Better Than People (Garnet Run 1)

Stocking feet, worn sweatpants, a bulky cast on one leg—his eyes had traveled slowly up from the ground. A faded Penn State hoodie, broad shoulders, and biceps that bulged as they wielded crutches.

But it was the first glimpse of the man’s face that had frozen Simon in place. He had hair the color of copper and gold, a strong jaw etched with copper stubble, a straight nose, and hazel eyes beneath frowning reddish-brown eyebrows. His full mouth was fixed in a scowl.

He was beautiful and angry and it was a combination so potent that it flushed through Simon with the heat of an intoxicant, then set his head spinning with fear.

He’d clutched his arms around himself in a futile attempt to keep all his molecules contained, dreading the sensation of flying apart, diffusing into the atmosphere in a nebula of dissolution.

Simon had been consumed by the conviction he’d held as a child: if he could squeeze his eyes shut tightly enough to block out the world then it would cease to see him too. But when he’d opened his eyes again, there was Jack Matheson, still beautiful, but now looking at him with his most hated expression.

Pity.

Simon shook his head to clear the image of Jack’s pitying gaze and picked up the pace, as if he might be able to outrun the moment when he’d have to drop off the animals and interact with Jack again.

* * *

“Grandma, I’m home,” Simon called as he shouldered open the door, arms full of groceries.

“In the kitchen, dear!”

He deposited the bags on the counter, but backed off when his grandmother moved to kiss his cheek.

“You’ll be allergic to me. One sec.”

He jogged downstairs to his basement room and changed his clothes, giving a fond look at the fur of his new friends clinging to the wool of his sweater.

“How did it go?” his grandmother asked, sliding a cup of tea toward him on the counter. The smell of lavender perfume and chamomile tea would forever remind him of her.

“As well as can be expected?” Simon hedged, sipping the hot tea too quickly. She raised an eyebrow and he sighed. “He was fine. I just... Whatever. You know.” Simon raked a hand through his hair.

His grandmother knew better than anyone how hard it was for him and how angry he got at himself for the hardship. She’d been the one he came to, red-faced and sweaty, when he’d nailed varsity soccer tryouts his sophomore year and then fled the field, never to return, when the coach noticed he hadn’t shouted the team shout with the other boys and forced him to stand on his own and yell it with everyone looking.

She’d been the one who found him in the basement he now lived in, tear-streaked and reeking of vomit after his eleventh-grade history teacher had forced him to give his presentation in front of the rest of the class despite his promise to do any amount of extra credit instead.

Simon swallowed, overcome with affection for her.

“The dogs are great, though. There’s this really big St. Bernard who’s a cuddly baby and throws himself around even though he’s probably two hundred pounds. And he has cats too, and one of them comes on the walks. Her name’s Pirate—she’s a calico with a black spot over one eye—and she leads the group like a little cat tour guide.”

Simon’s grandmother squeezed his hand.

“It’s so good to see you happy,” she said wistfully. Simon ducked his head, but a nice, comfortable kind of warmth accompanied his grandmother’s touches. She didn’t rush him the way his father did, didn’t try and finish his sentences the way his mother did, didn’t try and convince him to just try and be social the way his sister, Kylie, did. The way his teachers and school counselors had.

“Yeah,” he said. He gulped the last of the tea and put his cup in the dishwasher. “I’m gonna go get started on work. You need anything before I do?”

“I’m fine, dear. I’ll be in the garden, I think.”

Simon hesitated. His grandfather’s rose garden was the place Simon still felt his presence most strongly, and it was where his grandmother went when she wanted to think of him.

“Is it bad today?” he asked softly. He wasn’t sure if bad was the right word, precisely. After all, it wasn’t bad to miss the man you’d spent your life with, was it? It was merely...inevitable. But it was the shorthand he’d used the first time he’d asked, when he’d found her at the fence, one swollen-knuckled hand pressed flat to the wood and the other clutching the locket with her late husband’s picture in it, and it had stuck.

She smiled gently at him. “Medium.” With a pat to his arm, she left him to make his way down to the basement.