Page 14 of Tropical Vice
Kit wiped his hands on a towel, but said nothing.
“I wasn’t trying to use anything,” Blake added. “I told them it wasn’t viable. I meant it.”
Kit turned the flame down under the pot. “And yet they know where to find us.”
Blake closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. “I can get them to undo the listing.”
Kit snorted, but softly. “It’s not the listing.”
Blake dropped the peels into the compost tin. “Then what?”
Kit did not reply, instead he tossed Blake a dishcloth. Blake took it and began to wipe down the counter, pressing harder than necessary.
Kit moved to the stove, stirred the broth. A spatter of oil snapped against the rim. Blake stepped back, gave him space. He checked the cups at the back shelf, realigned them. A spoon had fallen behind the drying rack. He bent to retrieve it.
Kit watched him from the side, his fingers loose around the ladle. A dog barked once from outside. It wasn’t a voice Blake was familiar with, so he guessed Chokdee was finally back.
“You can help with the stock,” Kit said at last.
Blake looked at him. “Are you sure?”
Kit’s gaze flicked to the window, then back. “You’re already here.”
Blake moved toward the stove. He tasted the broth from a wooden spoon, then reached for the lime.
They worked through the midday heat without another word. The rhythm resumed, hesitant but steady, like a tide coming in across unfamiliar sand. Blake did not ask for forgiveness. Kit did not offer it. But when the bowl of lassi was poured, there were two cups, and both were placed side by side on the counter, the rims damp with condensation.
Sometime later,Blake rinsed his hands at the kitchen sink. The cloth he had used to dry the spoons lay folded beside the basin, corners damp and curling. He dried his palms on his trousers, then opened the cupboard above the kettle. Two small ceramic cups, one chipped at the rim, and the bag of tea Kit keptfor himself, no sugar. He poured hot water, watching the leaves darken and rise, then placed both cups on a wooden tray.
Outside, the sky had dropped its colors. A thick blue hung over the beach, unbroken but for the line of foam where the tide met the sand. Blake walked barefoot across the back threshold, tray balanced in both hands. Kit sat on the low stone ledge, one leg drawn up, bottle resting against his shin. The dogs had scattered for the night. Only Chili remained, curled beneath the bench.
Blake approached slowly and set the tray between them. Kit did not reach for the cup, but neither did he turn away. When Blake sat beside him, leaving a full hand’s breadth of space, Kit exhaled through his nose and picked up the tea. His fingers wrapped around the cup in silence.
The waves rolled without urgency. A breeze tugged at the loose ends of Kit’s tied hair, strands lifting and settling again against his neck. Blake’s cup steamed untouched in his hand. He stared ahead, jaw set, until his voice emerged, low, deliberate.
“You were right. About everything.”
Kit made no reply. The sea cracked softly along the shore. Then, as if against his own judgment, he tilted slightly toward Blake. Their shoulders did not touch, but the space between narrowed.
Blake swallowed once. “I told them no. That’s true.” He ran his thumb across the cup’s rim. “But I should’ve told you what they were planning exactly. I should’ve said it straight.”
Still, Kit did not speak. But he did not move away either.
“I didn’t come back for a second chance at the pitch,” Blake said. “I came back for this. For you.”
Kit looked at him then. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes held. And held.
There was no rebuke. No forgiveness. Only the quiet between two men who had known a line had been crossed, and yet neither had turned from the other. A long pause passed.
“You talk too much.”
Blake let out a sound, but something close to relief. He sipped the tea at last. The wind moved again. Kit’s leg pressed against Blake’s knee and did not retreat.
Kit rose first. He did not look back, but held the café door open behind him. Blake followed. Inside, the air was warm and dim. The overhead light remained off.
Kit walked ahead, paused beside the counter, then turned. Blake stopped a pace away. Kit’s hand came up, fingers brushing against the hem of Blake’s shirt, then retreating. A pause, measured but unhurried. Kit stepped forward. Their mouths met.
There was no rush in it. The kiss was neither fevered nor uncertain.
