Chapter Thirteen, Part II

Redwoods

Afterwards, Adrian rises slowly between Jack’s knees.

Jack remains on the counter, his breathing uneven, his head resting back against the cupboard. For once, he seems to have nothing clever to say.

Adrian places both hands on his thighs and looks at him.

Jack opens his eyes.

There is something almost dazed in his expression, but the desire has not disappeared. It has merely softened around the edges, settling into something heavy and satisfied.

“You all right?” Adrian asks.

Jack gives a short, disbelieving laugh.

“You’re asking me that now?”

“It seemed polite.”

Jack reaches for him, catching him by the back of the neck and pulling him forward. His legs close around Adrian’s hips again as he kisses him, slower than before but no less certain.

Adrian can feel Jack smiling against his mouth.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“That is clearly not nothing.”

Jack looks at him for a moment, his hand still resting at the back of Adrian’s neck.

“You keep surprising me.”

Adrian’s fingers drift over the warm skin of Jack’s chest. “I would hate to become predictable.”

“I don’t think there’s much danger of that.”

Jack kisses him once more, then rests his forehead against Adrian’s.

They remain that way for a while, Adrian standing between his legs, Jack’s arms loose around his shoulders, neither of them showing any particular interest in moving.

Eventually, Adrian glances towards the abandoned mugs.

“The coffee.”

“Gone.”

“Not gone. Neglected.”

“It knew the risks.”

Adrian looks back at him. Jack’s hair is thoroughly disordered, his mouth still flushed from kissing, and there are fresh marks across his chest that will become considerably more visible later.

The sight sends another slow pulse of heat through Adrian.

Jack catches the look.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that unless you want breakfast sometime after lunch.”

Adrian considers it. “How attached are you to breakfast?”

Jack groans and drops his forehead against Adrian’s shoulder.

It takes them several more minutes to separate.

By the time they finally sit at the small table by the window, the coffee has gone lukewarm.

Adrian is wearing Jack’s open shirt and nothing else. Jack’s jeans are buttoned incorrectly, his hair is a mess, and there is a fresh mark beginning to darken beneath his collarbone.

Their knees press together beneath the table.

Jack lifts his mug, takes one sip and looks at Adrian over the rim.

“So,” he says. “Dinner went well.”

Adrian feels the slow grin spread across his face.

“I thought so.”

Outside, the morning light is soft and pale, the ocean a flat grey-blue beyond the trees. Neither of them is in any hurry to be anywhere else.

“What did your Saturdays look like,” Adrian asks eventually, “before any of this?”

Jack thinks about it, turning his mug slowly on the table.

“Shop until two, usually. Then I’d go home, eat something standing at the counter because I never bother sitting down when I’m alone, and then—” He shrugs. “Depends on the week. Sometimes I’d drive up the coast a little. Sometimes I’d just fall asleep in front of a game I wasn’t watching.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“It wasn’t, really. It was just mine.” Jack looks at him. “What about you? What did a Saturday look like for the great Adrian, off duty?”

“Wine tasting notes I never showed anyone. A long walk with no destination. Sometimes I’d cook a meal that took four hours for one person to eat.”

“Four hours of cooking for one plate.”

“I enjoy the process.”

“That’s the loneliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It was peaceful,” Adrian says. “There’s a difference.”

Jack doesn’t argue the point, but something in his expression says he’s filing it away anyway.

Jack eventually gets up and makes eggs without asking whether Adrian wants any.

“What do you actually do,” Adrian asks when Jack sits down again, “when nobody needs you to fix something?”

Jack considers this longer than the question seems to require.

“I read.”

Adrian looks up. “You read.”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked. I’m recalibrating.”

“I like westerns. The old paperback kind, the ones with the covers falling off. Nothing serious.” Jack says it almost defensively, like he’s braced for Adrian to make something of it.

Adrian doesn’t. “What’s the appeal?”

“Everything gets solved by the last page. Nobody’s still arguing about it in chapter nine.”

“That’s a very tidy way to spend your evenings.”

“My days aren’t tidy. I like my books tidy.” Jack looks at him. “What about you? When you’re not drinking wine alone for four hours.”

“I like documentaries about places I’ll probably never actually visit properly. Antarctica. The deep ocean. Places too cold or too far to bother with on a real trip.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“I like the idea of somewhere completely untouched. No layover, no hotel, no roster. Just — there.”

Jack watches him for a second. “You could go. Actually go, I mean.”

“I could. I never have.”

“Why not?”

Adrian turns his coffee cup slightly. “Because I’ve spent my whole life going places for work. Taking a holiday somewhere remote feels like it should mean something, and I’ve never quite trusted myself to make it mean the right thing.”

Jack doesn’t say anything clever back to that. He just nods, like it makes sense to him, and lets it sit there instead of filling the silence.

By the time they reach Main Street, the morning fog has almost cleared. Cambria is already awake in its own unhurried way — a couple walking a golden retriever that stops every few metres to inspect something only dogs find interesting, a florist arranging buckets of flowers outside her shop.

Adrian slows almost immediately outside a small delicatessen, its window filled with olive oils, handmade pasta, and jars of preserves.

“I knew it,” Jack says.

“Knew what?”

“You can’t pass a food shop.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve been walking in a straight line for twenty minutes. The second you saw olive oil, you changed course.”

“I was appreciating the display.”

“Mm-hm.”

They go inside anyway. Within minutes Adrian is deep in conversation with the owner about balsamic vinegar and Pecorino Toscano as if they’re old friends, and Jack leans against a shelf with his hands in his pockets, understanding maybe a third of it.

“You know everybody,” Jack says when they leave, carrying a small paper bag.

“I’ve never met him before.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I like people.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Farther down the street, Jack stops outside an old hardware store, and this time it’s his turn to slow down.

Adrian looks through the dusty window. “Hammers.”

“Yep.”

“A shelf full of screws.”

“They’re organised,” Jack says, mildly offended on the screws’ behalf.

Adrian laughs. “So this is your version of heaven?”

“Come on.”

Twenty minutes later Adrian emerges carrying nothing but a small brass whale, no larger than the palm of his hand. Jack is carrying an adjustable wrench he clearly did not need.

"You bought a brass whale."

"I did."

"What does it do?"

"Nothing. That is its charm."

“You already own tools.”

“I do.”

“So why buy another wrench?”

“Because this one’s nice,” Jack says, entirely serious.

“I stand corrected.”

They eat lunch at a small café overlooking Moonstone Beach — wooden tables, open windows, the smell of grilled sourdough drifting from the kitchen. A young waitress arrives balancing two glasses of water, and one tips as she sets it down, splashing across the edge of the table.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

Adrian lifts his phone out of the way before it can get wet. “It’s all right.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“It missed us completely.” He smiles at her. “I’d say you’ve earned one spilled glass, carrying trays around all day.”

She laughs, visibly relieved, and disappears back inside.

Jack watches her go, then looks back at Adrian. “You do that all the time.”

“Do what?”

“Make people feel like they don’t have to apologise for existing.”

Adrian looks faintly surprised. “I’ve never thought about it.”

“I don’t think you have.”

Their sandwiches arrive. For a moment neither of them says anything.

“That’s one of the nicer things anyone’s said to me,” Adrian says finally.

Jack shrugs, suddenly very interested in his sandwich. “Just telling the truth.”