Chapter Twenty-Five

Hank

Now

“So, what’s the deal with you and the stray?” Colton threw a greasy rag that he’d just been polishing a pair of headlights with directly at Hank, hitting him square in the forehead. His hazel eyes were filled with mischief. It wasn’t exactly a surprise to Hank that his nephew had decided to go there—he’d wondered when he would build up enough nerve to do it. He knew that he and Finn were the talk around town; of course he did. But the rag?

“What the hell!” Hank squinted at his nephew, who threw him an obnoxious grin in return. To think how Colton had worn the war— his war—like a heavy cloak four years ago when he’d come to Hayley’s. The transformation he’d gone through, joking and hassling Hank daily at the shop. There was no limit to the amount of admiration that Hank held for him. He was damn proud of Colton for not only picking up the pieces of his ruined life, but also for embracing his sexuality and his love for young Henry. And to imagine that his nephew would be a married man soon…

Picking up the rag, he placed it on the workbench next to him, a smug grin lingering at the corner of Colton’s mouth while he crossed his tattooed arms in front of his chest.

“Whatcha mean, stray ?” Hank countered.

“Huckleberry, then,” Colton smirked, leaning his right hip against the hood of the Jeep Cherokee they’d gotten in this morning after a run-in with a deer.

“Wow, that’s rich. That the best you can come up with?” Hank tipped his chin. He might be smaller than his nephew, but this spring chicken had another thing coming if he thought he could shake him with his innuendoes. “There’s no deal,” Hank continued, his voice unfazed, his face stoic. “He’s stayin’ with me over the winter, and that’s that.” Of course, that wasn’t exactly that, and bullshit was written all over Colton’s face as he nodded, a knowing hum coming from his mouth.

“Whatever you say, Uncle,” he grinned, wiping at his three-day-old beard. “Whatever you say…”

“Look, if I thought it’d be any of your business—which it ain’t,” he quickly added, “I’d tell ya that we’ve become… friends.” They were friends, but still, the word tasted wrong on his tongue. Insufficient somehow.

“ Friends?” Colton raised a dark eyebrow at him, disbelief coloring his deep voice.

“Yeah,” Hank sighed. “Now, why are we talkin’ about this again?”

“I just…” Suddenly, Colton’s face transformed in front of him, no trace of the teasing glimmer in his eyes, his voice devoid of any kind of banter too. “I’d just hate to see ya get hurt. You know, when he leaves again. Because he is leaving, right Hank?”

“Of course, he’s leavin’. And whatcha mean get hurt? Why would I get hurt?” Brushing a hand across his face, a dull pain building behind his eyes, Hank moved across the room to the meticulously organized shelves. Every can of oil or paint, every box of nails, and every package of supplies were now lined up in neat rows, the labels facing forward. The shop had always been messy, Hank never one for tidying up, too busy running the place on his own. Eugene would often nag him about it, then breeze through once every three or four months and clean up the worst. But nothing like this. Nothing like the force of nature named Finn who would sweep the floor daily, unpack deliveries the minute they arrived, organize Hank’s papers and forms in neat rows on the office desk, filing away what needed to be kept, throwing away what didn’t.

“C’mon, Hank,” Colton moved up next to him, resting his large hand heavily on his shoulder. “You know what I mean. Even a blind man can see that the two of ya have gotten… close .”

“So? What’s it to you?” He turned, facing Colton. There was a bite to Hank’s voice that even he was surprised about. Colton scrunched his brows, his hazel eyes a mirror image of his own. It occurred to Hank that in a different life, he could’ve had his own son staring back at him right now. Perhaps his eyes wouldn’t have been hazel, but instead the bluest of blue. For a split-second, he regretted that he and Eugene had never had kids, but it had been a different time, the idea of a gay couple in rural America having a kid pushing it just a tad too far. Still…

“Look, I care about ya, Hank. You know that. I’d hate to see ya get hurt, that’s all.” Colton’s eyes didn’t leave his, and for a while, they engaged in this strange staring contest until Hank dropped his gaze to the floor.

“I might,” he murmured.

“What?”

“I might,” he repeated. “Get hurt. But I’ll take that when it comes.” When. Not if. When. With a frightening certainty, he realized he would get hurt. It was clear by now. It was the first time he admitted it to himself, and sharing this acknowledgment with Colton, who, too, had been knocked about by life, seemed somehow appropriate. “But I’ll take that any day of the week over the numbness of the past seven years.”

“Hank…” Colton squeezed his shoulder, and he looked back up, their gazes connecting once again.

“So, I like him, okay? I might even do a little more than like him. Some would perhaps say that I’ve grown fond of him.” As he spoke, the words settled inside his chest, the truth of them echoing through his body. He had grown fond of Finn. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it had happened, but somehow the lines had become blurry, friendship gradually morphing into something more. Organically, as if it was always supposed to end up that way. And it wasn’t just about the sex, either. There was this strange companionship that brought forward glimpses of what it had felt like back then. With him . With Eugene.

“Have you told him?” Colton’s voice was all mellow now, a wistful edge to it.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Hank chuckled bitterly. “Why not, he asks…”

“Yeah, why not?” Colton tilted his head, a curious frown between his brows.

“Because he’s leavin’. And he’s young. He has places to go and people to see. He has his family to get back to. Things to make right.” Hank inhaled deeply, his lungs screaming at him—or was it his heart? He couldn’t tell.

“And? He can still do that and then come back. If he cares about you like you care about him, it shouldn’t be that difficult to come back again. You know, once he’s done what needs to be done.” Colton shrugged, Hank understanding what his nephew meant, but his mind struggling to accept the words. Come back. Care about you.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Hank rubbed at his forehead. “What’s with all the damn questions, professor?”

“What’s with the avoidance, Uncle?” Colton threw back, that smirk back at the corner of his mouth, the dimple popping like he was a small kid again. What the hell? What had he told Finn not so many days ago? You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Right.

“I can’t…” his tongue felt heavy in his mouth, the words sticking to the roof of his mouth, reluctant to get out. “I can’t go through that again. Caring about someone and then havin’ them leave all over again. I can’t, son.”

“But Eugene died, Hank. He didn’t leave ya. Hell, from what I’ve heard from Til and Henry, that man fought tooth and nail to stay with ya. But in the end, he just couldn’t. But he didn’t leave ya willingly.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s still gone.” Hank shrugged, feeling exhausted. Suddenly, he was feeling his age. All the years, every single one, all fifty-nine of them.

“But you don’t regret him , do ya? Loving him for all that time.”

“Of course, I don’t regret him!” He countered, anger building inside. What the hell was up with Colton today? They didn’t usually talk about things like this. That wasn’t who they were. They talked about hockey or beer brands. About the weather or the latest car they’d gotten in. About next week’s deliveries or Friday dinner plans. Hell, if they got real deep, they would talk about Amy, sometimes Walter. But this? This wasn’t who they were, was it? Or perhaps it was.

Suddenly, they were no longer in the shop. They were back in his cabin, Colton slumped over the small kitchen table, looking so small. Broken. ‘I’m broken, Hank. I’ll always be broken. There’s no fixing this.’ That giant of a man speaking the perhaps hardest words of his life. To him . To Hank. He’d shared that painful piece of himself with Hank in his kitchen four years ago. His grief. His loss. His guilt. Shit . He still remembered it like it was only just yesterday. What he’d told Colton. What he couldn’t admit to himself but had had no trouble telling his nephew. ‘Who’s to say that any one of us is whole on our own? Maybe we all need someone to make us feel that way.’ How come those words applied to Colton, but not to him? It was bullshit, that’s what it was.

“If I could just get one last moment with him. With Eugene. Then I’d tell him he was good. That he made my life better for thirty-one years. That he gave me the best years of my life.” Hank paused briefly, looking bewildered at Colton. “Why did I never tell him, son? Why did I never tell him those things when he was still alive? Why did I wait? And for what?”

“Hank…” Colton soothed, squeezing his shoulder tighter in reassurance.

“Why am I like this? Why am I… this kinda man? He deserved to know that I loved him.” His voice broke, a pitiful sound that matched how pathetic he felt escaping him. Taking a step forward, Colton wrapped him in a hug, his hold secure and unwavering.

“He did,” he mumbled into Hank’s hair.

“Did he?” Hank asked, bitterness tinting his voice. “Did he really?”

“Of course he did.”

“But I never told him. That he was everything. That I was nothing before him. Nothing now.” He hadn’t, had he? He’d always assumed Eugene knew, but what if he hadn’t? What kind of person did that make him?

“Doesn’t matter. He knew,” Colton spoke. “Just like I know. And you never tell me either,” he chuckled quietly. “But I still know.”