Chapter Eight

Mitch

“ L ook at those two,” Cal whispers against my right ear, his chin leaning on my shoulder, strong arms wrapped around my midsection. And I do. I just look at the two of them, Tyler and Bree, as they lie on the sunbed in our overgrown backyard, completely engulfed in their own little world. Bree is, of course, splayed on top of Tyler again, happily licking his face like he’s a long-lost pup from the same litter. Tyler is squealing as he tries to push her off half-heartedly, wiping at his chin.

“Where’s your ball, Bree Baby?” he wheezes between fits of giggles that go straight to my core, doing something funny there that’s been growing ever since Tyler reentered my life. “Go get your ball, baby girl,” he pants and laughs, and I laugh right along with him, my back pressed against Cal’s vibrating front because he’s chuckling too.

“She probably ate it,” I throw in Tyler’s direction, a laugh escaping with my words.

“Stop it,” Cal hums against my ear. “It’s time to flip those burgers, babe,” he pats my butt fondly. Shit! The burgers. I completely forgot. They’re gonna be well done by now. I reluctantly disentangle myself from Cal’s arms and the glorious spectacle in front of me to rush to the grill. We decided to cook outside since the evening breeze was just too sweet to pass up. We have an outdoor kitchen because, in the valley, it gets hot as fuck most days, but some evenings, a cooling breeze sweeps through and it’s just divine. Cooking and eating inside would be blasphemous. Tonight’s one of those evenings.

“Something smells fantastic,” a breathy voice wafts across my chin as Tyler peeks over my shoulder at the generous-sized burgers and golden, crispy corn.

“You sound surprised,” I say, my eyes fixed on the burgers. “Are you questioning my BBQ skills, young man?” The Ty was right there on the tip of my tongue, but I know better.

“Of course not, oh Great Wizard of Cajun Cooking,” Tyler laughs, leaning in and dipping his finger into the barbeque sauce.

“Hey!” I mock-scold, my heart suddenly full. Because he remembered. He and Catarina used to tease me that I was some Cajun Wizard who would only show his face when it was time to grill something, sleeping in a small magic tent the rest of the time. Tyler throws me a cheeky grin and a knowing wink before his index finger disappears into his mouth behind his pink lips.

“Hmmm,” he hums while rolling his eyes exaggeratedly in ecstasy. “Fuck, that’s the stuff dirty dreams are made of, Mitch,” he drawls, eyes closed, dark lashes brushing against his olive skin, as he licks his lips. My gaze zeroes in on a solitary bead of sweat clinging to his upper lip as the tip of his tongue peeks out. Then, a loud clang followed by a string of curses resound behind me, and I jump out of my… whatever that was.

“Shit!” When I turn around, I find Cal crouching on the deck, mumbling to himself, lettuce everywhere, and the salad bowl split in half.

“Let me help!” Tyler rushes to his side and crouches down next to him as he starts picking up leaves of green lettuce, inspecting them. “They’re still good, Cal-Bear,” he says, smiling at Cal, who has his gaze fixed on the deck. Cal-Bear? Oh, this is rich. My man has been holding out on me.

“Yeah,” Tyler speaks eagerly, looking up, squinting at the evening sun. “That’s his new nickname. Didn’t he tell ya?” He grins knowingly, poking his elbow against Cal’s. Shit, I didn’t even realize that I was talking out loud. “What, Cal-Bear? You’re keeping secrets from your man?”

“Shut up, brat,” Cal groans. “And we can’t eat these. Unless you like dog piss as your salad dressing.”

“Nah, I’ll pass.” Tyler picks up the rest of the lettuce and stands, cradling them in his arms. “Although, I once used another body flui—”

“Don’t!” Cal growls, getting up too, the broken bowl clasped in his hands. “Whatever it is, I don’t wanna know,” he throws Tyler a warning look that weirdly goes straight to my balls. Shit, I forgot how goddamn hot a grumpy, growly Cal is. He rarely comes out to play, but when he does… dayum. In those early days when we first got together… shit, he would get all possessive and growly if another guy even looked my way. If anyone even breathed in my vicinity in a bar, he would wrap his beefy baker’s arms possessively around me and throw them a death glare. So. Damn. Hot. ‘You’re mine, Mitch,’ he would rasp later, his words deep stutters as he pounded into me. ‘This fucking hole belongs to me. Only me. All. Fucking. Mine.’

“Mitch?” Tyler looks at me, tilting his chin toward the grill. “Something’s burning.” Shit. Of course, something’s burning. My damn shorts are on fire, too. This is a goddamn disaster, is what it is. Wizard, my hairy ass.

“This was so goood,” Tyler slurs, rubbing his belly, a sedated look in his eyes. Meat coma. That’s what we used to call it. Luckily, we managed to salvage most of the food and now, several burgers and beers later, Tyler’s wiped out. I feel it, too. The day. Everything that has happened today. I never thought in a million years that I’d be serving Cajun to Tyler again. Or that he would be sitting in one of my old garden chairs, head tipped against the night sky, a blissful smile on his face.

“You think I could see them now, Mitch?” he sighs. “The drawings.” The way he says my name has changed. It no longer sounds like a death threat or something dripping with hurt and resentment. It sounds almost like it used to, with an edge of hopeful innocence and a hint of affection.

“Sure,” I say, groaning as I get up from the lounge chair. “They’re in the attic. C’mon.” Shit, the dreaded attic. When Cal and I shacked up and I moved in with him, we pretty much put my old life in the attic. Not because Cal asked me to, but because it was still too raw and too painful to keep out in the open. I’ve moved stuff down over the years, but everything that reminds me of my life with Tyler has stayed tucked away up there.

I pull down the ladder to the attic, Tyler standing so close behind me I can feel his breath playing with the small hairs at my nape. The air crackles with anticipation and I almost blurt something stupid like, ‘ I think I got it wrong. I don’t have them anymore.’

“Mitch?” he says quietly, and I change my mind instantly. Who am I kidding? There’s nothing I won’t give or do for this kid who was once, in another life, mine and who has long ceased to be a kid. I place my foot on the first step, and suddenly, it feels like more. Like, it’s not just a wooden stair on an old ladder, but the first step of the rest of my life. Tyler’s back. I have him back and I know that when his six months of community service end, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him here. In my life. In Cal’s and my life.

In the attic, I turn on the light, and just when I’m about to apologize for the mess, Tyler blurts, “Holy shit, Mitch! This is so cool.” He looks around at all the clutter and dust and spiderwebs, awe in his eyes.

“Cool?” Cal hums and I didn’t even realize he’d joined us.

“Yeah,” Tyler grins. “Shit, Mitch, I didn’t realize you were one of those hoarders. Amazeballs,” he whistles, picking up a fishing rod.

Amazeballs , Cal mouths at me and I just shake my head.

“You kept it,” Tyler says in a near-whisper, his slender fingers with chipped black nail polish ghosting along the wooden handle.

“Of course I did,” I rasp, and Cal’s right by my side, well aware of what this moment means to me. Tyler seems to shake himself then and places the fishing rod carefully back where he found it.

“So, where are the dra—”

“Ty, careful!” I call out as he stumbles over a large metal box on the floor and I just manage to grab his upper arms before he lands in a pile of old fly-fishing magazines.

“Shit,” he laughs at the same time I say, “I got you.” Then, a dark shadow moves across his face as the words register, and he pulls out of my grasp. My hands feel strangely empty, and as if he has read my mind, Cal grabs my left, squeezing it reassuringly.

“What’s that?” Tyler points at the metal box, squinting at the handwritten label on the lid.

“Nothing,” I say, pushing the box behind me. “Just old junk,” I add, my eyes catching Cal’s unspoken question of, babe? I shake my head at him. Not yet. Not. Yet. Cal smiles wistfully, nodding, pulling me against him, pressing a quick peck against my chin.

“They’re over here. On the shelves,” I croak, gathering myself as I nod toward the back of the attic. Endless rows of shelves are filled with books about fly-fishing, foreign countries, and international cuisine, and right to the left are several sketchpads neatly tucked away. I walk toward the back and when I reach the shelves, I trail my fingers along the row of sketchpads before pulling one out.

“Here,” I say as I turn around, only to bump into Tyler. His eyes are as big as saucers as he accepts the sketchpad from me. “Your monster fish,” I smile tentatively.

“Thanks,” he says, and he starts leafing through the pages, his gaze sweeping over the childish drawings of massive fish with huge teeth. “Wow, look at this guy, Mitch,” he laughs, bumping his elbow against mine. His breath is sugary and spicy from the BBQ sauce as he leans in, pointing at a fish with five eyes and vibrant pink scales. “He’s pretty neat.”

“He is,” I agree, trailing my thumb across the drawing. “You were already great back then.”

“Yeah? You think so?” There’s a strange vulnerability to his voice, and I nod.

“Yeah, Ty,” I say, and he doesn’t correct me. Not this time. “You were always a great kid,” I whisper, and he doesn’t protest or shy away from me.

“You should come with us. This weekend,” Cal says out of nowhere, wrapping his arms around my shoulders from behind. I hold my breath as Cal continues, “We have a small cabin up north on the road toward Yosemite. Great fishing lakes and streams, too.” It’s true. It’s a long weekend and we already have the truck packed. Most of our stuff is at the cabin, anyway. It used to belong to Cal’s grandfather. He built it himself. It’s very rustic, but great for a quick getaway from the city. Sometimes, we go hiking instead of fishing. Sometimes we just hang out and swim and… fuck around.

The stuffy air in the cramped attic closes in on me, but Cal just smiles like he knows something I don’t. Tyler licks his bottom lip, closing the sketchpad before placing it carefully back on the dusty shelf.

“Is Bree coming?” he asks tentatively.

“Sure,” Cal hums.

“Okay,” Tyler nods. “Okay, I’ll come.” I’ll come. The words reverberate through my chest as I finally allow myself to exhale. “I can draw by the water,” he says softly before his expression turns devilish. “I love swimming,” he smirks. “I’ve got these teeny tiny orange Speedos , Cal-Bear. They’ll look fucking amazing on you, too. We should get you some.” Then he hesitates, his gaze shifting to me. “You too, Mitch. You’d look fuckin—”

“Yeah, there’ll be none of that,” Cal growls as he attempts to suppress a smile. “We wear shorts, right, babe?”

“Sure,” I murmur. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Tyler laughs as he pulls out another sketchbook. “Or nothin’ at all,” he says to no one in particular. “I’m good with that, too. Nothin’ at all.”