“Wow,” Rye breathed.
Charlie, usually so practical and down-to-earth, was looking around them like he had stumbled upon a dragon’s treasure trove.
“Heya, Charlie,” a man called from the open barn doors in the back of the space.
“Hey, Lloyd.”
“What can I find ya?”
“Just looking around for now. This is my friend Rye.” Charlie put a hand on Rye’s shoulder. “We’re fixing up Granger Janssen’s old place. Rye’s his grandson.”
Lloyd’s bushy gray eyebrows rose over blueberry eyes and he nodded.
“Nice to meet you, son. Anything you boys need, just holler.”
He tipped his hat.
“So, what do we do?”
“Thought we could just walk around first, see if anything jumps out at you.”
Before Rye could say anything ridiculous, like, “boo,” Charlie took his hand and led him over to the cabinets.
He was pointing at them saying words like Shaker and modern and Rye wasn’t registering a single one because Charlie’s hand was warm and rough in his. He squeezed Charlie’s hand and Charlie squeezed his back, talking all the while.
“Sorry, what?” Rye said, when Charlie looked at him expectantly.
Charlie’s brow furrowed and Rye cringed sheepishly.
“I got distracted by you holding my hand,” Rye grumbled.
Charlie’s eyes widened and a silly, delighted smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Thought I was the one who’d never been in a relationship before?” he teased.
“Are we? In a relationship?”
“Well I...” Charlie began, then bit his lip. “I guess we never said that, no. I apologize.”
He ran the hand not holding Rye’s through his hair in a nervous gesture.
“Do you want to be?” Rye asked. And he realized that this was what all the mushiness had been leading up to. He didn’t just want Charlie, he wanted Charlie for his own.
Charlie ran his hand over the lip of a cabinet, a casual assessment. Then he turned to Rye and ducked his head.
“Yes.”
He said it like it was an admission, not a desire. Like it was a finally, not a now. And the soft, mushy place inside Rye grew softer and mushier still.
* * *
On Tuesday, Rye got off work at noon. Unsure what to do with himself, he picked up Marmot and drove over to the Crow Lane house with the intention of trying to figure out what the hell he wanted it to look like.
When he opened the door, the kids he’d met before were there and they had been joined by a fourth. Rye raised a hand in greeting.
“Hey,” Greasy Hair Kid said.
They didn’t seem surprised to see him. But when they caught sight of Marmot, they were all smiles.
They started playing with her, leading her on chases through the empty downstairs.
“So, uh, what are your actual names?” Rye stopped himself before he added So I don’t keep calling you Greasy Hair Kid, Bandana Kid, and Flannel Jacket Kid in my head.
“Why, you gonna report us?” the new kid said, hands on her hips.
“Uh. No. Report you to who?”
“The cops.”
“Well you’re not doing anything illegal. I said you could hang out.”
His actual words had been more like Just don’t burn the house down, but whatever.
The kids exchanged looks.
“You don’t have to tell me your real names. Just something so I can stop calling you Greasy Hair Kid and Bandana Kid and Flannel Jacket Kid in my head.”
Oops. Slipped out.
Flannel Jacket Kid snickered. “Greasy Hair Kid,” she repeated.
Greasy Hair Kid pouted. “I have above-average oil production,” he protested.
“I don’t always wear a bandana,” Bandana Kid grumbled.
“This is what I was trying to avoid,” Rye said.
“I’m Tracy,” Flannel Jacket Kid said. “That’s Nate.” She pointed at Greasy Hair Kid. “That’s River.” She indicated Bandana Kid. “And she’s Biscuit.” The new kid.
Rye tried very hard not to laugh at Biscuit, who hadn’t given any indication that she possessed a sense of humor about anything, much less herself.
“Nice to meet you,” he choked out. “I’m Rye.”
“I know,” Biscuit sniffed.
Of course the others would’ve told her about him.
“That’s Marmot,” Rye added, as Marmot galloped back to him, holding something in her mouth, and dropped it at his feet.
Her offering turned out to be a bone. Before he could chide her for acting like a dog, River said, “That’s a rabbit bone.”
“How do you know that?” Rye asked.
“Oh, they know everything about animals and bones,” Tracy said.
“My dad hunts,” River said, like that explained it. And maybe it did. Rye didn’t know enough about hunting to evaluate.
River crouched on the ground and held out their knuckles to Marmot. Marmot sniffed regally, then bumped her little face against their fist.
“She’s a sweetheart,” River said, which made Rye conclude that they were either an optimist or delusional.
“She’s got her moments,” he allowed.
“Wish I could have a cat,” Nate said. “Or a dog.”
“Me too,” said Tracy.
“Our dogs are evil,” River bemoaned.
“If we had pets my mom would try and make them be in beauty pageants,” Biscuit muttered bitterly.
“Biscuit and her sister have crushed their mom’s dreams of them landing a pageant reality TV show,” Tracy confided.