Making Love on the Telephone

TAD GLARED at the phone in his hand and fought the temptation to chuck it across the room, through the sliding glass door to the patio, and through the window of his SUV.

The sunset's the only good thing here. Have one.

There was a picture with the text to show him that Guthrie had made it to Sand Cut—a place Tad hadn't even heard of before today—and he was doing okay.

Tad remembered the expression on Guthrie's face as he'd left and begged to fucking differ.

"What's it say?" April asked from her place on the recliner. Uncharacteristically, she didn't have yarn in her hand. Instead, she had a cat on each side of the chair, both of them asleep under her arms in an attempt, she said, to stop her from doing that weird thing with the string.

"It says he made it," Tad muttered. "It says the sunsets are nice."

April grunted. "It says the people are so fuckin' awful he doesn't want to talk about it."

Tad touched his nose. "Bingo." He heard her own unhappy sigh and gave her a suspicious glance. "What aren't you telling me?" He'd had doubts when she'd come into his room and cried that morning, making the sudden absence Guthrie had left exponentially worse. She'd been inconsolable, and he'd finally had to give her a sedative prescribed for heavy emotional swings to calm her down enough to sleep. They hadn't spoken much for the rest of the day—they'd gone for their walk, taken their swim, made lunch and dinner, and gone about their day in quiet, but he'd been trying to hold his anxiety back the whole time.

Guthrie had said so little about his childhood, but what he had said had left shivers down Tad's spine. Tad could talk about being a latchkey kid and being in charge of April all he wanted, but at the end, their mother came home, made them dinner, checked their homework, and sat with them on the couch as they watched television and talked about their day. She'd taken them places on the weekends, spoke warmly about their father, who had passed away when April was a baby, and made sure they had clothes that fit and somebody in their corner on their good days and their bad. When Tad had come out as a teenager, his mother had told him she'd always love him and then had hugged him when he'd gotten tearful and emotional because that's what you did when you shared your heart with a parent. She'd baked birthday cakes and cookies—and yelled sometimes because kids were a handful, but laughed a lot more and most importantly cared . She cared about the two of them. Losing her was hard because she'd left a hole in their hearts; it was as simple as that.

A simple, profound loss would leave a simple, profound hole.

Tad had no idea what the loss of Guthrie's father would do to him.

And Guthrie had just left , promising he'd return. Of course Tad believed him. There was nothing about Guthrie—not a thing—that said he'd wander off into the sunset. Besides the fact that Tad had his drum kit, which Tad knew was a big deal to him, even if his clothes weren't, there was Guthrie's innate sense of honor. Of decency. If he promised, he'd follow through unless the devil himself stepped in to stop him.

Tad just wished he knew who the devil was, in case Guthrie needed help.

"If it helps," April said after a silence that went on too long, "he… he wasn't going back to help his daddy. I mean, that's what he was going to be doing, but not who he was doing it for."

Tad blinked and frowned. "Who, then?"

"His uncle. Jock or Jocko or whatever." She let out a hurt sound. "Guthrie was going to say no. I was standing by the window, thinking, ‘Do it, man—do it! Don't let guilt take you away from us!'"

"What'd Jock say?" Tad asked, as riveted now as April must have been then.

Her voice cracked a little. "He said he was sorry. He said he cared for Guthrie when Guthrie was little, and letting Guthrie's dad turn him away made him feel awful. And…. And that's what made Guthrie break. Sounded like Jock was the one who cared for Guthrie when he was a kid—worried about food and clothes and such. Guthrie couldn't… couldn't let him do it alone."

Tad's eyes burned. He wasn't sure which felt worse, that Guthrie had gone back to help a man who'd rejected Guthrie out of hand or that he'd gone back to help someone who'd failed him, but Guthrie seemed to have forgiven anyway.

"He's such a good man," Tad said, voice thick.

April turned a little in the recliner and actually looked at him for the first time since she'd awakened from her sedation-induced nap. "He's the best," she said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were red-rimmed. "Took you long enough to find someone this good."

Tad snorted. "He's the only boyfriend you've even talked to," he said.

"Sam was such a douche," she muttered. "I mean… he kept checking his phone during Mom's funeral. I wanted to kick his teeth in."

Tad grunted. So much had been wrong with Sam that he'd forgotten their bitter fights about Tad's trips to Bodega Bay to help April take care of their mother. In the end, all they'd done was strengthen Tad's resolve to not let a man, any man, tell him what he could "get away with" doing or not doing.

Guthrie didn't need to tell anybody where his duty was. And he hadn't needed Tad's permission.

Of course Tad had given his blessing.

"What about you?" he asked, hating himself for it, but it was something that hadn't even come up in the last year. He knew what April had done on the streets to get high—he'd been a beat cop for five years before moving up to detective. He knew what drugs did to people, what they made them do. He knew that coming to terms with what she'd done versus the true person she was had been something the counselors at the halfway house had been supposed to help her deal with, but they'd been supposed to take care of her too, and that hadn't turned out well.

"What about me what?" she asked, but she looked away from him, face flushed.

"Are you… thinking about seeing someone?"

She shrugged. "I, uhm, have a friend. Someone I've been texting. He, uh… he's got some damage too. I met him in Colton."

Tad grunted. "And the great part of that is I was so out of it when you were in Colton, I'd have no idea who it would be."

She laughed softly. "Remember Olivia and Elton's housemates? Berto and Jaime?"

Tad blinked. "Barely," he apologized. "Jaime, yes. The kid was like pure energy. They should bottle him. But not his brother."

She shrugged. " I remember his brother."

Tad smiled. "Good," he said softly. "I, uh, like that it seems to be slow."

"We're texting," she said mildly, stroking the cats on either side of her. "He's got a gentle soul. Like Guthrie, sort of, but without that… that wandering star in his heart, I guess. You're stronger, big brother. You can handle the wandering star. I just want the gentle soul."

Tad's eyes burned some more. "Well, right now, we've got each other. And the cats." He stared at his phone again and saw that another text had popped up—this one, a sound file.

He hit Play and then turned the phone up so April could hear it. The opening chords of "Iris" filled the room, and Tad gave it up, leaned his head back against the couch and let the melancholy of the song fill him.

"And Guthrie's fuckin' music," April said when the final chords—played acoustically they practically tinkled to a delicate close—faded. Underneath them, Guthrie said something, and Tad fiddled with the phone to hear the last words again. Holding it up to his ear, he hit Play and heard Guthrie saying, "Love you. Don't forget it."

He sent back, " I won't ," but whatever magic had carried the first text had died because the text didn't get delivered.

He closed his eyes and sighed. "It'll be enough," he said hopefully. "Until he gets back."

"Yeah." But she sounded resigned to the wait and not hopeful it would be over soon. He reflected sourly that sometimes April was very wise before he hit Play again. For tonight that was his song, and he wanted to hear it a few more times.

"HE'S WHERE?" Chris asked a week later, after taking a pull on his oat-milk decaf and sighing. "The oat milk is good—sort of sweet, and the dash of vanilla is nice—but decaf coffee is Satan's piss in a travel mug, and there is no way to put lipstick on that pig."

"I'll post that in Java Review , a totally made-up website I'm suggesting you create so we can stop dissecting your poor life choices in the car," Tad told him, cradling his own iced caramel frappe reverently. Most of the time he made his own iced coffee and nursed it throughout the day, but today he got to go into the office and do paperwork like a real boy, and the coffee was a celebration. It was also, oddly enough, the first time he'd been in a vehicle for any length of time since Guthrie had brought him home from the hospital, save doctor's visits, and he was so happy his trusty donut pillow was doing the job of shielding his ass from the bumps of the road that he wanted to cry.

"You're avoiding the question," Chris said. "Don't we have a wedding to go to in two weeks? Isn't he playing at that wedding?"

Tad grunted. "He'll make it," he said. "That was part of his negotiation. We haven't hashed out any plans for how we're going to do it, but his cell service is spotty as fuck. I checked with Olivia, though, and she said he's been emailing her for specifics and he's on point. All he needs is his suit from my closet."

"Why Olivia?" Chris asked, surprised.

"Apparently, they bonded the night I was in the canyon." Tad shrugged. "He attracts girls. It's his thing."

Chris sent him a puzzled glance. "Is it a gay thing or a Guthrie thing—I'm just curious. You seem to attract neither more nor less females than the average unavailable guy."

"It's definitely a Guthrie thing," Tad said, shaking his head in disgust. "Witness my own damned sister, who would rather trade me in for Guthrie as a big brother on any day of the week. Ask her. She won't even deny it."

Chris gave a cracked laugh. "That's cute. You're adorable. But you're dodging the question. What's going on with this otherwise perfect guy you pretty much moved into your apartment? Where is he?"

Tad let out a breath, suddenly done with this game too. "His father is dying," he said finally, his voice raw. "His uncle asked him to go back to his tiny hometown that he hates like poison and walk his father, whom he hates worse than poison, into the grave. Guthrie said yes because Guthrie doesn't let people down. He told me he'd make it to Colton. According to April, he told his uncle he'd make it if he had to leave Satan vomiting blood behind him, which is a…." He flailed.

"A particularly Guthrie way of stating things," Chris said, nodding appreciatively. "But it also doesn't say much for the ease with which he will leave."

"Yeah," Tad muttered in frustration. "That. That's… on my mind."

"You been texting him?" Chris asked, apparently forgetting for a minute that texting was not a thing.

"Trying," Tad said. He smiled a little. "He sends me audio files with songs on them. It's nice. I think he's found a… you know, place where the signal doesn't suck. I get pictures of the sunset or the wildlife from there. There's a stream nearby. Pretty spot, really." He didn't want to talk about the other things he'd noticed in the picture: Guthrie's obvious bed in the back of the truck, or the remnants of dinner he'd seen in a couple of pictures. Apple cores, orange peels, and McDonald's wrappers had been neatly gathered in the corner of the back of the truck, ready to toss away. Most disturbing of all, a baby monitor with a red light on to indicate it was being used had been stashed near the pillow. Guthrie was apparently on for nursing activity even if he was sleeping in his truck.

It was all Tad could do not to go pull him out by the ear.

Chris grunted. "Kid, do you think I'm stupid? I mean, we've worked together for nearly a year and a half now. I like to think you don't think I'm stupid."

"No, I don't think you're stupid," Tad told him, stung. In fact, Chris was possibly the best work wife a boy could have!

"Then why are you trying to gaslight me on how well your boy is doing?"

Oh. Tad swallowed. "'Cause Guthrie's pride is catching?" he said hesitantly. "I uhm… I don't want you to think badly of him, you know? So far, you've seen him—"

"Beating the system like a champion to try to find you in the middle of the wilderness," Chris reminded him.

"Well, yeah, but also—"

"Beat the fuck up after a mugging and telling my wife she should go home so he didn't inconvenience her too much. He'd be fine."

"I wasn't there for that," Tad said with dignity.

"And then there was a conversation we had at IHOP that he probably didn't tell you about," Chris told him. "When he told me that all he wanted was for you to love him."

Tad had to set his coffee down because his hands were suddenly shaking. "I'm sorry?"

"Yup. There I was, being all, ‘How serious are you about my boy?' when he blurts out that all he wants is for you to love him. And suddenly I'm like, ‘Oh no. Oh no ! Tad, brother, you'd better not fuck this kid up!'"

"I would not !" Tad protested.

"I know that," Chris said. "But imagine how vulnerable he must seem to make me switch loyalties like that. And people are vulnerable when they're hurt. And according to you, your boy just went back to the gauntlet that hurt him in the first place. So I'm going to ask you again, this time knowing that I only have yours and Guthrie's best interests at heart, how do you think he's doing?"

Tad tried not to whimper. "I think he's sleeping in his truck with a baby monitor so he can make sure his dad's okay while the fucker still won't let him sleep in the house."

"Augh!" Chris was taking deep breaths, like he was trying to control himself.

"Too much honesty?" Tad asked, dripping with bitterness.

"Why is that kid allowed out on his own?" Chris asked, sounding cranky. "I don't care how old he is—he needs somebody making sure he eats and sleeps and does all the things. Why haven't you dragged him back yet ?"

Tad grunted. "Because he said he had to do this so he could be as good a man as I am." Spears to the heart had nothing on Guthrie when he was paying a compliment.

Chris made a sound like somebody who'd walked into a post. "What an asshole," he muttered.

"I'm saying." Tad let out a breath. "So, talk to me. We're going in to do paperwork. I've been catching up on a lot of it at home. Any chance we'll catch a case? Or even be pulled in on the assist? I get I'm all computer work right now, limited desk duty, but I would love to play cop again."

Chris sighed. "I don't know. Me and Dunderhead have been running down a ring of thieves by tracing pawned merchandise, but Kryzynski and Christie have a murder that might lead directly to this same ring of assholes. Dunderhead"—which was Chris's charming name for Jim Draper, his interim partner, whom he detested—"doesn't want to work with them because it would mean he has to work, but I think offering you up to help them run down leads from the desk might help get me on that case. I'm just saying. I'm as excited about going back in the game as you probably are."

Tad gave a sigh of relief, glad to know he wouldn't be stuck on paperwork forever. "You know, there's no guarantee Colton will be much better," he said, because he was trying not to build the new job up in his head.

"It'll be different," Castro admitted, piloting the SUV to the police station on Richards. "I mean, there will be just as much boring time in the car, but the scenery will be better. We'll be dealing with the same ratio of shitheads, but we'll get to know the people better. Same problems will be there—domestic abuse, drugs, theft, murder—but we'll have a better chance of dealing with it because there's fewer people. And George, he's trying to set up things like rehab facilities and an abuse shelter, so instead of writing a referral to a social worker, we can take somebody to the abuse shelter and then track down the abuser and put him in jail and make sure the restraining order gets filed and he's prosecuted. I mean, people will still be dirtbags, but we'll have a bigger sponge per square mile to clean them up a little."

Tad grunted. "Wow—you've been thinking about this."

"I called George again last week. I was wondering if I'd built the job up too much in my head, so I asked him, you know. ‘Hey, what's that like?' And he'd spent time down in Sac before he moved his kids up to the small town. He knows what we do versus what he does, and he was able to explain it really well."

Tad allowed himself to relax a little, even though he was still worried about Guthrie. Chris was putting some of his worries about uprooting his small family to rest. It wasn't that he hadn't enjoyed growing up in a small town, but he'd worried that what was good for April—and, he suspected, for Guthrie—wouldn't be the most exciting career trajectory for him . But knowing his new boss was somebody who had done city police work as well as small town law enforcement, and found the small town satisfying too, that soothed some worries he hadn't wanted to admit to.

"It's good to hear," Tad said. "I-I want the move for April, really. She puts a good face on it, but she's not comfortable living in the apartment complex, so close to so many people. And Guthrie…." He worried his lower lip. "I'm not sure what Guthrie wants. He seems to think of any place he settles down into as a hub, and he's a satellite, going off to gigs. I get that on the one hand, but on the other…."

"You want him to be home," Chris said softly.

"I want him to be appreciated ," Tad said, with considerably more passion. "He's good, Chris. I know you haven't heard him play, but… but the songs he writes are really good, and his voice is just…. Do you remember the first time you heard Neil Young play ‘The Damage Done'?"

Chris made a quiet sound of discomfort. "I cried," he whispered. "I… I was in my twenties, and someone at my college had just OD'd. I didn't even know the guy, but that song… the way it made everything human, even someone dying of drug abuse. It was a gut punch."

Tad nodded. That song had gotten him through that terrible, terrible time with April—he refused to let her promise, her person, be destroyed like the friend in the song.

"Guthrie's voice, his guitar playing, even his songs, they do that. Not just to me. I've seen the look in the eyes of the people he plays with. None of them play rock or pop or even country—they're theater musicians—but I swear they put their life on hold to play with Guthrie. I just… people should come to see him . He shouldn't have to uproot his life to get a chance to play out in the world."

Chris opened his mouth to say something, but while Tad had been talking he'd pulled up Guthrie's audio files—this one, "Iris." Turning his phone up to top volume, he turned off the radio and hit Play as Chris found a parking spot near the front of the building. Chris let the car idle as the first notes filled the air.

They listened to the song, and Tad closed his eyes and let the longing of unrequited love wash over him before the song ended and he reset his phone.

"Well," Chris muttered, "fuck you for that, because now I'm all verklempt, and I'm supposed to be a man , dammit, but you didn't have to screw us both up emotionally right before shift, you know."

"What do you mean?"

Chris shook his head. "I have heard him play, kid. I was there that night, eating the food that Aaron George's kids had rounded up and Guthrie helped distribute. I was looking at that miracle thing they built in the moonlight before it hauled you guys up in the morning, and saying all the prayers to all the saints, and he started to sing. You don't have to tell me he can make someone's heart stop and then drive them to hope all at the same time. I've heard it. And you're right. He deserves to have people come see him . But you know what he deserves more than that?"

Tad grimaced. "I know this one," he said.

"I know you do, but I want to hear you say it."

"A home," Tad said.

Chris tapped his nose. "Got it in one. Now let's go inside before the pavement starts melting our shoes. God, getting off the city streets at the end of July is enough of a reason to move."

AS BORING as desk duty was, it was still considerably more interesting than Tad's apartment at this point, and the day passed fairly quickly. Tad remembered to text April near lunchtime, asking for "proof of life" photos of the kittens, and she obliged. He asked her if she wanted to take his SUV to go anywhere, and she replied, Going to the pool. Taking phone. Don't worry so much.

She sent him a selfie of her out in the sun, and then another one an hour later of the TV at the end of her toes as she worked on her newest yarn project.

You're bored , he typed. When we get to Colton, you need to get a job.

Your sheriff guy has one for me. I want to do that. And then, to his surprise, she emailed him a file of ideas she'd put together for Aaron's proposed rehab center. Good shit. Things like fiber craft and woodcraft and mechanical skills to be taught to the recovering patients, as well as basic housekeeping and cooking skills, in which the patient contributed to their own upkeep and their own environment.

This is great , he texted. I'll send it to Aaron. He'll be happy you're on board.

There was a pause then, and she typed, But not too many hours to start with. Is that okay, Tadpole? I feel like I won't be good if I'm ON too much. I don't want to disappoint him.

Aw, man. His sister. He realized that the past five weeks, if nothing else, had given him a chance to see his sister come back to herself. Quieter. Not quite as confident. But still wry and funny. Still smart. But now more balanced—and more of an advocate for her own self-care.

You take care of yourself, and then you can take care of your job and other people. I think he'll be fine. I know *I* am more proud of you than I can say.

Blargh. So drippy. Go away and solve crime.

He sent her a bunch of heart emojis to make her laugh and left her alone. Before he went back to running financials on the target of Castro's investigation, though, he sent her file of suggestions—and suggestions for implementation on a budget—to Aaron George. Before the end of the day, he got a reply, along with some options for contacts, asking April if she'd like to start talking to people before she even moved to Colton. And a budget. And pictures of the facility he'd already scheduled the county to lease, starting in September.

Tad smiled and passed it on and felt the hope for his sister bubbling up so strongly in his stomach he almost couldn't breathe. Guthrie had been right; they had to move to Colton. This was a thing Tad could do to help his sister, to help their small family, to do good in the world.

Tad wished so badly for Guthrie to be coming with them he wanted to cry.

THE WEEK progressed, and Tad got back into the swing of things as best he could. He made sure to use the gym facilities at the station—working out, walking, rebuilding his wind and his speed and the muscle loss that came with an injury so he was tired when he got back home to the apartment, with less energy to worry. For her part, April seemed content. She'd begun emailing back and forth with the people in Colton, and from what Tad could see, she was already a vital part of their new approach to dealing with the substance-abuse problems in their small area. She continued her yarncraft, and she still liked to binge murder TV, but she also seemed to be particularly motivated to start their move.

And she was really excited about Larx and Aaron's wedding, which was approaching at the speed of light.

Tad was trying not to worry too much. Guthrie had been texting in the evening, like always, and he'd nailed down some dates and times, planning to come to Sacramento on the morning of August fifth so they could travel together to the small hotel in Colton and stay—in two rooms, Tad had insisted, one for April, one for them—until the morning of the seventh, when they'd return Guthrie to his truck and he'd travel back to Sand Cut to finish his grim duty.

At least Tad assumed it was grim. He had to assume because Guthrie told him nothing about it. His texts featured the little corner of the yard where his truck was parked, tapes of him practicing, and even two new songs he'd written. For all Tad knew, he spent his days raiding small towns along the coastline, pillaging and burning like a Viking, and then returned to his truck to eat kittens for dinner. Unlikely—Guthrie adored Lenny/Lennon/Leonard Bruce—but still. Tad wouldn't know if he was doing that because Guthrie wasn't talking, was he ?

Tad's worry was about off the charts when, the morning of the fourth, at about 6:00 a.m., right before he'd planned to wake up, his phone buzzed in the charger. The ringtone was Guthrie's "I Will Wait for You," and Tad's stomach clenched as he answered because this couldn't be good.

He picked the phone up to hear an unfamiliar voice saying, "Detective Tad Hawkins of the Sacramento PD?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"This is Deputy Kenny Wilson from the Sand Cut branch of the Monterey County Sheriff's Department, and—"

"Oh God." Tad sat up so suddenly he pulled his thigh muscle and had to work not to yelp like an injured hound. "Is Guthrie okay? Was there an accident? Did he get mugged?"

"He's fine." There was a pause. "Mostly. There was a bar fight, and he would have held his own, but there were four of them. I had to stop it, so I put him in the local lockup for his own protection. This isn't an out-and-proud kind of place, Detective Hawkins. There's only so much I can do to keep your boy safe. I think maybe it's best you get him out of town for a few days until the dust settles. What say you?"

Tad blinked hard several times in a row and tried not to snarl at Guthrie through this nice small-town deputy who, it seemed, was really doing his best.

"I can be there in four hours," he said, glancing at the clock.

"Hmm… better make it five. We don't want you to get a ticket on the way. Don't worry, he's sleeping it off right now. By the time you get here, he'll have had his coffee, maybe some breakfast, and he won't be quite so cranky. Look forward to meeting you in person, Detective Hawkins. Gotta say, you're a step up from who I used to have to call."

With that, Deputy Wilson signed off, and Tad was left to frantically dial Chris's number to tell him he wouldn't be coming in that day.

"What're you going to be doing?" Chris asked suspiciously. "I might want in on that too."

"I'm driving to Sand Cut to bail my boyfriend out of jail," Tad replied sourly, not even able to believe this.

"Oh, I'm definitely in," Chris said happily. "I'll pack a bag, make some hotel reservations—two rooms. We can stay down by the sea. Laura and Robin are making a college visit this weekend and picking out dorm stuff and bonding and shit. Whooppeee! Two vacations in one month! I'm in!"

And with that, Chris ended the call, and Tad was left to bury his face in his hands.

How in the hell had this happened?