Chapter 13

What makes a home. What makes a home...

Carl spent the better part of the afternoon pacing his front porch, flicking through last month's magazine. Linda—with this emphasis on ‘home'—must be a Taurus.

He slumped into the wicker chair, dropped the mag, and snatched a lavender frond tickling his ankles.

All this thought of ‘home' had Carl knotted up inside. He'd run away from his. He'd convinced himself it was the best thing to do at the time, but... the truth was, he couldn't hide here forever.

He took out his phone and reread the message he'd received from Jason. ‘Cousin' Cora might soon be engaged to her boyfriend, who had two girls.

The unsaid plea for him to admit the truth to Cora had him panicking, but the mention of those two girls... that punched hardest. He jammed his phone back into his pocket and tore at his lavender frond.

"What's that lavender ever done to you?"

At that curious voice, Carl swung his head around and leapt to his feet. Grayson came up the path, expression heavier than usual, with a bundle under his arm. For a flashing instant, that urge to explain today's moment on the footpath with Poppy returned—

And quickly dissipated. Carl didn't need to blurt all that out. It wasn't like there was anything between them. Besides, his chest was still too full of his mum.

Grayson's troubled gaze flickered to his and back to the shredded frond.

Carl ran his lavender scented fingers through his hair. "I was feeling... upset."

"Was feeling?" Grayson stepped onto the veranda, expression shifting into concern, and Carl... liked that Grayson was able to put aside whatever worries he had to ask about Carl's. It was kind and considerate and generous, and Carl's heart absolutely did not thump a few beats faster.

He slumped back into his seat and rested his head back, staring into the middle distance between them. "Am feeling."

Grayson dusted off an old stool and dragged it next to him. "Want to share?"

"You came here for a reason. Not this."

"Do I need a reason?" Grayson swallowed, glancing away. He shifted the bundle to his lap and Carl recognised Sage's wraparound dress—he'd left it at the school—along with the container from his burned soup.

Carl suddenly understood the bundle. It wasn't something to return, or something he'd left behind. It was an excuse so Grayson felt he could visit.

Carl's breath felt shallow and ticklish in his lungs. "Yes. You need a reason." Grayson frowned and Carl leaned forward in his chair, fishing for eye contact. "But the reason can be to see a friend."

After a moment, Grayson nodded slowly. "I wanted to see my friend. And now I want to know how you're feeling." He glanced at the leftover lavender. "Why are you upset?"

Carl sigh-groaned and flung himself dramatically back in his seat. "When I was chasing after you earlier I bumped into Linda, and she said I need to think about home."

Grayson straightened on his stool. "You chased..." He cleared his throat and kept the conversation on track. "Linda told you to think about home?"

"Yes, and it's been occupying my head the whole afternoon. Then my brother messaged me, and I'm still coming to terms with it."

Grayson waited patiently as Carl explained the mess he'd left behind. "... They're nice girls. I once cheered one of them up by tagging a lamppost. That got me a good fine but it stopped her tears. Still..." Carl grabbed at another lavender frond and Grayson saved it from decimation, placing a warm hand over his and pinching the frond free.

"Still, what?"

A long sigh. "If Cora gets married... she'll become a step-mum." His chin sank and his throat tightened. "The girls might even call her Mum, when I've never had the chance."

The stool skidded closer, and the block of Grayson's warmth hovered close. A comforting hand titled his chin, dragged to the crook of his neck and rested there. "You want to acknowledge her."

A nod.

"You want her to acknowledge you."

For the first time in Carl's life, the sting behind his eyes gave way to blurry vision and dampness down his cheek. Grayson had understood immediately. Said the words he'd not even admitted to himself. More than calling her Mum, he wanted her to call him her son. Hers. Someone worthy of a mother's unconditional love.

Grayson murmured, "It sounds like you have a close bond, even though you haven't shared the truth. Maybe it's her way of being there for you?"

"You-you think so?"

"She comes almost every day to hang with you at the store. That sounds like love to me."

Carl covered his face with his hands. "You always know what to say." He laughed croakily. "Something's not right about you. You're too perfect."

"Perfect?"

That sounded... Carl peeked between his fingers at the preening look Grayson had and snorted. "I spoke too soon."

Grayson returned to being serious. "I think, deep down, you want to talk with her."

Carl swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

"Want to practice?"

"Practice? How?"

Grayson considered this, eyed his bundle, took the wrap dress and flung it around his shoulders.

"Grayson!" Carl laughed, shoving him.

Grayson took it off again. "Practice facing her with me."

Carl took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "This feels weird."

"You can always be weird with me."

"That's weirdly reassuring."

"Imagine I'm your mother. I've come into your store and"—Grayson caught sight of the magazine Carl had abandoned earlier and plucked it up—"I'm about to read out your horoscope. Go."

Carl lowered the magazine Grayson was now flicking through. "I know the truth, Cora."

"Truth, what truth? Hahaha."

Carl winced. "Without putting on a female voice?"

Grayson cleared his throat and tried again.

"The truth about our relationship."

"You know?"

"I struggled to bring this up earlier. I didn't want to come across as ungrateful. Patricia did a lot of the heavy lifting growing up, and she is a ‘mum' to me, but I've always had a bond with you too."

Grayson encouraged him to continue.

Carl hauled in a breath. "I know you are my birth parent. I know I have a twin brother. I also know you couldn't take care of both of us."

"Are you . . . angry?"

"No. I was hard enough for Patricia on my own. I don't fault you for adopting Jason out. Look where he got to because he was given a chance with a family who had the capacity to care for him."

Grayson had his hand now and was holding it tightly. Or perhaps Carl had grabbed his, and he was the one gripping hard.

"Still. It's shocking. And I felt lots of confusing things when I first met Jason. I have questions I've wanted to ask you and Patricia, and I've had to bear never getting answers. I didn't want to upset the status quo. Don't want to hurt Patricia's feelings, or make you uncomfortable. So, I keep running away from my feelings." Carl choked on his words, finding it difficult to continue. He really struggled with the idea of rocking the family boat. What if it distanced Patricia from him? What if Cora didn't want to be acknowledged and stopped her daily visits to avoid awkwardness? What if it cost him two people he cared about?

Carl looked at Grayson, panicking. "Do I really have to face this?"

Grayson gently squeezed his hand. "Perhaps confronting these feelings will be healing."

"Healing?"

A small, sympathetic smile. "Help to put your heart back together? Even one conversation can shift an entire perspective and jumpstart the heart. Maybe talking your feelings through, asking those questions, will help you feel more at ease with your family. Also with your ex."

"How can you be so sure things can change in as little as one conversation?"

Grayson's eyes beheld Carl, dark, intense, happy, frustrated. "I know."

Carl doubled his grip on Grayson's poor hand. He opened his mouth to speak and was cut off by the shrill ring of Grayson's phone.

Grayson disentangled their hands and answered. "Mr Wilson. Yes, I'm coming this evening. I'll grab a bite to eat and be right there." He finished the call and looked regretfully at Carl.

Carl nodded and stood. He meant to say that's okay, no problem, chat later. But...

He took the bundle off Grayson's lap, set it on his wicker chair and jerked a thumb towards the gate. "Can I be your PA tonight?"

Jason calledwhile they were ordering dinner. After his twin's last message, Carl wasn't sure he wanted to answer, but Grayson gave him the courage.

He glanced around the busy eatery, caught sight of one of the witches in the line behind him, and answered the call. "Jason here."

"Just wondering," the true Jason said slowly.

"Wondering?"

"Who exactly is Angus?"

Momentary relief. Just curiosity about Angus.

Carl stiffened. If Jason was asking about the mechanical bull they liked to ride, usually on birthdays or—

This must have to do with Pete's stag night.

He waited for the hit of hurt. There was a slight heave in his chest, but... not as painful as he'd thought. A slow breath trickled out of him. He looked at Grayson, whose back was to Carl as he scanned the menu and glanced back for Carl's order. The little question, the consideration to order together—it had gravity racing through him again—

Grayson raised a brow.

Carl caught himself, mouthed he'd have the same, finished off his call—

And slapped his cheeks with both hands. What outrageous things are you thinking?

While munching on their food at an outdoor table, Grayson said, "Don't take me paying for you the wrong way."

Carl's fork hovered mid-air, a few inches from his mouth. The wrong way. Was he referring to how the lawyers had paid for lunch and made him feel inferior?

Or was he making sure Carl didn't think this was in any way romantic?

Carl scoffed down his mouthful of potato gratin and chased it with water. He hedged his answer so it covered both options. "Friends can take turns paying without it getting weird. I'll get it next time."

Almost like déjà vu, Carl followed Grayson to his gig working for the former Air Force pilot, and Mr Wilson escorted them through the house and the back garden to the standalone unit.

"Wifi's down," Mr Wilson said. "I hope you can manage without?"

"Better that way," Grayson said. "No distractions."

Mr Wilson's gaze drifted to Carl. "Is that right?" He waved at them and left them to their laptop devices—and the dodgy door.

Grayson propped the door open with one of the many file boxes on the bed, and at a rush of southerly wind, exchanged it with just the lid of a box.

The two of them alone in the small unit had Carl strangely clammy. He hurriedly got his laptop up and running.

"You don't have to actually work," Grayson said. "You're welcome to hang next to me."

Carl wagged a finger. "You wait. I'll have more done than you by the end of the evening."

Grayson chuckled, but his chuckle did not last long. Not when he saw Carl's new method: speaking into the microphone and having all the words magically appear on his screen.

At Grayson's surprise, Carl said, "Sage showed me this."

"Clever."

Carl agreed, and they dove into transcribing for another hour, until they felt the need for a hot drink to combat the draught coming through the cracked-open door.

"Any food?" Grayson asked as he finished typing up a page.

Carl peered into the cupboards. "Lots of tea. A dodgy looking tin of diced tomatoes. And some multi-vitamins."

"Throw me a couple of multi-vitamins. I don't want to catch another cold."

Carl handed over a steaming tea and two tablets, and took a couple himself. "You might also want to tone down how much you work if you don't want to get sick all the time."

Grayson sipped his tea, humming noncommittally.

"You don't have to..." Carl stopped. Guilt harnessed Grayson like a horse—made him work, made him sick. And Carl wished he'd stop. Give himself time to heal.

"Don't have to what?"

"Work so hard."

Grayson's nose stayed dipped into his cup for a long time. He set the cup down and drew a finger around the steam-moistened rim. "Perhaps I should tone it down."

Carl held a hopeful breath and nodded.

"Especially if I have other priorities."

"Other priorities?"

"Spending time with people I care about. For leisure."

Carl was still holding his breath. "Like whom?"

Grayson circled his nail around the cup again.

"Sam?"

The cup toppled and Grayson quickly caught it. "Where did that come from?"

"Spending time. Priorities . . . I just . . ." Carl threw up his hands. "I wondered."

Grayson stared at him with a flicker of something like curiosity. Or hope, or disbelief, or caution—or perhaps all of that in rapid succession. When he spoke again, he spoke quietly, carefully, and his gaze didn't once waver from Carl's, which made Carl feel restless.

"Sam is my past. A part of my journey. Not my destination."

"If you were both in love you might—"

"No."

Simply said. Just that. And Carl sank back into his chair, nodding and nodding.

Grayson opened his mouth to add something and shut it. Then said, "As for work... I should probably consider doing less, but I do like odd jobs. Helping others, variation."

"You prefer that over a career? Moving up the ladder?"

"Yes."

There was something extremely comforting in this conviction, and Carl rubbed his damp hands over his nape, nodding again.

"I'm privileged, of course. I have a mortgage-free house, and an inheritance. I can afford to pick and choose."

"You know, your ability to do... everything, would be a real asset in a small town."

Dark eyes lifted to his. "A small town like yours?"

Carl pushed him lightly away, trying to ignore the winding feeling in his chest.

Grayson cleared his throat. "You said you work in a convenience store. Like a dairy."

"Bit bigger than the ones here, but yeah."

"What's it like?"

Carl brightened. He could feel his spirits lift and his voice became animated as he told Grayson about some of his Convenience Store (mis)Adventures.

"Working there gives you joy," Grayson said.

"It's not particularly glamorous."

"Does glamour equal joy?"

Carl hesitated. "The attention Jason gets for his accomplishments is nice."

"You've got the locals coming in to gossip. Is that not fun attention too? Is that not nice?"

Carl stared at Grayson. And stared. There was a shift in his chest, and an abrupt wistful longing for his store. All this... from a conversation with Grayson. "You don't think it's a dead end? Lacks integrity?"

"I think it sounds full of character. I'd like to see it—you, working there."

Butterflies slammed into his chest. He managed a nonchalant shrug. "Come and stay anytime."

A gust of wind had the door flying open and the box lid flying free into the room. Grayson twisted his chair and lunged, but the door moved too fast, hitting the frame of the bed, bouncing back—and slamming shut.

Grayson yanked at the handle, jiggling it. It didn't open.

Carl was on his feet, shifting nervously, as he handed Grayson his phone.

Grayson called Mr Wilson's number. Carl could hear it ringing at their end—could see light and movement from the house—but Mr Wilson wasn't picking up.

"On silent?" Carl speculated.

"Or his TV is too loud."

"Try again."

"Can we use your phone?"

"I followed you on a whim. You brought all the electronics. Mine's at the villa."

"You don't always have your phone on you?"

"Half the time. This isn't that half."

Grayson pressed the button on his phone but the screen wasn't flashing any colours.

"Yours died?"

"We're stuck in a cabin with no wifi and only one bed. Of course my phone died."

Carl snickered. "Of course."

They looked at one another and, simultaneously, with great urgency, banged on the door, shouting.

The gusty winds did them no favours. Their voices were lost. The universe was laughing.

They eyed one another, and shot their gazes elsewhere.

Away from the king-single bed!

Carl ran a hand through his hair and pointed to their laptops. "I suppose we'll pull an all-nighter."

"Right. Yes."

They buried themselves diligently in Mr Wilson's words, one speaking hurriedly into the laptop, and the other typing furiously.

From time to time, Carl snuck a peek at Grayson; from time to time, Carl felt the prickle along his profile as Grayson snuck a peek at him.

Close to midnight, and twenty thousand words—and an awkward moment in which they had to take turns relieving themselves using an old Coke bottle—they snuck looks at the same time.

Grayson pushed his chair back from the desk. "Okay. Let's address the flying monkey in the room."

Carl's gaze flew from the bed to the Coke bottle to the bed again. "You mean the crowd of them? Each with a pair of immense and powerful wings?"

"Chattering with a great deal of noise."

Carl snickered and turned his chair to face Grayson squarely. "We don't need to be this coy. We're friends. We can... And we can share a bed."

Grayson hesitated. A glimmer of a frown touched his brow, and then he inclined his head sharply. "Exactly."

They averted their gaze.

The air felt thick when it came time to shimmy out of their jeans. They turned their backs to one another and hurriedly shoved them off, but the flump of material hitting the ground sounded extra loud to Carl's ears.

Grayson hit the lights, and Carl blessed the dark as he climbed under the cool sheets. He kept as close to the wall as he could, practically in the gap between bed and wall, and still it wasn't enough distance to thin the tension between them.

Every movement Grayson made puffed the blankets and air scuttled over Carl until he was thrumming with shivers. Shivers that didn't dissipate, even though the heat of Grayson's body radiated over him.

Carl stared into the dark, acutely aware of his breathing, of Grayson's. It sounded so loud in the quiet of the room. He shifted from his back to his side, facing the shadowy form beside him. He wanted to say something, act normal, break the tautness in the air.

Grayson must have had a similar thought. He shifted onto his side too and his rumbly voice vibrated over the pillow.

"If this will be a problem to explain to Poppy—"

Carl's heart galloped, and his mouth dried. He told himself to swallow it back, but couldn't. "Why would it be a problem? I told Poppy I'm not interested in him."

The sound of a swallow. "You're not?"

Nervousness jolted through him, a multitude of electrical spikes. He couldn't handle it. He whipped himself onto his other side, back to Grayson, facing the wall, and slammed his eyes shut. "I'm not. Good night." He feigned a yawn, and then sleep.

A long moment passed, and Grayson's sigh stirred at the back of his head. "That's... Night, Carl."