Best Laid Plans (Garnet Run 2)

“Remember our first bowl?” Rye murmured.

Rye thought about that night all the time. The feeling of Charlie’s warm bulk behind him and Charlie’s sturdy arms around him, guiding him. How Charlie’s mouth had been hot and sweet and welcomed him so perfectly.

“How could I forget.” Charlie kissed his hair. “Everything’s been different for me since then.”

He sounded so sure. So sure that Rye was what he wanted. That this—this life together was what he wanted. For someone who’d been so uncertain about his own desires in the beginning, once Charlie knew what he wanted he knew what he wanted.

Rye’d had more doubts. He’d worried he would fuck it all up, this amazing thing between them. Worried he’d drive Charlie away or annoy him or disgust him. That something essential about Rye would prove to be the pin in the grenade that destroyed them.

But each day that they spent together eased his heart. Each disagreement they had that didn’t break them; each time he got annoyed and Charlie didn’t punish him for it; each time Charlie asked a question and he found himself answering it not just truthfully but honestly. Each time they held each other in the night and Rye could feel Charlie’s love in the way he touched him. Each one had been a brick in the home of their relationship, shoring up this thing they shared.

“Me too,” Rye said. And he smiled against Charlie’s chest. He smiled at Charlie and at this woodshop, in this house, in this strange town of Garnet Run. He smiled at himself.

Charlie

Charlie used to think that the opposite of alone was together. Now he knew that the opposite of alone was being yourself with another person while they were also being themselves. It was more than together. It was in partnership.

He’d never known partnership before Rye. He had needed people and he had been needed. He had worked alongside people. He’d had friends and he’d been a friend. But until Rye Janssen stormed into his life Charlie had never known what it felt like to coexist with someone and share dreams, goals, plans.

Cats.

“Yeah, I see you there, you little monster,” Charlie said, flicking a gaze to the cat Rye had named Redrum and Charlie still thought of as Murder Cat the Second (Marmot’s initial incarnation in his life having been Murder Cat the First). Even Rye nearly always called her Murder Cat. The kitten was sitting on top of the refrigerator, no doubt preparing to set upon any food a fool human prepared. She yawned and stretched out a paw lazily toward him as if to say, Okay, you got me.

It was their anniversary. Last night he and Rye had made popcorn and sat in front of the fire, talking as flames consumed wood. Rye had suggested they should burn his benighted laptop desk in effigy as an offering to the gods of woodworking and a blessing for their union, but Charlie had nixed it on account of the truly staggering amount of wood glue that Rye had used on the project.

“We’d die of asphyxiation. Not a good way to start our next year together.”

Rye had snorted and not seemed too upset that his supremely sweet idea for a gift wasn’t even suitable for kindling.

“Need help?”

Rye sidled into the kitchen, hair damp from his shower, wearing his worn skinny jeans and a gray and orange sweater of Charlie’s that he’d claimed as his own though it was far too big for him. Charlie loved seeing Rye in his clothes, as if the sweater was hugging Rye all day long in Charlie’s stead.

“Nah, I’m just making meatloaf,” Charlie said. “Made it a million times.”

Rye froze, eyes comically wide.

“Kidding.”

Rye grinned.

Charlie still liked meatloaf just fine. He still made it sometimes. But he didn’t make it every Thursday. In fact, he didn’t follow a set schedule for when he made certain dishes at all anymore. He made what he was in the mood for, or Rye did. He made whatever he wanted.

“I’m making pizza with your dough.”

“Yum.”

Rye moved fluidly around the kitchen, getting things from the cabinets and the refrigerator.

He was closing the refrigerator when he jerked back, cried, “Jesus!” and the cheese went flying across the floor.

A small black face peered from above them, and a relaxed merow followed.

“Fucking murder cat!”

Rye clutched his chest and gathered the cheese off the floor.

Charlie laughed. Murder Cat purred and curled back up on the refrigerator.

“You’re not gonna get me again,” Rye muttered to her. It was the twentieth or thirtieth time he’d said it.

The doorbell rang just as they were sliding the pizzas into the oven and they herded Simon, Jack, and an allergy-medicated Jean into the living room. It was still storming outside and the whole world looked gray and wet and chilly.

When Charlie had asked Rye what he wanted to do for their anniversary, he’d expected him to suggest going out to dinner or driving to Laramie to see live music. But Rye had said they should invite Jack, Simon, and Jean over. He’d walked it back, grumbling, “Wait, is that weird? I don’t know what the hell you do on an anniversary.”