Chapter 5

5

YORK

M y BMW had been a splurge, paid for with the bonus I'd received for my latest patent, but man, I loved that car. It drove like a dream, the engine purring like a jaguar, and it had all these cool little gadgets, like projecting the speed, the maximum speed, and the GPS directions on the front shield. When I'd read it in the description, I'd wondered how that would be practical and not distracting, but I'd become hooked.

"Remember, don't add too many details when people don't ask for them," Quillon said. I'd expected him to want to drive, but he'd preferred for me to take the wheel so he could keep an eye on our surroundings. At least it was easy to see if anyone was following us on this small road—other than the FBI car discreetly trailing us—which confirmed why Quillon had wanted me in Forestville.

"I don't usually talk much anyway."

"Just trying to prepare you. You can't tell anyone the truth."

"Except Fir."

Quillon sighed. "I'm still not happy about that exception."

"I'm not lying to my best friend. I wouldn't be able to fool him, but I also value our friendship too much to risk it by being dishonest. He's my only friend."

I hadn't meant to add that last part, though it was true.

"I'll respect that."

"And you'll tell Auden, right?"

"Sheriff Frant?"

"He's Auden to me. He was best friends with Essex."

As always, when I thought of my brother, my shoulders tensed, but I willed myself to relax.

"I understand that, but as an outsider, I don't think I should call him by his first name."

He had a point. "Whatever you'll call him, you'll let him know, right?"

"Why are you so anxious for him to be informed?"

"I'm not anxious."

"Let me rephrase that. Why are you insisting we keep him in the loop?"

"The first rule of small towns is that everyone knows everyone, and the sheriff knows everything. Very little happens in Forestville that Auden doesn't know about. If anyone new arrives or anything suspicious happens, he'll be the first to hear it."

Quillon was studying me, but I kept my eyes on the road. "I'll take your word for it. I've never lived in a small town."

"Where are you from?"

"LA. I've never known anything but a big city and military bases."

I chuckled. "You're in for an education, then."

"Talk to me about Tomás. It's his house we're staying in, right?"

"He's Fir's boyfriend, and he moved in with Fir and his sons, so his house was empty. Apparently, this couple was supposed to move in, but they found something else. He said he was happy to let us use it for as long as we wanted to."

"And we don't need to pay rent or anything?"

Oh, right. I had forgotten to mention that detail. "He's Tomás Banner, so no, he doesn't need the money."

Quillon gasped. "The model?"

"Yeah. He and Tiago, his twin, are from Forestville. They graduated the same year as my brother."

"Damn, I had no idea your town had such famous residents."

"They're both retired now and happy living out of the spotlight with their respective partners."

Forestville emerged like a scene from a postcard with its rustic charm. Like a silver snake, the Skykomish river serpentined through town, her stream gentle while the ground was still half-frozen. Slowing the car to a crawl, I turned onto Main Street, still so familiar, holding memories both fond and painful, but that was true for all of Forestville. My feelings would always be clouded by my brother.

We arrived at Tomás's house, which had been Ms. Carol's for as long as I could remember. She used to work as a server at Eddie's Drive-In, which wasn't a drive-in but a diner that served simple but tasty food, if a bit on the greasy side.

I parked the car, and we stepped out into the brisk air. The cute little house with its gabled roof and cheerful blue shutters looked like a dwelling out of a fairy tale. Bright yellow daffodils stretched their petals toward the sun, offering a splash of color in the still-bare garden, partially covered with snow. It was too early in the spring for anything else to bloom. Not that I knew much about flowers, but my mom had been an avid gardener, pointing out the different flowers and shrubs while she worked. I'd picked up a few things from her stories.

"Looks cozy." Quillon scanned the property with an appraising look.

Cozy? As cute as the house was, it looked like a nightmare. I wasn't used to sharing spaces, let alone playing house, but I had little choice.

"Julius will install a new alarm system," Quillon said as I turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door.

"I can do it."

"It's his job."

"He's an outsider. It'll draw attention and raise questions, especially because people know I'm a geek and can do it myself."

Understanding dawned on Quillon's face. "Gotcha. As I said, not familiar with small towns."

"Just have it delivered, and I'll install the damn system."

We walked into the house, which looked stylish, with white walls and gray trim. Sunlight poured in through the open windows like liquid gold. In the living room, sleek, modern furniture offered a silent invitation to relax. An angular gray sofa faced a smart TV on the wall, and the coffee table bore no traces of water rings or life's clutter. Everything was pristine, untouched, like a showroom.

"Feels like no one's ever lived here," Quillon said.

"Tomás had just bought it and had it painted and fixed up when he and Fir became serious, so after they got together, he spent more time at Fir's than here."

The main bedroom was like a sanctuary, dominated by a king-sized bed, its duvet crisp and white like a blank page. I placed my bags beside the closet, the leather thudding softly against the hardwood floor. The half-open door to the adjoining bathroom revealed a spacious Jacuzzi, gleaming fixtures, and fluffy towels folded neatly on the rack. Had Tomás put those out for us? He'd told me to use whatever was in the house, but that was thoughtful.

"Looks good," I muttered, more to myself than Quillon, who'd followed me. I brushed my fingers over the smooth fabric of the bedspread.

"Nice." Quillon stood in the doorway with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. "I'll leave you to get settled."

He retreated, and farther down the hall, a door opened and closed—the guest room, less grand but no less new. Alone, I unpacked and placed my clothes in the dresser, the material of my suspenders familiar and comforting in my hands. Each article I stowed away was a step toward normalcy, even if everything about this situation was anything but normal.

The faint sounds of Quillon moving around in his room and the occasional drawer sliding open and shut filtered through the walls. Weird to be in the house with someone else—an almost stranger who would be part of my life for the foreseeable future. Quillon was confident we could pull it off, but the knot of apprehension in my gut told a different story. It would take more than rote memorization to convince anyone, least of all myself, of this charade.

"Got everything you need?" Quillon called from the other room, pulling me back from my thoughts.

"Almost done."

"Good. Then maybe we can walk around town a bit? I'd like to familiarize myself with it."

"All right." My stomach twisted at the thought of confronting the reality outside these walls. But it was necessary—part of the job, part of the act. We had to be seen, had to be believable as a couple. I had agreed to this, so now I had to commit to every aspect, even the ones that stretched beyond my comfort zone.

As we walked toward Main Street, we didn't encounter anyone. No wonder, on a regular Tuesday afternoon. Most people would still be at work. The crisp air heralded the last breaths of winter giving way to spring. The quaint shops lining the street had donned their seasonal finery, and every window display now boasted pastel hues and Easter motifs. Crocuses poked through patches of lingering snow in the planters outside the florist, their purple and yellow heads a stark contrast against the white.

"York," Quillon said. "Can we…?"

He extended his hand, his intention clear. It felt like a pivotal moment, the physical manifestation of our fake relationship. I hesitated, not out of disgust or fear but because of the bizarre nature of the situation. However, rational thought won, and I placed my hand in his. Quillon wrapped his fingers around mine, firm and warm, and a jolt shot up my arm. It was just an act, just two clasped hands clasped, nothing more.

We walked in silence, my mind racing. Despite the chatter in my head, I couldn't ignore the warmth of Quillon's touch. I'd never had such intimate contact with another man, alien yet not entirely unpleasant. Could I pull this off? Make this relationship seem real to those who knew me—a man who kept his personal life as tidy and compartmentalized as a well-organized database?

"Is this okay?" Quillon glanced at me with a hint of concern.

"Fine," I replied curtly, trying to quash the rising tide of self-consciousness. This was just another problem, like a complex equation requiring a calculated solution. I would need to work on my reactions, condition them until they were natural, unforced. Only then could I convince others—and perhaps myself—that this charade was genuine.

As we walked down the street, the weight of Quillon's hand in mine became less pronounced and settled into something that approached normalcy. Until we ran into Mrs. Henderson, my former music teacher, who shuffled along the sidewalk, pushing her walker at a snail's pace. She stopped and peered at me over the rim of her glasses.

"York Coombe? Is that you? My stars, we thought you'd gone and forgotten all about us!"

"Hello, Mrs. Henderson," I said in a loud voice. Her hearing wasn't what it used to be. I offered her a small smile, deeply aware of Quillon's hand still clasped in mine. "I could never forget Forestville."

"Well, with how things are, no one would blame you. Not much here for you to return to, now is there? But who's this handsome young man you've brought with you?" She appraised Quillon with a keen eye, one that missed nothing despite her years.

"This is my boyfriend, Quillon." I was proud of how natural that had come out.

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Quillon said, the picture of charm. Mrs. Henderson's scrutiny softened, and she nodded approvingly.

"Welcome to our little corner of the world, Quillon." She turned to me again. "Are you still playing?"

She'd taught me to play the piano and, by doing so, had introduced me to the wonders of classical music. "Sadly, no, Mrs. Henderson. I live in an apartment. Not the best place for a piano."

"That's a shame. You were gifted, York. But I understand." She patted my biceps with a trembling hand.

"Thank you."

"Take care now," she called after us as we continued our walk, her words leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

As we passed the hardware store, Mr. Kowalski tipped his hat at us, a gesture of recognition and acceptance that didn't require words. At Brianna's Bakery, we ran into Brianna, who was closing her store. "Hey, honey." She rose on her tiptoes and gave me a warm hug. She barely reached my shoulder, but her hugs were always the best. "It's so good to see you again."

She probably didn't mean it beyond the standard small-town kindness, but that was okay. I preferred it to my parents' indifference. "You too."

I stepped back and gestured at Quillon. "This is my boyfriend, Quillon. Quillon, this is Brianna, who bakes the best pastries you've ever had."

"Well, how about that?" She playfully slapped my shoulder. "You've been holding out on us."

She hugged Quillon, who looked a little shocked as he awkwardly patted her back. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

She grinned. "Don't you dare ma'am me. It's Brianna, honey. I've known York since he was an itty-bitty baby."

She was seven years older than me, another classmate of my brother's. Hell, she had babysat me occasionally. She was the sweetest person, always so nice and kind.

"So, what brings you to town?" Brianna asked.

I took a deep breath. Here went nothing. "I'm working on something and needed a change of scenery, so we figured we'd stay here for a while. We're in Ms. Carol's house. Well, Tomás's now, I suppose."

"Oh, that's such a cute little place. I've always been envious of her garden. That woman sure had a green thumb."

I chuckled. "Don't count on me to keep anything alive. I can barely take care of myself."

Quillon wrapped his arm around me, and I was startled. "Good thing you have me, babe."

Babe? Oh my god, I would have to work much harder to control my reactions. Awkwardly, I leaned into his embrace. "You are a wonderful cook."

That, at least, was true, so I wasn't violating his rule of not adding unnecessary details.

"Have you been to your parents yet?" Brianna asked, which wiped the smile right off my face.

Oh fuck. They would find out I was here in no time. I'd conveniently forgotten about that, probably because visiting them was at the top of my "hell no" list.

"York." She took my hand. "They'll hear. I know it's hard, but it's better if you tell them yourself."

"I know." Then her deeper meaning registered. She wasn't talking about introducing Quillon or coming out. But to acknowledge that meant discussing it in front of Quillon, and I was so not doing that. "Thank you. I'll call my mother right now."

She hugged me again. "Welcome home, honey. We are glad you're back."

Oh yeah, she knew all right. "Thank you."

She sauntered off, leaving us by ourselves. "I need to…"

Quillon nodded.

I fished my phone out of my pocket and scrolled through my contact list. The gravity of impending reconnection settled over me like a weighted blanket, smothering me. Shoulders tense and belly clenching, I pressed Call.

"York? Is that you?" My mother's tone was a mixture of surprise and something else I couldn't quite place.

"Yes, it's me." I tried to keep my voice light. "I'm in town. Can I stop by in a little while?"

The line went silent, a quiet so profound I almost heard her mind racing. "Of course. You're always welcome."

My mother had perfected the art of saying one thing and meaning something else entirely. "Thank you. Oh, and I'll be bringing a guest."

I ended the call before she could ask questions.

Quillon's eyes bore into me, his concern almost my undoing. "York," he said, but I shook my head.

"I'm fine. Let's focus on what we came here to do." I forced a smile. Hopefully, it would be enough to dissuade any further inquiries.

He nodded, though I could tell he wasn't convinced. Silence settled between us, but he reached for my hand again and laced our fingers together. Somehow, the gesture meant more than words could ever have. The gentle squeeze of his hand was a silent acknowledgment he'd heard—and perhaps understood—the words I hadn't said.