Chapter 4

THE ALARM went off at seven.

He opened his eyes.

He said, “Today is going to be an okay day.”

He rolled off the bed and exercised.

He finished and stood, eyeing the inspirational calendar.

He thought, briefly, of ignoring it today.

But it was part of his routine now.

He tore off yesterday’s message and tossed it in the garbage.

A simple hello could lead to a million things.

“Yeah,” Gus said. “Like herpes or getting fisted.”

Stupid fucking inspirational calendar.

It was Saturday.

He showered and dressed.

His name tag was straight.

Harry S. Truman acted like a jerk.

Gus ate his apple.

The ferret played with his food and chittered happily.

After, he loaded Harry S. Truman into his carrier.

They left the house.

It was raining.

“Motherfucker,” Gus grumbled. He reached back in and grabbed Pastor Tommy’s ancient umbrella from the stand by the door. Pastor Tommy had been of the firm belief to take an umbrella wherever he went, because Gus, old boy, it could rain at any moment, no matter if the sun was bright and beautiful, and he was always going to be prepared, plus his hair tended to get way too curly when it got wet and he always came out looking like a drowned poodle, oh my god.

Gus could relate. It was the Tiberius family curse.

“Sorry,” Gus said as Harry S. Truman complained loudly as rain fell into his carrier. “Don’t yell at me.”

He thought about forgoing his coffee that morning. Just this once.

He sighed and crossed the street.

The bell jingled overhead.

He shook out his umbrella and waited for Lottie’s colorful commentary.

Instead, a male voice said, “Hey, man. Look at you. All wet and wild.”

Gus froze.

Now, it should be said that Gus was not of the… personable sort. He knew he had resting bitch face, he knew he scowled more often than not, was considered grumpy and odd, and the majority of people that he came into contact with would agree he was generally off-putting. Sure, most of the town of Abby, Oregon, would smile and wave at him just as sure as they would whisper among themselves about just how strange Gustavo Tiberius was, just how quiet he was now that he didn’t have Pastor Tommy to speak for him. Pastor Tommy had been the face and the voice of the two-man Tiberius family for as long as anyone could remember. When he died, the voice went quiet and soft, only speaking to a select few, and really even then only when absolutely necessary.

Gus was not a people person. And that was with people he knew.

And this… this was not a person he knew.

He slowly raised his gaze, knowing his eyes were probably wide with something that could possibly be construed as slight terror. His heart was thudding in his chest.

There, behind the counter, stood a man.

He was younger than Gus. Probably. He wore a dark green beanie that was far too large for his head, the top falling over the back of his head. A tuft of dirty blond hair stuck out and rested on his forehead. His dark eyes were framed by thick black frames and rested on a slightly crooked nose. He had a beard, scruffy, but probably made to look so on purpose. It was darker than the lock of hair sticking out from underneath the beanie.

He wore a button-down shirt, open at the throat, revealing miles and miles of pale skin with little curls of hair (darker still, Gus thought, unable to stop himself) on the chest before the shirt closed. His middle was wrapped in one of Lottie’s red aprons, cinched tight around his wiry body, tight and compact.

But it was his arms that Gus got stuck on. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbows, and almost every inch of skin was covered in tattoos, bright and colorful. He could see birds and names and flowers and sharp lines. He wondered just how far up his arms they went.

He looked back up at the man’s face, aware that seconds had gone by and he’d done nothing but stare.

The stranger had a small smile on his face, the faint hint of white teeth, eyes crinkling along the edges. He was lean and pretty and so very, very sunny, and it was awkward.

Gus could not think of a single thing to say, so he said a simple, “Hello.”

The smile widened. “Hey, man. Raining cats and dogs.”

Gus (being Gus) said, “The first recorded use of that phrase was in the 1651 collection of poems Olor Iscanus by Henry Vaughn,” all the while thinking shut up, shut up, shut up!

The man cocked his head. “That right? Henry Vaughn, you say? Respect.”

Gus swallowed thickly and tried to control whatever the hell was going on with his heartbeat. “Where’s Lottie?”

The man said, “You’re Gus, huh?”

And that didn’t help at all, so Gus said, “No,” rather defensively, because he was off center, it was raining, and there was a stranger with lips and ears that stuck out slightly and that shouldn’t be fucking endearing. Then, “I mean, yeah. Yes. Gus. Gustavo. Gustavo Tiberius. That’s me. That’s who I am.”

“You sure?” the man asked, leaning down over his arms on the countertop, never taking his eyes off Gus. His fingers tapped a staccato beat on the counter that Gus couldn’t help but follow. “You don’t sound sure, man.”

Gus narrowed his eyes. “I’m sure, man. How’d you know?”

The guy gave a lazy shrug. “It’s on your name tag. Gus, anyway. But Gustavo Tiberius? That’s… epic. Like, you should be standing on a hill with a sword drawn and a dragon by your side kind of epic.”

Gus scowled even as he flushed because he was most certainly not epic. “Yes. Well. Okay. Black coffee.” And because he wasn’t a complete asshole, he added, “Please.” And then, “Now.” And then, “Please.”

This, of course, was when Harry S. Truman (finished with being completely ignored, the drama queen) chose to chitter quite loudly.

“What the hell,” the man said, eyes going wide. “Um. Not to alarm you, dude, but the box you’re carrying is squeaking.”

Gus rolled his eyes. “That’s just Harry S. Truman. And I’m not a dude.”

“Harry S. what now?” the man asked, squinting at Gus, and when had Gus taken enough steps forward to see that the guy was roughly the same height as him? Close enough that he could stare into the other man’s eyes and see the dark hazel, little flecks of gold and green and—

“Harry S. Truman,” Gus said, trying to stop himself from rhapsodizing about the pretty man in front of him. “My ferret.”

“Your ferret,” the man repeated.

God, it was so hard to hire good help these days. Poor Lottie. Also, he was going to give her so much shit later for not telling him. The equilibrium was off now and the whole day was probably ruined. “Ferret,” Gus said. “They are things people have. I have one. Like other people. It’s perfectly normal to have a ferret. I should know. I have one. And I’m normal.”

“A ferret named Harry S. Truman.”

“That wasn’t me,” Gus retorted. “That was Pastor Tommy. He said he looked very presidential.”

“Pastor Tommy?”

What the hell was going on? “My dad. He wasn’t a pastor, but everyone called him that anyway, oh my god.”

The man shook his head. “I’m either way too stoned or not stoned enough. God, that’s a flux state to be in.”

“You shouldn’t be stoned at work,” Gus said rather stiffly. “It’s not proper.” He cringed internally as it came out sounding like he was a 1920s debutante. He tried to correct it and add “Man,” and that just made it worse.

“Lottie doesn’t care,” the man said, waving a hand in easy dismissal. “She knows this is me.” His eyes widened. “But no. No, it’s okay. I’m not always stoned. I needed it. Mostly. Nerves, ya know? First day and all. And you’re my first customer! But it’s really medicinal. I have a card and everything.”

“It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning!”

“It’s wake and bake, man. And I helped.”

“I don’t care,” Gus said. He wondered what would happen if he ran in the opposite direction. Would the man follow him? Would he have to leave town? Where would he go? Canada, maybe. He could work in their film industry and make terrible movies.

“It’s a medical thing,” the guy said with another shrug. “I have stigmata.”

Gus stared at him.

The guy grinned back, wide and wonderful and oh so shiny and new.

Gus hated him.

“You have stigmata,” Gus said flatly.

“Yeah,” the guy said, trying to peer into the pet carrier, making faces at Harry S. Truman like he thought the ferret would laugh. “It’s this whole… thing. Grr rawr, little ferret.”

“Your hands and feet bleed similar to the wounds afflicted on Jesus Christ during his crucifixion and that’s why you have a prescription for medical marijuana.”

The guy looked back up at Gus. “Wow. That was heavy. Like. Whoa. Can I take a picture?”

Gus took a step back. “What.”

“I need to Instagram this moment,” he said, pulling a smartphone out of the front pocket of the apron. “No one is going to believe me. You’re like… walking around with a ferret and shit. With your face. The world needs to see this. I need to tell everyone about this. You’re—”

“Oh my god,” Gus groaned, wondering if maybe he’d been drugged during the night and was having a bad trip. “You’re a stoned hipster who thinks he’s a bleeding Jesus. And you have an iPhone. Because of course you do.”

He looked up from his phone. “Bleeding Jesus?” he said with a frown. “Man, you’re, like, badass. That’d be a great name for a band, though. Bleeding Jesus. People would think you’d sing hard-core Christian rock or something, you know, screaming about your love for Christ and how your blood burns for him and shit because fuck the devil, and then you would surprise them by coming out and playing backwoods folk music on the bongos. Man, that’d be awesome. Do you have bongos? I’ve always wanted to—”

“I just wanted coffee,” Gus said, sounding rather desperate, “and you told me you smoke weed because you bleed like Jesus.”

“No I didn’t,” he said before raising his phone and snapping a picture that Gus was pretty sure would show him with the most impressive of glares. “I smoke weed because I love it. And also, I have this thing with my eyes.”

Oh for fuck’s—

“You mean astigmatism?” Because what is even happening right now.

“S’what I said. What filter should I use for your picture? And what’s your Instagram name so I can tag you? We should be friends on it. And in real life. Anyone who has a ferret and your face should be my friend. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”

“I don’t have Instagram, oh my god. I have priorities. And marijuana doesn’t do anything for astigmatism. There is no medical backing that supports—”

“Cool,” the man said. “I used the Valencia filter. Brings out your eyes. And Harry’s eyes.” He started typing on his phone and mumbling. “Hey, followers. Second day in and I met Gustavo Tiberius and his ferret. Check it out. They both have pretty eyes. Blushing smiley face. L-O-L. Hashtag awesome. Hashtag presidential ferrets. Hashtag mountain town adventures. Hashtag—”

“I don’t have pretty eyes,” Gus snapped, flushing miserably because what.

“It’s okay,” the guy said. “You don’t have to think so. I do. Hashtag ferret with merit. And posted.” He put his phone away and grinned at Gus, eyeing him expectantly. “Welcome to Lottie’s Lattes where we sure as fuck like you a lottie. What can I get you?”

“Black coffee,” Gus ground out, trying to hide how sweaty he suddenly was.

“Black coffee coming right up. Can I interest you in a muffin? Lottie just made them this morning. She seemed awfully proud of them. Like lemon poppy seed was her religion. Maybe you could sell them at your Bleeding Jesus concerts.”

“I hate muffins,” Gus said rather savagely. And even if that wasn’t quite true, he certainly felt it at the moment because everything was wrong.

“Ooh,” the man said as he filled a large cup with coffee. “Some muffin-related tragedy when you were young? I get it, man. Trust me. I get it. I had a bad experience with cauliflower when I was, like, eight or something. Can’t even be near it without having flashbacks.” He shuddered. “Cauliflower PTSD, ya know? Gives me the heebie-jeebies. It’s my Vietnam. Therapy helped. Mostly. But we’re all a little crazy, right? Oh, and I just remembered. I don’t have stigmata. It’s glaucoma. And that reminds me of guacamole. Which would be awesome right now.”

“What the hell did you smoke?” Gus asked.

The guy shot a grin over his shoulder. “Pot, man. And none of that scrub brush in the city sold by some WASPy tween from the suburbs that’s all seeds. You got some fine shit up here. The growers know what they’re doing. Legalization works wonders. Maybe we’ll all be Colorado someday and be able to smoke in the streets.” He set the cup on the counter, snapping on a lid and sliding it over. “One large black coffee. Lottie says you don’t get charged for stuff here. Like, that’s cool, ya know? She kinda loves you. I can see why, man. You’ve got this whole… vibe about you.”

“I don’t have vibes,” Gus insisted, trying to not let out any vibes at all. “I’m vibe-less. I’m vibe-free. I’m so devoid of vibes, I’m like the anti-vibe.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “That’s cool. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That’s… you just… are you—”

“Hey, you smoke?” he said like Gus wasn’t trying to speak at all.

“I have to go to work,” Gus said, struggling not to snatch the coffee and flee.

“Awesome,” the guy said. “Hey. Hey. I totally forgot. Your muffin.”

“I don’t want one!”

“You sure? Lottie said you love them.”

“Lottie literally lies about a lot.”

He blinked at Gus. “Whoa. Man, good alliteration. That gave me goose bumps. That takes skill. You’ve got skill, Gustavo Tiberius.” He grinned again.

Gus grabbed his coffee and fled.