Page 26 of Trevor Takes Care

Not that G.G. was a shy miss, or even Keira Knightley.

G.G. was something else entirely, alone, and careful, and lonely. He had a distant family and firsthand knowledge of what divorce was like. He was someone else inclined to spoil those he cared about except he had none of them around. Someone with love to give and only cats to give it to.

One cat, now. He was probably overflowing with the need to share parts of himself.

“A desk from G.G.,” Trevor said, slowly and deliberately, catching G.G.’s gaze. “But I don’t want you to overwork yourself on something complicated for just me. And work starts only once your hand is completely healed. Will that do?”

Dusky color rushed into G.G.’s face.

The structure of the story did not pop fully formed into Trevor’s mind, but parts of the outline clicked into place.

He realized his heart was racing.

“Trevor?” Trevor’s grandmother called through the window. “Did you want lu—oh, hello, G.G. Are you staying for lunch?”

“No.” G.G. tore his gaze away from Trevor while simultaneously nodding at him, well, in his direction. “Thank you, Margaret, but I should get back.”

He didn’t actually say why he should get back, but was already heading—scuttling—toward the gate, and then back onto the grass. He closed the gate behind him before Ellie could get close enough to slip out, raising his eyes to find Trevor’s again for the second before he was out of sight.

Trevor absently fell into one of the chairs around the table.

“Shame,” his grandmother said, still through the window, “it would have been nice to have company, even mostly silent company.”

“Yeah,” Trevor agreed faintly, reaching out to scratch Ellie’s butt when she stopped next to him, his thoughts faraway, “I’ll work on it.”

Chapter Eleven

For lunch, Trevor was led to the pantry by his grandmother and given a lesson in making unplanned dishes out of what was on hand. He liked the challenge, even if it apparently took more cooking experience to develop the confidence to have fun with it.

His grandma decided on quiche, pausing to give Trevor a suspicious look when she’d mentioned pie crust and he’d straightened with more noticeable interest. After lunch, she’d sent him off to work in his bedroom, and when she came to ask for help with dinner hours later, Trevor had gotten very little work done, his thoughts on other things.

Trevor working out his pushier impulses with Sky was an entirely different thing than Trevor giving G.G. what he wanted. Whatever that was; Trevor had only gotten a glimpse and he wasn’t sure G.G. had wanted him to see that much.

Definitely not with Trevor’s grandmother only a few feet away, in any case.

His grandma didn’t feel up to making lasagna from scratch, so they used some of the meat intended for that to make meatballs, which could apparently be frozen. Since that had been a significant amount of work, and they still had meat that had to be used, she said Trevor should learn some of the basics and pulled out a recipe card for meatloaf.

It would be better not to think about G.G., since maybe then Trevor’s body would calm down. But possibilities kept popping up, like story ideas but more intense because G.G. was real and, theoretically at least, touchable.

Trevor cut yellow onions and wondered if G.G. really could cook, and what he would do if praised for it. And what he would do if Trevor took some of what G.G. wanted to offer and told him he was good.

Quiet, polite G.G. could probably besogood.

But he wasn’t like Sky. Sky needed pressure. Care and physical comfort had to be forced on him until he was a contented, squirming marshmallow. G.G. made Trevor want to offer care but also… G.G. had his own luxury and softness. He had honey, and velvet, and books, and a fluffy cat. He mightwantsomeone else to provide that, but heneededsomething else. Trevor wasn’t quite sure what yet.

Sky would be able to figure it out.

Trevor really had to talk to him.

“You’re in a strange mood today,” his grandmother remarked, flicking through her handwritten recipe cards and wincing. The movement hurt or she was thinking about how writing out a new recipe card now would take so much effort.

Trevor considered whether those dictation programs that writers—real writers,bookwriters—used could be applied to creating recipes. It wouldn’t be the same, but it would mean his grandmother could keep doing something she loved for that much longer.

He looked up from his knife work and shrugged.

“You aren’t feeling poorly, are you?” his grandma asked. Instead of backing up like she should have done if Trevor was possibly sick, she put her hand to his cheek, then his forehead when he ducked to let her.

“Distracted,” Trevor excused himself. “Could we make pie this summer?”

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