Page 28 of King's Man

They shared an awkward glance before Nate turned away and started tugging his soggy shirt from his breeches. Reeds rustled on the far bank where the water ran deeper. “Looks like you’d catch some cotton fish over there,” he said. “Do they have them in England?”

“Can’t say I know. Haven’t had much time for fishing.”

“But you love to fish.”

“London’s rivers aren’t exactly conducive.”

Nate could believe that. There was more shit than fish in those filthy streams. “This looks like a nice spot,” he said. “Shame we don’t have longer.”

“You’re a fisherman now, are you?” Sam untucked his shirt, letting it gape, sunlight golden on his chest.

Nate looked away to keep from staring. “No, I don’t fish. But I still read. Came across a copy ofLes Liaisons Dangereusesin London.” He risked a glance. “Have you heard of it? It’s quite scandalous. I think you’d enjoy it.”

Sam gave a huff and started working on taking off his boots. “So I’d fish, and you’d lay in the grass and read to me, just like we used to? And we’d ignore the bad blood between us and pretend like the world isn’t a changed place?”

Nate sighed. “There’s no bad blood between us, Sam. At least, not on my part. And maybe the worldhaschanged, but a man can still go fishing with his friend. And read books.”

“You think so?Ican’t even go home.” With that he stood and strode out into the water.

TheThanks to you, remained unspoken.

After carefully taking the cord holding his ring from around his neck and tucking it safely into his portmanteau, Nate followed Sam into the water. He sucked in a breath at the cold and then dived under the surface to wash the mud from his skin and clothes. Once he was swimming, it didn’t feel so cold and he scrubbed at his hair and limbs and then floated on his back, drifting beneath the willow and down past the reeds.

He stopped there. Sam stood a little distance away, head tipped back as he squeezed water out of his hair. He was breathtaking in the sunlit water — that fair boy that had my heart entangled. Nate sighed. Not even the poets could do Sam justice. He wondered whether Sam remembered the time they’d made love in the river, a hot summer night when they’d struck out past the edge of town in search of solitude and freedom. He imagined Sam did remember; the night had been unforgettable.

Standing up, Nate let his hair stream down his back, freed of the queue that usually held it in place. The sun was warm on his chilled skin, dappling through the leaves of the willow that hid them from the inn. His heart fluttered light and high in his throat. “I miss those days,” he said to Sam, sending the words like fragile paper boats over the water.

Sam looked up from where he stood close to the bank. The planes and angles of his body were beautifully defined by the clinging linen of his shirt, rendered almost transparent by the water. He looked like a painting.

“I miss lying in the grass, reading to you.” Nate walked closer, toes sinking into the silty riverbed. “I miss talking to you and debating with you. I miss —”

“Don’t.”

“I miss touching you.” He flicked a glance over Sam’s shoulder, but they were well concealed, so he put his fingertips to Sam’s chest. “I missyou.”

“For God’s sake —” Sam grabbed his wrist but didn’t pull Nate’s hand away. “What the devil do you want from me?”

“Nothing.”Your forgiveness, your love. “I just wanted you to know.” Movement on the bank drew his eye. Two girls walked down from the inn, giggling and whispering, carrying a basket of food between them. Nate snatched his hand back. “I’m still your friend, Sam. I always have been.” Then he let himself fall back into the water. “Looks like our meal is on the way.”

They waited in the water while the girls — daughters of the innkeeper, perhaps — delivered a basket of food, ruddy-cheeked and laughing as they cast daring glances toward the river.

Nate raised his hand and waved. “Much obliged to you, ladies!”

That elicited another giggle and, from the bolder of the two, an extravagant curtsy, before they headed back toward the inn with several glances over their shoulders and explosions of laughter.

When they were out of sight, Nate made his way out of the river and he and Sam, backs carefully turned, stripped out of their wet clothes, set them out in the sun, and got dressed. Once they were dry and warmer, they sat on the riverbank beneath the willow and ate a meal of fresh bread, tangy red cheese, and early season apples that were as fragrant as anything Nate would have gotten at home. And more ale to drink.

“Honey cake,” Sam said quietly. “Hot from the oven. That’s somethingImiss.”

Startled, Nate looked up from his contemplation of his meal. “From Calder’s Bakery,” he said. “You always got the biggest slice because Miss Calder was sweet on you.”

Sam shook his head and gave a wistful little smile. “Baked beans on a Saturday night.”

“And after church on Sunday.” Nate studied him, watched the way Sam toyed with the apple in his hand, the tension in the firm line of his jaw and around his eyes.

“Funny, the things you miss,” Sam went on. “Sometimes, they’re real small. Insignificant, seeming. Like honey cake, or the quality of the rain. But it’s like a kick in the ribs, every time. It winds you.” He tossed the apple in the air and caught it, tossed it again. “There’s a place on Threadneedle Street in London called The New England Coffeeshop. Refugees gather there to read the American papers and talk about home. Reminisce, you know? I don’t go there anymore. It’s like scratching a mosquito bite — you get a little temporary relief but end up making it bleed.” He set the apple back in the basket, adjusting its position carefully. “The way I see it, I’m better off keeping my eyes on the horizon and not looking back. There’s nothing there for me anymore.”

Nate didn’t know what to say. It made him feel awful.Guilty. And he hated that. God knew, he’d tried to convince Sam to change his mind, or to at least keep quiet. That he’d chosen to voice his opposition to the war wasn’t Nate’s fault, yet he couldn’t stand the thought of him sitting in a miserable London coffee shop pouring over old American newspapers, looking for a glimpse of home.

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