Bombora by Peters Mal

Author:Peters, Mal [Peters, Mal]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
Published: 2012-08-29T16:00:00+00:00

I LET myself into Hugh’s house through the back door, which is always—though I’ve told him a million times this isn’t the Midwest—unlocked, just in case I should happen to stop by. It’s getting on in the afternoon, around the time Hugh is usually barricaded inside his study to work on his book.

Although I’ll never understand what compels him to ensconce himself in his office during the nicest time of day, especially when the California days are sweet indeed, I have to admire how methodical and regimented Hugh is as an author, setting himself a specific schedule from which to work. Not the creative type myself, I always saw writing as something spontaneous and undisciplined, to be completed whenever inspiration strikes, not according to set hours of the day. But Hugh insists this is the only way his novels get written, and who am I to argue? We surf in the mornings; then I leave him to his work each afternoon. Which is why, I suppose, he was in such a rush to get Nate and me to spend some time together during his off-limits writing periods. His concern for our respective well-being is touching, but I sometimes wonder how Hugh thinks I or his brother got along without him before. Before we were actually together, I mean.

I can hear two different sets of music emerging from separate locations in the house, each trying to drown the other out: classical music from Hugh’s study, and classic rock from the living room, where Nate is likely reading or taking a nap. Since I already know where I’m not welcome, I wander into the living room and discover, instead, that Nate is busy in the kitchen, where he beckons to me in response to my tentative “Hello?”

Upon entering, I see Nate, shirtless, bent over at the fridge, digging around in the crisper and cradling a pile of vegetables in the crook of his elbow. He glances over his shoulder and flashes me a grin, and I have to wonder at how happy he always is to see me when I’m not quick enough to spoil the mood.

“I made you a cheeseburger,” he says in greeting, and withdraws a head of lettuce before he kicks the fridge door closed with his heel. Sure enough, there are two burgers set out on the kitchen island, fresh off the barbecue. Faint smokiness still lingers in the air, and I notice Nate has even gone to the trouble of toasting the buns on the grill. A stickler for detail, Nate is, when it comes to food.

“How did you even know I’d stop by?” I wonder. I have the good grace to feel abashed that my first response is suspicion, rather than a smile or even thanks for this show of thoughtfulness; especially when I catch the hurt twist to his mouth, but it seems too late to backpedal now. I’m trying to break him of the habit of expecting displays of friendliness from me when I’ve never given him cause to do so.

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