He didn’t say a damned word for three days. Not about the Marine, or the woman who shot him. Or where he’d been, or what had happened to scare him so badly he’d flown home.

Brian helped him to his truck and gave him an arm to steady himself as he climbed into the seat.

“Are you hungry?” He asked as he drove away from the hospital. His father sitting silently beside him, looking out the open window.

“I’m good,” Skip said, his voice lost to the wind. Maybe it was better than the emotionless zombie he’d been the past couple of days.

“The cops sent your things back. Your manuscript is in the backseat.”

“That’s good,” Skip said in the same flat, disinterested tone.

“We skinned a goat and hung it up in the dining room.” He glanced over to his father when he came to a stop.

“The curing shed would have been a better place to hang it,” he said, again in the same voice.

“Okay. You know, sometimes I don’t know if you’re kidding when you say shit like that.” Brian was done being understanding. The Marine had left Skip, just left him cold, after he’d gotten him shot. Brian was pissed as hell about it. But Skip didn’t seem to care. “Always talking about chicken coops and pottery barns and now a curing shed. Like it’s some kind of in joke that I’m not a part of.”

Skip looked at him then, his eyes glassy with pain, or maybe he’d been crying. Brian couldn’t tell. Maybe he was still tripping balls on morphine. Whatever it was, Skip wasn’t… well, this zombie wasn’t the man he knew. Skip didn’t say a damned word. He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

Brian gave up. Zack told him to give Skip time. He would talk about it when he was ready. But Brian was tired of feeling like he was… what? Not actually a part of the man’s life? He was his son for fucksake, and until recently he hadn’t even known what his own father did for a living.

“You know, you could have told me that you were a writer,” he said, trying to hide his irritation and draw the man out of his stupor.

Skip didn’t say a damned thing. He acted like he was asleep. Maybe he was. He still looked like he should be in the hospital. He looked tired and pale and… lost.

Brian stopped talking and wove through traffic. He hated driving in heavy traffic. When he was a few miles from home, Skip sat up straight and blinked. “Take the next right, up ahead,” he said, scaring the absolute shit out of Brian.

“Why? We’re almost home. What’s at the next right that can’t wait?” Brian slowed on the two-lane street that led up to the big house on the hill. Their private drive was only a couple of miles away.

“You wanted answers. Make the turn, and I’ll answer any question you have.” Well, at least zombie Skip was gone. “And take it easy on the ruts. My gut hurts bad enough without hitting every damned one.”

Cranky Skip was only slightly better than zombie Skip.

Brian sighed and slowed down as a row of mailboxes came into view. “This right?”

“Yeah,” Skip said eyes closed again. “Just follow the road until it ends.”

The road was dirt. Mostly. Crushed shells shined through the dirt in places. Mostly it was ruts and potholes. And Brian weaved his way through them as if they were a mine field. Driving slower with every pained grunt that came from the passenger seat.

About five miles later, the dirt was replaced with cobblestones and Mexican tile. Or whatever, whoever had lived here had found to pave the drive leading up to the overgrown, ramshackle, beach cottage. “Park beside the garage,” Skip said without opening his eyes.

Brian parked and turned off the engine. They sat there in silence for a long time. He could hear the surf off in the distance. The breeze coming through the trees tasted salty. The path of colorful stones kept going past the cottage and garage, to a line of smaller cottages, and a few outbuildings that looked like sheds or barns. There were remains of gardens. And chickens, just walking around like they owned the place.

Skip didn’t wait for him to ask where the hell they were, because that’s exactly what he was thinking, and what was about to come out his mouth. He popped his seatbelt and pocketed his keys, because he didn’t trust whoever might be hiding out here. Skip stepped onto the porch of the largest cottage and opened the door.

Brian had no choice but to follow him inside. Maybe he’d lost his damn mind. Maybe he was walking in on some family and would get blasted with buckshot for his trouble.

Brian pushed the door open quietly. The place was like a tomb. Silent. Dusty. Musty. Deserted.

Skip struggled to open a window. Brian closed the door and went to help him. He opened three windows overlooking the ocean. The breeze doing little more than stirring up dust. Skip pulled a white drop cloth off a chair, stirring up more dust and sat down.

He still didn’t say anything. Brian rubbed the goosebumps on his arms that had little to do with the slight chill in the breeze. He paced the open space while Skip sat and stared out the window. He figured he’d say something when he was ready. Clearly, he felt safe enough here to make himself at…

Home.

He stopped pacing in front of a wall lined with framed black and white photos. A little boy with long hair and striped bell-bottom pants stood between parents dressed in a similar fashion. The woman had Skip’s face. Would she have red hair or would the man? He reached out to trace the face of the child, seeing himself in place of the hippie child. There were more photos of the family. Skip as a teen with the same long hair and skin-tight t-shirt depicting a big yellow smiley face and the word PEACE. Skip on a bike. Skip on a surf board. Skip with people who didn’t look a thing like the little family, but dressed like them. He was always smiling.

And then he wasn’t. The mother wasn’t in this one. The bell bottoms and tie-dyed shirts were replaced with dark suits on the two men. The smile gone.

There were other photos, his smile was back, but not the same. His clothes had changed. More parachute pants and skinny ties with spiked hair than post-modern hippie. The people were younger. Dressed like him. Him with one guy in glasses more often than the others.

Brian stopped when a familiar face jumped off the wall at him. Skip’s eyes were closed. A slight, almost sensual smile on his face. He was shirtless, wrapped in… “Jimmy. Is that Jimmy?” Brian took the picture off the wall, pulling it closer to inspect. Looking for the lie. Finding his father’s face in the younger man. The man he’d thought to be his father most of his life.

“Did you know that your mother was a photographer? She worked for a SoCal magazine and did some freelance stuff for Rolling Stone. She was going to set the world on fire back then.” Skip apparently didn’t need to see the photo to know which one he held. The quality was different. Less snapshot, more composed.

“I loved him,” Skip said, when Brian didn’t answer. “Jimmy. God, I loved him. I thought we would all live here happily ever after. The three of us and their daughters. I opened my life to them. But I loved him. I gave him my heart.”

“My father?” Brian couldn’t separate them anymore, the two men in his life. The one he’d thought to be his father until he was sixteen. And the one who tried to make him feel loved. “How old were you in this picture?”

“I turned nineteen the summer we lived and loved here. Jimmy was twenty-five. Norah, twenty-four. He was a drummer looking for a rock band. She had the talent and a taste for freedom. God, we were young.”

“Mom told me that they were separated, and that she had an affair with you. And that you broke her heart, so she went back to Jimmy.” He set the picture face down on a table and went to stare out the window. “Where are we, Skip?”

“My house. I grew up here. I didn’t know the house up on the cliff even existed when I was a kid. Imagine my surprise when I found out it’s mine too. All of it mine. The remnants of two families who hated each other. The aristocrats and the gypsies. All that’s left is me. And now you.”

Didn’t tell Brian much. The pictures on the wall told the story well enough. He’d been happy as a child with loving parents, which was more than Brian had ever had.

“Your mom died when you were young?” He figured as much. May as well ask.

“Seventeen. That photo was the last time I saw my dad alive. We stood for that right after her funeral. I have no idea why someone wanted to take a picture of us. It’s… morbid. I don’t know who put it on the wall either. But I’ve never been able to bring myself to take it down.”

“What happened to your dad?” God, why did he have to ask, like a fucking asshole.

Skip sighed. Brian could hear sorrow in his voice. “I followed him into the garage. We were supposed to be heading to the house for the reception. But he… I shouldn’t have followed him. I should have kept on going. Sometimes I hear the gun go off in my sleep. Sometimes I still wake up soaked in sweat, thinking it’s his blood.”

Brian leaned his arm against the window and rested his forehead on it. He closed his eyes to the view that he loved so much. Pain twisting in his chest for a man he’d resented just a few minutes ago. His mother and father were both still living. Real and not real. The people who raised him were still bitter, angry people, and Skip was still… alone.

“He used you? My fath… Jimmy, I mean. And Norah?”

“She’s still your mother,” he answered, no emotion in his voice.

“But you didn’t love her, did you?” He couldn’t figure out why the lies. After Brian had met Skip that afternoon, when he came home instead of going to practice, and… “It all made sense, you know. That day when I walked into the kitchen, and y’all were sitting there looking tense and angry. I saw the shock clearly in your eyes when you looked at me. They asked you to leave. Like you’d done something wrong. And she’d told me. Told me that she hadn’t meant anything to you. That she’d been stupid.”

“Wasn’t much of a lie,” he said in that same flat voice he’d used at the hospital. “She didn’t love me. Didn’t even want me. It was what Jimmy wanted. For both of us, I think. I think we would have done what Jimmy wanted no questions asked back then. He was my first… everything. She was my first… well, girlfriend isn’t the right word. They were married. They had two beautiful little girls. And we spent that summer like lovers. And then they were gone. I woke up one morning in early September, and they’d packed up everything and left me. I didn’t know about you, until you walked into the middle of that argument that day. And… Jimmy threatened me, if I ever came near you. He threatened to have me arrested for kidnapping, if I so much as tried to talk to you. I didn’t know I had a son. And that bastard used you as a pawn in whatever sick, twisted game he was playing.”

“Same way he’d used you?”

“He fucked me, Brian. He seduced me. Not the other way. I didn’t seduce your mother. I didn’t try to take her away from him. I was nineteen. Getting laid. Falling in love. I thought it was… normal. I grew up in a commune where people fucked whoever they wanted. My parents slept with everyone. Hell, I was a messed up kid back then. I thought that was how the world worked. I didn’t know I was being used.”

“He’s not gay.” Brian remembered that night he’d brought Zack home hoping… well, he knew what his… what Jimmy would say. He’d heard it many times.

“I’d say no. I think… maybe he is. It wasn’t acceptable back then. It wasn’t really acceptable in the commune back then either. I mean there were gay people, lesbians mostly, in the community, but the men didn’t sleep with other men… that I knew of. But back in the eighties, the real world was very harsh for gay men. The AIDS epidemic was still in its infancy. It wasn’t a good time to be out.”

“You’re saying he’s closeted? He’s bisexual, if anything.”

“I’m bisexual. I enjoy both sexes. I don’t hide my male lovers. Jimmy… was never comfortable with PDA with anyone.” He sounded angry. Brian had never known Skip to be angry. “I hate that he treated you badly, Brian. I hate that he hurt you. He should have loved you. Even if you did look like me. He should have loved you.”

“Maybe he didn’t because I do look like you.” Brian hated himself for saying those words. But he couldn’t stop himself. The last few weeks had damn near destroyed him. Almost losing the love of his life to his scheming sister. Losing his family. Nearly losing his husband, because he was stupid… and then watching in horror as Skip... “And you almost died on me. If she’d shot you anywhere else. If she’d lifted the gun a fraction of an inch, you’d be dead. I can’t lose you, Skip. Not now.”

He heard Skip groan, and turned around in time to see him struggle out of the chair. He went pale, and looked like he would fall right back into it, but he made it to his feet. Brian went to help him. Guilt riding him hard. Skip wouldn’t let him help. He pushed his hands away, and clasped one hand behind Brian’s head. He looked so angry and tired. “I love you. You’re my son. And that’s all that matters. There’s nothing you can do to make me not love you. Or Zack. Now that you have found someone who makes you happy… I’m so happy for you. I want you to know that. That I’m proud of you.”

Brian wrapped his arms around his father. “I love you, too. Don’t fucking die on me, Dad. Just… why are we here?”

Skip leaned against him for a long time. He sounded like he’d run a mile or more just from standing upright.

“Because I have kept so many secrets and that shames me.” Skip let him go, and started for the door. “Close the windows, please.”

Brian turned to close the windows. When he turned back, he was alone. He followed Skip out to the porch. “You ready to go back to the house?”

Skip didn’t say anything for a moment. He gazed out over the lawn toward the sound of the surf. “I’ve been thinking about staying here for a while. I never lived in the big house. Not really. I brought friends there over the years. And, it’s yours now anyway. Or it should be. I called my lawyer to have the deed transferred to you and Zack, right after I left for Oregon. This house is the picture of the home that I carry in my head. Ghosts and all. The park is yours too. It has been for years.”

This surprised him. “I make minimum wage, and you’re saying I own the place?”

“Have you ever looked at a single one of the yearly earnings packets I give you?” Skip sounded like Skip now. Default mode, set on exasperation. “Seriously, dude, will you please get your ass in business school before you bankrupt us both.”

“Now, that sounds more like the Skip I know and love.” Brian leaned against the porch railing, trying to pretend he wasn’t on the verge of falling apart. “I look. Adventures, INK looks to be in the black. I figured if I needed to know anything else you’d tell me. But then, as I’ve come to find out, you are a bestselling author, and I’m the last person to know, and now, you’re bisexual. And… you need to talk about him, Skip.”

“He’s not coming back.” Skip shut down. The small spark of life he’d had in his eyes snuffed out with one careless word. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if you love him,” Brian said, trying to pretend this wasn’t his father, and his lover wasn’t some kid, fresh out of diapers. “I saw the way you looked at him. I’ve never seen you like that. Like you were… happy.”

“I am happy. I’ve always been happy.” Skip scowled, and almost fell down the two steps to get away from him. Brian caught his arm and helped him steady himself.

“I saw the pictures in there. The man I’ve known all these years smiles and laughs and acts like everything is great. But… the boy in those pictures had a light in his eyes, that I’ve never seen in your eyes. Until that afternoon. You’re in love. It’s a bit weird to find out your father likes dick, and young dick at that, and then to… he loves you too. I think.”

“Maybe. But I knew it wasn’t going to last, even when I was falling for him. I knew it wouldn’t last. He’s… too young. Too…”

“Messed up,” Brian helped him into the truck and slammed the door. “I got that and probably hurting, like you’re hurting.”

Skip looked straight ahead; the pain on his face had nothing to do with his wound. “He has to go sit in a bathtub and figure his shit out, Brian. If he’s ever going to… grieve the loss of his parents. He’s got to do that for himself. Not for me. And not because he’s getting laid.”

“Because that’s what you did, doesn’t mean it’s the right way to deal with the shit show that is life.” Brian left him to stare out the windshield, while he walked around the truck and climbed inside. Skip still didn’t say anything. Brian started the truck, but didn’t drive away. He wondered what Skip saw staring out the window at the run-down house. If the ghosts of his past were alive and well, and dancing some hippie dance, while they sat there ignoring each other. He gave up waiting for Skip to give him a goddamned clue. “What are you going to do if he never comes back?”

“Same thing I do every day, Pinky. The same thing I do every day.” Skip reached over to the radio and turned it on. He fiddled with the station settings until he found the ‘80s on 8. George Michael crooned Careless Whisper as if he agreed with Brian.

“Pinky and the Brain references, Skip? Next, you’ll be telling me that Skip isn’t your real name.”

Skip closed his eyes, a single tear slipping quietly down his cheek.

“It’s Saffron,” he whispered. “My real name. It’s Saffron. I never changed it. And that’s the truth. All of the truths that I have. Oh, I’m rich. I’m so very fucking rich it will make your head spin, and you’re my only heir. Please don’t murder me in my sleep.”

“For fucksake… Saffron? Are you kidding me? Who on God’s green Earth would name their kid Saffron?”

Skip’s lips quirked up at the corners. “Hippies, Son. Now take me home. I have a book to finish, and…” he stopped long enough to drag in a long pain-filled breath. “I need to be there when he comes back.”

Brian didn’t argue. There was nothing left to say. He put the truck in gear and took his father home to wait for the love of his life to deal with his shit. Brian swore, if the Marine didn’t get his shit together soon, he’d track him down… “What do you mean by rich?”