Scratch the Surface

“Are we not?” I challenged, and much to my amazement I wasn’t scared of the question or worried about his answer. I was daring him to contradict me, because of course we were an us, for heaven’s sake.

“Yes,” he agreed hoarsely. “We’re an us.”

“Well then, I have to create a schedule.”

“Of course you do.”

“I’m sorry, are you being snide?”

“No.” His chuckle was low and soft. “A schedule is good.”

“All right, then.” I walked into my office to take a seat at my desk. I put my phone in the stand so he could see me as I turned on my desktop. “Now, what days do you work at The Mission?”

“I like the room, from what I can see of it.”

“Oh, thank you. I like built-in bookshelves, and there’s a window and—wait, let me show you.” I stood, with my phone, and flipped the camera so he could see my cozy office with its heavy rugs and the overstuffed couch with throw pillows and a blanket—where I slept occasionally—the bookshelves with the rolling ladder, and the antique orrery near the window.

“Yeah, that’s a great room, Cam.”

“You can see the rest when you come for Thanksgiving, but right now, I want to talk logistics.”

“Oh yes, sir,” he agreed playfully. “I work Monday, Wednesday, and Friday as a counselor, and I work late at Kingman’s on the other four days.”

“Okay.” I had to work hard to hide my reaction to the revelation that he worked seven days a week, and typed the information into the Excel spreadsheet I had open. “And what days do you go to school?”

“Monday through Thursday, nothing on Friday.”

“All right.”

“May I ask why you’re doing this?”

“Because I realize you don’t have any free time, besides holidays, to see me, so if we’re going to spend time together, I’m going to need to drive to you.”

“And you assume that every moment I have off, I’ll want to spend with you?”

I met his gaze in my phone and jumped without a net. “Yes.”

His smile curled his lip at the corner, and there was a dimple there. “Good. That’s good.”

I was a worrier by nature. I worried about how things sounded, about how they would be received and what would be the outcome of whatever I did or said. I went back and forth, and only spoke or acted after I’d gone through every possible scenario. For whatever reason, that wasn’t happening with Jeremiah. With him—and thus far in my life, only with him—was I inexplicably fearless. It had started with inviting him into my room, and as far as I could tell, there was no end in sight to what I wanted from him and what I wasn’t afraid to ask for.

“I’m going to be back in Sacramento next week, starting Monday, so I thought perhaps you would invite me to stay with you.”

“You’re too good for my apartment. I think the entire thing could fit in your office.”

“Let me stay at your apartment,” I prodded, “or you’ll have to stay with me at a hotel, and that won’t be nearly as nice.”

“You’ve never seen my apartment,” he groaned. “A hotel is a much better idea.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s really not.”

“I’m certain it’s charming,” I defended his as-yet-unseen domicile.

“You would be mistaken.”

“I suspect this has less to do with the state of your home and far more to do with the fact that you don’t want me in it,” I passed judgment. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“It’s not a home in any sense. It’s a place where I shower. That’s my point.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean it’s nothing. It doesn’t say anything about me at all.”

“Is it clean?”

“Of course it’s clean.” He was indignant.

“Do you have big scary bugs?”

“Have you lost your––”

“Mold?”

“Did you just say mold?”

“Oh God, do you have black mold?”

“I—what?”

“No locks on your doors?”

“I’ll have you know my apartment is probably the safest one in the––”

“I want to stay with you, Mr. Wolfe, so I can sleep with you at night when you come home from work.” The breath he took, and the slight shiver, made me smile like a crazy person. “So let me stay with you. I’ll call you Monday from the road and you can give me directions to where you are.”

“That sounds like a deal.”

And of course, at that moment, I had a horrible feeling I was overstepping and being pushy, and perhaps he was just being nice, but what he really wanted was to run.

“What’s with the face?”

I tensed for what he would say. “Am I being pushy or overbearing or––”

“You’re being interested,” he answered, not taking his gaze from mine. “In me. Nobody is ever interested in me, so that’s pretty amazing.”

“I find that impossible to believe.”

“Guys want other guys with jobs like yours, with financial portfolios like yours, and to be picked up in nice cars and taken home to houses that look like yours. I’m not the ideal, Cameron Gallagher, you are.”