Page 18 of Beneath the Indigo Sky

“You’ve just never worked for anyone other than me, and you don’t have any friends to speak of, and I guess I just…I hope working for Jayce is good for you. I guess I hope maybe you’ve found a friend.”

I have no words for that. I’ve never thought about how I must seem to the man who’s become my father. How my differences must seem to set me apart in a way that hurts him. How many times has he wondered if I’m lonely the way young parents wonder if their kids will find someone to play with at recess on their first day of school?

I stand and pull him up into my arms, crushing him in a hug so tight that I worry that he might break.

He lets me hug him until I don’t need to anymore and then grumbles about his chicken getting cold as he settles back in at the table.

“Jayce and I get along well, Ken. He might even be my friend.”

“Was that so hard?” He snorts, and I can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of me.

Jayce

I still dream of a boy running through the trees on bright summer afternoons, and the teenager I snuck my first drink with, and the man who yelled at the football players on my TV every Sunday. I still wake up to find him gone. I still roll over and close my eyes for a moment and wish I could join him.

I force myself out of bed and into the shower before pulling on clothes that I somehow remembered to wash. I’m only half aware of the trees and melting snow and cars passing me by as I drive to the shop. I replace alternators and brakes and rebuild rear ends that were damaged in accidents. I don’t like repairing those anymore. The shop is empty and cold and quiet. The world is grey and muted. It’s been three months since I lost half of my soul, and I’m still here.

There are moments when I forget to hurt. Moments when I don’t struggle to breathe. There are brief glimpses of a life less suffocatingly painful that are so short that I wonder if I’m imagining them. There are sips of tea that don’t burn my throat, steps where the rub of my collar on my neck doesn’t make me want to tear it off in a rage and crawl back into bed, sounds of life that don’t grate on my soul.

These moments come on Saturday mornings. I didn’t realize that at first. I’m too lost in the fog of survival to notice if it’s Saturday morning or Wednesday afternoon, so it took a while for me to recognize that there is a pattern. The moments come when Namid is around.

He’s here again this morning, working in the office like he has every other Saturday for the past two months, and I find myself wandering out to the reception desk and looking at the schedule when I know damn good and well what’s booked without looking.

I try to watch him from the corner of my eye without it seeming like I’m hovering over his shoulder. I don’t want him to feel uneasy here. I want him to stay. I want him to come back again. Having him here is comfortable somehow. He fits.

He finishes in just over thirty minutes, and I’m not ready for him to go. We’ve gotten coffee together after his last three days here, and I wonder if there is a way I can stay in his company for even longer as he shrugs on his light jacket and starts to tell me he’ll see me in a couple of weeks.

“Do you want to get breakfast with me?”

He cringes. That’s not exactly the reaction I want, and I start to shake my head.

“Nevermi…”

“No, it’s not that I don’t want to,” he cuts me off, and then nervously glances at his shoes.

“I just don’t handle busy places like Saturday morning brunch in public all that well.”

He’s right; it will be busy. It’s the start of tourist season, and in addition to the town’s fine dining restaurant that opens only during the three summer months, the local diner extends its normal lunch and dinner hours to offer brunch during the summer. Both places will be packed.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

His face lights up with a smile that seems almost conspiratorial, and I realize I can’t wait to hear what he says next.

“Do you want to pick up some coffee and croissants and take them to the park?”

The muscles of my face split into a smile before I forget to stop them. I can’t help it; he is so bright and joyful and full of life that when he smiles at me, all I want to do is smile back so that he never stops.

“I’d love that.”

Out here in the middle of nowhere, you can get pre-packaged, preservative-laden, pre-sliced bread in a bag anytime. Freshly baked goods, however, are harder to come by unless you make them yourself. On Saturdays, though, that changes. There are three bakers in town who bring the fruits of their labor to the market for a portion of the proceeds, and we can get everything from crusty sourdough loaves to chocolate croissants.

Namid and I are early enough that the case is still full, but there are a handful of other shoppers in the store, so that could change quickly. I grab the one-dozen-sized pastry box and snatch up two of my favorite onion and cheddar rolls before anyone can pop out of the dairy case and steal them all first.

“Well, that was decisive,” Namid says with a laugh.

“Have you ever had these?”

“I have, and they are indeed the best, but I need another coffee, and people who drink coffee with savory foods are monsters.”

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