Thyme (Naughty or Nice) by K. R. Foster Page B

emitting from the ceramic cup soothed the remainder of the itching away, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever was happening—or had happened, as the case may be—Nana’s tea would fix it.
    He lifted the cup and took a sip, rolling it around on his tongue. It was bitter, with a hint of sweetness. Kind of raw. Honestly, it wasn’t very good. But he knew better than to add sugar to his tea, and Nana’s note—from that day — said to drink it “Now.” Idiot boy.
    Julien tossed his head back and swallowed all of it in two massive gulps. Huh. Nothing. Only time would tell why Nana had bothered to ship him tea priority mail. Besides, most of her concoctions took a while to kick in, and he’d never known one to fail. It would work when necessary, and not a moment sooner. Luckily, patience was another important truth he’d learned at his momma’s knee.
    He was carrying the teacup to the sink when the phone rang. He stabbed the speakerphone button. “Hello?”
    “Jules?” His name was spoken in a soft, feminine voice. And he recognized it immediately.
    “Momma Verne! How are you?” Silence. The faintest sound of a sob. “Momma Verne?” She hadn’t called him since December 1, but that was to be expected, because Momma Verne always called him the first of each month to check on him—even after what he’d driven Verne to do. She was too loving and forgiving by far. Regardless, he hadn’t figured she would call again until Christmas, and that was three days away.
    “Jules, baby, it’s Greg.”
    What? He couldn’t have heard—oh, so this is what it feels like to be deaf. He shuddered, wondering if he’d get to experience blindness next. “What?” he choked out.
    “There was a little kid… and a landmine—”
    Landmine? he mouthed at his reflection in the window over the sink. He scrubbed a hand over his short hair, feeling it scratch against his palm, and told himself that he wasn’t shaking… it was an earthquake.
    “He’s asking for you, Jules,” she whispered. The phone line crackled, and he was damn glad he wasn’t holding the phone, because he surely would have dropped it by now.
    Verne was asking for him? But— “He’s in Afghanistan,” Julien said. Verne had to be in Afghanistan. He was safe, and that damn tea Nana had sent him had hallucinogenic properties, and he was never talking to her again. Because this illusion was the cruelest thing he’d ever experienced in his life.
    “He’s—we’re at a military hospital in Germany, Jules. They airlifted him here. He’s been in and out of surgery for the past three days.”
    The cup in his hand fell and shattered to pieces in the sink; the teabag ripped, spilling open like a gutted creature. Like his heart.
    “And you’re just calling me now?” He’d never sounded like that before: vicious, heartless, broken. But he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. His best friend, the man he was fucking in love with, had been hospitalized by a landmine, and Momma Verne hadn’t informed him. What the fuck?
    “His legs are… he didn’t want you to know,” she sobbed. Sniffling followed, but Julien was still stuck on the words “he didn’t want you to know.”
    “Why?” The agony of that question tore through him. Verne was his best friend, his whole world, and he’d thought the same was true in reverse. Yes, Verne’s romantic feelings toward him had seemed to fade, but he’d thought they were still friends.
    They were Jules and Verne .
    “The doctors weren’t sure if he’d recover, and he didn’t want to put you through…. It doesn’t matter now, Jules.” Before he could disagree with her, and explain, in minute detail, exactly how much it did matter, she spoke the words of his worst nightmares. “He was dying.”
    It’s Greg. Landmine. Hospital in Germany. Three days. He was dying.
    Julien started to hyperventilate. He collapsed to the floor and put his head between his legs, but it didn’t help all that much. Even if