Lance throws open the trunk of the blue Mercedes without even waiting for the guy who showed him onto the lot to walk away. He fishes through his smaller piece of hand luggage, knocking aside bottles of lotion and shampoo that have frozen solid…until he finds the scarf. The silk is cold when he clutches it.
He’d known it would be there, but having it in his hand is an enormous relief.
He closes the trunk, gives the man an awkward nod, and then gets into the driver’s seat, the scarf wrapped around his hand when he sets it on the wheel. The sight of the familiar pattern gives him a rush of much-needed comfort as he starts the engine and pulls past the uneven asphalt on the edge of the parking lot and into the street.
When he’d told Niall he was going to go see his dad, he’d been inventing the story he thought was most likely to get him away from Niall with the car. For some reason, though, he finds himself driving there anyway. Maybe it’s because he still feels that invisible nettle shirt all over him, like he’s tainted himself by handling Niall, and he needs to shake it off before returning to Robbie. He doesn’t dwell on his reasons as he makes the few turns down increasingly narrow streets, then finds himself on the one-way lane through the care center’s parking lot. He stops close to the door; the lot isn’t large, but apparently he’s the only guest.
Lance looks through the glass-paned doors. He has no intention of walking inside, but he can remember going through the entrance on Friday. He may never forget the smells of antiseptic and wet paper, and the sight of his father, drugged to unconsciousness, with his wrinkled face slack and half-covered by the oxygen mask. He’d been glad that his dad hadn’t known Lance was there, then guilty for being glad. If he could talk to his father, in a coherent state, what would he say?
There should be some satisfying confrontation he can imagine. Maybe his father would cry and apologize, beg for forgiveness, or somehow redeem himself. But all Lance really wants, now, is the luxury of not having to see him anymore. If that makes him terrible, well, he’ll add it to the list. After several long minutes, a woman’s face appears in the door. She’s wearing scrubs with purple puppy faces all over them and looking at him curiously. Lance smiles awkwardly and backs out of the parking space; he winds through the parking lot to the exit side and doesn’t so much as glance in the rearview as he points the car out of town.
While he drives toward Riverside, he tries to plan what he’ll say and do with Robbie, like he’s always planned conversations when he wants a specific outcome. But all of the tactics he’s used before to cement a relationship, earn an invite to stay, or secure a declaration of attachment, he can’t envision with Robbie standing in the place of past boyfriends. Robbie is something else. Robbie transcends those people and those arrangements to an impossible degree.
Robbie told Lance he didn’t know what to do with him; the memory makes Lance laugh, his eyes pricking with tears. Lance doesn’t know what to do with Robbie, either.
When he reaches the driveway to the ranch, he feels an odd panic and keeps driving. That’s his excuse for going on, over the wooden bridge, and turning down the driveway to the old house instead.
He has no idea what he intends to do here, either. No more of a plan than he’s come up with for the moment when he faces Robbie and has to explain where he’s been and the outcome of the theft charges in a way that won’t make Robbie look at him like a lost little boy, forever ruining their chances of being more.
But the stakes are manageable out here, with these strangers who’ve settled into the husk of a place that carries so many of Lance’s most conflicted feelings.
He has the wild fear and hope that they won’t be home, and the idea of standing alone outside the little house fills him with a dread which is similar to the feeling of standing at his father’s bedside. But he’s spared having to walk to the door and knock, at least. The woman and the little girl are outside, apparently as immune as all Nebraskans tend to be to the biting cold under a midday sun. The little girl is back in that lavender snowsuit, packing snow together into the lumpy semblance of a snowman, and the woman is watching her from the front steps, where she’s sitting wrapped in a blanket. The moment Lance comes around the bend in the drive and sees them, though, the girl spins around and the woman jumps to her feet.
Lance feels another moment of unease, but the young woman doesn’t pull out a rifle and point it at him; she just trots down the steps in her slippered feet and takes the little girl’s hand. Her face reminds Lance of someone, but he can’t figure out who. He stops a careful distance from the house, and then, because he’s backed himself into a corner and left himself with no other choice, he gets out of the car and walks over to talk to them.
The little girl’s eyes widen as she gets a good look at him, and she tugs on her mother’s hand. Lance easily overhears her loud whisper. “Mama, that’s the man from the woods!”
Lance winces and stops, rounding his shoulders in a way that he hopes makes him seem less intimidating. “I told her she probably shouldn’t talk to strangers in the woods,” he says helpfully.
The woman is even younger-looking up close than she was from a distance. She’s definitely no older than Lance. He still hasn’t figured out where he’s seen her before, though he’s increasingly sure he has. He thinks through the names of people close to his age while he was growing up, but her face doesn’t match any of them.
“You told her your dad owned this place,” the young woman says, her voice a little stiff. Her eyes are intent on his face, though, like she’s seeing something that surprises her—and not in a good way.
Lance just nods, and hurries to add, “But I didn’t come to bother you. I don’t mind that you’re here, if you want to be here. Maybe you worked something out with my dad and maybe you didn’t. It’s not my business either way. I haven’t lived here in a long time.”
That little speech comes pretty easily, considering it’s mostly bullshit. Sure, he doesn’t mind that they’re here, but his casual tone belies the fact that he’s been oddly drawn here ever since he realized the house was lived in. He can’t say why, but it’s true. He didn’t wind up standing in front of them solely out of a desire to put off facing Robbie.
The woman keeps searching his face. Finally, she seems to come to a decision. She rakes her upper teeth over her lower lip and then says, “I’m Nora, and this is Alice.” She lifts her chin a little, like she’s bracing herself for a challenge, and in that moment, seeing that stubborn little tilt to her head—Lance understands why he recognizes her.
He’s practiced the same look in the mirror, and it doesn’t look much different on his very similar face.
Still, it’s kind of a shock when she says it out loud.
“I’m your sister.”
The inside of the house looks almost exactly like Lance remembers, but it bears some signs of turmoil from the past six years. The old wallpaper is curling here and there from leaks; there’s a patch in one of the windows, made of cardboard and duct tape, where a pane was broken. There are new stains on the old floorboards.
Lance wonders how long the house was empty. Or maybe it wasn’t empty; maybe his father just stayed here, alone, for far longer than he should have, not much different than a feral animal building a nest.
Some of the unfamiliar details have nothing to do with abandonment, though. In mason jars around the room are dried flowers. Drawings, probably by Alice, plaster the refrigerator, which has its door cracked to keep air from being trapped inside—it’s unplugged, along with the other appliances. A small generator is in the living room, serving as the hub at the center of a space heater, a lamp, and an old laptop computer, all of their cords stretched toward the generator. Lance sees a neat stack of DVDs of kids’ movies next to the computer. Blankets curtain the living room windows, the sun stronger in the spots that are most threadbare so that the whole room looks dappled.
Nora watches Lance take it all in. She’s still wrapped in a blanket and wearing that expression that dares him to say something rude or sympathetic. He thinks the latter would be the worst received.
Alice, on the other hand, is enthusiastically guiding the tour. “This is my bed,” she says, pointing to one half of the pile of blankets, “and this is Mama’s. In the summertime, I sleep in my own room, but it’s cold right now. Do you want to see my room?”
Heart stuttering at the thought of which room that’s likely to be, Lance smiles and hesitates. He’s grateful when Nora chooses that moment to break in.
“So, you’re not going to call the sheriff?”
Alice looks interested. “The sheriff? Why?”
Nora gives her a stern look. “Don’t interrupt.”
“I’m not calling the sheriff.”
“Why would he call the sheriff?” Alice insists.
Nora puts her hands on her hips, which causes the blanket to slide to the floor. She’s wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants that are obviously covering at least two other layers of clothes; she would probably be as lean as Lance if she weren’t artificially padded. Leaner, actually—there’s a hollowness in her cheeks and a frailness in her wrists that suggests it’s been a difficult winter. Lance feels a pang at that, especially because there are no signs that Alice is anything but well-fed. In the lean winters Lance spent in this house, his father wasn’t the one who bore the signs.
“He’d call the sheriff because the old asshole doesn’t know we’re here, and some people would say that makes us trespassers,” Nora tells Alice. Hearing her matter-of-factly call his father—fuck, their father—an asshole, to Alice—his niece—makes Lance smile. He feels somewhere between amused and incredulous. He ducks his head to hide it, but Nora notices.
At first, her eyes narrow. Then, slowly, she smiles back.
“We’re not hurting anything,” Alice says, her hands on her hips as she faces Lance. “So, you shouldn’t call anybody.”
“I’m not going to,” he assures them both. This time, Nora nods, seeming to accept his answer. She sits on the edge of a sofa that Lance only recognizes because of the remnants of upholstery on its threadbare arms. Some kind of nesting animal gutted the cushions, apparently, but she’s replaced them with folded blankets. Lance sits in the matching armchair and discovers it’s more comfortable than he remembers, like exposure to the wilderness softened it somehow, cleansing it. Then, he shifts his weight and an errant spring digs into his ass, making him rethink the judgment.
“So, how long have you been here?” he asks Nora, but Alice is the one to answer.
“One school year,” she tells him. Then she looks at Nora, and back at Lance with a shy smile. “I’m in second grade.”
“That’s really cool.”
“I’m the best reader in my class,” she adds.
Lance grins at her. “I bet. You seem like you’re really smart.”
She preens a little, playing with the ends of the flyaway hairs pulled out of her braid by the winter hat she shed at the door. “I am.”
“It’s not polite to brag,” Nora reminds her daughter, but her eyes are soft and fond despite the correction.
Alice sighs. “Sorry.” She looks at Lance again. “I’m actually not that good at some stuff,” she admits. “I’m pretty bad in art. I get tired of going slow, and when I go fast, everything kind of turns into a mess.”
“Oh, yeah. I know the feeling.” And the funny thing is, he really does.
Nora is smiling at him again. When she smiles, it’s like she’s trying to keep it secret. There are dimples in her cheeks, and that’s all; her mouth stays in a straight line. He realizes with a pang that some people wouldn’t even know she’s smiling, it’s so subtle. He notices because he sometimes wears the same expression.
“Alice, go get some of your books to show Lance,” says Nora, and when Alice runs for her room, their eyes meet again.
Lance swallows. “How long have you known about me?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Always? My mama used to say that my daddy had a wife and another kid. But I always imagined you as a girl. Prettier than me, better. Someone he preferred.” She wrinkles her nose and flashes a quick smile that stretches her lips and reveals a glint of straight white teeth, but it’s gone as soon as it appeared. “Obviously, you aren’t a girl, but I think you might be prettier than me.”
Lance laughs and plucks self-consciously at his borrowed flannel shirt. “Not a chance.” He sobers. “I don’t think he preferred me, either. He really didn’t like me at all. If that…helps.”
Another shrug is her only answer.
“And he’s dying,” Lance adds.
“That helps a little bit more,” she says flatly. Then, she frowns. “I knew he was sick.” She hesitates, glancing in the direction Alice disappeared, and when there isn’t a sign she’s returning just yet, Nora goes on. “My ex threw us out, me and Alice. I had no one to ask for help. No one at all. So, I came here to ask him.” She makes a face like there’s a bad taste in her mouth. “But he wasn’t here. No one was. The door was standing open, and there was a hole in the roof. I had to chase racoons out of the furniture.” She looks at Lance, daring him to question her choice with her uptilted chin. “I thought he owed me this much. A shack with a hole in the roof.”
Lance swallows and nods, unable to think of a word to say. He’s spared the effort by the return of Alice, who has the promised books—an armload of them.
“These are the best ones,” she says, staggering under the combined weight of her collection, which she unloads onto the sofa next to her mother, and then she chooses just one to present to him first. “And this is my most favorite. Do you like rabbits?” She pulls the blanket back from the window so they have light enough to read by.
Lance knows the afternoon is wearing on because the sun that’s been pouring through the window shifts, casting the room in sudden dimness and throwing the book that Alice has been reading to him into shadow. They blink at each other, and Alice makes a face.
“Mama, can we turn on the lamp?”
“We aren’t wasting fuel while there’s daylight. About time you went outside to play, anyway.”
Alice is reluctant, obviously caught up in the excitement of Lance’s presence, but after another nudge, she jumps to her feet, seized by the perpetual energy of childhood, and races out the door. Lance stands up from the chair, cautiously avoiding that invasive spring, and regards Nora uncertainly.
“Do you think we can keep in touch?” he asks.
He sees her dimples for a moment before she casts down her eyes. “Sure. I wouldn’t mind that. I don’t have a phone right now, though.”
“That’s okay. I’m….” He was going to say “I’m staying nearby,” but now he wonders if that’s still true. He looks impulsively toward the ranch, even though at present there’s a wall coated in peeling paper blocking his view. Still, he feels its draw as strongly now as he did the last time he stood in this house—itching, as always, to get across the creek.
“You’re living at the Chase place,” Nora says matter-of-factly. “Alice saw you come from there.”
Lance’s breath hitches. “I was staying there. But, now—I’m not sure.”
“Well,” she says with a shrug, and under the tough exterior, he sees a glimpse of a generosity of spirit that’s totally humbling, “you’re always welcome here. S’not much, but we stay warm enough.”
“Thank you for offering that. Maybe I’ll take you up on it.” He smiles at her, choosing his words carefully. “But either way, I’d like to come back and see you two.”
She nods. “Okay. I hope you do that.”
They step outside, just as Alice shrieks, “Mama!”
She’s streaking up from the creek, and Nora whips in her direction. Alice looks unhurt, still bundled tight in her snowsuit and running easily, but she’s breathless when she reaches them. “There’s another man down there!” she gasps. “A tall one with black hair.”
Lance finds himself moving toward the creek. He saw the spot from which Alice emerged, and it’s just the same tiny thinning in the trees where he used to make his own way, day in and day out in his treks over the creek. “I bet I know who it is,” he tells Nora. “I’m sure I do,” he adds with growing certainty, and then he breaks into a run for the tree line.
He reaches the trees and slows enough to navigate the branches, and the brambly new growth that tripped him up the last time he came this way, too, and then he reaches the decline toward the frozen stream. From there, he sees him: Robbie, standing on the center of the ice, one arm outstretched like he’s just come close to losing his balance. He looks up at Lance, red-faced above his beard, with the tips of his ears dark red from cold. He isn’t wearing a hat or a hood, and his eyes are cautious but hopeful when they meet Lance’s.
Some tide carries Lance the rest of the way down, over the treacherous ice and under Robbie’s outstretched arm. For a moment, he thinks they’re both going to lose traction and fall in a heap, but then as Robbie’s arms settle around his waist, and Lance’s around Robbie’s shoulders, they’re pressed together in perfect balance.
“I just saw a kid back here,” Robbie says. “I think you must be right about someone living there.”
Lance breathes out a laugh against Robbie’s neck, then smiles when the gust of his breath makes Robbie shudder and hold him tighter.
“I’ll tell you about them,” Lance promises, “but first there are some other things I have to say.”
“Okay,” Robbie says, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, soft and tentative. “I’m really glad to see you.” He moves his head, pushing his bearded cheek against Lance’s.
Lance closes his eyes. “It’s all done. They dropped the charges.”
“Oh,” Robbie says, with clear surprise. His arms flex like he’s prepared to pull back, maybe to look Lance in the eye, but Lance doesn’t loosen his grip, and after a moment, Robbie relaxes back into their embrace again. “That’s good,” Robbie says, rubbing his back. “But what—are you okay, or—?”
“I’m okay,” Lance says, and in this moment, it’s true. “I’m good.” He makes himself let go, but only retreats enough that he can tilt his head back and meet Robbie’s eye. “Last night, when you said I was family, it made me think about—” He has to force the rest of the words out, and they run together under the pressure. “—all the times you said you loved me.”
Robbie’s hands bunch in the back of Johnny’s jacket. Lance slides his hands from Robbie’s shoulders and uses them to frame his face.
“Do you remember that last night, before I left?”
Robbie nods, pressing his lips together like he’s having to make an effort not to speak.
“I didn’t want you to love me. I wanted you to want me.”
Robbie nods again, this time so shallowly that it’s almost imperceptible.
“Well, I was wrong. I always thought that it had to be one or the other, and that if I could choose—I’d choose you wanting me, even though a part of me knew that you never would. But then, these past few days, I had what I always thought I wanted. You wanted me back. And it was amazing. But I don’t know if it’s enough, because—because I’m really fucking selfish, as it turns out, and—”
“I love you,” Robbie interrupts him.
Lance falls silent, heart pounding with a desperate, painful hope.
Robbie’s dark eyes are so intent, the color of the bare-branched trees where they show wet and walnut-dark between the patches of snow. “I love you, and I want you,” Robbie says fervently. His grip on Lance’s waist has turned bruising. “It scares me how much.”
Lance manages another breath, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and then anything else he might have said is precluded by Robbie kissing him. He’s still holding Robbie’s face, his fingers curling slightly so that his fingertips rest on his cheeks, his palms curved against his bearded jaw.
With a moan, Lance tries to push himself closer, lifting himself onto his toes without thinking, and that small shift in their weight, and Robbie’s adjustment to compensate, results in a fantastic loss of that temporary, careful balance they’d found on the patch of ice under their feet.
They land in a heap on the creekbank, and Lance registers that the wind has been totally knocked out of him—judging by the gasp he heard from Robbie, he’s not alone. Robbie regains his breath first, though, and he uses it to laugh.
Lance lifts himself onto his elbows and glares to his right, where Robbie lies flat on his back beside him, though their legs are still tangled together.
“At least the ice didn’t break this time,” Lance observes with a smile, and Robbie laughs some more.