Page 38 of The Menagerie

“You a fuckin’ phone book or something?”

“Just asking.”

Mal huffs and looks away, and Rowan’s starting to pick up on his mannerisms, including avoiding eye contact when he’s hesitant about something.

“Savaryn,” he mutters, like it’s something to be ashamed of.

And maybe it is, based on what Sheila had said earlier. Sins of the father. Rowan wonders if Mr. Savaryn is as shitty a dad as Hank was.

“Thanks” is all he replies, opting not to make a big deal of it. Because it isn’t. Family’s what you choose for yourself, not what you’re born into.

He obviously can’t take a picture of Mal, so the contact icon remains, sadly, a flat green circle with MS inside. He sends Mal a quick text so he has Rowan’s number too. It hits him now, with Mal’s number safely saved in his contacts and a one-line convo going, that this is actually real. He’s actually gonna get to fuck him again, hopefully multiple times if he doesn’t screw anything up.

“All set, guys?” a young girl with a cloth apron tied around her waist asks as she approaches their table.

“Yeah, thanks,” Rowan replies, pushing his plate toward the edge.

“No problem. Sheila says it’s on the house,” she says, stacking their plates and cups into one heavy-looking pile and casually hauling the dishes away in the crook of her arm.

He hears Mal sigh as she walks away. There’s definitely a story there, but Rowan figures Mal won’t tell him even if he asks.

“You good?” Mal asks.

Rowan nods, shoves his phone back in his jeans pocket. They exit the booth, and Rowan heads straight for the door.

“Hang on a sec,” Mal says over his shoulder as he approaches Sheila. She’s sitting down behind the counter, placing pastries on a three-tiered stand next to the register.

Rowan can’t hear what they’re saying, but they talk for barely a minute, Mal shoving a wad of bills into Sheila’s apron despite her best efforts to push the money away. Sheila places a wrinkled hand on Mal’s bicep, rubbing up and down twice, squeezing once. Familiar. Rowancanhear Mal’s faint, “Bye, Sheils” before he turns to leave.

It’s interesting—Mal’s use of nicknames. It seems like they’re either meant to convey affection—Jer, Sheils—or utter indifference—Shortstop, Leg Day. He can’t help but wonder which Mal means when he calls him Red.

“How much do I owe you?” Rowan asks once outside.

Mal lights up another cigarette. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?”

A puff of smoke billows out from Mal’s nostrils, reminding him of the tattoo inked across his chest and shoulders. Tantalizing. Rowan wants to see it again. And get a closer look at the rest of his tats without the distraction of nearly a dozen other bodies surrounding them.

“Yeah.”

“Uh… thanks.”

Call it a Southie thing, but Rowan hates having people pay for him. Even when he didn’t have money, he was always determined to pay his own way by any means necessary. But he lets it go, making a mental note to pay Mal back in some way later on.

They walk back to the club, this time idly chatting, ironing out minor details of their arrangement, talking shit about some of the guys from earlier, pointing out random bits of graffiti that not even the Back Bay is exempt from. This time, Mal’s pace is more leisurely, and it takes them twice as long to get back.

“Are you good to get home?” Rowan asks once they reach the front doors.

“Not a fuckin’ princess, man.”

“Relax, I’m only checking. Youjustgot railed by a buncha guys, then ate your weight in food. Wanna make sure you’re not gonna pass out on the way home or anything.”

“Pft. Yeah. ’M good.”

“’Kay.”

“I’ll text ya. Later, Red.”

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