Frank thought Tom might drop the box. He went rigid and took a step back. Then he turned to set the box onto the counter beside the row of washers and driers that served as the lodge’s on-site laundry. Frank knew for a fact that they used to send the majority of the laundry out: sheets, towels, tablecloths. The washers and driers were for incidentals. Guest laundry. Now they stood silent sentry over a conversation that had veered badly from an attempt at humor to what felt like the revelation of an awful secret.
He had to say something. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Tom didn’t turn.
“For making this awkward.”
Tom’s shoulders rose and fell. The gesture was so familiar, Frank’s heart ached. He wanted so badly to lay his fingers atop one of those shoulders. To pull Tom back against him, wrap his arms tight around Tom’s chest, and whisper against his ear. Ask what had made him so sad, so tense, so dark. Why he looked so worried. Frank also wanted to ask the smaller questions. How Tom had spent his week—aside from patching the roof. About the wedding. If he’d eaten anything other than peanut butter sandwiches. Ordered some Mello Yello. But for all his capacity for putting words on the page, they failed him now.
After another interminable moment, he tried, “So, where did you want to swim?”
Tom finally turned around. He kept his face slightly averted so it seemed he peeked at Frank when he spoke. “I was thinking by the south trail.”
“Let’s go, then.”
He thought Tom might beg off. Instead, Tom gestured toward the door. “I think I’ve got some trunks in my car.”
“Meet you back in the lobby in a few, then.”
Frank had packed a more sensible bag this time, and had been more than pleased to be reunited with his favorite pajama pants, washed and pressed and tucked back under his pillow. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be staying, but he’d come prepared for a week or two. With an article and several columns filed and nothing immediate pending, he had time to sort out a few messes. Taking a swim with Tom seemed a fine way to start on the most important one.
Dressed in the sordidly red trunks, sandals, and a moisture-wicking workout shirt, Frank arrived back in the lobby to find Tom’s taste in swimwear was about as eclectic as it had ever been. He wore board shorts in pale blue and pink, the pink part being a bright pattern of seashells. They fit well, cutting off at mid-thigh to show toned legs beneath a light covering of dark hair. The view above the waistband was as lovely. He was still too thin, and gray sprinkled his chest hair—when had Tom grown more than three separate hairs?—but obviously fit and so obviously Tom, the Tom he remembered from all those years ago. Wiry and capable and always dressed in something slightly odd. In comparison, Frank felt just . . . old. And not as fit, despite the fact he’d hit the gym every morning that week.
Frank looked up to find Tom giving him a sardonic smile.
“What?” Frank asked.
“Do I pass? Am I me?”
“So very. Where did you get those shorts?”
“Wildwood. Day trip and another friend who insisted I had to swim. These were the least objectionable pair I could find on the boardwalk.”
“They suit you.”
Tom laughed, and it was as though the awkward moment in the laundry hadn’t happened. Almost. “C’mon.” He had a couple of beach towels over one arm. He passed one across and they left the lodge, Tom leading the way across the patio, around the sad and empty pool and collapsing cottages, over the back lawn, and into the quiet embrace of the forest.
Happy memories surfaced when they found a path and Frank felt the cares of the week dropping away as one foot fell in front of the other. With summer only just starting, the canopy had yet to blot out the sky and the sun broke through, dappling the ground with color. Roots snaked across the path now and again, and flattened rock cairns marked the turns. It wasn’t until they’d nearly reached the creek that Frank became aware of just how well maintained the path was.
“You did this,” he said to Tom’s back.
Tom glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
“The paths. You’re still maintaining them?”
He shrugged. “It’s mostly habit now, but I use them often enough that it’s not much effort. It’s only really a pain when a storm or age takes a tree down and I have to clear it away.”
Evidence of such work lay around them. A long tree sliced in half by a saw and pushed to either side of the path. Another cut and stacked like firewood a little farther on. “Robert always enjoyed the trails.”
Tom turned again. Smiled. “Yeah, he did. He hadn’t used them in a couple of years, but he asked after them. Sometimes I felt like I was walking them for him. Keeping them up for him. But I’m not that altruistic. I was doing it for me too.”
“Mm-hmm.” Frank smiled. “Whatever gets you through the day.”
Chuckling, Tom faced forward again, and soon they were veering south and down to the narrow beach in front of the creek. Tom’s hand was evident here too. The bushy weeds that grew along the shore had been trimmed back, exposing long, flat rocks for sunbathers and swimmers. A stone path crossed the creek a short way along, and more rocks had been arranged to form a pool. The shallow, natural falls were clear of debris. Under the sparkling sun, the scene was idyllic and inviting, the burble of water and occasional bird call all the chatter Frank wanted to hear. Peaceful, but welcome.
He stepped over the small ridge shoring up the side of the trail and stopped. Glanced up at Tom, who stood still, watching him. From his expression, he was reliving the same memory.
“This is where I fell,” Frank said. “The day we met. Broke my ankle.”
Tom nodded.
“And you almost carried me back to the path.”
He nodded again.
Frank looked around, grasping for other memories—summers after then when they’d swum and played and talked and rested together, sure every summer would be the same. “Did I ever thank you for that?”
“About a thousand times.”
Frank gazed across the creek at the line of trees beyond and frowned. The neighborhood replacing Pocono Court was tidy, but bland. Soulless, as Tom had suggested, with one model of house represented in varying shades of brown and gray. Perhaps the saddest part was the removal of all the trees that used to shade the trailers. In the midst of summer, the trees would have been the most pleasant part of the rundown park. “Do you get a lot of trespassers from the new neighborhood?”
“About the same as always. Mostly kids. Had someone run across the lawn at the back of the lodge a couple of days ago, actually.”
“Yeah?”
“I wondered if it might have been a kid inside the lodge last weekend.”
“Maybe. Either that, or one of Patricia Nolan’s spies.” Frank offered a wry smile.
Tom snorted.
Frank spread his towel on a warm rock, kicked off his sandals, and dipped a toe in the water. “Shit! That’s not water, it’s liquid nitrogen.”
Tom stepped out of his flip-flops and stepped into the pool until the water lapped at the bottom of his shorts. “I seem to remember someone once telling me you had to jump in all at once. Like they did in Sweden.”
Frank met his gaze. He hadn’t expected Tom to talk about the notebook. “I never got to Scandinavia,” he said by way of continuing the conversation.
Tom’s mouth crooked up on one side. “You’ve got time.”
Nodding absently, Frank picked his way carefully over the arrangement of stones until he finally stood face-to-face with Tom in the shockingly chilly water. “It’s still cold.”
“You’ll go numb soon.”
“I might never find my balls.”
A flicker of something passed over Tom’s face, then he smiled a certain smile. By the time Frank had figured it out—what that smile meant—Tom had ducked down into the water and warm hands were tugging at Frank ankles. It was too late to steady himself. Set a stance. Find a rock big enough to hold on to. Too late to do anything but fall backward until he splashed down into freezing hell, creek water sloshing up his nostrils and over his head. Frank swallowed a yelp and more water. He splashed and flailed. When he surfaced, his sinuses burned and his mouth tasted like old tea. And Tom was sitting across from him, hair plastered in a wet tangle across his forehead, laughing.
Slicking his hair back with one hand, Tom lunged forward with the other, catching a wave and pushing it toward Frank’s face. Frank’s block came too late. After swallowing another bellyful of creek, he gathered water on both sides, creating a wave on two fronts that Tom couldn’t escape. Except he did, the bastard. He ducked underneath the swell and splash, and his hands, cooler now, tangled with Frank’s ankles again. Frank kicked backward only to find he’d reached the rocks stacked around the edge of the creek. Tom pulled him under.
Frank opened his eyes under the water and sought out Tom’s sleek shape, catching a leg before Tom managed to swim away. He yanked him backward and pushed him down. Bubbles rose up. He let Tom surface briefly before dragging him down and rolling over him so they tumbled through the shallow pool, each fighting to be the one on top. Frank forgot about air and breathing until he tried to suck in a mouthful of water. He tapped Tom’s side, a gesture from thirty years or more gone by, and Tom immediately let him up.
And then they went at it again, remembering how to play. How to tease each other with the thought of drowning, how to sneak in a small pool of water. How to shout and laugh and splash too many times, but not once more because enough was enough.
Frank could feel bruises developing on his elbows and knees. His hip ached and by the time he dragged himself out of the water to lie on his back on a wet, slick rock, chest heaving toward the sky, he existed in a place he hadn’t visited in forever. A space without conscious thought.
Tom landed beside him with a wet squelch, and panted breath joined his chorus.
Sunshine dappled through the trees, warming him in patches. Birds chittered and chipmunks scurried about behind them. Twigs cracked and the wind whispered. Forest sounds. Frank closed his eyes and let the resonance of summer fill his senses. The smell of the water, the tiny movements next to him something he’d always taken for granted. Tom’s breath, a soft hum, him blowing his nose, the rasp of a wet fabric against stone.
Frank rolled his head to the side, opening his eyes. Tom was stretched out on his back, his head inclined toward Frank. Watching him. They locked stares, brown eyes to brown. Whether it was being here by the creek, or recent familiarity, Tom seemed more real than he had a week ago—whatever that meant. And his older face, still narrow, still delicate, was unbearably beautiful. Or maybe that was just Frank’s heart taunting him.
He lowered his gaze to Tom’s mouth, to lips that remained red despite the chill of the creek. Or perhaps because of it. The tip of Tom’s tongue appeared. Disappeared.
Breath stuttering in his throat, Frank rolled onto his side, facing Tom. The movement was a not-so-subtle invitation, one that could easily be ignored. If Tom wasn’t feeling it—and Frank sometimes wondered if he ever had—then he could continue to lie where he was, and they could talk. Maybe that’s what they should do. Kissing Tom now wouldn’t change the past.
Tom rolled onto his side, facing Frank. His gaze had been pretty steady, focused mainly on Frank’s, but now it dipped slightly. Frank stopped breathing. The forest fell silent, every creature as still as his heart. Even the creek seemed not to burble, caught in this delirious pause. Fingers of unreason pushed at Frank’s shoulders, urging him to just do it. To lean forward, to press his lips to Tom’s. He was old enough to laugh it off if Tom rejected him. He could say he’d been playing. Teasing. That sort of behavior had become second nature. His motto was easy come, easy go.
But this was Tom. Not so easy. Already gone beyond his reach?
Frank found a breath, sucked it in.
Then Tom was there, closing the distance. And it was his breath at Frank’s lips. His mouth. A kiss, as light and crisp as a fallen leaf. Another breath, a second kiss, this one firmer, a lingering touch, a question begging for an answer.
There was no time to debate the merit of it, and Frank wouldn’t have anyway. Not with Tom. Never with Tom. With a soft groan, the simple sound hiding every complication, he gave in to the invitation. He kissed Tom back. Not a peck to the lips, not a return brush. He fastened his mouth to Tom’s and kissed him.
And flinched . . . sure history would rewind and play forward, bringing a fist out of nowhere to land sharply against his nose.
Instead, Tom curled a hand behind Frank’s neck and pulled him closer. Kissed him harder. Then moved, tasting Frank’s lips in small touches out to the corners of his mouth and back again. A looser kiss, openmouthed. The curious graze of tongue. Another invitation.
Frank caught Tom’s shoulder and opened for him. Tom didn’t dive in right away. Instead he seemed to look for Frank’s rhythm, for that pattern of kissing lovers found when their mouths fit in a certain way, and then their tongues were touching, tasting, sliding. The distance between them evaporated. Tom’s thighs were against his, warm and cold at the same time. Water trickled from their trunks, slicking the skin of their stomachs as they came together, arms wrapping around each other’s shoulders.
The kiss deepened, became something other than a hi and hello. Became I want more. A need to get farther inside the skin of the other.
I want to roll you over and fuck you.
Frank traced his hand down Tom’s back until he reached the slight dip before his hips. Stroked there a moment, reveling in the smooth tightness of skin before grasping the wet cotton over the curve of his ass. Tom jerked against him, rocking forward, something hot and firm poking Frank’s thigh. Not something. His cock, and it was hard. Frank was hard too, and getting harder, blood rushing gleefully southward in a surge he hadn’t felt in years. He didn’t thrust against Tom’s erection, though. He retained enough sense to know that might be the moment they flew apart—when it all became too much. Too real.
Tom’s ass, though. Tom was apparently fine with having his ass manhandled. Frank skimmed his palm up and down, molding wet fabric to warm flesh, and then he groped. Because this was an ass and it was Tom’s and, oh God, was it possible to come from a kiss?
The fact Tom wasn’t clutching him quite as manically became clear when Tom rolled away, the sudden break weirdly loud, though they’d probably been embarrassing the forest with the sound of wet sucking and moaning. Leaving Frank bereft and confused, Tom flopped onto his back and stared up at the sky. Frank remained where he’d been left, on his side, the nape of his neck cold without the warmth of Tom’s fingers. His hand lonely. His mouth bruised. Then Tom was pushing up. Sitting. He looked as though he wanted to glance sideways, but didn’t. Instead, he slid off the rock and back into the pool, dipping under the water until he disappeared. Staying under while Frank counted his breaths. Staying under . . . Just staying under.
Jesus.
Frank crawled to the edge and swept his hand down under the water, hooked it under Tom’s shoulder, and hauled him upward.
“What the fuck?” His yell was almost lost to the splash and heave of breath as Tom surfaced and inhaled. Restraining the urge to shake him, Frank let go. “What the hell was that?”
Still sitting, Tom turned in the water and looked up. He was below Frank, right at the edge of the pool. He lifted a dripping hand out of the creek and touched cool fingers to Frank’s mouth. Frank didn’t know whether to kiss the fingers or grab on, hold them there incase Tom decided to sink below the water again.
Who tried to drown themselves in two feet of water?
“I wasn’t trying to drown myself,” Tom said.
“How do you do that?”
“What?”
“How did you know what I was thinking?”
“All over your face, man.” Tom pulled his fingers away.
Frank let them go. “What was that, then?”
“I . . .” Tom’s throat moved. “I don’t know.”
“Fuck.”
Frank pushed back from the edge and started gathering up his towel. He reached for his shirt and sandals. The fact Tom remained in the pool, watching him, only made him angrier. Just, what the fuck? What had happened? Had Tom meant to make a fool out of him? Once with the kiss; again with the weird underwater thing. Confused and hurt, Frank got to his feet and toed into his sandals.
He heard Tom leaving the pool behind him. A wet hand landed on his shoulder. “Frank, wait.”
Shrugging him off, Frank started up the steep bank.
“My thoughts were going every which way, and I needed to cool off before I tried to suck you off in the middle of the forest.”
Frank stopped and turned. “I don’t get you.”
Tom was shaking his head. “I know. No one does.”
“Why now?” Frank spread his arms, his wet towel sweeping through the dirt. “And who was going to stumble across us here? What really stopped you?”
Tom bent to collect his towel, shoved his feet into his flip-flops, and started up the hill behind Frank. He drew abreast and took another step so his chin was actually level with Frank’s. He met Frank’s gaze, his expression unabashed. Then his face seemed to crumple inward and he looked away, down at their feet. Tom shuffled his. Frank tried not to shift his. They were nearly fifty, for fuck’s sake. Why was this so awkward?
“I don’t know how to do this,” Tom said.
“That makes two of us.”
“And I know we shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
Tom’s chin jerked up. “Why? Because I’m me and you’re you.”
“That’s the part I never understood, Tom. That’s the part that was supposed to be easy. You and me. Benjamin and Franklin. We were going to take on the world. Be us, forever. What happened to that? Why did you . . .” Push me away? No, Tom had thrown him away. Tossed him out the door and kicked it shut behind him. “Why did you let me go?”
Tom shook his head. Looked down again.
“Why didn’t you answer my letters?”
Another head shake.
“What was so wrong with us?” God, he’d wanted to ask these questions for years. “Why didn’t you want me?” Why did it still hurt, after all this time? “And why, for the love of everything, did you kiss me just now? So not fair, Tom. You can’t do that and then roll away and try to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
Tom’s jaw hardened. “I am.”
“Well that’s not good enough! Sorry doesn’t cut it—”
“Frank—”
“I’m not done. How could you do this? How could you give me the thing I’ve been waiting for, for thirty goddamned years, and then take it away again and think a word like ‘sorry’ covers it?”
Tom’s head snapped up. “Seriously? It’s not like you’ve been sitting in a cell on a hillside, chastely waiting for the boy you never forgot. God. Why do you always have to be so dramatic?”
“Fuck you.”
“Is that the best you’ve got?”
“What do you want from me?” Frank’s chest hurt. Every breath rasped against his throat and the sides of his head pounded in an uneven rhythm. His skin was hot and his fingers tingled the way they only did when he was really, really angry. Yet, absurdly, tears burned behind his eyes. The afternoon had been perfect and now it wasn’t. And he didn’t know what had happened. Couldn’t grasp the why.
Tom took a step back and covered his face with his towel. He scrubbed as though merely drying off after a swim, but Frank recognized the gesture. Tom was hiding. Frank’s tingling fingers now itched with the need to yank the towel away and make Tom face whatever this was, but he stood still and seethed. Then he took another breath and . . . the fire of his indignation faded a little. Birdsong cut through the angry pulse of his blood. The air moved. He took another breath. Tom lifted his face from the towel. His wet face.
Goddamn it.
One moment Frank stood there wondering why Tom was crying. The next he had Tom in his arms, pulled close, his hand pushing Tom’s head toward his shoulder, to the nest he’d made there forever ago. His fingers drifted through wet hair as he attempted to calm another storm. It was so natural to do it, to settle Tom against his skin, to be there for him, to help him, that Frank had to suck back his own tears—and the urge to say sorry. Which he definitely wasn’t. Fuck that. But he’d hold Tom until the crisis passed. Because, goddamn it, this was Tom.
And because it was Tom, he nestled in, his skinny arms immediately circling Frank’s ribs. He held Frank just as tightly, as though he were the last man on Earth. Then he said the words that finished cracking Frank’s sore heart into those two final pieces.
“I missed you, Frankie. God, how I missed you.”