Any Closer

He nodded, and I felt the tip of his nose under my chin and, a second later, a soft whimper, closer to a whine from the back of his throat.

“I’m glad you didn’t shoot anybody,” I told him, slowly realizing that I was looking at an empty passenger seat because all six feet of lean, muscled Charlie Ryerson was in my lap. “Where’s the gun now?”

There was a quiet cough from him. “I buried it in the foundation of the Coleman house.”

I chuckled. “That’s awesome. Mrs. Coleman would find that very romantic.”

“You think she would?”

“Since she writes murder mysteries for a living, I’m gonna go with yeah.”

He sighed deeply.

“You’re gonna be alright,” I pronounced.

I felt him nod before he slid back over into his seat, and when I looked at him, I realized how flushed he was.

“Should I turn down the heater?”

Quick shake of his head before he looked out the passenger-side window.

“Charlie, look at me.”

Slowly, he turned.

“There’s no harm in needing someone to lean on once in a while, so just know that you’ve got me and Paul and my folks and my sister, Theresa, and all the guys here just waitin’ for you to dump on us. We’re all here for you, so never think you gotta do anything alone.”

He nodded fast.

“I’m serious. And I don’t know if you’ve got someone special, I mean, I don’t see you dating, but you could be, and if—”

“There’s nobody but you, Leo.”

“Well, we’re all here for you, alright?”

He smiled suddenly and shook his head.

“What?”

“You never listen.”

“I always listen,” I grumbled. “People drive for miles just to dump their shit on me.”

He rolled his eyes.

“But please don’t retreat back into your man-cave bullshit because of this.”

“Christ, are you listening to yourself, Dr. Phil?”

I smacked his shoulder hard.

“For fuck’s sake, Leo!”

“I don’t want you to be the walking wounded, Charlie. If you need help with this, get it.”

“Nice attitude.”

“I don’t mean it to be anything but kind, and you know that. If I could take it away, I so would. I—”

“No, I know.” He shook his head, gave me the curl of his lip that he did when something was so tedious it didn’t even bear mentioning. “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

“Have you seen a shrink?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should.”

“It was four, almost five years ago now, Leo.”

“So what? You need to talk to someone.”

“I just talked to you. You’re the first person I ever even wanted to talk to about it.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know anything about how shit like this works. There’s a whole process of grieving, and—”

“Who says it’s grief?”

“Of course it’s grief, idiot.” I scowled at him. “You were one guy when you walked into the room and another guy when you came out. You gotta grieve for the guy who walked in.”

He looked like I’d hit him.

“Goddamnit,” I moaned. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Leo,” he croaked out before he turned and lunged at me, arms around my neck, face buried against me, his chest pressed tight to mine.

When I put my hands in his hair, stroking gently, I heard the deep sigh of contentment.

“If we’re late to work today, it’s your fault.” I smiled into hair that smelled like wildflowers in the summer and was like silk brushing across my cheek. The weight of him in my arms felt much too good to be okay. He was my friend, which meant that his category was set. He could not move, especially now that I knew the backstory.

“Okay.” He sighed deeply, lifting away from me. “Let’s go see your mother.”

2

We drove in silence, which was unusual for us, but I figured he had a lot on his mind, so I didn’t press him. At my parents’ large ranch house, I used my key and opened the front door. My father was still sick with the flu but obviously feeling better, as evidenced by the fact that he was sitting up in his recliner and flipping channels.

I leaned over, kissed his forehead, and slipped him the iPad he’d been wanting. My sister’s son Jeremy had showed him his the last time he’d been over, and my father had finally been bitten by the need for technology.

“Oh, Leo.” He smiled up at me, hands on my face, pulling me down for a kiss on the cheek. My mother and her good Spanish upbringing had rubbed off on my father before I was born, so instead of being reserved and aloof like the rest of his family, he was demonstrative and loving. My father still walked with his hand on my shoulder when we went out and hugged me every chance he got. “Thank you.”

“Enjoy,” I said, heading for the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

Was this a trick question? “I’m supposed to put up the can opener.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. Why?”

“I—oh, hello, Charlie. I didn’t see you there. Nice to see you, son.”