gratefully—he’s off the hook, even though that voice in the back of his mind that grows louder with each passing day says, You don’t want to be let off the hook at all. “You’re freezing.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Wordlessly, Aiden shucks off his leather jacket and tucks it around Jake’s shoulders. It smells like rain and spice and home.
“Come on, Jakey. What do we do when it rains?” Aiden prompts. “We…”
“We shop,” Jake answers, rolling his eyes as they turn to retrace their footsteps.
“A little bird told me that there’s a great outlet mall nearby. And Jake, did you know that in Delaware, you don’t pay sales tax?”
“Why no, Aiden, I didn’t know that.”
“Just think of all the awesome T-shirts I could buy for you.”
Jake laughs and leans briefly into the arm Aiden wraps around his waist. This is good, he thinks. This is who we are.
1,534 miles
Chapter Three
Day Twenty-one: Maryland
“Are you really sure about my Halloween costume?” Aiden asks as he idly plucks scales, shaking out his hand every now and then. He hasn’t played seriously in nearly two weeks, and though his fingertips ache as new calluses blossom on top of the old ones, the feel of the black cocobolo and white spruce of his father’s Baranik Meridian is undiluted magic. It has him itching to grab his journal and scribble down the new lyrics beginning to meander through his mind.
Seated on the overstuffed crimson couch that stretches along the opposite wall of the music room in the Calloways’ basement, Jake glances up from the crate of vinyl records he’s flicking through. They’ve been down here since shortly after a surprisingly pleasant dinner with George and Fiona. Surprisingly pleasant seems to be the theme of the visit, and often throughout the day Aiden has caught himself wondering when the penny is going to drop.
“Why? It’s fabulous, very Adam Lambert-esque,” Jake says. “Much better than your original idea of going as a tube of lube and a condom. I mean, really.”
“April told me it made me look like Elmo at a gay bar,” Aiden says.
“She’s just jealous that she doesn’t get to wear a Jake Valentine original, too,” Jake says. He pulls an LP from the crate and sets it on the floor, on the side of the crate Aiden can’t see. “Besides, why are you worrying about Halloween when it’s still weeks away? Unless—oh. You really are unsure about it, aren’t you?”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. You know I love my costume. I don’t know; it’s just been bugging me ever since she said it.”
“Well, you could always go with the Freddie Mercury instead. But don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing,” Jake says lightly. He reaches the last LP, flips them back into place and looks Aiden in the eye, bracing his hands on either side of the crate. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
Jake wiggles his fingers in the air. “That thing where you nitpick at all the things you think are wrong because you’re just avoiding the big thing that’s actually wrong.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aiden mutters to the guitar, focusing on the grain of the wood beneath its perfect layer of varnish.
“Don’t you dare give me that, Aiden Thomas Calloway. There’s obviously something that you’re not dealing with, and you and I both know what it is,” Jake says. He stands up, gracefully unfolding himself from the couch, and takes the vinyl he pulled from the crate to the turntable. Within moments the basement is filled with that comfortable crackling, and the timeless big-band sound of an old Rat Pack song pours from the restored phonograph. Jake turns around and holds out a hand. “Care to dance?”
Aiden worries the inside of his cheek for a moment or two, then stands the guitar against the wall and crosses the room. “Where is this coming from, Mr. Valentine?”
“You’re going to talk it out, and I’m
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Wordlessly, Aiden shucks off his leather jacket and tucks it around Jake’s shoulders. It smells like rain and spice and home.
“Come on, Jakey. What do we do when it rains?” Aiden prompts. “We…”
“We shop,” Jake answers, rolling his eyes as they turn to retrace their footsteps.
“A little bird told me that there’s a great outlet mall nearby. And Jake, did you know that in Delaware, you don’t pay sales tax?”
“Why no, Aiden, I didn’t know that.”
“Just think of all the awesome T-shirts I could buy for you.”
Jake laughs and leans briefly into the arm Aiden wraps around his waist. This is good, he thinks. This is who we are.
1,534 miles
Chapter Three
Day Twenty-one: Maryland
“Are you really sure about my Halloween costume?” Aiden asks as he idly plucks scales, shaking out his hand every now and then. He hasn’t played seriously in nearly two weeks, and though his fingertips ache as new calluses blossom on top of the old ones, the feel of the black cocobolo and white spruce of his father’s Baranik Meridian is undiluted magic. It has him itching to grab his journal and scribble down the new lyrics beginning to meander through his mind.
Seated on the overstuffed crimson couch that stretches along the opposite wall of the music room in the Calloways’ basement, Jake glances up from the crate of vinyl records he’s flicking through. They’ve been down here since shortly after a surprisingly pleasant dinner with George and Fiona. Surprisingly pleasant seems to be the theme of the visit, and often throughout the day Aiden has caught himself wondering when the penny is going to drop.
“Why? It’s fabulous, very Adam Lambert-esque,” Jake says. “Much better than your original idea of going as a tube of lube and a condom. I mean, really.”
“April told me it made me look like Elmo at a gay bar,” Aiden says.
“She’s just jealous that she doesn’t get to wear a Jake Valentine original, too,” Jake says. He pulls an LP from the crate and sets it on the floor, on the side of the crate Aiden can’t see. “Besides, why are you worrying about Halloween when it’s still weeks away? Unless—oh. You really are unsure about it, aren’t you?”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. You know I love my costume. I don’t know; it’s just been bugging me ever since she said it.”
“Well, you could always go with the Freddie Mercury instead. But don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing,” Jake says lightly. He reaches the last LP, flips them back into place and looks Aiden in the eye, bracing his hands on either side of the crate. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
Jake wiggles his fingers in the air. “That thing where you nitpick at all the things you think are wrong because you’re just avoiding the big thing that’s actually wrong.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aiden mutters to the guitar, focusing on the grain of the wood beneath its perfect layer of varnish.
“Don’t you dare give me that, Aiden Thomas Calloway. There’s obviously something that you’re not dealing with, and you and I both know what it is,” Jake says. He stands up, gracefully unfolding himself from the couch, and takes the vinyl he pulled from the crate to the turntable. Within moments the basement is filled with that comfortable crackling, and the timeless big-band sound of an old Rat Pack song pours from the restored phonograph. Jake turns around and holds out a hand. “Care to dance?”
Aiden worries the inside of his cheek for a moment or two, then stands the guitar against the wall and crosses the room. “Where is this coming from, Mr. Valentine?”
“You’re going to talk it out, and I’m
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