Number Three

Wedding was on Saturday, September 25th, 2004 at 2:00 PM and had already been delayed once. Wouldn’t be again.

Colton sat in his truck in the church parking lot with the engine off, windows down, and seat low. His tux smelled of the plastic he’d pulled it from; hadn’t steamed it. Clip-on tie: crooked; hadn’t fixed it. Dress shoes: scuffed; hadn’t polished ‘em.

Fixin’ meant carin’ and carin’ meant he’s onboard and bein’ onboard meant this was real.

Gravel lot shimmered in the Georgia summer heat. A dog slept under someone’s Dodge, panting. Inside the church a fiddle was trying too hard and people were laughing, Haley’s people, already celebrating something that hadn’t happened yet. His people were quieter. His people were his father.

Still time. Could still go somewhere else. Be someone else. Forget this whole mess. He looked at the church doors. No. Not now.

The glove box opened with a click. The Glock was where he’d left it, crunching papers in a coffee-stained owner’s manual he didn’t need. He dropped the magazine into his palm. Checked the rounds. Pressed it back in with his thumb until it caught. Racked the slide. Ready.

He slid it behind the belt at the small of his back, against the base of his spine. Cool metal on skin. Patted it once.

Better.

Sat there. Stared at hot gravel and waited for the part where someone came to get him.

The passenger door opened.

It’s not time yet? Who—

The smell arrived first, twisted right below the ribs.

He turned his head as red-brown hair caught light, doing that thing it did; three colors on one damn head. God. Zael fell into the seat beside him. Jaw had that same shadow. Beautiful green eyes flickered his way, past him probably. Don’t—

Zael exhaled like he’d been standing all day. At two. His hand went low, found the rear recline lever, pulled. The seat slid back and caught. He let out a breath and settled.

Like it’s fuckin’ noon and he’s waitin’ on lunch. Like we’re at work or somethin’.

Suit. Sharp. Clean, even. God, it fit him.

Huh.

Zael pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket. The Zippo came out after, brass been losing a fight with keys for years. Z on the case. Old engravin’ or just lucky scratches; he’d never asked. He flicked it one-handed, lit the cigarette, and held the smoke in his chest before letting it go through the open window.

Didn’t say anything.

Colton’s hands rested on his thighs. The cigarette smell and underneath it something he’d caught in the back seat of this truck so many times he’d lost count, each one the last.

Wonder if he saw the gun. No. He’d have said somethin’.

“Didn’t think you were comin’.” Flat.

“Mmm.”

Zael held the Zippo out between them. Not looking at him. Just the hand.

Colton took it. The brass was warm. He ran his thumb across the Z, wider than the scratches around it. The Newport came down from behind his ear and he lit it with the windows down and the church thirty feet away.

The Zippo went into his pocket.

They smoked.

“Your old man in there?”

“Somewhere.” The Newport was done. He ground it on the sole of his shoe. “He paid for the flowers. Made sure everybody knew it. Man’s never bought a flower in his life. Not for my mother. Not for nobody. But he’ll buy ‘em for this.”

His old man’s wedding. Always was.

The fiddle stopped inside. Someone tapped a microphone and the feedback came through the walls thin and sharp.

Zael looked at the church. Took a drag.

“Wanna blow this place?”

Zael looked at him and held it, offer standing between them.

His hand found the Zippo in his pocket. The Z, the warm brass.

“There’s two hundred people in there.”

“Yep.”

“My dad’s in there.”

“He is.”

“Haley’s in there. In a dress. With a—”

“Fuck her.”

Cab went quiet. The dog panting outside. Colton’s hand was shaking and he put it on the steering wheel so it would have something to hold.

Zael stamped the cigarette out on his boot heel. “I’m going to stop it.” Dead butt disappeared into his slacks. Same way he’d said ‘I’m getting Thai’ after the job on Wednesday.

Shit. He saw the gun.

He saw the gun. Opened the door anyway. Saw it and opened it and sat down. Found the lever, pushed the seat back like he always does. Lit a cigarette. Handed me the Zippo. The one he keeps. The one someone gave him.

Let me talk about flowers and Haley and two hundred people. Like any of that mattered.

In my truck.

“You can’t, Zael. You can’t fuckin’—”

Latch clicked open. Zael swung his legs out, stood up, boot popped gravel underneath and his hair did that thing and he shut the door behind him. Pressed shut almost quiet.

He walked toward the church. Hands in his pockets.

Colton sat in the truck. Zippo in one pocket. Glock against his spine. Inside, someone was asking people to take their seats.

He’s bluffin’. No, he doesn’t bluff.

Shit.

Looked different from this side.

Colton stood at the altar with his hands at his sides and two hundred faces pointed at him and a cross behind him that might have been staring too. He was looking down the barrel of a church from the wrong end and it was loaded with something that wouldn’t kill him quick enough.

The piano started, someone from the congregation playing something slow and rote from the bench in the corner.

The doors opened and Clete walked Haley down the aisle.

Yeah. Right. Of course you would. Fuckin’ geezer dirtbag.

He had her arm and he was smiling. The smile he kept for Sundays, for handshakes, for the version of himself the town saw. His suit was the one suit. He walked her slow.

Haley looked good. Even five months along, the dress was doin’ its best.

She didn’t look at Colton until the last few steps, then he did and he didn’t know what she was looking at and suspected she didn’t either but there definitely were no smiles.

Clete released her arm. Took his seat. Front pew, left side, legs wide, leaning forward with hands clasped.

Two bullets’ll do.

The piano stopped.

Got at least twelve if I miss.

Voices hushed. The room was still.

When does he ask. The thing. Before the vows or after. After the vows before the rings. Or before. Six weddings in this church and I can’t remember, I can’t—

Sweat traced his spine. The collar was strangling him and the room was darker than before Haley got here. He blinked some light back in.

Don’t do it. Don’t. Please don’t. Do it.

He checked out of the corner of his eye. Third pew. Right side. Aisle seat. Straight-faced.

The pastor opened his Bible. Adjusted his glasses. Cleared his throat.

“We are ga—”

A chair scraped back.

“She’s unfaithful.” Loud, clear, filling the room from the third pew to the rafters and back again. “Child’s not his.”

Zael sat back down. Arms crossed. Chairs creaked and a woman in the corner might have coughed.

He didn’t even wait for the— that’s not when you DO that, Zael. He hadn’t even started. What the FUCK dude.

The room erupted with whispers. The pastor was whispering something to Haley and she was holding back something wet when she replied and he needed to breathe.

The Bible closed soft and firm. His finger hadn’t even moved from the loop of the ribbon. He laid it on the lectern behind him. Raised his arms slightly, palms flat. The room quieted.

Pastor Dennis Rowe spoke and it was over.

Cal had melted into the couch around noon. Calculus textbook open on his chest, the one with the ∫ thinking it’s cute; hidden in a fiddle. Stewart is such a tryhard. TV hummed low with Saturday cartoons that’d started coasting at one before making homework sound good at two.

The door stuck on the frame. Shouldered open. Keys on the console. Shoes off. One, two. Just keys and shoes and Zael crossing the room, back from the store.

But no grocery bags.

Cal raised his head enough to see over the couch back.

Formal. Not the store.

Suit jacket went on the doorknob. Shirt untucked on one side. Bags under his eyes worse than yesterday. Stubble was the only normal thing.

A red Bic came out of the shirt pocket. Zael lit a cigarette standing in the hallway.

Where’s the brass one I gave him. Did he lose it?

“You look like somebody died.”

Zael undid the second button. Stopped on the third when Cal spoke. Crossed the room. Cal sat up, elbow against dark blue upholstery. “Who di—”

Zael’s arms closed around him; he pushed back and got nothing for it. Stuck. Totally stuck.

Shit. Someone else died. Who?

The hug was tight. Zael’s hand came up to the back of his head and held there. Cal’s face was against white dress shirt collar and it smelled like this might be the fourth cigarette since breakfast.

“Love you,” Zael said.

Cal swallowed.

What do I even say to that?

“Okay?” Cal liberated an arm, hadn pressed hard against Zael’s head and he found the leverage. “You’re being weird.”

Zael broke the hug; had to. Cal had bent his his neck back at a nasty angle. He walked to the kitchen, defeated.

Is he going to cry again? Found something of Will’s? No… he’d have it.

He surveyed the room for causes. Will’s coat on the hook. Car keys on the console. Zael in the kitchen, cigarette in his mouth. One empty mug where Zael had finished it. One full mug across from it for Will, who definitely wasn’t coming.

Cal scratched his ankle, pushing the black tube sock down past it.

Not death, probably. Must be something worse. Estate planning? Lawyers? No… Work call him in?

Gas burner ticked thrice. Lit.

Great.

He looked good in that tux, of course he did, always did.

Rocks glass raised, he looked through it.

Will would have killed me for this, all of it, especially the kid.

He took the rest of the whiskey as a shot. It clacked sharp on the bar he had been leaning over for the last couple of hours.

He still hasn’t answered my text…

He lifted his head. The Next Best was full in a way it shouldn’t be on a Saturday. Every stool taken. Every booth. The town needed somewhere to put what happened and B’s place was where things got put. Zael had his seat. Three years of the same seat. B poured without asking. Second bourbon and a beer, sweating side by side on the oak.

The second pour went the way of the first. B refilled it without comment. The third sat in front of him longer. Jukebox played something with a steel guitar and behind it the room hummed with two hundred people’s version of his afternoon.

His thumb found the cuff of the coat. The spot where the wool had gone thin and soft from years of this exact gesture. He rubbed it twice without looking down.

B wiped the oak in front of him with slow, even strokes, lemon oil catching warm under the light.

“Whole bar thinks the baby’s yours.”

Zael’s hand came up. Covered his face.

A woman. His face stretched into a smile. The best they could come up with. I got a woman pregnant. A woman.

He laughed, but it was all air.

“Thanks.” He tapped the bar twice. “Needed that.”

B nodded slow. He took the glass, refilled it, set it back.

“On the house, Z.”

The glass sat. Zael’s hand rested next to it. People glancing, people not glancing, both deliberate. He could hear his name in conversations he wasn’t part of. Yankee. That woman. The baby.

Like I’d want anything to do with a broad.

His phone buzzed against his thigh. He thumbed it open.

smoke?

He took the shot. Picked up the beer. Walked out.

Back doors of the Next Best opened outward. Colton knew that because he’d been staring at them for ten minutes from the far chair, the one with the ashtray built into the arm.

Shit, that’d better be him. I can’t right now…

Two hours on foot from Clete’s place. Changed at his own house on the way. Leather jacket, jeans, boots now with mud that won’t dry in this September swamp. Tux was on the bedroom floor where it belonged.

Door opened out with bar noise following before Zael walked through.

Coat on in September. Bags under the eyes worse than earlier. Liquor too, judging from how he found a chair. Red-brown hair had lost the copper from this afternoon. Just dark now under the yellow bulb. Stubble past shadow.

Looks like hell.

The man might’ve lost an argument following a double shift, now staring down a third. Except it was Sunday. Didn’t work Sundays.

Zael had a beer in one hand. Lifted it. Set it on the arm of Colton’s chair instead.

Colton took a pull.

Zael held the pack out. One left. Colton took it. They smoked.

“Dad’s reschedulin’.” Colton spat off the porch. “‘We’ll fix this.’ His words.”

Cicadas filled the gap. Somewhere in the lot a car engine cranked and caught nothing. Cranked again. Same nothing.

Air intake probably. Or shitty alternator.

“Dinner?” Zael asked, the D somehow rounded.

Drunk.

“You crashed my wedding. Now you’re drunk. At midnight.” Colton’s mouth gave before the rest of him did. Close to a laugh. “And you are askin’ me to dinner. At your place.”

“Sorry.” Zael reached for his eye with the heel of his hand. “Hungry.” The hand missed.

“Had a day?”

Zael nodded. “Had a day.”

Colton ashed once. Waited.

“My place. Forty minutes.” Zael looked toward a field. “Spanish.”

The fuck? What’s Spanish have to do with it? Is he high too?

“Forty minutes. To your house. For dinner. At midnight. For whatever the fuck you mean by Spanish.”

He was smiling. When’d that happen?

Zael stood up. Raised the cigarette to make the point. Expressionless.

“Good dinner.”

Colton downed the beer. Stood. The cigarette went into his mouth and he talked around it.

“You speak Spanish?” He started walking.

“No.” Zael fell into step beside him. “My boy does.”

Cal tilted the Razr and tapped the side button. Blue screen on the front showed 12:47. Last time he’d checked it said 12:31.

He let it fall on the mattress.

Zael had left before four. On foot. Coat on. Plate on the coffee table and the TV clicking off and nothing else. Nine hours ago. Cal had eaten the food, washed the plate, done the homework, not done the homework, turned the lights off, and gotten into bed at a reasonable hour like a person who sleeps.

Parents leave. Birth parents, then Edwin and Luz, now Zael. Third one was bound to too.

He checked his phone again. 12:49.

Footsteps on the porch. No car before them. Door stuck on the frame. Shouldered open.

Cal sat up. Dark room except for the sodium lamp outside, coming through the blinds in soft yellow bars across the floor. His room was a mess and Zael had said it was a mess and Zael would say it was a mess again tomorrow.

Two voices in the hall. Low. The kind of low that people use in a house with a sixteen-year-old they think is asleep. The other voice was deep.

He brought a man home at midnight.

Cal pulled the sheet up. Turned toward the wall. Painted brown, textured, the accent wall Zael let him pick at the hardware store two years ago because he’d wanted something that wasn’t white.

A laugh from the hall. Not Zael’s.

Happy too.

Then the kitchen. Oil in a pan. Garlic hitting heat. The smell carried through the AC vents. Always did. Every time.

At least he’s cooking.

 

Cal turned. Tapped the button. 1:04.

Do I get go food? The screen turned off. Yes. He stood from the bed he hadn’t been sleeping in.

He loves cooking for me. Plus, I need to see if it’s him again. It probably is.

He pulled a shirt off the floor. Too big, didn’t care. Sweatpants he’d already outgrown by an inch at the ankle. Bare feet on hardwood, trying to be quiet about it.

“Cal’s up.” Zael mumbled before Cal even rounded the hallway corner into the kitchen. Barely heard over the range fan and pan.

The smell was thicker in the hallway. Oil and garlic through the vents was one thing, out here he could taste it and feel it on his skin.

He rounded the corner and took the kitchen in from the doorway. Zael at the stove with his back to the room, smoke from the cigarette pulling forward into the hood. The Bulleit on the counter beside him sat lower than Cal had ever seen it. His shoulders were set wrong, loose, almost sloppy. He was stirring something with one hand and holding the counter with the other and both of those things told the same story.

Then the table. He scowled and didn’t mean to.

Why’s this dude at my table now? This is my time with Zael, our thing.

Leather jacket, mud on his jeans to the knee, sitting sideways with one arm slung over the back of the chair. Dark hair cut cheap. Jaw looked hostile. Hazel eyes that had already found Cal when Cal found them.

Dude looks like he’d fight a cop for fun and probably win. Why’s Zael keep bringing him over?

Zael had called him Colton. Work friend, two months ago, before school started. Cal had been sent to his room that night. And the next time. And the time after that. Homework, shower, bed. Then the front door, then quiet voices in the kitchen Cal could hear through his wall.

But work friends don’t get quiet after I get sent to his room. Like I’m eight.

His eyes bounced between them. Zael’s back, loose at the stove. Colton slung in the chair.

Really..?

“Hey,” Cal said to the man at the table. He might have replied. “It’s one in the morning, Zael.” Again.

“Hungry.” Into the range fan. Didn’t even turn around.

Cal stood at the edge of the island, table to his back where the other man sat in the wrong chair. It smelled like two meals layered on top of each other, the one Cal had eaten nine hours ago and whatever was starting now.

He turned to look at Colton across the table. “You there too?”

Whatever ‘there’ was. ‘There’ made Zael hug him like he was being deployed. He knew that hug. He’d felt that hug before.

“Yes.” Zael again, from behind him. Came out loose, too much ‘s’.

What? Is this some game? Is he drunk?

“What was it?”

“Wedding.” Zael, again, from behind him.

“Whose?”

“Mine.” Colton rumbled.

He speaks.

The fridge cycled off behind him. Kitchen went quieter without it, just the low simmer under the lid and the microwave that had just kicked on and a range fan.

“Then why are you here?”

“Great question.” Colton came back sharp enough that Cal braced.

Cal looked at the stove. Looked at Colton. “What ha—”

“Bread.” Zael turned. A plate slid across the island and stopped behind Cal, butter from the microwave was brushed on top. Flatbread golden-brown with real butter pooling in the craters. “Cal. Serve our guest.”

His mouth closed. He pulled the plate to the table, tore a piece off, and pushed the plate in front of Colton. Sat down besided him. He ate because hungry won and because asking more questions wasn’t going to get him sent to his room again like last time.

Colton reached for the flatbread a half-second after Cal did, then stopped. Cal pushed the plate toward him without looking. Colton tore a piece and ate.

“Outdoor wedding?” Cal asked. Not looking up from his plate.

What’s he gonna say to that? ‘Yes’? Hah.

“Carlos.” From the kitchen, near sober.

Cal flinched. That’s the voice he uses when I get an A-. Or when I jaywalk across a busy street wrong and he catches me. Back when we had busy streets.

“Come here.” Soft again.

He stood up. Kept his eyes on Colton as he pushed the chair back, kept them there as he crossed behind him. Colton looked back. Cal turned toward the stove.

Cilantro on the cutting board, a full bunch, still damp. Zael put the nice knife beside it.

“Stems off. Chop it fine.”

Cal stripped the stems with two pulls the way he’d watched Zael do it. Started chopping. The knife was too big for his hand but he kept the blade low and steady because Zael had shown him that too and getting corrected twice was enough.

Weight on his head. A chin, pressing down. Sharp little pinpricks across his scalp where stubble caught hair. Arms over his shoulders, heavy, hot through the thin shirt. Smoke and whiskey and sweat. Deadweight. Two hundred pounds of drunk guardian hanging off him like a green coat on a peg.

Back of his hand found Zael’s cheek, smacked. Soft contact. Went again when it didn’t take, that one did something and he lightened.

“What are you doing.”

His neck burned red then he tried to keep chopping anyway.

He hit him. Fuck. On the face.

Colton’s chairlegs slid over the linoleum. He was on his feet. I need to go.

One way this ends. One way.

Cal stopped chopping. Looked at Colton. The red on his neck climbed up past his jaw before he looked back at the cutting board, picked up the knife, and continued chopping faster.

Colton must have sat down. Rocks glass back in his hand.

Ice cube almost gone.

Kid’s drownin’ in dad. So much he’s bailin’. Bleedin’ it off. Backhand between chops. Took two. Two.

The oven beeped, stopped, and something came out of it.

Why’d they leave New York? Is it this?

Foil crackled.

Can you have too much dad?

Cal picked up the cutting board and scattered cilantro over the paella. Zael hadn’t said a word.

How’s this even work?

Best damn thing I’ve ever eaten. At one in the mornin’.

His plate was clean. Second helping better than the first. Fork straight on the plate like he’d measured it.

Do all Yankees do this?

Colton shifted in his chair. The kid was sitting next to him, staring at his dad, planning something.

Hang off their kids? Make ‘em blush? Paella? Crash weddings and serve the groom at one in the morning? Love their sons ‘til they burst?

Zael was at the sink already, coarse salt and hot water on the cast iron, new cigarette going. Hadn’t been a gap between eating and cleaning. The man ran on a motor that didn’t have an off switch.

“That was good,” Colton said. To the plate.

Zael didn’t turn around. “You’ve got school tomorrow.” To Cal.

“And twenty-eight hours.”

“Mhmm.” Zael reached for the kettle, filled it, set it on the burner. “Half of those sleeping.”

“I can’t sleep.” Cal quipped. “Too stimulated.”

The mouth on this one. Like his dad but backwards, too many words from too much dad?

“I’ll make you that tea you like.”

Colton watched Cal’s ears go pink. The kid’s arms folded tight over the too-big shirt and whatever was happening on his face, he was fighting it.

“We’re almost out.”

“I’ll pick more up.”

Cal planted his feet. “Fine. But you answer one question.”

“One.”

He’s thinkin’ on this one, squarin’ some cut he can’t cut again.

“He your boyfriend?”

Colton felt the fist form in his hoodie.

What? Boyfriend? I’m not— I’ve never— we haven’t— I’m not— why’d he say that? Why’s he— are we? No. Am I— what is happening. What is this house, is this kid retarded? Breathe, Colton. Breathe.

Zael swapped the kettle off the burner, put the Lodge back on, and reached for the oil.

“Probably.” Watched the pan and turned the knob right. “No tea. Go to bed.”

Probably. Probably? No, we’re not—. Is he doin’ this in front of his fuckin’ kid while seasonin’ a fuckin’ Lodge? The fuck, man.

Fuck.

Cal’s face changed. “That’s not—”

“Bed.” Around the cigarette. He pointed down the hallway with two fingers, smoke trailing over his hand.

Cal’s jaw set. He looked at Colton. Looked at Zael. Looked at the kettle. Something building in his face, running under the skin with nowhere to hide.

“Dad, I—” His mouth shut. He turned and walked. Bare feet loud on linoleum then carpet.

The door slammed. The kitchen rang with it.

The fuck? He’s mad? This house’s a circus and I’m in the ring.

Zael watched the hallway. The cigarette burned between his fingers. He didn’t move until it needed to ash it, then he turned back to the pan.

Colton looked at the hallway. Looked at Zael. The man was oiling a pan with his back to the room and his son’s door still reverberating in his ears.

“The fuck was that?” Colton managed to mumble.

Zael put the cigarette out under the faucet. Binned it. Pulled another from the pack. Put it in his lips but didn’t light it.

He heard me. He’s not answerin’.

He picked up the Bulleit and two glasses. Carried them to the table. Sat down across from Colton. Poured two. Pushed one across.

“I’m his third one.” The unlit cigarette moved as he mumbled around it.

Third what?

Third…

The fridge hummed. The clock behind the wall ticked twice and a third time.

Oh.

Fuck… Adopted, right. Kid’s Latino or somethin’ and Zael sure ain’t. No Spanish. Just tryin’… trying.

“Thems the shits.” Colton said.

Smooth… real fuckin’ smooth, man.

Zael lit the cigarette. Pulled. Let it out slow.

“Yeah.”

They sat. The kitchen was done. Dish rack full, counter wiped, pan seasoning on a low flame. Everything put away except them and the bottle.

Colton drank. Set the glass back down.

“Got ‘nother?”

Zael shook the pack. One left. He put it in his mouth next to the first. Two cigarettes between his lips. He leaned forward and seemed to wait.

Same thing all fuckin’ night. Takin’ care of me. Like… like…

Colton pulled out the borrowed Zippo. It lit on the first turn and both cigarettes caught, quickly turning cherry red. Zael handed one over.

Colton took it sharply from Zael. Put it in his mouth. He pulled hard. Held it. Deep.

Felt Zael watching him across the table.

Hot smoke burning in his lungs broke the look. He doubled over. The cough came up fast. Then another. His hand went to his face. Air kept tumbling out in short bursts. It turned ragged and somewhere in there it stopped being a cough and there was nothing left and his eyes burned too and he felt his throat closing.

Wet?

He touched his face and his hand came back and he saw it and he saw Zael see it and his fingers shined. When. Why?

Zael’s chair pushed back quiet. One step and he was in front of him. Colton felt the heat off his right leg on his own left knee.

He looked up apparently. Made it worse. His mouth pulled tight as he slammed his hands against his face. His chest clenched once, hard, and the sound that came out earned the hit that’d follow.

Except nothing followed and that loosened something new.

Zael bent down, one arm behind Colton’s shoulders, one under his knees. He felt his hand come up, flat against Zael’s chest, fast, a shove that’d started strong and went nowhere. God. He was lifted from the chair like a bag of Quikrete in a scoop: no adjustment, no pause. Fifteen years of lifting steel and lumber and concrete. Another thing to carry.

Dried mud fell from the cuffs of Colton’s jeans and scattered across the kitchen floor.

Colton grabbed his shirt. Fistful of black cotton at the shoulder, knuckles lost in it. His face turned into Zael’s neck and whatever sounds he made he couldn’t hear anymore.

Zael carried him to the couch. Lowered. Colton’s legs stretched out and his head landed in Zael’s lap, cheek against his thigh. One hand clung to the shirt, collar and all, not letting go.

The living room was dark, night going on past two, except for the cheap whirlpool oven light at Zael’s back.

Zael’s hand landed and rested soft on his head. Just warm weight.

I hate that.

Colton let loose, something beneath him. All of him. Silent except it wasn’t.

It’s happenin’. Now?

The sounds that escaped were ugly and involuntary and each one made everything clench. He couldn’t stop. The hand had stayed and that was worse. The couch held both of them, the range light making Zael look handsome and that hurt more than crying.

The gaps between the sounds got longer. His grip on the shirt loosened. His breathing changed. Ragged, then uneven.

After a long while, countless seconds, he’d stopped counting.

Dark… he’d turned the oven light off… warm…

The weight in his lap shifted and settled heavier. Colton’s hand uncurled from the shirt collar and dropped against the cushion, fingers open, palm up.

He’s out.

Zael looked down at him, the slack jaw, the line on his brow: gone. Looked younger like this, maybe twenty-nine, someone Zael hadn’t met yet. Peaceful and beautiful in his own way he’d never admit.

Will slept on his side with one arm out and his mouth closed, could draw it still, and this one sleeps like he was dropped from something.

He brushed Colton’s hair back from his forehead where it had gone damp and stuck. Did it again. His thumb found the hairline, the temple, the curve of the ear.

I know his father, that flinch, a blown up life, and the spring that just released; that one’s easy. That’s me and Will and the rest of us too.

Zael looked down the hall, slow, lazy, and tired.

Cal’s behind that door. Kid’s smart, nosy, and he definitely just heard a grown-ass man break: here, in our home. Tomorrow’s going to be something and I need more sleep than I’ll get.

He looked back down at the man, in a puddle in his lap; gun too he figured. Like he’d use it.

A car passed on the road outside. Headlights swept the ceiling and went.

Will would’ve hated him. Too Southern, too angry, too much work, too high maintenance. Will was right about all of it and wrong about all of it too; that matters. He’d shown up, every time: on the site, in the truck, at his own wedding anyway, at the bar tonight, and now here. The man keeps showing up and I don’t think he knows why and I definitely do.

Zael leaned his head back against the couch. Kept his hand where it was. Closed his eyes.

Maybe he stays too, we’ve got room; bed fits two, would keep Cal on his toes. Could carpool too.

Colton breathed. Even and deep.

His head dropped further and he caught it. The jolt at the edge. He blinked. Room was dark. Clock said something past three.

Colton hadn’t moved. I could just sleep here, though Cal would make a scene in the morning probably… I’d rather sleep in, actually, yeah.

He stood carefully, turned, got his arm under Colton’s shoulders, the other under his knees. Collected as if they’d break, Colton’s head rolling against his chest. Didn’t wake. Not even close.

The hallway was dark but he walked it from memory, shoulder caught the doorframe going into the bedroom because the angle was tight and the Bulleit was good and he had a grown man damn near dead in his arms and the fatigue was right behind them.

His foot caught the door and closed it firmly. Colton went on the bed, grey duvet previously clean this morning now smeared diagonally with Colton’s muddy jean legs.

One wedding, one duvet in the wash seems more than fair. I think I can take that.

He adjusted the pillow, pulling it straight under his head. He leaned in toward his cheek. Stopped. Stood there. Then went upright, then left to his side of the bed.

Shirt came off, pooled across the room. He sat on the edge, watching, then swung his legs up and laid down beside him; close enough that his arm crossed Colton’s chest and rested. Heavy. Almost still.

Same side of the bed, same fucked up world, different stuff inside, different city, different…

The light came in all wrong.

He blinked, ceiling was off too; off-white, hairline crack running toward the corner.

When that’d get there?

Warm and heavy pressing on his chest, falling off his own rhythm, resting just below his collarbone.

Who’s that?

He turned his head on the pillow.

Zael faced him, eyes closed and a million miles away. Back bare from the shoulder blades down. Hair doing that fucking thing it did. God, it was copper again. Why him, why’d he have to see it. His shoulders on either side of that hair, broader than in his truck. Wide. Arms thick, other disappearing under a pillow, pale against fair skin. Crooked index finger caught in the pillow.

When he’d… how’d we get in here. Did I fall asleep with him?

Minutes might’ve been hours. Strips of light on the ceiling ran grew long and warm, a bird outside was excited by it. Single note that started and stopped and repeated.

I’m staring and not stoppin’?

He found sweats in the second drawer. A shirt in the third. Both dark, both something he’d wear, and both not his. He pulled them on standing in the dim room, wondering thrice if he’d have woken him.

The hallway was bright. He squinted against it. Zael’s door stayed open behind him where heavy breathing remained.

Cal was on the couch, same sweatpants from last night. Phone on the cushion beside him. TV on low. He didn’t look up when Colton came around the corner.

The kitchen was clean. Someone had wiped every surface and the dish rack was full and the pan sat seasoned on the stove. The coffee maker had already run, pot full, warm light on. Colton found a mug. Poured. He lit a cigarette from the knife drawer off the range, leaning in the way he’d seen done eight hours ago.

Cal looked back once. Held it.

Why’s he lookin’ like that? Don’t have company, or weirded out that I came from his room?

“Mornin’.” Colton spoke first.

“Morning.”

He picked up the mug, crossed the kitchen to the couch, and sat down beside Cal.

“It’s me, Kaiba, and this time you don’t stand…” Some dude in blue with a bowl cut spoke with twice voices. What’s this trash. Is he watchin’ this?

“…a ghost of a chance.” Kaiba, apparently, finished before someone else repeated the line too.

Looks like a ghost, got it. This show for retards?

“You watch this trash?” Colton said.

“Not really. You ever watch Buffy?”

“Sure, who hasn’t.”

“Same.” Cal agreed, looked back tot he TV.

Kid’s sharp.

The character with bad lines took off his face. Said the same joke a third time. Yeah, that was the problem. A punctuated the joke like a cliffhanger commercial. Stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. Colton chuckled.

A few more commercials played.

“He a good dad?” Colton asked.

Cal watched him and he felt it.

“Yeah.” Another commercial. The same one. About the fruits that gush. “Sure. Why?”

Kid doesn’t even know. Drownin’ and blind to it.

“Just wonderin’.”

He really can’t see it. Maybe I can’t either?

He breathed on purpose.

They sat there for a while. A monster rose from a grid that was green and skeletal and made a sound Colton had heard before from a cat. Another commercial break. Some kid shooting not-webs from his wrists in a suburban backyard like he was Tobey Maguire in Queens. Colton laughed.

 

Bacon from white butcher paper slapped on the Lodge and the fat protested. Good shit. Not even a minute and it’d begun rendering, filling the kitchen with a brown, heavy scent despite the range fan on high.

Colton flipped the strip; far side wasn’t done, but he did it anyway, just to see. Apparently the kid wanted to see too, because he’d left the cartoons and sat at the island now, right behind him. Quiet.

The edges had finished curling, now a beautiful, almost wooden shade of brown. He laid them on a bed of paper towels. The paper went translucent where it met, kerosene on a wick when power’s out, and they stopped sizzling shortly after. Four new strips replaced them and began protesting anew.

“Can you do these?” Colton said. He looked back with one eye, over his shoulder, at someone else’s son. “Gonna smoke.” Need to.

Cal was standing before he’d finished asking. “You leaving?” he asked calm.

The tongs left Colton’s hand and he took them. He hovered over the pan intensely.

What’s up with his kid. Why all the questions.

“No. Just smokin’.”

“Good.”

What the fuck.

The cigarette behind his ear went below the Lodge briefly, caught. He pulled through it.

The porch was bright and warm and the road was empty. The air smelled different than his place; same county, different forest he figured. More green, more pine, less oak probably. He sat on the top stair, hand rail blocking his vision to the left, smoke obscuring the right briefly when it caught dawn light. He hit the stolen cigarette again as it faded.

Clete’s gonna be at church then back by noon. Window opens soon.

He smoked and watched the road.

Zael came out barefoot and half-dressed like he owned the place. Screen closed slow with a steady hiss. Plopped down on Colton’s right with an exhale that suggested effort where there was none.

Grey sweatpants were low on his hips. No fucking shirt. Eyes half shut. Hair flat on one side, doing that thing anyway. He looked like shit still. Still looked—

Zael reached over and stole the damn cigarette from his mouth. Then took a long drag before giving it back. Then they did another pass or two, Colton wasn’t counting. The county road stayed empty.

Is this good?

He stole a glance at the man to his right who didn’t even seem to know he was there himself. Watched him scratch his head, lats flexed.

Yeah.

Another drag and pass. The filter was all that was left when he got it back. Made Colton chuckle as he pocketed it.

He felt his waistband loosen and back tense up. It was gone, the Glock. Gone. He saw it in Zael’s hand now.

He fuckin’ knew and took it? Is he going to—

Zael held it. Turned it over in his palm, looking down the barrel. Colton noticed he wasn’t breathing when Zael’s thumb ran along the slide, down the frame, past the trigger guard. The sort of angle people only see once, maybe twice if lucky.

What’s he doin’. The fuck is he doin’. I’v gotta stop him.

Zael pulled the slide back. Slow. A round popped from the ejection port, spun once before finding the step below them, landing with a sharp tinny note. It rolled a quarter turn and stopped.

He was checkin’, wasn’t he? Checkin’ to see if he could use it? Or if I could. Yeah. If I would.

“Nice gun.” He let the slide forward and handed it back grip first, his hand wrapped around the barrel pointed at himself. “Where’d you get it?”

Colton took it. The metal was warm from Zael’s hand. He looked at it, then he looked at the round on the porch, then he looked at Zael.

He’s been there. He’s fuckin’ been there. Down a barrel. He knows the view too.

Zael’s hand found his shoulder. Heavy. Casual. Tired.

And Colton explained how Burke birthdays worked.

Bacon had lost its fat, most of it was in the air now. Range fan hadn’t even made a dent. What must have been a pound of bacon from the butcher was now spent, cooling on paper towels. Cal sat sideways at the table. One foot tucked under him. Chin on his knee. Strip that had fallen between range grate pinched between his index finger and thumb.

Bacon cracked sharp between his front teeth.

Screen door hissed slowly before latching. Zael first, then Colton. Zael went straight to the stove, cracked an egg one-handed into the bacon fat kept hot by the pan. Shell flicked into the sink. Colton stopped where the foyer turned into kitchen, standing with his hands in borrowed sweats.

Zael was humming.

What is happening in my house. My home. On a Sunday. Cal gripped the edge of the table. Something happened out there. He came back inside different. Totally different. After all that crying and noise last night. I’ll find out.

I will find out.

Low, tuneless, between closed lips. Coming out of his chest while his hands worked the stove. Freckled skin on Zael’s back caught mid-morning light from the small kitchen window over the sink.

Three years. Three full years since he adopted me. Not once. Then suddenly today?

Colton looked at the table. Cal watched him look at the wrong seat and walk to it.

I should stop him. No. I won’t. If I can’t ask questions… then I let Zael talk for me.

He pulled out the chair where the second cup sat, still hot and full and untouched. Every single morning. Same mug. Same spot. Waiting for someone who definitely was not coming. Definitely not coming.

Colton sat down. Picked up the mug. And sipped.

He’s drinking from it.

An egg cracked. Shell hit the sink.

Colton noticed Cal over the blue rim of the mug. He held it, staring back.

He’s in his chair. He’s sitting in his chair with his cup. Zael’s going to say something.

Another sip, cup lowered to the table. Colton opened his mouth.

The humming stopped.

“Wasn’t for you.” Zael said over his shoulder. The grease popped, he hissed and swatted above his hip.

“Who’s it for then.”

Cal gasped quietly. Colton apparently heard. Cal saw him hear because his left eyebrow raised up after.

Shit.

Zael pulled a spatula from the drawer beside the stove. His knee caught the drawer and slammed it shut. He took an egg out.

The microwave beeped twice, heat was cut, plates were pulled out from the cabinet.

“Gotta talk to Clete today.” Colton said into the cup. “You got a shower I can use?”

Clete. Big guy. Off the county road with the Lincoln. They must know each other.

“Yeah. Use mine, kid’s a wreck. Towels in the closet.”

His chair pushed back. Colton picked up his mug then walked down the hall. Zael’s door closed.

Cal blinked. Then did it again. Last of the bacon strip crunched between his molars.

Door latched.

“Can I ask questions?”

Zael was still at the stove. Didn’t turn around. “Always.”

Cal grumbled. Sure. Except when I can’t.

A plate slid across the table and stopped in front of him. Bacon and two fried eggs peppered with paprika and something else he didn’t recognize. Floral. Sort of stinky. Good stinky. A fork followed.

He skewered the yolk and bit into it.

“Who’s Clete?”

“His dad.”

Cal chewed. Swallowed. “Why’s he meeting him?”

“Probably about the wedding.” Zael mumbled as he poured more coffee. “Not totally sure.”

You are sure and I know you’re sure.

“Why’d it sound like a sentencing then?”

Zael sat down with his own plate, coffee too. Bit a strip of bacon.

“His dad is a piece.”

Cal put the fork down. “Oh.”

Something’s there. Something from last night.

“Yeah.” Zael kept eating. “What else?”

Cal leaned in. Dropped his voice. “Is he… you know?”

Zael looked at him. Picked up a second strip of bacon, raised it between them. Considered it.

And smiled.

A smile? Something funny about it? Embarrassed? No.

“He’s not straight, if that’s what you’re asking.” He bit the bacon.

Not straight. Not not gay. That’s a lot of not’s.

The shower ran behind Zael’s closed door.

He leaned in again.

“He going to die too?”

Zael put his fork down. Looked at Cal.

“Probably.”

Figures. Room temperature, salty bacon went into his mouth. Half a piece. He snapped it with a lowering of his hand. Chewed. Questions don’t really matter when it’s the same destination every time.

He swallowed. Put the half bacon on the rim of the plate to stab the second egg with a drawn fork. Zael was watching him and he didn’t need to look at him to tell.

“Okay.”

Zael’s bathroom door opened into his bedroom. Bed unmade. Mud streak across the grey duvet. His jeans from last night crumpled at the foot.

The kid’s door was open. Socks, jeans, a textbook spine-up on a pile of something. A plate with toast crust. Cal was on his stomach, hunched over a purple controller with red and yellow buttons. Controller clicked in two spots. On the TV across from him, something flew across the screen before exploding at the edge.

Kid games and lives in a sty. He continued down the hall. Only normal shit I’ve seen since Friday.

First time he’d seen the kitchen empty. Sun hit the linoleum in a way that explained why Zael bought the place without anyone having to say it. Counter wiped. Dish rack full. Pan seasoned on the stove.

Some brightly colored clipart panned across the TV screen before vanishing. A sock puppet with yarn hair did something vaguely sexual to another one. A man losing his hair popped up between them, talked about yeast banging.

The fuck is with this show.

Zael was on the couch. Feet off the arm at the far end. Eyes half shut.

“I gotta start walkin’.”

Zael’s eyes opened fully, head turned. Legs swung off and he was up. Crossed right over to him.

Grey henley… that same fuckin’ henley.

Henley, buttons undone and flap open. Must have changed while Colton showered, something from his work bag. Work clothes.

His hand went into his pocket. Keys came out. Car, house, two that looked like padlocks. One with green electrical tape around the head. He put them in Colton’s palm and closed his hand over it. Held.

Warm air brushed his stubbled cheek. Skin prickled up the side of his neck. His chest did that thing that happened after work sometimes.

He looked up and Zael kissed him and the whole stupid gorgeous Sunday was in it and the room got blurry at the edges as his hand found Zael’s jaw.

“Don’t get blood on my seat.” Zael whispered.

Key teeth bit into his finger as he squeezed.

No. Won’t be blood. Clean.

“Yeah.”

Boots on at the door. Leather jacket off the hook and over his arm. Keys in his pocket, sharp against his thigh.

Door stuck on the frame. He yanked it free.

His place smelled like nothing.

Drive had been twelve minutes. Back road in, Zael’s Camry behind the holly where the fence quit. Colton had showered, got those damn clothes and that damn smell off of him.

Couldn’t think straight smellin’ that. Could hardly think.

Clean jeans. His own black shirt. Hoodie. Steel-toes. He sat at the kitchen table and pulled the Glock from his waistband. Set it down. Dropped the magazine. Cleared the chamber. The round rolled about unceremoniously in a half-circle.

Bore brush through the barrel. Slow. Solvent pierced his nose, cutting out the nothing and whatever happened when Zael didn’t beat his kid last night.

Kid was watchin’ me like I’d spook. While I drank coffee. Then it wasn’t mine? The fuck, whose was it?

Swab through the chamber. Carbon came off black on white cotton. He held the patch up, checked it, set it aside.

Fifteen. Said I’m soft. ‘Gettin’ all faggy on me.’ The brush scraped against the bore on the pull back. Took me on a job. Had me finish the man for him. Cake after, chocolate. He oiled the rag and wiped the slide clean. Told Zael that he figured he’d been right.

Then Zael cried. Rag went to the table. Hadn’t expected that, never seen that. Looked like he hadn’t neither.

The stupid clock on the wall above the fridge dinged once for one.

Too much dad. He grinned. One round pressed home. No, not enough. Another round went in. Me too, I guess.

Different cup though.

Racked the slide.

Laid it on the table. Flat. Parallel to the crack.

His foot started tapping.

The overhead light buzzed.

Truck on the road, getting closer. A whine built under the hood and broke into a hard chirp on the downshift.

Wastegate’s fucked again, fixed it twice. Told ‘em to watch it.

Gravel popped under the tires and the engine cut. The door shut firmly, truck squeaked on the suspension.

I can’t do this. Still got time to put it up.

His hand moved toward the Glock and stopped over it. Stayed there.

Boots on the porch. Two knocks.

Could’ve walked in. Wants me to know he didn’t.

“It’s open.”

The matte black knob went from horizontal to vertical, one he’d installed two years ago, before— Not now. Focus, Colton.

Clete stepped through the frame, screen door behind him. Sunday plaid tucked in, sleeves at the forearms. Belt buckle. Clean-shaven, same as every morning since the Army. Looked like he always looked.

His eyes went to the table.

They stayed there.

His father crossed the kitchen and pulled the chair out. He sat down and put both hands flat, palms down, fingers spread. Placed those damn hands right where he’d wanted them, both spots.

“Talked to the pastor this mornin’.” Even, measured. Church voice on a Sunday. “We’re reschedulin’ for next month. Him and I agreed that Yankee fella, Zael, and Haley had relations befo—”

“I’m not marryin’ her.”

Four words he’d woken up with in his mouth, muddy and in that bed. Then he looked back at him. Only when he thought his father’d be looking at him.

There. Got ‘em. That’s it. He’s on his heel now. Flipped.

Five seconds maybe. The light overhead continued its buzz.

“What’d you say to me, son?”

His back went straight and his hands pressed flat against the table. The old wiring fired all at once, every lesson he’d learned in this chair.

Too much… what’ve I got?

Enough.

“Burke ends here.” Surprisingly, Colton’s voice didn’t waver but he felt his heart do it instead. “Two in the magazine’ll do it. You and me. Right here at this table.”

“Walk out.”

Clete stared at him. His fingers curled in from the table, slow, one knuckle at a time. The jaw muscle jumped twice.

Then he stood, chairs scraped loud against the hardwood. Full height, broad enough through the chest to shadow the table, he looked down. Colton felt it somewhere in his gut and didn’t look up. Don’t even give him that. He’s dead to me and needs to know.

Clete turned and walked to the door. Opened it. Stood in the frame with his back to the room.

Left it open behind him. Screen door hissed until it latched.

Boots on the porch. Gravel. The truck door shut and the diesel turned over and idled for ten seconds, fifteen, long enough to make Colton wonder when he’d go. Fuckin’ with me, even now. He knows.

He sat there until he couldn’t hear that fucking wastegate chirping up the road anymore. Then it was just the buzz and the table and his hands and his tapping foot.

His hands shook. He counted four minutes before they stopped.

He picked up the Glock and dropped the magazine into his palm. Racked the slide and the round popped out and clattered on hardwood. He put the magazine in his hoodie pocket and the steel against the small of his back where it belonged.

The round sat on the table.

He stood up. His legs held.

Huh.

His hands still needed work.

The controller hit the carpet facedown. Thirty-six was bullshit. Ness was designed to be unplayable and then they’d put an event on top of it. Sadists.

He hit the power button and the TV clicked off.

Two hours, easy. Maybe more. He’d lost track once the oven showed a temperature instead of a clock.

The kitchen smelled like butter and warm sugar. Zael stood at the island with his back to the stove, rolling a rope of dough between his palms. He looped it, twisted, pressed the ends down. Too fast. The cross tore and the whole thing sagged into something closer to an eight.

He set it on the sheet next to the others. Two decent, two ugly, one that looked like a lowercase e.

Cal walked past him and opened the fridge. Pulled out the milk. Looked.

Pretzels now… wonderful.

“When’d your boyfriend leave?”

The next rope tore at the twist. Zael lit a cigarette off the burner and held it between his lips while he inspected the tear.

“A few hours ago. Went home.”

“In our car?”

“My car. Yes.” He rolled a new rope even, eyes on his hands. “He walked here.”

Cal poured the milk. “Thought he was muddy because it’d been an outdoor wedding?”

Zael laid a pretzel down on the sheet and studied it, looking offended by what was definitely a pretzel-shaped pretzel.

Oh. I thought that one was pretty good, last night too.

Cal surveyed the counter. Cooling rack with cookies on it, butterscotch and brown sugar, edges still dark from the pan. Something yellow in a bowl with the ham brush in it. The springform sat there. Waiting. Something black and thick in it, sides shining.

He picked up a cookie and bit into it.

Wow… caramel?

The oven ticked on beside him.

He’s not done.

“Is he coming back before we run out of flour?”

“Hope so.” Zael laid another pretzel on the sheet. “Long walk to the store.”

Cal rolled his eyes, took another cookie, and went back to the couch.

The torte had pulled back from edges far, way too far. He was going to have to soak it. All of it. Just ruined, utterly messed up.

He pulled it with a towel and set it on the stove. The center had risen and cracked where the heat split it. Dark chocolate and espresso, his grandmother’s, the one he’d made for Will’s birthday for seven years running. He hadn’t made it since.

“Shit.”

His cigarette had burned to the filter in the ashtray on the island. Snuffed itself, as these things do.

The kitchen looked like someone else had used it. Cooling rack full of cookies, two sheets of pretzels, the torte now, a mixing bowl in the sink still chalky with flour. He’d wiped the counter between each one and it was already dusted again. Three hours of this. Maybe four. The butter was gone and he’d dipped into the lard instead. Everything was better off for it and he hated that.

He had left at one. Drove twelve minutes, tops. He said Clete’s at church until noon, so easily back by twelve-thirty. No, one-thirty, these townies all ran slow; probably had a couple of coffees with the congregation. After that, he’s talking to Colton and it’s over or it isn’t.

Stove burner clicked a few times, caught. He leaned in.

I should call. No. I shouldn’t call, definitely not.

Cigarette finally lit off the burner.

“Don’t get blood on my seat.” That’s what I said. That’s what I chose to say to a man going to confront his murderer father. He was scared shitless and maybe I’m more. I didn’t say “be careful.” Not “come back.” Don’t get blood on my seat. Like it was a job site. Like I was signing off on a pour. Will would’ve said the right thing. Will always said the right thing because Will thought before he opened his mouth. I think plenty and then I say six words and half are about upholstery and zero about how I can’t lose him too.

The clock on the microwave said 3:47. He’d stopped checking it every ten minutes somewhere around the second sheet of pretzels. Then started again when he first tried to salvage the torte.

In the living room something with a laugh track played. Cal was on the couch, probably. Some show Will would’ve watched with him, the two would have been side by side, arguing about whether it was funny. Colton would be there instead, probably, if given the chance. Sunday afternoon, any of the two of them on that couch, doing what matters. And I’d be in the kitchen anyway. Making something nobody asked for.

God I’m a fuckup. Fucked up too.

He ashed the cigarette and looked at the torte. The crack ran through the center and he deserved it.

If he doesn’t come back, I’ll know by dark. If he does come back, he’ll come through that door half bloodied and he won’t say what happened and I’ll have to read it off his hands or the gun.

He pulled the drag deep and let it out through his nose.

The door stuck on the frame. Shouldered open.

His hand was on the springform pan and the cigarette burned hot, low in the other.

He’s back. He’s actually back and he walked in. He can walk.

Colton rounded the corner from the foyer. Dutch oven in both hands, no lid, too full for one. A plastic bag of chicken in some pink marinade or something sticking out the top. Paper sack in there too. That hot sauce. The red one.

He looked at the kitchen. At the cookies. At the pretzels. At the torte with the crack through it.

“You’ve been bakin’?”

Zael looked worse than when he’d left, and he’d looked like hell then too. He’d gotten flour in that damn hair, managed to unsleep a few hours, and then had a tub of lard out.

“No. Not really.” Zael mumbled, closing the gap. Cigarette hit the floor.

He grabbed the dutch oven out of Colton’s arms, one handed, and dropped it on the island.

“Hey, don’t fuck up my dutch oven.”

Then he grabbed him, arms around his back, neck over shoulder. Air left Colton’s chest.

Shit, he’s gonna suffocate me. I wasn’t gone that long… what the hell.

“Can’t… breathe…” Colton rasped against his cheek. His arms went around him anyway.

Zael tightened. Brief, hard, the kind that rearranges ribs. Then he let go to something looser and Colton’s chest found air again.

My eyes may actually pop out of my skull.

He breathed in sharp against Colton’s neck. Held there.

“Jesus, Zael.”

The laugh track in the living room cut. Just stopped. The silence that followed had a shape to it.

The kid was on the couch, remote in hand, staring straight at them. Didn’t break eye contact.

I’d swear the kid’s a voyeur, Christ. He huffed and nuzzled back against Zael’s cheek.

“We’re gonna fry chicken for dinner.” Right into his ear. Zael tensed.

He pulled back. Close enough that Colton felt the breath before the word.

“Really?”

Really… that’s the deal? No, of course it is.

Colton smiled. “Yeah, really.”

“Peanut oil?”

“The hell else would you use.”

Zael broke off, pushed gentle, and went to his knees in front of the sink. Rummaged under it. Pulled out a jug of peanut oil, fresh and sealed.

Colton grinned. Teeth and all.

“Hey kid, they have fried chicken in New York?”

“Of course.” Cal shot back quick. Obviously listenin’. Weak shit, kid.

“I bet they don’t.” Colton said, kneeling down in front of Zael. He grabbed the jug but Zael didn’t let go as their eyes met. They held there and Colton didn’t realize it.

“Get over here, I need help and your dad’s beat.”

The digital thermometer read 325. His hand was tight on the burner knob, ready if it dropped.

Smash, then Frasier, then Zael’s boyfriend showed up with a pot, then dredging, then now.

Weirdest bit isn’t the chicken.

He looked over his shoulder. Colton had a head of cabbage open on the cutting board, knife going through it fast and thin. Microwave hummed, butter for the biscuits already in the oven. Zael was on the island stool. That’s my cereal stool. Leaning on one hand. Chin in his palm. Not watching the cabbage. Not watching the oil. Watching them.

He looks like that when the cookies come out right. Except we’re not cookies.

Well… He side-eyed Colton. I’m not at least.

The pieces bobbed in the oil, dark on the bottom, pale where they broke the surface.

“They’re looking brown, I think.”

Knife went down. Colton was over his shoulder before the sentence finished, hovering above the pot. Close.

He smells like leather. And my nose is full of oil.

“Another two.” And he was gone, back to the cabbage. “Thought you’d seen fried chicken.”

“I’ve been staring at brown oil with brown chicken for almost fifteen minutes.” He shifted his grip on the tongs. “I’ve forgotten what color looks like. It’s all brown. Hell, I’m brown.”

He was.

Cal looked back and caught Colton laugh, short and loud. Goofy grin on his face, tossing cabbage now in a bowl with what could be vinegar.

Zael on the stool, smiling too. Looking at Colton now.

Yeah, cookies. Both of ‘em.

The first fry had been lower, slower. Colton pulled the pieces and rested them on the rack while the oil climbed back to temperature. The kitchen went quiet for a few minutes, just the thermometer and the oil recovering.

The second fry was fast. In and out. The crust set up hard and dark and the crackling on the rack was sharper than the first time.

He salted from up high, arm straight, wrist loose.

Seems unnecessary.

Three plates came down from the cabinet. Colton built them at the counter with his back to the room, placed with a care he thought nobody could see: two golden brown thighs, one leaning against hte other; biscuit alongside, cracked open, butter running along the split; slaw in the gap, tight and glossy from whatever he had done to it.

He set the plates on the island and leaned against the counter on Cal’s side. Cal stood next to him. Zael was across from them on his stool.

He should sleep, he really looks like he’s beek awake since Thursday. Maybe he has.

Zael picked up a thigh.

Cal picked up a thigh.

Colton picked up a thigh.

 

The crunch was obscene.

 

He paused. Juice ran past his lip. He caught it with the back of his hand. Chewed. Swallowed.

I’ve been neglected? Why did Zael do this to me.

He took another bite. The crust shattered and the meat yielded and whatever foul liquid the thighs had been in was underneath.

Three years. Three full years. Not once.

Colton was watching and apparently trying not to.

“So.” Colton had a thigh dangling from his hand, crumbs falling. He propped himself up on the counter by his elbow. “Ever had fried chicken, kid?”

Cal chewed. He inspected the exposed bone where the steam billowed out. The meat was dark purple and white and moist beyond belief. I will take what I feel here, right now, to my grave. He will never, ever, under any circumstances know.

He swallowed, his brown eyes landed on Colton’s.

“I’ve had better.” Cal mumbled as he shrugged. He took another bite.

Real Fried Chicken

Feeds 2 hungry people. 2x if there’s a third who’s “had fried chicken.”

Skin-on thighs and hot sauce you actually use, or don’t bother.

Ruins Church’s and Bojangles and Zaxby’s forever.

Night Before

Ingredients

Instructions

  1. Pat ‘em dry, all of it.
  2. Trim excess fat or skin, it gets rubbery.
  3. Mix the salt and spices.
  4. Rub it in everywhere, under the skin too. Should change color.
  5. Set on a wire rack over a plate/pan, uncovered, back of the fridge.
  6. Let be until tomorrow.

Wet Dredge

This is fry day. Chicken comes out of the fridge, goes into the buttermilk and hot sauce in a bowl. Sits there while you set up the rest.

Dry Dredge

Ingredients

Instructions

  1. Combine with your hands.
  2. Spoon 3 tbsp of the wet dredge into the dry mix.
  3. Work it in with your fingers until you’ve got pea-sized clumps scattered about.
  4. One piece at a time:
  1. Store pieces on a wire rack.
  2. Don’t touch it for ten minutes. Ten. Minutes. Ten.

Fry

Ingredients

Steps

  1. Heat oil to 325°F.
  2. Chicken dives skin side down if you can tell. Oil will drop to around 300°F. Hold it there. Adjust the burner.
  3. Don’t crowd ‘em, keep room to flip. Two batches’s fine.
  4. 10-12 minutes, flip once halfway. They’ll be pale. Blonde, not golden.
  5. Move to wire rack. Check temp in the thickest part: 150-155°F.
  6. Rest on the rack. 15 minutes minimum. Don’t rush this. The crust is setting up while you’re standing there.
  7. Oil back up to 375°F. Back in, 2-3 minutes. Pull when it scares you. You’ll know.
  1. Check temp again: 175°F for thighs to render.

Notes

Aftercare

  1. Put ‘em on the clean wire rack you’ve been using. No paper towels.
  2. Salt them immediately while shiny.
  1. For the love of God and lips, don’t touch them. Five more minutes. If you can’t wait, go find someone who can.

Eat seated.