Page 149 of The Menagerie

Sheila continues her story. “I took pity on him and gave him some coffee and a sandwich, and the next thing I know, he’s out the door with his food and my tip money. Swindled me outta food a couple more times throughout the years.”

“Shit, seriously? I’m sorry, Sheila.”

Fucking Hank.

“Not your fault. Besides, it was years ago, and I’d already emptied the tip jar when my bussers and waiters went home, so there was only a few dollars in there.”

“He died a few years ago, and somehow I’m surprised to still keep finding people he’s screwed over.”

Her face is pitying, but her tone is anything but. “Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine. He’d been drinking himself to death since before I was born, so he had it coming.”

She hums thoughtfully and leaves to help other patrons.

Rowan takes his first sip of coffee, and it really is delicious. Hot and fresh, with a hint of sweetness. He wishes he and Mal could come here during the day. Maybe now that they’ve broken that invisible barrier once, it’ll happen more often.

He can’t deny how weird it is being here without him, in this place that Mal had introduced to him. Already in his everyday life, more or less everything reminds him of Mal. Bottles of antiseptic at work with a bright caramel label? Same shade as Mal’s eyes in the sunlight. Shorter-than-average guy with dark hair walking down the street? Could be Mal. Someone curses out the cashier at the grocery store? Mal would have chewed that guy the fuck out.

He’s everywhere. Go figure that Rowan would try to solve his problems with Mal in a place that practicallysmellslike him. Like cinnamon and worn leather.

Taking a deep breath, followed by a deeper sip of coffee, Rowan weighs his options. He could tell Jay about Mal. He trusts his older brother more than anybody on the planet, but…. But he knows Jay would respond with a snarkyJesus Christ, Rowan, or something similar, and tell him to either nut up and tell Mal how he feels or quit seeing him, cold turkey. Band-Aid approach.

The rest of his family wouldn’t really give him much better advice. Aubrey would probably tell him something similar to Jay, her long string of exes hardly making her a helpless romantic. His younger siblings might be worse. Clara would probably swoon a bit and say he should go after him, assuming he could get her to listen to someone else’s problems for five minutes to explain the situation. Rory would probably ask if he has any priors now that he’s turned traitor and become a full-blown cop. And Marc…? Well, Marc would probably actually give him some good advice. But he’s already had to suffer the embarrassment of asking him how to set up a Grindr profile in the past, and some wounds cut a little too deep.

He hadn’t even realized he’d started eating the lemon square that Sheila brought him when she stops by and drops off his food, the pastry nothing but crumbs on the tiny dessert plate.

“Anything else I can getcha?” she asks.

“I’m good, but… can I ask you somethin’ else, Sheila?”

She cocks one round hip against the counter, half leaning on it. “Shoot.”

“It’s kinda… personal, I guess. I wouldn’t bring it up normally, but I kinda don’t want my family to know ’cause they’d give me shit for it.”

“Family’s like that,” Sheila laughs. “You won’t find no judgment from me, honey. Whatever it is, I’ve either been through it myself or know someone who has.”

“I uh… sorta like this guy. A lot. But we’re not really… we’re friends, I guess. But I don’t know if he actually likes me back or if I’m just makin’ shit up. And if he doesn’t, I don’t wanna fuck anything up by telling him.”

He feels like a teenager asking his parents for advice on his crush, but something about the woman seems so caring and nonjudgmental that Rowan isn’t bothered by it.

“How long have ya known him?”

“Few months.”

“Hmm…,” she muses, setting her sole focus on Rowan. It’s a little unnerving being the center of attention of her small but alert hazel eyes. “How often do you see each other?”

“Usually once a week for a few hours.” He pushes the home fries around on his plate, adding, “But we text pretty much every day.”

“And do your conversations ever turn romantic, or are they strictly platonic?”

Rowan feels like he should be leaning back against a chaise lounge in a therapist’s office.

“They’re all over the place, I guess. Honestly most of the time they’re a little… uh… not-safe-for-work, if you catch my drift. But then other times it’ll be completely ordinary stuff.”

“Well, that changes everything,” she says, finally pulling up a stool from somewhere under the counter and taking a seat opposite him. “You’re sleeping with this friend?”

Rowan’s cheeks are undoubtedly as bright as the cherry-red seat cushions. “Yeah. That’s… kind of how we started becoming friends.”

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