The Foster Family (26 page)

“Everything all right?” Charlie asked, tone polite, shoulders held straight and firm.

Malcolm and I looked at one another. He sighed and sat.

I went to Charlie and wrapped my arms around his waist. Screw them both if they weren’t going to talk to each other “No,” I whispered. “But everyone is hungry, so we should eat.”

Charlie rubbed my back and carefully removed my hands from him so he could sit down. There was distance in the way he spoke, even the way he touched me, and Malcolm’s fears washed through me. They’d been together so long. What they needed was me out of the way to work this through.

I started ladling stew onto Malcolm’s plate, and the way he smiled at me, with gratitude, this time, not just approval, made my gut spin and my head feel light. It was back to that first dinner, that first cozy moment when domesticity had been the goal and I’d felt like I belonged here.

Charlie’s smile was tight and cautious when I served him. “Thanks for saving the stew,” I told him.

He looked at me, and for once in the days since That Night, he caught my eye and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for….” He flicked his gaze to Malcolm.

“Saving me?” Malcolm asked.

Finally,
finally
, Charlie reached across the table and took Malcolm’s hand. “Yeah, asshole.” They stared at one another a long time before Charlie looked back at me. “Thanks for helping.”

I served my own supper as they watched, and thankfully, my hands barely shook. “You’re welcome.”

I
CALLED
Nash that night. Not because Malcolm told me to. Not because he made any indication he even remembered bringing it up or that he’d noticed that I hadn’t done it over the weekend. I called him because talk of artificial families made me think maybe what I needed was a reminder that I had something more real than that. All I had to do was man up and face my own stupid mistake. Nash wouldn’t care that I’d slept with Andrew. He’d care that I’d stopped sleeping with him. He’d care that I called.

The phone rang and rang when I did, though. I began to think maybe Nash didn’t live there anymore. He never let his phone ring. If he wasn’t home, he put his ancient answering machine on to pick up on the first ring. But even as I decided to hang up, the ringing stopped. There was shuffling, a low voice admonishing softly in the background, then him greeting me with a gruff hello.

“Nash,” I whispered, collapsing into a kitchen chair. He sounded like I remembered. Warm, low-key. Like home.

“Who—Kerry?”

“Yeah.”

“Kerry. Boy!” A grin spread through Nash’s voice, clear even across the phone line. “God, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Nash,” I said again, everything I’d wanted to say lost in the rush of hearing my foster father’s joy that I’d called. “Hi.”

“Are you all right, boy? You sound….”

“I’m fine. I’m good. You?”

“Perfect.”

But I heard the edge in his voice, the small scrape of emotion along the outer reach of it, and knew he was doing that thing he used to do when he didn’t want me to worry about anything. I leaned both elbows on the kitchen table and gripped the phone. “Nash?”

“You’re a bright one, Kerry,” Nash said softly. “Always were.”

“What’s wrong?”

“How long have you got?”

My heart twisted. Here I had been avoiding him for months on end, embarrassed by my own stupidity. I hadn’t for a moment thought about him or that he might need me. “I’ve got as long as you need, old man,” I told him, dragging that old teasing tone and nickname out of our shared past.

“You always were a good boy, Kerry.”

“Stop it. You’re talking like you’re dying.” My skin chilled and crawled. Silence. “Nash?”

“No, Kerry, breathe.”

And I realized I hadn’t been. I drew in a deep breath, making him chuckle.

“Calm?” he asked.

Just the word washed calm over me. Like it always had. Something about the way he said it. Like Malcolm’s Jedi trick getting me to call him, Nash could tell me to be calm, and like that, I would be calm. Mostly.

“Yes, Nash. I’m calm,” I lied. “Now will you get on with it?”

“You’re so sure something is wrong.”

How could I explain to him I could hear the way his voice thinned at the edge in a way it never did when he was happy? “I’m sure. Tell me.”

“It’s David.”

“Your partner, David?”

“Yes. He hasn’t been well. Infections and viruses. They had to mess with his anti-rejection meds. It was touch and go for a while. He’ll be fine, but recovery takes time.” Pause. Sigh. “And then with the baby running around like a fiend interrupting his rest and being so… demanding.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Like I said, he’s recovering finally.”

“I should have called sooner.”

“Kerry, I knew he was sick when I met him. That was why Lacy was my last foster. I knew this was a possibility.”

But how did you prepare for the person you loved to maybe die when he was only forty? An inherited heart condition had made David a young candidate for transplant, and he’d been lucky enough to find a match three years ago. Now he was pretty healthy for a guy on his second lease, but little things like the flu or a cold were a big deal in Nash’s household. A revolving door of kids with sniffles and dodgy tummies wasn’t in the cards for Nash anymore.

“At least you have Lacy to help, I guess,” I continued, trying to assuage my own guilt at neglecting to keep in touch.

More silence.

“Nash?”

Heavy sigh. “You’ve been out of touch too long, Kerry. She died two weeks after her baby was born. The cold turkey coming off whatever she was on was just too hard on her body. She was in such bad shape when she got pregnant. She didn’t even carry to term.”

“I didn’t know….” Barely a breath to substantiate my words. She had been only a tiny little thing, fifteen and unhealthily skinny from addiction and neglect when she’d moved into Nash’s two years ago as I was on my way out. In our brief conversations after I’d moved away, he’d told me about her pregnancy, about her attempt to clean up for the baby. He’d talked about her difficulties, but then I’d stopped calling. He’d carried her death and the responsibility for her baby and now David being sick, and he’d done it all alone. “It’s just you and him,” I said, realizing how much I’d missed.

“And Grey.”

“Grey?”

“Lacy’s son. She never really saw him or had much to do with him. She asked me to be his guardian as soon as she knew she was pregnant. All the papers were signed before he was born. She did right by him in the end. I’m just sorry she couldn’t help herself in time.”

“You named him Grey? That’s my name.” I knew he’d moved on from that point, but I couldn’t. He’d named this kid after me, and why would he do that?

Nash chuckled. “And that’s why we picked it.”

I didn’t know what else to say. He was dealing with Lacy’s death, her child, and his partner’s health. By himself. And I had kept myself aloof because I was embarrassed about fucking the wrong guy.

“Nash, I—”

“You’re not about to start feeling guilty on me, are you, son?”

Son.

“You know I did my best to make it so you could go out into the world and not need me,” Nash said.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need… me?”

The silence this time was not filled with the same reluctance as before. It rang with the quiet hope he’d always given me. And I know I had echoed it back to him, but he didn’t say a word.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can get a flight,” I told him.

“Kerry. You will do no such thing.”

“I will. I have vacation. I can borrow the airfare.”

“You will not drop your life for me.”

I smiled. “The Force is strong in me, Nash. Your Jedi tricks don’t work on me.”

“What?”

I smiled. “I’m coming home,” I told him. “You need help taking care of a kid and David. If I have to help Lissa find a new guy for the shop I will, but you need me more.”

My decision made, all that was left was to hash out the details. “I’ll call you back and let you know when to expect me.”

He protested a little more. I assured him there was no changing my mind, and every time he argued, his voice rounded out a little more, the arguments got weaker, and when he said good-bye, he almost sounded like the Nash I knew.

“Y
OU
WHAT
?”
Charlie’s glare was knife sharp when I told him of my decision after I hung up. “He’s been trying for weeks to give you everything you need—” he pointed to Malcolm’s closed office door—“and you refuse and buck and act like you don’t need or want a thing from him. Now the very first thing you actually ask for is a ticket to the far side of the country!”

“Nash needs me.”

“You haven’t even spoken to the guy in a year. And he sure as hell hasn’t tried to get in touch with you, and suddenly he needs you so bad you have to drop everything?”

“And I should have spoken to him. He’s been struggling alone all this time and he needs help. He’ll never ask for it, but after everything he’s done for me, he shouldn’t have to ask.”

“He’s a foster parent,” Charlie spat, making the title sound like something vulgar and despicable.

“Not like most,” I said. “Not like any other one I ever met, actually. He’s a good man.”

“And what about Malcolm?”

“What about him? He doesn’t need me. He has you.” And how much did I not want to point out that it was obvious Malcolm’s taste ran to Charlie and not me. Despite what he’d said to me earlier in the evening, his attitude remained strictly hands-off.

“You don’t get it at all.”

“No, Charlie, actually, I really don’t. I don’t get you, I don’t get him. I don’t get this whole clusterfuck that’s going on.”

“You haven’t given us a chance.”

I shook my head. “A chance to what?”

He reached for me and I backed up a step.

“Kerry, don’t do this.”

“I have to. It isn’t about you or Mal. It’s about Nash and having something that looks like a family. It’s about him. I have to. And if Malcolm doesn’t want to help, then I’ll ask Lissa. Just never mind.”

“Help with what?” Malcolm’s voice, as always, was calm. He was leaning in the now-open door to his office. It was anyone’s guess how long he’d been listening to us argue.

Charlie turned and pointed an unforgiving finger in my face. “He’s leaving.”

“No, he isn’t,” Malcolm said, pushing off from the doorframe and approaching. He stalked, mountain-lion sleek, long, lean legs covering the ground in a few easy strides. Proof, I guess, that we’d taken the knife from him in time. I was his prey, as frozen as if I really was a rabbit about to be consumed. His hand on my chin was implacable. I couldn’t move, so when he leaned to kiss me, I had no choice but to let him.

Not that my knees went weak or my spine melted or that I was grateful for Charlie being there as he slipped behind me and pressed his bulk to my back. Not at all like I had been dreaming about this for weeks. No. Never any of that.

Good God, it was so unfair. Every time I thought I knew the score, they kept changing the game.

I let my eyes close, let Malcolm push his tongue into my mouth, and I leaned on Charlie.

Should I have cursed them for taking me over like that? Cursed them for doing what I wanted? Cursed them because every cell in my body craved their strength and dominance and control and safety? Because I was already half-hard over a kiss, and I wanted so badly to believe any of it was about me.

Of course not, because none of that was their fault.

“Leaving?” Malcolm asked when he’d pulled away. He pushed my glasses up my nose, and I realized as he did that I couldn’t have done it myself. Charlie had both my arms clasped firmly by the wrists in his big hands, straight at my sides. That got me the rest of the way hard, and I tested his grip. Just to see. His fingers tightened to painful and I relaxed against him again.

I nodded.

“Why?”

“Nash needs help,” I told him.

“Where?”

“Seattle.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know.”

He caressed my cheek, but he was nodding. “Figure it out. Let me know.” He took a step back. “Let me know what you need.”

Charlie made a choked sound behind me and let me go. “Mal?”

“Come.” He looked past me to Charlie, that unforgiving command in his eyes. “Now.”

Charlie shuddered. I felt it all the way through me, and what excitement had built under that kiss shriveled. Charlie was in trouble because of me, and I couldn’t figure out why now. Why give him shit now and not after he’d snuck in to visit me without permission?

“Mal,” I began, but he held up a hand.

“I told him from day one not to get attached,” Malcolm growled. “He never listens.”

Charlie moved abruptly, taking his support with him. I almost fell onto my ass, but the table was there, and I grabbed it to prop myself up. My heart sank as Charlie followed him, head down, toward their bedroom. The sick in my gut felt so solid I’d need a chisel and hammer to get it out. There was finality in Malcolm’s attitude. He was ready to see the back of me. No matter how much I wanted it, him, or Charlie wanted me, in the end, Malcolm was just as happy to let me go. I couldn’t stay if he didn’t wholeheartedly want me there.

That was when I finally opened that damned book. The first page was a photo of a young man with black curls framing a pixie face and deep eyes. He smiled into the camera, dimples shadowing his cheeks. The name under his picture, “Alistair,” was scrawled in curled letters. The book was filled with pages of other men. Some were quick snapshots taken on the beach or at a bar, single shots stuck on the page with no names. Some guys had more than one page, with names and captions and a tentative look of permanence. Here and there were more photos of Alistair, usually with Charlie or Malcolm in the picture with him and often with a short, cheerful woman with the same dark hair and giddy smile as Alistair. She must be his mother, I guessed, and I smiled when some of the pictures of her with Charlie or Malcolm looked just like a family snapshot should look. These pictures didn’t have the same sort of loving, singular focus as that very first one had. They were pictures of a friend now, not a lover.