“Yeah! I asked to see his studio, you know? I didn’t actually think he’d let me, since artists can be a little funny about people in their space. But he said it was fine as long as Shiloh didn’t come along. Anyway, he was working on this one ‘just for fun,’ he said, which is wild because”—Oliver gestures at the large canvas resting against his mattress—“look at it. Can you imagine making something like that for fun? He said I could have it when he finished, which I thought was a joke until Shiloh showed up to deliver it yesterday.”
Pausing for much-needed oxygen, Oliver rubs a hand over the back of his neck, thankfully not using the one with the hammer. The comforter on his bed is rumpled and depressed in places where he’d been standing to try and hang the art. Looking at the wall behind the headboard, I confirm one, that the walls are definitely still unpainted, and two, the nails are very much crooked.
Chapter Two
OLIVER
The problem with being chatty is that people assume you canstopbeing chatty. That it’s a quirk you can switch off and on like a lightbulb, talkative one moment and silent the next. The truth is, Ican’tcontrol it. Some people bounce their knee up and down or click the pen cap. I talk. I hum. I sing, even though I have a terrible memory for song lyrics. I’m a human sound machine, bobbing around and filling the world with noise pollution.
If ever there was a time to be quiet, this is it. Nothing makes a chatterbox more aware of their affliction than the presence of a silent person. And Nils is so quiet that he could honestly give most corpses a lesson on how to be silent. He probably thinks I’m psychotic. Or on cocaine. In fact, I’m pretty sure the last time he was here, I monologued for five minutes about the presence of cocaine in Coca-Cola.
Stepping back up on the bed, where I’d been just moments before, I pretend I’ve got the painting in my hands and mimeholding it up to the wall. I wince as the hammer, unsteady in my grip, hits my wrist. Nils glances between the canvas propped against the bed and me standing on top of it before finally looking at the wall. I physically bite my tongue, trying to give him a second to talk if he wants.
“Are you going to paint?” he asks finally, nodding toward the wall. I drop my hands, humming as I realize he’s got a point.
“Yeah, no, I am. But I thought painting would be one of the last things I do, so it wouldn’t hurt to hang it up. I could always take it back down, right? Paint around the nails?” Nils shakes his head, so I course correct. “Or take the nails out to paint, actually. And this way, I could pick a wall color to match the art, maybe. I’m having a hard time choosing paint colors, so maybe the trick is to hang the art first and then paint second.”
Nils shakes his head again, but he also smiles, so I take that to mean I’m not being too idiotic. With my free hand, I pat the wall. I’m pretty sure this house is haunted, so I like to make sure it knows I’m friendly. Although after a year of living with me, any ghosts that used to be in residence might have already passed through the veil in an attempt to free themselves from my presence.
Stepping off the bed, I put the hammer down on the bedside table. This was probably a stupid idea. I should just leave the canvas propped against a wall and wait for the correct moment to put it up. Not just whatfeelslike the correct moment, but the actual correct moment in the correct order of doing things. Humming, I reach for it. Nils is still gazing around the room, probably putting together a list of things that need to get done.Since there is a possibility of him doing those things with me, I don’t let it irk me too much. I’m perfectly capable of renovating my own home. Admittedly, it might not be done perfectly, but that’s not the point. The point is…well, okay, the point is for it to be done right. Crap.
“I’ll paint the walls first,” I tell my tall, dark, and silent companion. Jeremy, one of my previous partners, would choke on his own tongue if he could see the rugged display of manliness currently standing in my bedroom. Coughing around the way my throat automatically tries to pick up a hum when I’m silent, I continue. “I was thinking a green color, maybe sage? Or…seafoam? I don’t know. Green, anyway. But then I was thinking, well, it would be easier to match everything else to white walls, right? Or off-white, even. And maybe add an accent wall. I’ve seen people do that on those home reno shows.”
Nils nods in agreement, the right half of his mouth curving upward into a smile. I’ve been running around all morning, sweating in my thick hoodie despite the cold temperature of the house. My heat is on the fritz again, but the cold air really only bothers me at night when I have to stay still for long periods. I can smell the slightly sweet smell of sweat on my skin, and above that, the crisp winter-air smell of Nils. I wonder if he was outside this morning, maybe tending those chickens. Reminded of the gift he brought me, I completely abandon my plan for hanging Ewan’s painting. It was a stupid idea anyway.
“Let’s bake something,” I tell Nils, leaving the bedroom without questioning whether he’ll follow. He brings the smell of snowflakes with him like he’s Father Christmas himself,plodding down the stairs behind me. “Sorry it’s so cold in here. I could start a fire, if you want. Although, maybe not… I haven’t used the fireplace yet, and I’m a little concerned about it being safe. The heating stopped working again last night, but it’ll probably kick back in here soon. I fiddled with it a little bit.”
“Fiddled with” in this case meaning ineffectually staring at it with a wrench in my hand. No amount of do-it-yourself videos on the internet have helped turn me into an HVAC technician. I snag the little egg carton from my coffee table crate, trying to ignore the way my insides shimmy with happiness. Nils doesn’t do sweet gestures. He does exactly what is expected of him as Shiloh’s employee and the bare minimum required to fulfill friendship requirements. Recently, he’s taken to offering assistance when I bring up home-improvement work, which I admit to shamelessly taking advantage of. If the man is concerned for my well-being when wielding a power drill, it’s my gay civic duty to be as incompetent as I can with the thing.
Knowing he fears for my safety and the structural soundness of my home feels nice. Being the recipient of three little chicken eggs produced by the man’s own chickens is so much better. It’s like crawling into bed between sheets warm from the dryer. If they weren’t perishable, I’d keep them like a trophy—proof that Nils Lee might actually like me. Not just tolerate or humor, but actuallylike.
Clutching my eggs, I hum a bit of “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” as I lead the way to my kitchen. Nils hasn’t been to the kitchen, which was partly on purpose since it’s only half-finished and fully a mess. I’m not a neat cook, and the counters are stillstrewn with the remnants of breakfast. Given how meticulous and mindful he is on the boat and when he’s helped me in the past, I can’t imagine Nils is anything less than neat as a pin.
“Sorry about the mess. I would have cleaned up a bit if I’d known you were coming. Not that I mind the surprise, though.” Using my forearm to sort of sweep a space open on the counter, I put the carton down, half of my brain flicking through my internal recipe book, while the other half is still talking at Nils. “You can come over unannounced anytime. With or without eggs. You could bring the chickens, and I wouldn’t even mind. Do the chickens have names?”
Breathe, I remind myself sternly.Slow down and let him respond. Mindlessly, I pull ingredients from the refrigerator, my body working on autopilot the way it always does when I’m in the kitchen. When I glance over at Nils, he’s gazing around the kitchen with a slightly worried expression on his face. It’s pretty usual, judging by the few times in the past he’s been to my house. I shouldn’t be as pleased with the worry as I am. Half of me hopes part of the roof does cave in, if only because he’ll look at me with concern in those pretty brown eyes. Concern from Nils feels twice as good as independence ever will.
“They have names,” Nils confirms quietly, staring at the wall next to the dining room table. There’s a hole in it.
I make myself take three deliberately slow breaths before I ask. Nils is talking mindfully—slowly, as though he’s feeling his way around each word and choosing them carefully. He stuttered earlier, which he doesn’t often do in front of me anymore. I need to shut up and let him talk without rushinghim.Be quiet,I think, my internal voice always sounding too much like my father for my liking.
“What are their names?” I ask before literally biting down on my tongue to keep myself from guessing.
“Tu-u-tu,” he replies.
Knowing he won’t keep going and give me all seven names after the first one was hard, I laugh. Tutu. Big, gruff, manly Nils has a hen named Tutu. My pulse kicks in delight. Every little thing I learn about him is savory and delicious like a pastry warm and fresh from the oven.
“Tutu,” I repeat, grinning at the eggs. “I love that. Did you name them all, or did they come with names? Are these rescue chickens, or have you had them from chicks? I’d love to come meet them someday. I never had a pet as a kid, but I always thought a hamster would be fun. Or a dog. Or a cat. Or even a horse. I took riding lessons as a kid, actually. Maybe I could build a barn here. I bet I have enough room.”
“Heat isn’t working?” Nils asks, gently directing me away from the animal chatter. I tug my hoodie off and drop it on the dining room table, hot despite the cold temperature of the house. He doesn’t make me nervous, per se, but I’m never more aware of myself than I am when he’s around.
“No. But it’s okay.” I smile at him, but he’s not watching, so he doesn’t see. I’m looking at him, though, so I catch the slight shake of his head.
“I’ll take a look,” Nils quietly offers.
Before I can talk him out of it—beg him to stay in the kitchen with me, more like—he’s walking back to the mainroom. I groan when I hear the front door, knowing he’s going out to his truck to get tools or whatever it is he thinks he’ll need to save the day. Humming the Beach Boys, I turn back to the cookies. If it were anybody else, I’d be embarrassed to look so incompetent. But Nils—with his bland, neutral reactions—doesn’t ever make me feel lesser. He’s got a very steady, sure presence. Like an oak tree or a mountain. Conversely, I would be the psychotic squirrel in that scenario. He never makes me feel bad about that either, though, which is one of the many reasons he’s my favorite person.
I slip the hoodie back on as I mix together the batter for the cookies, cold once more now that the initial excitement of Nils’ arrival has passed. I could hear Nils as he came back inside, but the house is silent now, other than the noise I’m making. After a while, the humming stops scratching the itch, and I sing under my breath instead. It’s a mix of every song and no song, and eventually, I find myself slipping into that peaceful space I only find when I’m in the kitchen. I don’t really need to apply myself when I’m cooking or baking, don’t need to pay more than the barest attention to what I’m doing. Not like when I’m attempting home projects or out on the boat with Shiloh and Nils. Cooking is floating on a calm sea of mindless bliss.
