Page 13 of Tropical Vice
“That’s not the point.”
Blake took another step. His hands felt empty now, his pockets too light. “They wanted the story. The angle. I told them no. I bought time. I lied.”
Kit let out a breath through his nose. “Then you should’ve told me the truth.”
Blake searched his face, but Kit had closed himself again. His shoulders were still drawn, his mouth unreadable.
“I didn’t want it to be the reason you stopped letting me near,” Blake said. “I couldn’t work out how to explain it.”
“That says enough.”
Kit bent down and picked up the cloth that had fallen earlier near the crate stack. He slung it across his shoulder, eyes still low.
Blake tried again. “Kit?—”
“You had the key.” His voice came quiet, but firm. “I let you into my home, my life. You sat in my kitchen and ate my food. I did all that for you. And you couldn’t be bothered to tell me.”
“I wanted to stay. That’s all I wanted.”
Kit moved toward the door, his hand catching the edge of the frame. His fingers rested there a moment, pressed white.
“Leave the key when you go.”
Then he stepped inside. The door swung once, half-closed, and stopped against the soft wedge on the floor. The light inside barely reached the threshold now. A single moth batted once against the metal frame, then disappeared.
Blake stood in the alley, the damp pressing at his back, his shirt stuck cold to his skin. His hands hung loose at his sides. The alley offered no sound except the soft knock of a branch against the roof gutter and a distant bark from one of the dogs. It did not repeat.
He didn’t move for some time. There was no breeze. Only the staleness of held breath and the thrum of things unsaid. The door did not open again. The narrow gap remained, light too far to reach.
SIX
THE DISTANCE BETWEEN
Blake approached the café from the southern path, the parcel tucked in one hand, its shape dented by the tide-humid air. His shirt clung in patches beneath the arms. There was no wind.
From the slope above the patio, he could see Kit moving the broom across the tiled threshold in slow, even pulls. He did not pause when Blake came into view, nor glance up. The sound of the bristles against ceramic carried across the garden.
Blake halted near the step. He said nothing. His jaw shifted, then stilled again. The parcel trembled once in his grip before he set it carefully on the stool beside the door, close to the broom’s lean. Kit’s movements remained steady, deliberate.
Only when Blake’s fingers left the string did Miso rise from the shade. She sniffed the air, then hobbled forward, nose lowered, the fur behind her ears matted from sleep. Blake crouched. Miso reached him, sniffed again, then pressed her flank against his knee. He stroked her head once, gently.
The others followed, less wary. Chili sat beside him, tail curled round its paws. Blake waited. The sun beat through the banana fronds; a gecko chirped beneath the eaves. Kit finished sweeping, turned toward the stool, and looked down at the paperparcel. His fingers tightened around the broomstick. He did not speak.
Blake stood. “I brought them from the Saturday market. He said Chokdee liked the thinner cut. Maybe he’ll stay more often now.”
Kit looked at him for the first time. The edge of his mouth twitched, not in amusement, but restraint.
“They’ll like it,” he said, then turned the broom to rest it by the stool. “You forgot the mango. We only have enough for two more lassi.”
Blake drew a breath, held it, and gave a single nod. He crossed the threshold without waiting for more.
Inside, the air was thick with old ginger and lime leaves. The light caught on the steel tap, throwing a pale shimmer onto the basin tiles. Blake moved to the sink and began washing his hands, scrubbing longer than he needed.
When he turned, Kit was there, setting a bowl of raw lemongrass onto the counter. He did not look up. His hands were already moving, splitting the stalks cleanly with the heel of the blade.
Blake dried his hands, then reached for the ginger beside the gas ring. He peeled without asking. The scrape of the knife against the wood filled the silence. Kit’s rhythm continued beside him, deliberate, contained.
“I didn’t come to explain,” Blake said after a moment. “You were right. I should have told you.”
