Page 102 of Torch Songs

“That it was this bad,” Tad snapped, his hurt undeniable.

“Tad,” Guthrie said, sounding like he was warming up for a fight, “I walked into the place for the first time in nearly ten years last night. I had no idea that this place was such a fucking time warp—”

“All of it,” Tad retorted. “Not just the bar, but… butallof it. Look at you, man. Your clothes are a mess, your hair is too long—you look like you’ve been camping in the backyard for almost a month. What in the hell are you doing?”

Guthrie made an indeterminant sound in his throat. “It’s not as bad as all that,” he said, and then, when Tad would have protested, he held up a battered hand. “I swear. It’s just, Jock and I are working on the house during the day, and I take nursing duty in the morning and afternoon. We’ve got Dad in the house with a baby monitor and all the doors and windows open so he can get fresh air. At around five o’clock, I go sit in the truck because it’s got the best reception and practice and play and text you, and Jock takes care of Butch, and then we go have a beer on the porch at night. A couple of times a week, somebody comes to watch him so one of us can go shopping for supplies, usually Jock because he almost always needs something from the hardware store. This isn’t… I don’t know…homelessnessyou’re seeing. It’s like a really weird construction job is all. Same injuries, same clothes.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Same need for a beer at the end of the day.”

“Really?” Tad asked, not buying it. “Because Kenny had a different story.”

Guthrie made that sound again. “Tad,” he said after a moment, “I’m tired. My head hurts. And I am really fucking glad to see you. Can we… can we leave it at that for a bit? What I’m doing is hard, I ain’t gonna lie. But it takes more energy to talk about why it’s hard than I got right now. Can’t we…. Just tell me about the cats. Stupid shit like we don’t have time for in text. Tell me how April’s doing. About the move. About the wedding. I-I been practicing some songs for Livvy’s dads that’ll hopefully make their day nice, but I want to hear details. Please? The absolute worst thing about the last few weeks is that I ain’t got to see or hear from this whole new family I’m trying to be a part of. Could we just….” His voice cracked, and so did Tad’s heart. “Can we do that?”

“Yeah,” Tad said, his chest aching. “Yeah, sure. We can do that. Guthrie, you know I love you, right?”

“You came to my rescue, Galahad. I think that’s safe to say.”

“Good. Then you’re going to have to deal with my worry. I’m sorry. You just are. But yeah. You kick back, and I’ll talk while I drive this—oh my God, Guthrie, does the power steering work in this thing at all?”

“No,” Guthrie said, seemingly forced to honesty. “And there’s some other shit going out too. I… I got no time and no money to fix it. Not right now.”

“Well, you close your eyes a minute,” Tad muttered. “I gotta make a call to Chris. We’ve got a slight change of plans.”

Guthrie fell asleep, like Tad knew he would, and he made plans to drop the truck off and have Chris pick them up. It felt like this would be Guthrie repair day—a chance to patch him up and get him all ready to go to the wedding so he’d have enough energy to come back here and beat himself to death against whatever was going on in his father’s house that he didn’t want to talk about.

Well, fine.

If they only had a little time to do it, Tad would make the most of it.

AFTER DROPPINGthe truck off—and taking Guthrie to get his arm looked at by a doctor and not a part-time EMT—they checked into a nice hotel by the beach, and Tad gave Guthrie some time to clean up while he and Chris searched for places for lunch.

“How’s he doing?” Chris asked as they scrolled their phones.

“He’s exhausted,” Tad said honestly. “And other than that, I don’t know. He says it’s hard, but I haven’t heard him talk about his father once.”

Chris grimaced. “You… uhm… you might not. When my dad passed….” He shuddered. “I don’t talk about that. And you don’t talk about getting your sister into rehab.”

Tad shuffled his feet, embarrassed, and Chris rolled his eyes.

“Gay men are supposed to be more evolved,” Tad told him defensively.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Chris muttered with deep disgust. “Straight male repression is my jam.”

Tad snorted. “Tell that to your much adored autonomous wife,” he said. “I’m just saying—he’s not okay.”

“Mm….” Chris murmured. “Was he ever? I mean… musicians, buddy. It’s not always sweet dreams and butterflies in their engine, you know what I mean?”

Tad scowled at him. “Can we pick lunch?”

“Yup. See? Repression—it has its uses.”

“I want steak,” Tad said sourly.

“Heart disease is something you and your guy can share in the future. On it.”

GUTHRIE CAMEout dressed in clean jeans and Tad’s plaid hooded sweatshirt, which had been worn to death. His hair was clean and combed and pulled back from his face, and the shadows in his eyes had faded somewhat. Tired, yes—but worn,fatigued, not so much.

“What’re we eating?” he asked.

“Clam chowder,” Chris said promptly.

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