him when he was bored. When they’d been in Europe, Trav had texted him random pictures: Mackey in Rome—the cats loved him. The guys on the Eiffel Tower—they didn’t see it last time.
Suddenly Trav had a terrible, terrible yearning that Heywood meet Mackey and the guys. His brother had been a little shit when they were kids, but it didn’t seem fair, somehow, that they should grow up and be such separate people. The Sanders boys—plus Stevie and, from the sound of it, Grant—might have been dysfunctional and claustrophobic, but at least they had had each other.
Halfway back in the rain, Trav’s pocket buzzed. It was Blake—Mackey and Briony had come back. They were having a Doritos party in Trav’s room.
OMW
Trav raised his face to the rain and closed his eyes, letting the relief wash over him.
Thank you, God. Thank you for letting him be okay. Thank you for bringing him back to me. Please, let him stay.
They walked back into the room to find Blake, Jefferson, and Stevie playing each other on their DS3s while Shelia, Mackey, and Briony cheered them on. Mackey’s hair still dripped down his back and into his eyes, but he was wearing dry sweats, and when Trav walked in, Mackey grabbed two pairs of sweats and T-shirts for Trav and Kell.
Trav took them gratefully and passed Kell his. Both of them looked uneasily at the girls, who rolled their eyes and waved their hands and turned back to the games. It felt cowardly to go to the bathroom after that, Trav reflected, smiling grimly to himself. Propriety was a weird thing.
They changed and hung their clothes up in the tiny mildewed bathroom and towel-dried their hair. When they were done, Trav sat on the bed and Mackey sat in his lap, just like when they were at home and the guys were playing something on the big screen. They started rooting for their favorite characters and listening to Briony’s acid commentary, passing the tiny bags of Doritos Blake had apparently gotten from the vending machine when Mackey had shown up hungry even though they’d already eaten. Nobody mentioned the tour, nobody mentioned Grant, nobody mentioned the terrible, rip-roaring fight that had torn through the little hotel like a touched-down tornado.
And nobody went back to their beds either. Mackey slept between Briony and Trav in one queen-size bed; Jefferson, Stevie and Shelia took the other. Kell and Blake took the floor, using the fluffy blankets Trav had bought them in Albuquerque because the nights dropped surprisingly cold and the bus just didn’t seem warm enough.
The room was close and humid between the rain and the too-many bodies, but nobody wanted to split up just yet.
The last person who had left was dying.
When gentle breathing and soft snores echoed in the tiny room with the peeling paint and the bald carpet coming up from the moldings, Mackey rolled over in Trav’s arms and nuzzled his chest.
“You awake?” he whispered.
Trav opened one eye. “We’re not doing that right now,” he said, sure that they were clear on this one thing.
“Yeah, I gotcha. I just wanted to say….” Mackey sighed so deeply Trav’s arms rose and fell with his chest. “I wanted to say I don’t know if I’m sorry—I can’t think of anything I said that was meant to be mean or shitty, so I’m not sure I can be sorry for it.”
Trav felt a smile tilting at the corners of his mouth. If Mackey Sanders loved you, it meant he didn’t hold back a goddamned thing. Trav could deal with that.
“Understood,” Trav murmured.
“I didn’t finish. I just want to say that I don’t want you hurt. Shit’s gonna happen, and you’re going to get hurt, but I never meant to do it.” Again, that big sigh. “I don’t know if that’s worth anything, but it’s all I got.”
Trav dropped a kiss in his knotted, water-ratted hair. “Intentions should count,” he said after a minute. Mackey’s hair smelled animal and real, and he wished for a moment that they were alone. But
Suddenly Trav had a terrible, terrible yearning that Heywood meet Mackey and the guys. His brother had been a little shit when they were kids, but it didn’t seem fair, somehow, that they should grow up and be such separate people. The Sanders boys—plus Stevie and, from the sound of it, Grant—might have been dysfunctional and claustrophobic, but at least they had had each other.
Halfway back in the rain, Trav’s pocket buzzed. It was Blake—Mackey and Briony had come back. They were having a Doritos party in Trav’s room.
OMW
Trav raised his face to the rain and closed his eyes, letting the relief wash over him.
Thank you, God. Thank you for letting him be okay. Thank you for bringing him back to me. Please, let him stay.
They walked back into the room to find Blake, Jefferson, and Stevie playing each other on their DS3s while Shelia, Mackey, and Briony cheered them on. Mackey’s hair still dripped down his back and into his eyes, but he was wearing dry sweats, and when Trav walked in, Mackey grabbed two pairs of sweats and T-shirts for Trav and Kell.
Trav took them gratefully and passed Kell his. Both of them looked uneasily at the girls, who rolled their eyes and waved their hands and turned back to the games. It felt cowardly to go to the bathroom after that, Trav reflected, smiling grimly to himself. Propriety was a weird thing.
They changed and hung their clothes up in the tiny mildewed bathroom and towel-dried their hair. When they were done, Trav sat on the bed and Mackey sat in his lap, just like when they were at home and the guys were playing something on the big screen. They started rooting for their favorite characters and listening to Briony’s acid commentary, passing the tiny bags of Doritos Blake had apparently gotten from the vending machine when Mackey had shown up hungry even though they’d already eaten. Nobody mentioned the tour, nobody mentioned Grant, nobody mentioned the terrible, rip-roaring fight that had torn through the little hotel like a touched-down tornado.
And nobody went back to their beds either. Mackey slept between Briony and Trav in one queen-size bed; Jefferson, Stevie and Shelia took the other. Kell and Blake took the floor, using the fluffy blankets Trav had bought them in Albuquerque because the nights dropped surprisingly cold and the bus just didn’t seem warm enough.
The room was close and humid between the rain and the too-many bodies, but nobody wanted to split up just yet.
The last person who had left was dying.
When gentle breathing and soft snores echoed in the tiny room with the peeling paint and the bald carpet coming up from the moldings, Mackey rolled over in Trav’s arms and nuzzled his chest.
“You awake?” he whispered.
Trav opened one eye. “We’re not doing that right now,” he said, sure that they were clear on this one thing.
“Yeah, I gotcha. I just wanted to say….” Mackey sighed so deeply Trav’s arms rose and fell with his chest. “I wanted to say I don’t know if I’m sorry—I can’t think of anything I said that was meant to be mean or shitty, so I’m not sure I can be sorry for it.”
Trav felt a smile tilting at the corners of his mouth. If Mackey Sanders loved you, it meant he didn’t hold back a goddamned thing. Trav could deal with that.
“Understood,” Trav murmured.
“I didn’t finish. I just want to say that I don’t want you hurt. Shit’s gonna happen, and you’re going to get hurt, but I never meant to do it.” Again, that big sigh. “I don’t know if that’s worth anything, but it’s all I got.”
Trav dropped a kiss in his knotted, water-ratted hair. “Intentions should count,” he said after a minute. Mackey’s hair smelled animal and real, and he wished for a moment that they were alone. But
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