Travis’s arms burned. He had missed chopping the firewood for the tribe on Sunday while he worked on clearing out his mom’s room and getting ready for the garage sale with Whitman. So, he had extra work to do, and not much time to do it, on Monday.

Molly’s was closed on Sunday and Monday, but Caitlyn still had to go to the library to work. Had he not already committed to the part time work for the tribe, he could have had an entire day to himself. He sighed at the thought, wiped the sweat from his brow with the shoulder of his t-shirt, and put another log onto the chopping block.

By the time he finished, made his deliveries, and went to pick up Caitlyn from the library, Travis smelled like a locker room, had soaked through his t-shirt, and could barely lift his arms. It was a good thing he didn’t care about making a decent impression on the librarian. He texted Caitlyn as he stood outside, fully intending to be kind to those in the library and not actually go in, but Caitlyn texted back that she needed a minute to finish up and could he come help Whitman move a table.

Some days it seemed like manual labor was all he was good for. Travis sighed, but went in and didn’t notice that Whitman’s neck flushed red when Travis strode through the library with purpose. The last thing Travis wanted was gossip about how he couldn’t even be bothered to clean himself up before going out in public.

“Are we still on for tonight?” Whitman asked after clearing his throat. “I was going to pick up dinner.”

They hefted the table, one on each end, and carried it in shuffling steps from the lobby back to the conference room. It was the conference table, large and wooden and heavy, not some flimsy folding table like Travis had imagined.

“I can grab it. After all, you’re the one helping me out. Treating you to dinner is the least I can do,” Travis answered between grunts. His arms were not going to make it through the day. “How did you get this out here in the first place?”

“I came in on Saturday and Roy helped me. It was the lady from marine science center today for the kids, and she needed a large, sturdy space to set out all of her displays. She even had a shark jaw and an anemone tank. It was really cool.”

“I remember going there,” Travis said, because of their close proximity to both the beach and to the community college, there was a large focus on marine biology in the area. It was the obvious go-to for field trips, and Travis had had his share of them. Still, the magic hadn’t completely worn off, and Whitman’s excitement rekindled it a bit. “The kids must have loved it.”

“They did. I had already pulled all sorts of marine wildlife books ahead of time. I think every single one of them wound up getting checked out. It’s amazing what a little childlike curiosity can do.”

It had been too long for Travis to even remember what childlike curiosity felt like. Even back when he still should have possessed it, the enmity of a town too concerned with anything “other” was enough to kill any remaining wonder or innocence.

Travis backed into the conference room and once the table was returned to its normal position, he collapsed back into one of the soft chairs.

“Long day?” Whitman asked, returning from the room next door with a cold bottle of water for Travis. He took it gratefully and swallowed half in one go.

“Sorry. I know I’m stinking up the room. I have a part time job chopping wood. Didn’t have time to shower before having to come get Caitlyn.”

“You should have told me. Can you even move?”

Travis smiled at Whitman’s concern. “It’s a good thing you’re doing all the heavy lifting tonight. I’m just doing the emotional lifting.”

“If you need to wait,” Whitman said, but Travis interrupted him with a firm shake of his head. “I know it was hard to go through all of that.”

“No, it needs to get done if we’re going to have the yard sale this weekend. I’m okay, really. Just throwing myself a minor pity party.”

Travis stepped forward, probably underestimating Whitman’s proximity because he really was wiped and other than the water he hadn’t had a chance to refuel. Suddenly, he found himself in Whitman’s space, so close they shared the same air. So close, he could hear the sharp gasp from Whitman’s mouth and feel the air around him shudder.

“Sorry,” Travis said, with a sudden stumble backward. “I must be more tired than I thought.”

Whitman’s mouth parted slightly, the tip of his tongue pink against his lower lip, and Travis couldn’t look away as it darted back inside his mouth, leaving a pretty shine to Whitman’s mouth.

“I’m ready,” Caitlyn chirped from the hallway, startling both men into action. “I’ve got my bag packed and Layla’s parents are home. We can go straight there, right?”

“Right,” Travis said followed after her. It was Caitlyn’s first time spending the night away from home since all of their troubles began, and Travis felt raw inside. But he knew she was getting better, and he had confirmed over and over with Layla’s parents that they would keep an eye out for her.

It was time, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Travis and Caitlyn passed the post office side of the building and turned the corner to Layla’s street before Travis realized he had left without saying anything to Whitman. No see you later. Not even a wave. He cringed internally at his awkwardness. Yet another reason why he didn’t need to be crushing on the librarian. The man was older, and probably really experienced.

And Travis was, well, a mess.

With Molly’s only open for lunch, there was only one other restaurant in town, C3, a generic all-day diner. Travis made his way to the counter to place a take-out order. Melissa Leake worked the register, and he ordered a couple burgers and fries, then took a seat at the counter next to Mrs. Leake.

“He got in yesterday,” Mrs. Leake said to her daughter before turning to Travis with a sniff. “Don’t you shower?”

“I just got off work and wanted to pick up dinner on the way home. You could always hold your breath.”

Mrs. Leake pinched her lips together and turned back to Melissa. “Margaret didn’t want him there, but there was no one else to help out. Can you imagine?”

Travis tried not to listen, but Mrs. Leake’s voice was at a decibel that was impossible to avoid. He prayed for the cook to go faster.

“I supposed you’ll be seeing him while he’s here.”

Travis kept his eyes firmly on the plastic laminated menu he had plucked from between a ketchup bottle and salt and pepper holder. Poor Melissa. He didn’t even have to look to see the sneer on Mrs. Leake’s face at that last sentence.

“Travis?”

His eyes darted up to see the very sneer he had just been imagining.

“Oh, you were talking to me? Who? I wasn’t –”

“Little Stevie Winthrop is back in town while his grandmother recovers from hip surgery. Have you seen him yet?”

“Stevie’s older than me,” Travis said, wondering if he also got a “little” in front of his name when Mrs. Leake gossiped about him. “We never really spoke.”

“Oh, I thought you both …”

Just because they were the only two openly gay kids in town growing up did not mean they ran in the same circles or held meetings in their secret gay clubhouse.

“Order up,” the cook’s voice rang through the window thankfully keeping whatever bigoted thing Mrs. Leake was about to say from being let loose into the world. Travis rushed from his seat, stumbling over his own feet and catching himself against the aluminum countertop. He grabbed the bag that Melissa held out for him with a grimace and raced to the safety of his home.

Whitman showed up half expecting to still see Travis covered in sweat. Or maybe just half hoping. Perhaps equally as enticing, Travis had just emerged from the shower. He was fully dressed, but his thin t-shirt clung to him in ways that left little to the imagination. And Whitman had an excellent imagination.

“Thanks again, for helping,” Travis said, pulling his wet hair back into a ponytail. “I feel a little like I’m taking advantage.”

“You’ve been helping me with trivia and movie nights. I’d call it even. But since I brought it up, do you think you’ll be there again tomorrow night?”

“Caitlyn already asked,” Travis said with a smile. “It was fun. And I’m happy to help you, however you need.”

He closed his eyes and turned away, obviously hearing the double meaning of his words, but it made Whitman smile. The man he had met only a couple of weeks ago was too burdened to have even let a double entendre slip, much less have picked up on it and gotten embarrassed by it. Whitman took it as a good sign.

“How is she doing with all of this?” Whitman gestured to the dining table, which had items laid out and price tags fixed. Travis had obviously done some errands, because the trash and giveaway boxes were already empty and ready to be refilled.

“She picked out some things she wanted to keep, but I think she’s pleased. She’s been going through paint swatches and making me watch HGTV. I just worry it’s too much too soon for her.”

“That’s understandable,” Whitman said, unpacking the food with Mr. Wigglesworth practically humping his leg, trying to get at it. They needed fuel for their evening, and Travis sunk his teeth into his burger with a moan that went straight to Whitman’s dick. He crossed his legs and picked at his French fries, willing it to go down. The burgers did smell heavenly. It wasn’t a meal he could have regularly now that he had crossed thirty and his body didn’t spring back the way it used to. But for a special occasion, like spending time helping Travis, Whitman could make an exception.

“Maybe seeing you move, not forward but on, in a healthy way will help her be able to do the same.”

“She and Mom were closer, you know?” Travis said, then inhaled another bite between sentences. How he did it without choking was a mystery to Whitman. “Mom and I were close too, but in a much more mom kind of way and not in the best friends way. They did everything together. Movies, shopping, late night makeovers while they stuffed their faces with leftover desserts from Molly’s. Or just made new, because Mom was the one who used to make all the desserts anyway.”

“Your Mom worked at Molly’s too?”

“She and Aunt Lucinda opened it together. Now I guess Caitlyn and I own half, but it’s a subject we’ve all kind of avoided. We just keep on working like we did before, shifting responsibilities – Lucinda arrives early to bake the desserts instead of Mom, I prep the lunch menu in place of Lucinda – as if nothing ever happened. No one brings it up.”

“No one brings her up.” Travis took in the house around him as if coming out of a daze. “Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe we should talk about her more and keep her things around. I feel like we’re just throwing a coat of paint over things, you know?”

“I can’t say. I’ve never lost anyone as important to me, like you have. But I think you can change up the house without forgetting about your mom. The more important piece of that, in my not-so-professional opinion, was the not talking. Tell the funny stories. Talk about the times she drove you absolutely crazy. She was an integral part of your life and you can’t just suddenly cut out that big of a chunk and still have enough left to continue on.”

“How’d you get to be so wise?” Travis asked then darted his eyes away quickly when Whitman’s met his and stuffed the remainder of his burger into his mouth. Mr. Wigglesworth went back to his bed, his puppy eyes filled with disappointment that he hadn’t snagged a single crumb.

“It’s part of librarian training. Appearing Wise 101. It’s usually followed by Bullshitting 201 and Keeping a Straight Face 301. It’s the upper level courses that are the hardest.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Travis said, wiping his hands on a napkin, then fishing for the final crispy remnants in his fry container. “I never made it that far.”

“I’m so sorry,” Whitman said, passing his fries over. “Caitlyn told me about your leaving school early. I forgot.”

Whitman hated that talking with Travis was still like walking through a minefield. He felt so comfortable around him that it was easy to forget that the man had so many crushed dreams and stolen futures, that he carried burdens that someone his age shouldn’t ever have to.

“We should get a move on,” Travis said. “This yard sale isn’t going to happen on its own.”

“Anything specific that you already want to happen in here?” Whitman asked as he deposited his trash in the kitchen and walked to the hall bathroom. He figured it would be the easiest place to get started and give Travis a break from difficult decisions and even more difficult memories. It was hard to get attached to toilet paper and towels.

“Just throw away the old shower curtain,” Travis said, still finishing off Whitman’s fries from the couch. “It needed to be replaced anyway, and I bought a new one that I can hang up later.”

“One that doesn’t match the couch? No offense to your mom, but was she obsessed with Miami Vice or what? Because your whole house is like Florida from the eighties. Not that I’d know from experience, but I might have had a weird Don Johnson thing as a kid when my mom watched reruns on Saturday mornings.”

Whitman pulled the curtain rings off the rod and then slid them from the curtain and liner. It was pale blue and pale pink, with a little bit of pale peach mixed in, to make the most hideous combination known to man. He happily rolled them up together and stuffed them into the trash bag he had handy for just that purpose.

That took care of most everything in the bathroom. The toilet seat cover and matching bath mat, Travis could decide for himself. That only left …

“What about Bozo the clown?”

“Yard sale,” Travis called from the living room.

“Oh, I don’t know. I might ask to keep this for myself. I mean, who doesn’t want a pink clown soaring through the air with balloons to watch you go to the bathroom?”

Whitman peeked out from the room, holding the painting in front of him like a mask. Travis choked on a fry, and Whitman rushed over to slap a hand to his back.

“I’m fine,” Travis said, holding up a hand to stop Whitman’s unintentional assault.

“God, I remember when Mom was potty-training Caitlyn. Every time she made it to the potty, she got to give Bumbles a kiss.”

This time it was Whitman’s turn to choke, even though he had nothing in his mouth.

“You are not getting rid of Bumbles,” Whitman said once he was able. He clutched the painting to his chest. “How could you even consider letting go of something so integral to Caitlyn’s upbringing?” Whitman could feel the tears rolling down his face. “Monster.”

“If you love him so much,” Travis said, laughing almost as hard, “He’s all yours. But you have to hang him in your bathroom and see how long that lasts. Believe me. There’s nothing creepier than a clown watching you shower or take a leak.”

“Do his eyes follow you?”

“Yes.” Travis said with a frown, eyeing the painting like Bumbles might still be watching him.

Whitman set the painting on the table by the front door so he wouldn’t forget it. He was going to keep it safe so if Travis and Caitlyn did miss the thing, it would be waiting for them. It was definitely not going in his bathroom.

They made it through the rest of the house in record time. Travis was keeping most things, and although Whitman tried to convince him that his mother’s John Denver record collection was a collector’s item, it went onto the dining room table with the rest of the yard sale stuff.

There was no reason for Whitman to stick around, except for Travis’s yearning expression, so needy and lost that it was almost his undoing. But Travis didn’t realize the emotions he was clearly broadcasting across his face, and Whitman needed to remember that he and Travis worked together. Sort of. In a way that would make starting anything awkward as fuck, and that was what mattered.

He wished Travis a good evening, collected his newly acquired creepy clown painting, and leaned against the closed front door to calm his racing pulse. There were so many reasons it was a bad idea. From his tight grip, Bumbles’ outlined and overenthusiastic grin taunted him.

So many reasons.

The laptop took a while to boot up, making Travis wonder what in the world Caitlyn had downloaded this time.

Mr. Wigglesworth came crawling over when Travis waved a cold French fry at him. Travis hadn’t offered Mr. Wigglesworth any of the food in front of Whitman because he wanted to appear responsible. But he couldn’t ignore those sad eyes forever.

“Hey, don’t take my fingers with it, Wiggsy,” Travis said after the dog continued to lick at Travis’s salty fingers after finishing off the fry.

Travis wiped his hand on the couch cushion and set the laptop across his lap. He had the name and number memorized from having obsessed over the napkin so often during the past twenty-four hours. He typed the number into a reverse lookup and was surprised to find the number registered to a church in Copper Beach.

“Another dead end,” Travis muttered, to Mr. Wigglesworth not himself.

He tried one final search, this time putting the phone number and the first name, Ricky, into a regular search box. Once again, the name of the church came up, but this time, there were pictures of a man in the images section. A man with very familiar green eyes.

Travis clicked on the church’s website and was greeted with a larger picture of Pastor Ricky Chelate, head of New Hope Church in Copper Beach, Oregon.

And Caitlyn’s father.