Phoenix
Out of the corner of his eye, Phoenix saw something move. At first, he thought it was just Lucy, but then it moved again and Phoenix realized it wasn’t gold. He blinked and straightened, slightly surprised to find Ace sitting on the sofa. It took him only a moment to remember where he was, and the arrangement he had agreed to.
And then his stomach rumbled.
“Shit!” He slammed down his charcoal and scrambled off the bar stool. “I didn’t feed you!”
He looked around, trying to find a clock, before looking down at his wristwatch. It was after four in the afternoon. His heart sank. It wasn’t the first time he’d worked through lunch—in fact, it was more or less a common occurrence—but he never had to think about anyone else.
Every morning, he set a large bowl of food out for Lucy, so he didn’t have to worry about feeding her. But another living, breathing human was another matter entirely. He wrung his hands to keep from tugging his hair, guilt coursing through him.
Apparently he was giving off distress signals, because Ace was up on his feet. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice almost soothing. As though Phoenix hadn’t just fucked this up in a major way. “It was interesting, watching you work.”
Phoenix didn’t see how that could be the case. He was just working. And while he found it fascinating, he’d learned throughout the years that not everyone felt the same way. In fact, most people didn’t give a shit about the process, as long as the end result was pretty.
“Still, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it. Sometimes I skip lunch and work here until it gets dark.” There had to be something he could do to make up for his faux pas. “Would you like to come in? I can make coffee.”
Not crappy coffee like Maxwell House, either. While some people could handle drinking it, the aroma alone had Phoenix gagging. Instead, he bought his beans straight from the Press Room. They’d always been nice to him there, and Sam had even managed to find a few things he liked that were outside of his normal drinks.
“Yeah, sure, I could go for coffee,” Ace said.
He stretched, his shirt skimming up past his belly button, and Phoenix’s mouth went dry.
“I, uh—I—okay.”
Phoenix was fairly certain his cheeks were bright red, so he turned away and walked quickly toward the house, willing his cock to behave. The last thing he needed was for Ace to realize that he was attracted to him. A guy like Ace would never be interested in someone like him. No one ever had been; not in high school, and not now.
He tugged open the glass door to the porch, and tried to hold it open for Ace, but that led to the awkward position of him being in the way. Ace grabbed it, though, before he could feel too flustered.
“I’ve got it,” Ace said.
Rather than arguing, Phoenix led him through the living room, acutely aware of just how messy the place was. Since it was just himself and Lucy, there was no need to keep the house straight. Books were piled up beside his arm chair, and even more art was scattered on almost every surface in the room.
“Sorry about how it looks. I didn’t exactly plan to invite you in.”
Ace laughed, and for a brief moment, Phoenix thought he was laughing at him. But Ace’s smile was too soft to be mocking. “You should see my place,” he said. “I haven’t really had a chance to sort out all of my stuff, plus Dad’s, so it’s one big mess. This is normal.”
Phoenix let himself relax at the comment. “Oh. Good.”
He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen, which was slightly cleaner than the living room, if only because most of Phoenix’s meals were sandwiches. Walking over to the cabinet, he pulled out his bag of coffee and set about starting the coffee maker. Once he had it going, he turned around to face Ace.
“Do you want something to eat? I have cookies or I could make something more. Do you like soup?”
“Cookies are just fine.”
It was a good thing he’d been stressed the night before. Baking was a good way to keep his hands occupied when he was stressed. And the end result was something he could enjoy even more. He pulled the cookie jar out from its place in the corner and set it on the island, where Ace had taken a seat, then grabbed a separate cookie jar to give Lucy a treat. When he looked up, Ace was waiting patiently.
“Go ahead, take one. They’re snickerdoodles.”
Ace took one, an oddly-strained smile on his lips. “My mom used to make these,” he said. He took a bite and groaned, his eyes slipping shut. “They taste just like hers, too.”
The words slammed into him hard. He’d completely forgotten where he had gotten the recipe, he’d been making them for so long. “That’s because it’s her recipe,” he said. “You remember the St. Jerome Cookbook they made when we were younger? My mom had a copy and then gave it to me when I moved out.”
More like forced him to take it, telling him he needed to learn to cook real food, instead of eating takeout and Kraft dinners all the time.
“They’re really good,” Ace said, his voice thick. Phoenix couldn’t tell if it was from the fact that his mouth was full or he was trying to hold back tears.
The coffeemaker beeped, and Phoenix twitched, then crossed over to grab a couple of mugs from the cabinet. They were two of his favorite—a matching set he had bought from an artist at the Wechsler who had passed away two years ago.
He poured himself a mug, then Ace. “How do you take yours?”
“Black is fine.”
Phoenix wrinkled his nose. How anyone could drink black coffee was beyond him. Even the coffees that claimed to be smooth ended up far too bitter for him. He handed Ace his mug and added cream and sugar to his own before taking a seat at the bar across from Ace.
Ace took a sip and hummed, then nodded. “Thanks for this,” he said.
He still had a strange look about him, like his mind was a million miles away. More than likely on his mother. Phoenix had a vague recollection of her. She’d had the same bright hair as Ace, and she’d been a piano teacher, before she got sick.
“I really am sorry I forgot to feed you,” he said, trying to break the mood that seemed to envelop them. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”
That would require going to the grocery store, though, and he didn’t even know what Ace liked. His mind started to turn over every possible thing that could go wrong—he got something Ace was allergic to and accidentally sent him into anaphylactic shock; he burned the food and they had nothing to eat again; he got something Ace despised and Ace thought him a horrible host…
“How about I bring my lunch?” Phoenix opened his mouth to object, but Ace kept going. “It’s hard cooking for one person, as I’m sure you know. I make enough to have leftovers, so it would be a good way to make sure I don’t waste food.”
Phoenix hesitated, then nodded. It really was the neatest solution. He wouldn’t have to worry about cooking for Ace, and Ace would be able to keep his food from going bad. “Okay,” he said, feeling a bit of the weight lift from his chest.
They ate their cookies in relative silence, broken only by the occasional sipping or the scrape of another cookie against the side of the jar. Ace ate three, and Phoenix made a mental note to make him an entire batch.
“So I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your work and your life,” Ace said.
Phoenix frowned. “My life?”
“Yeah.”
“Why my life?”
“Because people are interested,” Ace said with a smile. “They want to know about more than just your art. They want to know who you are as a person.”
“I’m really not that interesting,” he said, panic starting to build in his chest. It wasn’t like the people of Wilmingson didn’t know he was odd, but he would rather them think he was just quirky, rather than think there was anything wrong with him. Not that there was, but other people sure liked to think so.
Ace sighed. “It’s called Wilmingson Life for a reason. Please? Just a few questions?”
How could Phoenix say no to that? “Fine. A few questions.”
His response seemed to take Ace by surprise, but he nodded quickly. “Yeah? Okay. Um, let me grab my notebook.” He fumbled around in his bag before retrieving Steno that looked like it had seen better days. “So I guess my first question would be—a lot of people seem to think that you’re reclusive. You’ve never had an opening reception for any of your exhibits, you don’t go into town much. Why is that?”
They weren’t starting with the easy questions, were they? He bit the inside of his cheek, focusing on keeping his breathing even.
“Can I ask you a question for every question you ask me?” It was the only way he was going to make it through this interview.
Ace considered the request for a moment. “Sure. I don’t see why not. That’d make it feel a lot less one-sided.”
Letting out a slow breath, Phoenix nodded. “You say I’m a recluse, but I don’t think of myself that way. It isn’t that I don’t like people, but there’s a lot of noise and unexpected things that can happen in town. I work best with a very specific plan, so I know what’s going to happen around me.”
Ace set down his pencil, a small crease forming between his brows. “Why?”
He could always lie. There was no reason he had to tell Ace the whole truth. He didn’t owe it to him—didn’t owe it to anyone. But he didn’t want to lie to Ace, and there was nothing to be ashamed of. Logically, he knew that much.
His mouth was dry and his hands shook under the bar, but he forced himself to look into Ace’s eyes for the first time.
“Because I have Asperger’s.”