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PAUL’S SMILE SEEPED through him. The same one, the same sincerity, as the last twenty-one days. They all said: Thank you. As in thank you for understanding, for giving me space, and for being here.
In turn, he replied with a smile of his own. Of course.
They never spoke about it more than in those moments. Paul clicked back into his laid-back, humorous self. A mask he fooled the world with. Had fooled Karl with for much too long. Karl fast understood now it was a cover—a wall he used to block the other issues in.
Except, it wasn't entirely a cover. It seemed to Karl, when he tried to read Paul, there was a longing mixed in it. Like the way he acted was the way he really wanted to be. When he laughed, joked, showed interest in something—he really wanted to mean it but just didn't. Quite. Except maybe with Charlie.
Paul's step crunched over the crumbs Charlie had made making crackers and sandwiches.
"Papa, I made you lunch." Charlie gave Paul a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches folded into triangles, their crusts cut off. Karl glanced to the left of his laptop, at his own plate, a single bite taken out of one.
"And you won't get any dessert if you don't eat your sammich."
Karl smiled. He always wanted to remember this. Charlie was so sweet. Yet the possibility of mischief lurked there beneath the surface.
"Okay, Mo—." Oh, so not the right thing to say. Not only would it be completely lost on Charlie, but . . . He stole a glance at Paul, who, thankfully, didn't seem to have noticed his almost-slip. Karl picked up the bread and crammed it into his mouth, quickly getting rid of the taste. Bleck. He gave Charlie a smile. "What's for dessert?"
"Jam crackers."
Pass. Could he pass? "Um . . . " Charlie spread jam on a cracker, then licked the knife.
"No licking knives," Paul said, removing it from Charlie. "I don't want you to cut your tongue."
Charlie's bottom lip wobbled.
"Hey, is that cracker for me, or what?"
He nodded and passed it to Karl.
"Mmmm, good."
Paul gave Charlie back the knife with a warning stare. He turned to Karl, eyes flickering to the laptop. "What are you doing?" he asked curiously.
Karl looked at the email he was writing to Will, then bit the inside of his lip. Could he explain it to Paul if he barely grasped the reason why he was doing this himself?
Or did he grasp the reason perfectly but refuse to admit it? Dammit, he wasn't sure. Karl had the urge to shut the laptop so Paul wouldn't see. Not that he should have anything to hide by it, but—
He closed the window with a quick brush-and-click over the laptop pad. "Just answering an email, nothing important."
Though it must have been a little bit important since this was the fifth one in three weeks he'd written to Will. Karl frowned internally. Why? It was just—just sometimes, especially the last three weeks, he still needed him . . . The guy had cared, loved him. Was it so bad he wanted to have a little contact with that again? That was partly why he continued to email.
The reason he'd initiated anything to begin with was he felt he owed Will a more sincere apology. Not for the nose, not for that day, but for not having been honest about how he felt sooner. Something he understood about Paul's guilt. Not anywhere near the same degree, only, when he thought about how he'd been with Will, using Will's mistake as a chance to leave . . . well, why hadn't he said something sooner? He wished he had now. Saved Will from more hurt than was necessary. He judged himself for that weakness. How was it, though, that he could hate that part of himself but not the same part that was in Paul?
He didn't view Paul's actions as making him a worse person in any case. Rather, it made him more human, more vulnerable, and somehow brave. Paul may have been scared to tell the truth, but he also cared so much for Laura that he'd live a lie for her, because he didn't want to see her get hurt. There was something undeniably selfless in that. Something even admirable.
Karl didn't realize he’d let a deep sigh escape him until Paul frowned. "Um, are you okay?"
Karl nodded, then shook his head. If he wanted to be a better person, shouldn't he be entirely honest? "Actually, I was writing to Will."
Both Paul's brows arched, he leaned back none-too-casually in his chair. "Will your. . . ?" He didn't say 'ex', looking to Charlie next to him, but Karl got it.
"Yeah."
For a second something altered in Paul's expression, but he schooled it too soon for Karl to discern.
Karl felt the need to explain at least something. "I don't know. Maybe there's a chance to salvage a friendship. He's a good guy." This time Karl caught a brief scowl from Paul. And that little unconscious admission sent a lightness washing through Karl. He wanted to tell Paul again, right then and there, that in no way did he love Will. But with Charlie right there it was hardly appropriate. Rats.
Paul stood up quickly from his chair and crossed into the kitchen. "Charlie, are you looking forward to the aquarium trip with Gillian and Tirone?" An early Christmas gift for the boy.
Charlie nodded and started singing off-key. La da-de-dee-da . . . something about 'fishes'.
Paul opened and shut the fridge. "You're coming too, right?"
Karl closed his laptop. "Course." Paul knew that already. "Are we picking them up or meeting them there?"
* * *
They met Tirone minus Gillian inside the entrance. "Gill can't make it." He bent down to Charlie. "Sorry, buddy, cool Aunt Gill is sick in bed."
"Oh no! She okay?"
Tirone gave the boy a large smile. Karl admired his perfect teeth. It was no wonder Gill showed interest. That smile alone could have anyone weak in the knees. Even Karl, a bit. Not as much as what Paul did to him, granted.
Tirone dropped his smile when he stood, talking somberly to Paul. "Would you be able to pick up Gill for Christmas dinner? Her car's bust and I won't be able to make it over. My Gran took a fall and broke her hip, so I'm flying to Toronto tomorrow and will stay over Christmas."
Paul and Karl offered their sympathies, but Tirone briskly brushed them off with a nod.
"She said she'd manage to get there on her own, but, and don't tell her I said this, but ever since that movie, you know the one with the serial killer taxi driver? She's been freaked to ride in one, and—"
"Of course we'll get her," Paul said, and his use of 'we' shot a thrill though Karl. It sounded so relationship-like. Somehow. Maybe he just wanted it to? "No worries."
"Thanks, man."
Tickets. Admission. And away they went, walking through glass hallways, sea life swimming around them. People crammed the place, and all three of them walked shoulder to shoulder, allowing enough room for others to pass. Tirone and Paul seemed in good humor, and they all bantered easily. Halfway down the second hall, Tirone smirked. "Guys, we are getting quite the looks. That's the third 'surprised and impressed' look I've seen from a mother." Being in the middle, he slipped an arm over both their shoulders. "Let 'em keep staring. I like the attention."
Karl laughed but, when he glanced over, noted Paul wasn't quite so comfortable. It didn't last long. Charlie ran up to his papa. "Can you carry me on your shoulders?" He pointed at the small sharks overhead. "I want to get closer."
Tirone's cell beeped. That winning smile came again as he read. "Gill says she hopes we're enjoying ourselves and to remind us that some fish bite, so not to go dipping your hand in any tanks—I think that one was for me." He quickly replied, his face never once dropping. "Instead of giving it away to the piranhas, I'll try my hand at making soup to take her later. Any tips, Karl?"
"If you want, I could make one and you pick it up before going over?" Somehow that seemed easier than reciting and probably re-reciting a recipe. Besides, half of it he, Charlie and Paul could have for dinner. Perfect.
Tirone's smile dipped into an eager grin. "I can see why Paul loves you."
Karl knew he didn't mean it like love-loves you; it was just a way to show his enthusiasm. Still, it didn't stop his heart from suddenly racing, and his palms instantly sweating. Nor did it stop Paul from jumping and twisting so fast that Charlie lost his balance and almost fell. Paul grabbed at Charlie's legs, and Tirone lunged to support his back. Close one.
"What on earth was that?" Tirone's voice came out more bewildered than anything.
"Twisted funny on my ankle," Paul said, his gaze darting to Karl and back to Tirone. Karl saw guilt etched in his face—the same from a few weeks earlier. What went through his mind? Laura again? Or was it that he was frightened Tirone might know he was gay?
"You want me to carry Charlie? I won't drop him. Have much better control of my feet." Tirone's amused smirk seemed to calm Paul, and they continued through the underwater world.
Karl and Paul sat in a café in the middle of the complex. Charlie dragged Tirone to the sea life playground to the right of them. Mid-way through Karl's cappuccino, he found Paul staring at the playground, a frown on his face. Slowly his brows rose as if he'd come to some unexpected realization. Karl sipped, not wanting to disturb the man's thoughts. After a while, Paul refocused on the flat white the woman with the Australian? New Zealand? accent at the counter had persuaded him to try when he couldn't make up his mind.
"Coffee's not half bad."
"Papa!" Thump. Coffee splashed over the rim. Charlie wrapped his arms around Paul. "He's going to eat me!" Tirone came after him snapping his arms together as jaws.
Karl laughed, louder than he'd intended. His body had a mind of its own. Things were still tentative between him and Paul, yes, but he was still there. Around. Them.
With unknown lightness, the rest of the day skimmed by.
* * *
He should be used to the crack-of-dawn wake-up ritual, but five in the morning still counted as the night in his opinion.
"I'm sleeping," he groaned and shoved a pillow over his head.
"But Santa came! He ate the milk and cookies! Karly, you have to see!"
"Show your papa first, I'll . . . I'll be out soon." Later, much later.
"But he's up already, making waffles."
Karl pinged one lid open, staring at a hazy Charlie. "Is that right?" Hmm, that would have to be the first time Paul had ever cooked.
A lump pounced on the bed next to him. "Ew, your teeth look funny up this close."
Karl clamped down on the smile. "You're gonna be a charmer, aren't ya?"
"Come on, let's open up the gifts."
Groaning, Karl shifted on his side. "Just give me five minutes. I'll be out soon."
"Santa brought you something, too."
Almost in a spring, Karl sat up, a thread of the joy Charlie felt coming to him. He slipped on some socks, wrapped himself in a thick jersey, and padded after Charlie in some slacks. What could Paul have gotten him?
He thought about his own gift to Paul: it was small, yet also the biggest thing he'd ever given. Karl stopped from crunching his bottom lip with the jagged part of his chipped tooth. Paul would like it. Right? Of course.
Charlie skated ahead as if forgetting he'd dragged Karl from bed. Karl shook his head. What was it with Christmas and short attention spans? He glanced over his shoulder. He could slink back to bed . . . Only now he felt super-wide awake. Nothing to do with presents under the tree for him. Absolutely not.
The smell of butter, cinnamon, and hot blueberries hit his nose. Karl slowed into the dining/kitchen area. Unnoticed, he kept still, using the moment to appreciate Paul behind the counter. Flour smudged a line across his cheek, and—what? Since when did Paul wear glasses? Thick black rims perched on his nose, and Paul peered through the lenses at a cookery book. He filed the image away for keeps. He wasn't sure if or when he'd see Paul in glasses again, and it didn't seem like he could tease him into it anytime soon. Things between them hadn't changed much.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. They had picked up the last week. Since the aquarium. There still hadn't been any kissing or holding. Things had been friendly and comfortable, though. More so than he'd anticipated. It was just like—like Paul needed a friend for a bit.
Karl shut his eyes a moment, enjoying the small thrill that rose in him, thinking about last night: Paul hesitating to say goodnight, and then his words, uttered so soft. Music to his ears. I had a real—real nice day with you today.
Karl rolled on the balls of his feet to let the wooden boards squeak, giving Paul a clue he wasn't alone.
Without looking up, Paul said in monotone, "I know you're there. Had quite enough ogling the glasses yet?"
"Wasn't the only thing I was ogling." The words just slipped out. Karl cast a quick glance in the direction of the lounge.
Paul was on the brink of a grin. And if he didn't think the start of the day could get any better, Paul poured him a cup of hot coffee. "And so you know, they're for reading."
"You should read more often," he said taking the cup. He sipped and started around the counter.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Karl glanced at the mixing bowl and then the stove. "Just want to see—"
"Check up, you mean. No, no. Sit down." Paul did grin this time as if the guy knew how hard it was for Karl to curb this curiosity. No fair. But he took the stool opposite Paul, with a relatively good view of the stove.
Charlie stomped into the room. "Karly! Thought you were coming to see the gifts with me!" The boy gave a small pout.
Paul shook his head. "No opening until after breakfast, okay? That's the rule."
"But we can feel them and guess!" Charlie tugged Karl's hand, unraveling a warm fuzzy feeling inside. He abandoned his coffee and went with the boy, Paul chuckling behind them. The best mood he'd been in for weeks. Karl felt somewhat light-headed as he investigated the gifts. The smell of pine, Charlie's chatter, and the memory of Paul's laugh wrapped around him, warm and comforting.
"What do you think this is?" Charlie held up a large gift-wrapped box. He shook, and it rattled.
Karl did the same, pressing his ear to the box. "Hmmm, haven't got a clue." He was pretty sure it was the kite-building kit Paul had asked his opinion on.
A crimson box with his name on it caught his eye. He burst into a smile. Jesus, he hadn't been this excited about Christmas since he was a kid.
Twenty minutes of 'guessing' later, Paul beckoned them to the dining table. Butter, jams, chocolate spread, whipped cream, a tray full of waffles: the guy might not be as bad in the kitchen as he purported.
A mouthful confirmed his thoughts. "These are all right!"
Paul shot him an evil look. "That sounded way too surprised, Karl. You weren't expecting it to be bad, weren’t you?"
Karl opened and shut his mouth, settling on a shrug. "Um, just maybe not quite so good."
"Papa, I think they're scrulicious."
"Delicious? Why, Karl, looks like you might have some competition." Paul buttered a waffle, smiling into his plate.
Charlie kept frowning, and Karl leaned over to him. He'd taught the boy 'scrumptious' a couple of days ago. "Delicious also means yummy-for-your-tummy."
Paul snorted on his orange juice and began coughing, which lead to Charlie bursting into giggles. Cute. Real cute.
Charlie scoffed three waffles and jumped up, exclaiming with a full mouth that it was now gift time.
"All right. Go on, we'll open Santa's gifts."
The boy bulleted into the next room, as Karl and Paul slowly extracted themselves from their chairs. Their eyes met in an extended stare, a smile in it. Paul reached out and picked off a crumb from Karl's top, letting his hand skim down Karl's arm to linger a moment on his hand. "Better." He dropped the crumb on his plate.
When their gaze broke, he eyed his plate. Would he get away with tipping it on himself? He wished he were covered in bits of waffle.
Charlie's excited squeals drew his focus away from the plate, and he trailed into the lounge after Paul.
Gift-wrapping was scrunched in Charlie's hand; the boy looked too thrilled to even think about feigning some guilt for starting already. That made Karl care for the boy even more. In under ten minutes, all the prettily-wrapped boxes had been attacked, save the small ones for Paul and Karl.
Paul passed him the gift. "Santa obviously thinks you've been a good boy, Karl."
Picking carefully at the cellotaped edges, Karl savored the moment, thankful he was so warmly welcomed into the family occasion. He peeled the paper back to reveal another culinary heaven pot. Karl smiled. "Thank you."
"I'm sorry I wasn't more creative. But I knew you'd like it, so it was a safe bet." Paul looked a little anxious that perhaps his gift wasn't good enough or something. Ridiculous.
"It's perfect," Karl said, wishing he could show how much he appreciated it more, with a kiss.
Paul leaned over the wrappings and boxes Charlie was having fun taking apart, and scooped up a little envelope. "This must've fallen off the box—it's also a part of your gift."
Inside was a simple card. But when Karl opened it, his eyes almost popped out of their sockets. "You got reservations at Rapunzelle!" he squealed. Yep, it was definitely a squeal. He coughed, trying to keep his cool, but hell, this was so exciting.
Paul chuckled. "Well, I remember the look on your face the day I said I was going there—even back then I felt guilty I wasn't taking you. It obviously means something to you, so . . , well, we're totally going and you can order whatever you'd like. It's the weekend Charlie's at Sue and Timothy's, so no need for a babysitter, either."
Rapunzelle. And a weekend with Paul alone? It was either the best gift ever or the worst. It was hard enough as it was not to jump the guy when they were alone or in the evenings. Still, wow, what a gift. Gifts.
"Okay, Karl, keep that face, I want to catch it on camera."
"What?"
"Then we can compare it with Charlie's. I think we'll find a fair resemblance."
Paul already had the camera in hand. Snap. Snap. Karl made sure his eyes were narrowed. Not that it stopped the smile rooted on his face. It was like the frigging wind had changed. He'd be smiling forever.
"All right, enough," Karl said and held out a small box to Paul. "It's your turn to open." Nervousness made his hands and gut tingle. He kept tapping his foot to an imaginary beat and kept his eyes on Paul's almost-smiling face. His gut took a dive when Paul's smile disappeared. Oh, shit. Maybe he didn't like it or just didn't care so much for it? He tried to quickly think up an additional gift. Was about to add 'that's not only it', when Paul picked up the key from the velvet cushioned box and looked at him.
"Is this. . . ?"
"Your key to the Lamborghini, yes."
Paul studied the key. "Are you sure about this?"
Charlie zoomed a plane over his head and landed it on the sofa. Karl watched Paul's thumb rub over the metal.
"I'm very sure."
"Do you want me to ask each time, or . . . "
"No, you can take it whenever you like." He didn't say it, but they both knew the words hung in the air, in the look Karl gave him. I trust you. "You're a good driver, Paul."
At those words, Paul clutched the keys into what seemed a tight grip and scrunched his eyes tight. "I need to speak to you privately; let's go to the bathroom."
Oh God. He'd done something wrong. The gift was meant to make him smile, not hurt or anything. He sloughed after Paul, head hanging, berating himself for not having foreseen how upset this would make Paul. Also trying to understand it.
In the bathroom, Paul locked the door. Karl still couldn't bring himself to look up. Instead, he mumbled a 'sorry'.
"What?"
"I didn't mean for it to upset you."
"Karl?" Paul hooked a finger under his chin, brushing against two-day stubble, and lifted until their gazes met. In a delicate swoop, Paul gifted him a kiss. A wonderful and surprised tingle met it. Paul pulled back. "I'm touched. Really quite deeply. I didn't expect this, and I'm just . . . blown away." He leaned in and kissed him again. Then, throwing his arms around Karl, they embraced. Just that. Strong, warm, caring. Close, so very close.
Pity they couldn't stay in their longer. But they'd better get back to Charlie. It never ceased to amaze him how much havoc could be caused within moments of leaving a room. Paul unlatched the lock on the door and, just before he pulled it open, Karl snuck in another kiss. With just a slip of tongue.
Okay, that slip really was quite wicked, but Karl had to do it. For one, he wasn't sure when the next time was they would kiss again. And two, he damn well wanted to make sure it would be soon.
Paul hummed, gave another peck, and then opened the door. Well, that was promising.
The whole day was. The furtive glances, lingering smiles, unconscious lip-licking. God, yes.
Paul stretched, picking himself off the sofa and motioned Karl out the room. Karl patted Charlie on this head as he got up. "Enjoy the movie. I'll be in the kitchen."
"'Kay." Eyes remained glued to the screen.
Paul gulped water from the bottle. Wiped his mouth. "I'd better go pick up Gillian."
Karl nodded. "When will you be back?"
"A half-hour to an hour. Depends whether she's ready or not."
"Grab her, ready or not. Come back soon."
Paul smiled at that. A real, deep smile that reached his eyes, that embellished the lines around them, that made his eyes grayer—stunning. Karl felt the warmth of Paul's breath as he leaned forward. Just slightly. "Real soon." And in those words he heard a promise. Oh God, he just wanted to kiss him. Push him against the counter. Lick his ear, feel him hard. Fucking ravish him.
"I'll start on dinner then." Yep, have everything ready, so the entertaining part of the evening would be over. Quick-as-a-flick.
Paul fished out the key Karl had made for him. His eyes lit up. "Gillian would go mad!"
A brief moment of nerves whisked his gut thinking of his Lamborghini on the streets without him in it. Paul's excited face stopped it. "Totally."
All in a rush, air whistled past his face as Paul lightly kissed his cheek. "Later then," he said, and hightailed out of the apartment.
Before the door clicked, Karl heard himself yelling, "Don't park her on a corner." All the while holding a hand to Paul's still-tickling kiss.
Charlie swooped into the room. "Is there anything to eat? I'm hungry."
"Well, dinner won't be too long. Would you like an apple?"
"How 'bout a cookie?" The monkey even batted his lashes.
"If you're hungry, you'll eat the apple."
"What about half an apple and half a cookie?"
Chuckling at the boy's negotiation skills, Karl shook his head. "Good try, buddy. But I'm making dinner right now, okay. In a little while you can have some of Charlie's special sour cream, right?"
Charlie moped back into the lounge.
Half-way through chopping Portobello mushrooms, his cell beeped. With one hand he fished for the phone and jammed it between ear and shoulder. Will's voice rumbling down the line almost made him drop it.
"Will?"
"Hey, Karl. Merry Christmas." Such a smooth voice.
"Um, thanks. To you, too." A crackle in the reception. Or maybe Will's breath. "Why are you calling?"
"Is this weird for you? I'm sorry, I just thought—"
"No, it's fine. I want us to be on talking terms again."
"Good . . . Me, too." A pause. "Well, I called to wish you the best. I—I like that we're mailing each other now. I don't know, perhaps this is too pre-emptive, but me and a . . . friend of mine will be down your way February. I wondered if you'd like to, I don't know, meet up?"
Karl swallowed. "Um," did he want this? Not really. Maybe. Yeah. Yeah, maybe, "I think we could do that."
"Okay, well, good. It's a couple of weeks after your birthday. The twentieth . . . "
After chatting a little while longer, they hung up with the promise to call again soon. Strangely enough, despite some awkwardness, he meant it, too.
Once Karl slid the mushroom and nutty-pastry pie into the oven, he checked the time. Paul had been gone a half-hour. He'd be there already. He scrolled through his contact list. Found the name. Dialed. Five rings and it picked up.
"Gillian, if you're making Paul wait for you, I'm not giving you the recipe for this chocolate soufflé we're having for dessert."
Gillian guffawed. "It doesn't take me that long to get ready. He's just not here yet. There's a butt-load of traffic to contend with out there, so I wouldn't plan on us getting back to your place before seven."
Karl reached over to the oven and switched it off, opening the door. "Well, call me, or get him to call me when he arrives so I can estimate a proper time to get this pie baking."
"Ohhh, pie. Can't wait. Later, bye."
"Ciao."
Karl gathered the ingredients to mix a bread salad. He ripped open a packet of pumpkin seeds to lightly fry and let cool.
Beep-beep, beep-beep. His phone. He laid down his Culinary Heaven pan. Smiling, because he knew he'd hear Paul's voice. "Yep?"
"Karl?" Damn. Bad connection. Made Paul's voice sound off—almost wheezy.
"Karl . . . sorry . . . " His words tunneled, weak, through the phone. It didn't help it was so loud where Paul was.
"Just get back as soon as you can. Dinner is almost ready."
"So sorry . . . your car—"
Sirens drowned out his next words.
"Paul, it's really hard to hear you."
A raspy crackle came down the line.
"Call back in a few. Try for a better connection?"
No answer. Or he couldn't hear one.
Karl was about to end the call, when a crisp feminine voice cut through the bad connection. "Sir, can you hear me? Sir?" Karl frowned, his pulse beginning to hammer in his temples.
"Paul? What's going on there?"
The woman's voice again. More distant. "We're moving you, sir. We need to get you to hospital. Don't try to help—"
His cell slipped. Clattered as it hit the tiled floor, at first sharp, and then suddenly everything slowed, sound faded. Everything seemed to blur, except one single thought.
Hospital.