Page 8 of Tropical Vice
Crates filled with empty bottles rattled when Kit hauled open the driver’s door. Blake stepped around to the passenger side, offering no remark when the handle stuck. The engine complained before turning over. Wind caught the open windows, throwing warm sea air through the cab.
Kit did not speak and Blake did not intrude.
At the market, Kit moved with a clarity Blake admired before he could help it, each gesture quick but measured. He watched Kit reject a whole bushel of a plant he couldn’t identify, then point instead to one still in the vendor’s basket, not in the front display. Blake carried their haul and tried not to get distracted at the way Kit’s bicep contracted whenever he ran a hand through his hair.
“Too old,” Kit said, when Blake reached for a clutch of basil.
“I picked the greenest one.”
Kit did not smile. “Green doesn’t always mean fresh.”
But the line between them eased after that. Blake walked a pace behind him, slow but willing. When he misnamed a mangosteen, Kit gave a single short laugh, enough to leave Blakewondering if it had been meant for him. It was a pleasant sound, and he didn’t understand why he found himself wanting to hear it again.
He glanced once at Kit’s profile, brow furrowed, mouth still, and looked away quickly.
They loaded the truck beneath a low grey sky. Wind disturbed the woven tarpaulins, and a shout rang from the stalls behind them, followed by a beat of thunder. Kit paused, gaze tilted toward the hills.
“We’ll make it,” he said.
Blake set the last crate in place. He looked up at the horizon, taking in the darkened clouds slowly moving toward the town. “Even if we don’t, I’ll carry everything on foot.”
Kit turned to look at him then, one slow second longer than necessary. “You’ll regret saying that.”
The sky turned gloomy on the drive back, and the road seemed to narrow between the trees. A puddle caught them broadside; the engine coughed and died. Kit gave a sharp exhale, neither angry nor resigned. He pointed ahead.
“It’s half a kilometer back home.”
Blake stepped out before Kit finished opening the door. The air was thick, rich with the smell of coming rain. They lifted crates in silence. The moment the last was settled in their arms, the sky split open.
Rain started pouring harshly, sudden and hard. Blake’s shirt stuck fast; Kit’s clung to his spine. Still, they kept moving. The noise softened everything else, boots against wet stone, breath rising fast. Blake let out a laugh that surprised even him. Kit didn’t respond, but his head turned just slightly. Blake wasn’t sure if he imagined the smile on Kit’s face.
By the time they reached the kitchen, Blake’s collar had plastered itself flat. Kit kicked off his sandals and set the cratesdown with force. A dog barked once outside, sharp and familiar to Kit.
“Chokdee,” Kit muttered, peeling off his shirt. “He comes and goes. He prefers hanging around tourist spots because they feed him more.”
Blake turned aside. Kit tossed him a towel, then opened a low cupboard. From it came a faded shirt and loose trousers.
“Take those off. You’ll catch something.”
The curtain swayed in the damp breeze as Blake passed behind it. His shirt peeled off slow, caught at the shoulders. The towel caught half the rain but none of the heat. He stepped into dry clothes, loose and unfamiliar. Behind him, the curtain stirred again.
Through the gap, he saw Kit look up. Their eyes held.
He stepped out. The cotton clung less than it had before, but Kit looked only at the kettle, then reached for a cup and poured. From the tea wafted the scent of lemongrass and something earthier. When Blake took it, their fingers met.
The silence that followed was full of the rain’s echo. Blake sipped without looking up. Kit stood near the sink, staring out the high window. Water traced the glass.
Chokdee barked again. Neither moved.
Kit opened the fridge and closed it again. “You can leave the clothes here. They’ll dry.”
Blake nodded. He realized too late that Kit’s words might have been a cue for him to leave. “I was thinking I might come back tomorrow.”
Kit’s mouth twitched. “That depends if I’m open.”
“I can wait.”
Kit turned, arms loose at his sides. He stepped forward, almost casually. Blake did not step back. He set the teacup on the counter behind him, careful not to let it fall. Kit reached out andtouched the knot tied at his waist, testing its tightness, perhaps, but his hand lingered a second longer than needed.
