~ Silas~

I walked across Weaver Street through the deepening twilight, hunched into my leather jacket, my hands clenched around two warm paper coffee cups, which mitigated some of the late-November chill that had settled over the area this week, just in time for Thanksgiving tomorrow. I’d promised Ev a coffee and a rescue, and I was going to deliver.

It had been a long, sunny fall, filled with everything I loved best about O’Leary – endless plates of treats shared with us by our neighbors, so much apple picking the crisper bin would be stocked until spring, haunted hayrides around Cobb farm, and Everett, who made all the other stuff that much more fun because I got to experience it through his wide, often bewildered eyes. To Ev, this was the stuff of Hallmark movies. To me, it was home. Especially now that Ev was there with me.

I paused outside O’Leary Hardware, where Ev continued to work a couple of evenings a week, ignoring Hen’s halfhearted protests about being “healthier than Everett ever had been, for the love of God,” by claiming he was only doing it so he could “spend time with my cat, old man, and make sure Diane hasn’t poisoned you, no matter how much you deserve it.” All of this, I was pretty sure loosely translated to, “Yes, Everett, please come work at the store since I miss you very much,” and “Thank you, Grandpa, for allowing me the opportunity to help out, because I love you.” Or something like that. I wasn’t totally fluent in Lattimer, but I was getting better.

Tonight, Bill Nickerson was up on a ladder, hanging pine bunting and twinkling lights outside the Books and More, and I realized with a jolt that Christmas was coming. It had never been my favorite holiday. I didn’t bother decorating, usually, and I was the guy who gave everyone on his list a gift card or a bottle of mid-shelf alcohol because I loathed shopping, but I was pretty sure Ev was gonna hold me to a higher standard. I imagined us decking out our house in sixty billion holiday lights, and arguing over the perfect tree. I wondered how many blow jobs it would take to convince him that they should blink to music.

I couldn’t wait.

“You hypnotized by the Christmas decorations, Officer Sloane?” Jay Turner demanded, clomping down the street with his cane. “Or are you trying to figure out how to get the door open without dropping your coffee?”

I stood up a little straighter instinctively. Mr. Turner was one of Henry Lattimer’s contemporaries and, like Hen, had no fucks to give when it came to speaking his mind. He was also my old high school principal, making him one of the few people in O’Leary who didn’t defer to me just on the basis of my position. Not to mention, some part of my brain lived in fear that he was going to give me detention anytime I opened my mouth.

“Uh, the first one, sir. Though, honestly, the second answer’s true, too, I just hadn’t gotten that far yet,” I said, smiling sheepishly.

He shook his head, but shuffled around to hold the door open for me.

The hardware store smelled familiar, like stale coffee and oil, paint fumes and moth balls. I liked it. I heard the rise and fall of conversation from the back corner of the shop, where Hen and his cronies gathered on old wooden benches and overturned five-gallon buckets to “discuss town issues” while their wives were otherwise occupied with their own work and hobbies. Their gossip was as much an O’Leary tradition as anything else.

“Silas! Jay!” Hen greeted the second we stepped into view. “Come on over.”

The man was perched on a tufted, gold velvet chair I’d helped Ev cart down from the attic a month ago, specifically so Hen would have somewhere comfortable to sit and rest his leg once he’d stopped using his cane. I had no idea what the origin of the monstrosity was, and I’d expected him to protest loudly the way he had at every other accommodation we’d tried to make for him, but he’d accepted the change with good grace. Looking at him now, I could see why. He was sitting back with his elbows perched on the padded arms and his fingers steepled together as he listened to the other guys chat looking for all the world like some kind of mafioso. Hen Lattimer, the Don of O’Leary.

“Silas, what have you brought me?” he said, his eyes gleaming as he looked at the cup. “Is that…coffee?”

I grinned and leaned against the wall as Jay took a seat on one of the benches in between Paul Fine and Frank Lucano. I took a sip from my cup. “Not this time, Hen. The other’s for Ev.”

“He won’t mind. I’m his favorite grandfather. Hand it over.”

I shook my head. “Hand over my boyfriend, first. Where are you hiding him?”

Hen snorted. “Ev’s upstairs with Diane, the traitor, making me some sugar-free dessert for tomorrow. I already warned him, I will not eat it. I’ll be having sour cream apple pie from Fanaille, just as I have every year since 1977. Now…” He made grabby hands toward the coffee.

“I thought Ev said you’re off caffeine. Something about it being bad for your heart.”

“Oh, that.” Hen waved a dismissive hand. “Diane read some article about caffeine being bad for us, so she’s got me drinking herbal tea.”

“I like herbal tea,” Paul Fine piped up.

“Tastes like flowers,” Frank said, and Hen nodded.

“Exactly. Like flowers and fruit. One thing it damn well does not taste like is coffee.” Hen looked greedily at Ev’s coffee. “So you should take pity on an old man and give it here.”

“You won’t like it,” I warned him. “It’s not regular coffee, it’s one of Cal’s flavored lattes.”

“One of those pumpkin spice things?” Frank grimaced. “Pumpkin’s a vegetable. It’s not meant to be drunk.”

Paul Fine looked me up and down. “It’s basic, as the kids say.”

Basic. I snorted.

Hen settled further back in his chair and he studied me carefully, like we were playing chess. “Can’t believe Everett’s got you drinking that crap.”

“It’s good! Doesn’t taste like pumpkin, more like cinnamon.” I shrugged and pushed off the wall. “I’m gonna head on upstairs and find Ev.”

“Next thing you know,” Hen said as though I hadn’t spoken, “he’ll have you doing Christmas shopping with him.”

This was so in line with my thoughts from earlier that I paused and narrowed my eyes. “And?”

“And… then it’s just a short step to you two deciding to get a pet.” He gave me a significant look. “Your own, not mine.”

I snorted. “You and Ev can fight over Daphne, but I wouldn’t be opposed to getting another cat or dog. If Ev wanted one.” In fact, thinking it over, it was a pretty good idea. We had a good-sized backyard, after all. Plenty of area for a pet to roam. “Still not seeing the problem,” I told him.

“Well, that’s not a problem,” Hen said. “Everyone likes pets. But once you have one, you’ve got to pick a name.”

“Right,” I agreed. “That’s not a problem either. Ev can call it whatever he likes.” I could picture it clearly, the more Hen talked about it. Me and Ev, plus a dog. I’d talk to Ev about it soon.

“He might call it something ridiculous,” Hen warned. “After one of his favorite artists.”

“Okay.” I shook my head. “That’s fine.” I was totally down for a dog named Georgia O’Keeffe.

“Gotta be careful with that,” Jay warned. “The more you let your partner have their way, the harder it is to have an opinion later on. I try to argue with Delia twice a week, just to say we did.”

This… didn’t surprise me at all about Mr. Turner.

“But then we get to make up,” he continued, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “So really, everybody wins.”

Okay, that was a surprise. I shuddered. A very unwelcome surprise.

“Jay makes a point, you’ve got to put your foot down about the lattes or the pet names, otherwise when it comes time to redo the bedroom, you won’t have a leg to stand on,” Paul said kindly. “Quinn’s got a thing for florals. Not my thing at all. But I’ve been sleeping under a rose-covered quilt for years.”

“You could always just tell him,” I suggested.

“Nah.” Paul smiled. “My husband has a thing for florals, but I have a thing for my husband.”

“Okay, so basically, I need to stop drinking lattes, or else I’ll end up with a happy man, a dog named Georgia O’Keeffe, and a floral bedspread. Truly, this is a terrifying future.” I took a deep sip from my coffee cup.

“Well, that’s usually when the children come in,” Frank volunteered.

“We’re not having children,” I said. Then for no logical reason whatsoever, I added, “At least, not right now.”

“Good. You wanna wait until after the wedding,” Hen said reasonably. “But still. You’ve got to think about how many you want, and how far apart. You’ll want to make sure Ev’s happy, of course, but you’ve got to consider your own needs too.”

“Wait, what?”

“At least your house is big enough, but your truck is gonna be shitty with kids. You’re gonna have to trade it in,” Jay said. “That might make you angry.”

“Coming home to a house full of kids at the end of a shift might make it worth it,” Henry allowed. “But only if you’re committed to it, Silas. Only if it’s truly what you want.”

I frowned.

“Take it from me, being resentful of your husband is the worst. If you don’t have good communication skills?” Paul sighed. “It’s an uphill battle.”

“Give me the latte,” Hen said. “It’s the only way.”

“Huh?” I shook my head, thoroughly confused. “I don’t care about the truck. And our communication skills are just fine. Ev and I have had to work hard on that. I’m not gonna end up resentful of my husband just because of the kids!”

I blinked. Wait, what?

“Husband, huh?” Ev said. I lifted my eyes and caught him leaning against the door to the backroom, his arms folded over his chest and his green eyes dancing. “Kids?”

“I…” I shook my head, bewildered. “I have no idea what just happened here. This started out as a conversation about coffee,” I explained. The only sure thing in the world was Ev’s smile. “Specifically, giving Hen your coffee.” I held up the cup.

Ev strode toward me across the small space, stepping around Paul’s outstretched legs, until he was standing right in front of me. “That was your first mistake,” Ev said. “Don’t even engage with him about caffeine right now. It makes him mean.”

He stepped into my space and I handed him his cup, then wrapped my arms around him, coffee and all.

He felt so good, I sighed and felt myself relax. Everything with Ev felt right, like puzzle pieces snapping together. And while I sure as fuck wasn’t announcing it here in front of Henry Lattimer, the idea of marrying Ev didn’t make my heart race with fear, like it might have in the past, but rather with excitement. I wanted it all.

“Not mean,” Hen corrected, pouting. “Sad. Here you are, Silas Slone, looking at a future with a husband, a dog, some adorable children, and a cute floral bedspread, all thanks to me, and I don’t even have any coffee. I’m miserable.”

“Miserable? Is that so?” Diane stood in the doorway where Ev had been, and her arms were folded over her chest. But unlike Ev, she didn’t look remotely amused.

“Shit,” Hen muttered under his breath, his eyes widening. “It’s the lack of caffeine, honey! Makes a man say and do crazy things!”

Jay nodded solemnly. “That’s the truth. Which means Hen’s been caffeine deprived since… oh, at least 1958.”

Hen scowled at his friend, but Diane shook her head as she came closer and glared down at him. “You’re lucky I knew what I was taking on when I hooked up with you, Henry Lattimer. You’re wily, stubborn, and certifiably insane, but I love you anyway. Now, it’s past nine. Don’t you have a store to close up?”

“Oh, God,” Ev moaned, just loud enough for me to hear. “It should be illegal for anyone to talk about hooking up with my grandfather.”

Hen sighed and shifted to his feet, leaning heavily on the arm of the chair. “I suppose I do.”

Diane rested her hand on his arm and leaned up to kiss him gently on the mouth. “Good. And I’ll have your herbal tea waiting for you upstairs when you’re done.”

Jay, Frank, Paul, and I snickered, but the guys got to their feet good-naturedly and we all said goodbye, spilling out into the nearly-dark sidewalk while Hen closed the shop door behind us. The others set off down the street to their homes and cars, but Ev and I stood there for a moment, enjoying the cool quiet of the nearly-deserted street.

Billy Nickerson’s lights gave a faint glow nearby, and in the hardware store window, the toy train set that had been there forever ran in endless clacking circles around a miniature O’Leary that seemed impossibly picturesque. There were no killers in that world. No ghosts from the past rising up to haunt us. But there was no challenge in it either – no Ev to argue with me and console me, nothing to break the static monotony. My life before Ev had been a lot like that model train, traveling in the same endless circles, never realizing how stuck I was. Now, just about anything seemed possible.

I grabbed his free hand with mine and threaded our fingers together. “Your grandfather’s caffeine-fiend psychological trickery aside, I meant what I said in there,” I told him. “I could see us getting married. Getting a dog.”

“Named Georgia O’Keeffe?” he teased, showing that he’d heard a good long portion of the conversation in there. He smiled and leaned against me, resting his head on my chest. “Yeah, baby, I can see that, too.”

My heart galloped beneath his cheek. I wasn’t asking him anything, and he wasn’t replying; all of that would come later. But the simple reminder that we were on the same page was thrilling. Impossible as it was to believe, this brilliant, beautiful man loved me as much as I loved him. And whatever the future held for us—triumph and tragedy and bedspreads—we’d face it together.