his shoulders moved up and down with his breath.
When he turned, he smiled at Basil. ‘You smell like this.’
‘Petunias?’ Basil asked, spelling the word slowly, watching Derek’s lips form over each letter as he watched Basil’s fingers like a hawk.
Derek chuckled, then waved his hand in a wide arc as if to say, ‘All of this.’ Basil understood what he meant. It was the same way he felt about his parents—the way his mother always smelled like her growing things and the back room of her shop, and the way his father always smelled like his lab and his classroom. The smell of the shop clinging to him now was a new stage in his life—and he wasn’t sure if it would last, but it was for now. It was the way Derek smelled of ink and sterile, and something woodsy and soft underneath it all.
Basil beckoned Derek over to the desk, then reached into the little mini-fridge next to it and pulled out two cartons of ice cream.They were little pints—an off-brand store mixture with an almond milk base and chunks of cookie dough. He dug two little spoons out of the package which rested by the coffee maker, and he pretended like Derek’s soft grin didn’t make his heart threaten to beat out of his chest.
They moved away, and Derek paused, staring at the array of photos littering the edge of the desk. Most of them were of his parents, and of his aunt and uncle when they were younger. Basil wished he had known them better, wished that his parents hadn’t let bitterness and stubborn determination create a rift so the only thing he knew of them were notes left over in ledgers when he and Amaranth took over.
Derek reached out and touched one of the silver-framed photos of his mom and aunt, then looked back up at Basil with his eyebrows raised.
‘Mom, aunt,’ Basil signed. He pointed to his mom, then made the sign again before pointing to the one of both his parents. ‘Mom and dad,’ he told him. He set his ice cream down so he could sign slow and clear enough. ‘They died. Boating accident with my aunt and uncle. My sister and I got the shop.’
Derek watched carefully, understanding dawning on his face after a beat, and then sadness taking over. ‘Sorry,’ he replied.
Basil shrugged. ‘I miss them.’
Derek swallowed thickly, digging his spoon into the ice cream, but not eating any of it. After a while, he set it down and his hands shook a little when he raised them. ‘My mom died when I was twelve. The doctor said it was an accident, wrong medication, but I think she committed suicide,’ he spelled the last two words twice because his hands were shaking, and he mixed the letters up the first round. Basil wanted to reach out and stop him, but the moment was too much, it was too big, and he wanted to hold it. ‘My dad never loved her.’
Basil let out a small breath as he glanced back at the photo of his parents. He couldn’t understand that. Not really. He understood notloving a person, but his parents had been madly in love every single day he could remember seeing them together. He didn’t know exactly what happened when their boat sank—didn’t know if it was quick, or slow, if they tried to save each other, but he knew they were together, and he didn’t think they’d have wanted it any other way. In truth, it was a relief in a way, because he couldn’t imagine one of them trying to survive the other.
When he looked back up at Derek, Derek was watching him with a careful expression. ‘Why did we come here?’
Basil shrugged. ‘You have to do something bad. It’s nice here—quiet, soothing, smells good.’
Derek gave a startled laugh, and Basil finally—finally—gave in to his urge and reached out to feel the movement of Derek’s throat under his hand. It was a deep-chested rumble, rushing up to his elbow, and he found himself wanting to press his mouth there.
Derek startled under his touch, but he didn’t react other than to let his laughter quietly die down. ‘Thank you,’ he finally signed.
Basil’s smile was a little tense, but he nodded an acknowledgement of it, then grabbed the ice cream and motioned for the side door. It opened to a set of stairs, to a little loft above the shop that had once been an apartment, though his aunt and uncle had treated it more like an attic. There was a little sofa up there, though, and a half-kitchen which still worked enough to heat up his lunch and dinner during long shifts, and the lights were soft.
