Everything I Didn't Know by Nicky James

Author:Nicky James [James, Nicky]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2023-07-12T23:00:00+00:00

eighteen

Foster

I splashed cold water on my face. The brisk temperature soothed the irritated skin around my eyes. I had rubbed them raw. The insatiable allergy itch was back with a vengeance. Although I was still sneezing on occasion, it was my burning retinas and the mild headache behind my eyes that was driving me up the wall.

The chilly well water that ran from the tap in the bathhouse was a balm, so I collected another palmful and splashed it over my face. The members of the construction crew were granted thirty minutes of bathhouse time at the end of their shift to clean up after a sweaty day on the job. I took advantage. Anyone with labor-intensive roles or who ended up filthy after a day of work was permitted the same. I was grateful, but when the line to get cleaned totaled forty plus, I understood the necessity for another bathhouse and why we had scheduled bath shifts.

At the rate we were going, it would be midsummer before the new building was complete. Hopefully, I wouldn’t be in Oasis anymore. I’d be back in the wonderfully polluted city where nature and its microscopic organisms didn’t try to kill me just for breathing.

I gave up my spot to someone else and hurried back to the den to change. A community meeting was scheduled to begin at five, one hour before dinner, and I was meant to find Paxton beforehand.

She had been cold toward me all day, reserving her smiles and loving touches for when people were watching. I’d taken her aside that morning and explained the decision Bowie and I had made the previous night. Paxton hadn’t been pleased.

Seeing Bowie with Father Wilder that morning had been excruciating. Their connection had seemed chummy, and I didn’t like the way Bowie looked at him. Reverently. Like he worshiped the very ground Father Wilder walked on.

It was an act, I reminded myself. Bowie was playing a part the same as me. But was he? I’d seen the conflict in Bowie’s eyes the previous night. He’d left home at sixteen, whether from absent or negligent parents, I couldn’t say. Maybe they were bigots who didn’t accept their gay son. He’d hardly elaborated, and I hadn’t pushed.

But I knew enough and had seen enough to know his relationship with Father Wilder was precarious. Was Bowie unstable? Could he do this? Had we—I—put too much pressure on him?

He hadn’t seemed unstable the previous night. In fact, he’d shown perfect control. He’d taken the upper hand and left me stumbling after him like a prepubescent teenager overwhelmed by hormones. No, I had to believe Bowie knew what he was doing.

Dressed, I sat on my bottom bunk and buried my face in my hands. “God, what have I done?” Everything was upside down, thanks to me.

Typical Foster Mayfield, “the Brewman,” thinking with his dick and not with his head. Restless and looking for a good time instead of focusing on the task at hand. Zeroing in on

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