Page 10 of Rebel

Tanner left early that night, dismissed by Reed who thought he looked poorly. He took the books with him, holding them against his chest as he walked out. He didn’t even try to catch Sam’s eye.

It left Sam wretched, despite knowing he’d done the right thing, and he went home to his empty house, made emptier still by the absence of Tanner’s books.

Saturday loomed with no prospect of a visit from his friend, and Sam spent Friday evening sitting staring at the empty grate. He wished he had a novel to pass the time, to fill his mind with adventures and ideas, to distract himself from the sullen ache in his chest. But of course, he didn’t, and it was his own damned fault.

He spent Saturday fishing. Not at the quiet spot where he’d taken Tanner, but closer to Rosemont. It was a cloudless June day, and he wasn’t alone on the riverbank, so it was a pleasant way to pass the time. The fish were biting too, and he brought a couple home for Peggy to prepare for supper.

“No Mr. Tanner this evening, sir?” she asked when he handed her the fish.

It was painful to tell her no, and to think of Tanner alone in his lodgings. But surely it was better than risking what could happen between them had he come? Surely every hurt was better than damnation?

At seven o’clock, Tanner’s usual hour, Sam stood by the window of his parlor and stared out at the empty street. He knew Tanner wouldn’t come; returning his books had been a clear message. It was stupid to feel regretful that Tanner had understood it. He’d only have to turn him away if he did come, after all. He should thank God he was spared that scene.

Nevertheless, the evening dragged on, long and light at this time of year. Hot too, a sultry heat that left him sticky even at dusk. He’d just taken off his coat to drape over the back of a chair when he heard a knock at the door and the patter of the maid’s footsteps going to answer. Sam froze, torn between the desperate desire that it be Tanner and the equally desperate desire that it wasn’t.

The parlor door opened and May dropped a curtsy. “Mr. Tanner, sir.”

Hell. Sam stood, swallowing the lump of want and fear in his throat as Tanner stepped into the room. His eyes were very wide in the twilight, his teeth white where he chewed his bottom lip, and in his hands, he held a book. He didn’t speak; neither of them spoke until May had closed the door behind her. Then they spoke together.

“I thought—”

“You can’t—”

Tanner turned the book over in his hands and took a couple of stilted steps toward the table as if to set it down. “I won’t stay, but I thought you might like to read—”

“No,” Sam snapped, flustered and angry. “I told you, we can’t.”

Tanner flinched. “It’s just a book, Hutch.”

“No, it’s not.” It felt like he was grinding words between his teeth. “You know it isn’t.”

“We really can’t be friends?”

“No.”

Tanner’s hands tightened on the book, holding it over his heart like a shield. “I see. Well… I suppose it was worth—” His voice cracked, and he stopped, blinking rapidly. “Ah, to the devil with you.” Something glistened on his cheek as he leaned forward and set the book on the table. “Take the damned book, Hutch. Think of it as a parting gift. I won’t trouble you again.” With that, he turned and strode out of the room.

“Wait…” But Sam said it too quiet and too late, and the front door was already closing. From the window, he watched Tanner stalk down the path to the street, dashing a hand over his face as he went.

Sam stood there for a long time, watching as night crept over his garden and the Rose Moon peeked over the treetops, heavy and golden in the summer sky. Her light threw soft shadows into the room, and when Sam turned from the window his eye was drawn to the book Tanner had left on the table. He was afraid to touch it but couldn’t stop himself from crossing the parlor and picking it up.

Like all Tanner’s books, the cover was worn and supple. Sam didn’t recognize the design, it wasn’t one he’d read before, and he opened the cover to the title page:Juliaby J.J Rousseau, an English translation of the French. More arresting than that, however, were the words inscribed in Tanner’s fluent hand below the title.

Amicus est tamquam alter idem.

Sam didn’t know Latin, although amicus was clear enough: Friend. It was an offer of friendship, then. One Sam had refused for good and virtuous reasons. Strange that nothing about it felt good or virtuous. He closed his eyes, brought the book to his lips, and inhaled the scent of leather, paper, and ink. It reminded him wholly of Tanner, of his glorious dark eyes that Sam had left bruised, of the sad set of his mouth, of the sleepless pallor of his skin.

Nate Tanner, who’d been such a brilliant light not a week ago, turned to shadow by Sam’s virtue.

“God,” he whispered into the book, “what should I do? Tell me what to do.”

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