THE OUTSIDE of Four-Footed Friends was pretty innocuous. A simple cinder-block building in a rather boring tan color with the name of the shelter painted in dark brown and a set of paw prints—quite enormous ones—along the far left. John supposed that even that was fancier than the average shelter.
Would they have the kind of dog he wanted? Did he know what he wanted? A cockapoo would be nice, caramel-colored like Moxie.
Why did she have to take the dog?
From what he’d heard through the grapevine, she was traveling, just like she’d claimed she wanted to do. So why take the dog? Surely she hadn’t taken Moxie to Cancún, which was where rumor put her. That or Cabo San Lucas. That was what Lillian told him when he’d bumped into her at the Sun Fresh last week. She’d acted like a criminal wracked with guilt during a police interrogation, although all he’d done was ask her how she was. He wasn’t even talking about Vivian. Lillian talked and talked, the whole time looking like she was either going to cry or expected him to yell at her, about how Viv had indeed taken her on a trip—to New Orleans—and then a week after they got back, Vivian had headed off to Mexico. She wouldn’t say, at first, where Vivian was staying in the meantime—had winced when she said she couldn’t—but John figured it was with her parents. It was only at the end that she’d slipped.
Fuck it.
It was obvious there was nothing he could do. Viv was on a mission and could not be stopped.
John opened the door, the bell above it tinkling happily.
What he saw, though, didn’t reflect that cheer.
And who he saw shocked him to the core.
Sitting on a stack of dog food in a window, bathed in light, head bowed, was John’s angel.
It couldn’t be.
John stood there, staring, unable to move for what seemed forever.
It’s him.
Can’t be.
That hair. So white. It’s got to be.
The only thing he was wearing was jeans and some kind of sneakers. He was kneading something made of cloth in his hands—a dark red shirt perhaps—and his skin was beautiful….
John’s face heated up. Blushing. He was blushing. God. His heart was racing.
He clenched his jaw. Get ahold of yourself.
He waited for the youth to look up, recognize him maybe, but his head remained down. John couldn’t even see his face. There was no way of knowing if this was really the young man he’d seen all those months ago.
And so what if it was? So what? Because what then?
John shifted his weight. A floorboard creaked.
The young man looked up, and it was him.
The pure shock and surprise and unexpectedness of it all was so… unreal. The way the white light enveloped the kid (angel), illuminating the flawless bare skin of his lightly built chest, the dust specks floating in the air, the pure silence of the room, made him seem truly otherworldly. No wonder John had thought the kid looked like an angel.
And John didn’t even believe in angels.
The kid trembled, and it was only then John saw he’d been crying. His eyes were red, his face wet.
John’s heart leapt, and as if someone had taken over his body, his lips, he asked, “Are you okay?”
There was a long pause—millennial, it seemed—and then the kid said, “No. I’m not.”
And burst into fresh tears.
Again as if John had no control of himself, he moved to the kid’s side and squatted down before him. He pulled out his handkerchief from his suit pocket and held it out, thinking to place it in the young man’s hands but somehow afraid to touch him.
The kid shook his head. “I c-can’t. I’ll… I-I’d s-snot it u-up.”
“That’s what it’s for,” John heard himself saying and passed it to the youth. A shock passed through him as their fingers touched—the boy’s fingers wet, his skin soft.
“A-are y-you su-su-sure?” the kid asked, and then he snuffled with a rattling sound.
John nodded. He’d carried the damned things for years, and how often had he actually used one? To blow his nose? Why, he could carry the same one day after day without touching it. Viv had hated washing them even when, for all intents and purposes, they were clean.
“Why would you use one of those? Stick a snotty rag back in your pocket?” She’d shudder and carry it to the laundry room pinched between two fingers.
His father had insisted that a man always carry a handkerchief.
“Please,” he said now to the kid. “That’s what they’re for.” And then: “I’ve always wanted to do that. It’s like something from a movie, you know?” He blushed then. In the movies it was always a man offering his kerchief to a lady.
The kid smiled a weak smile, took it and wiped his face, looked at him with big questioning eyes, and when John nodded, he did blow his nose.
It was a great rattling sound, long and deep, and the pure humanness of it instantly shattered the illusion that this young man was something unearthly or unreal. He was all too human. Surely angels didn’t have snot.
Somehow that wasn’t at all gross. Just real. So damned real. John shivered and felt goose bumps, and how ridiculous that something so “impolite,” so personal, so physical as blowing your nose would make John react so.
But God. Even red-eyed and snotty (the kid quickly, as if seeing something in John’s expression, wiped the last vestiges away) and disheveled and young (so young!), he still stunned John, almost rocked him back on his haunches with his beauty.
His skin was perfect (not a single defect, not a mark), and his eyes were not just brown but… honey? Russet? Russet brown. (It was hard to tell with his crying, but they were still stunning.) His nose was a boy’s nose, upturned (button; that was called a button nose), and his cheeks were smooth and round, and his lips were full and dark pink (like roses—God, like his nipples), and even that groove between nose and mouth was—
What? What, John? What is this? You’re looking at a boy!
—sexy.
The realization heated up his face again, and the kid had to see he was blushing, and—
Who gives a shit! He’s crying. What’s wrong, sweet boy?
John came back to reality again, and he took a deep breath and asked it aloud: “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
It hit him then.
You’re in an animal shelter. His pet is dead. Poor boy. His—
“My dog, Chewie, got hit by a car, and it’s my fault!”
And then the boy dropped his face into his palms and began to sob again.
John instinctively wanted to pull the youth into his arms and comfort him. But good God, him? John Williams? Hold someone in public while they cried? And a boy? A boy he didn’t even know? He didn’t know the kid’s name. And what would anyone think if—
The decision was taken away from him when the kid surged forward, threw his arms around John, buried his face in John’s shoulder, tightened his hold, and cried. Great wracking sobs.
Without thinking, John put his arms around him and held him. God. He was holding someone. When had he done that last? When was the last time he’d held his own son? When Alistair was ten? Younger? Williams men didn’t hug. That’s what John’s father had always said. Certainly not in public. It was weak.
(What might the world be like today, though, if maybe he’d ignored the man and hugged his son a little more?)
He’d hugged his wife.
When?
When he told her he loved her (when had he said that last?), or when they danced (when was that? The day they got married?), and of course, when they made love (a year ago?).
Then John couldn’t help it.
He pulled the youth tightly to him, their bodies locking together, and a shock went through him at how… how real it was. How human. How alive. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this way, and that in turn made him feel like shit because this poor boy was in pain. Crying as if he were destroyed, and John had no idea what to say.
He knew this much: it would be utterly insulting to say “There, there,” or “It’ll be all right,” or as his father would have said, “You can always get another dog.”
Or cat? Had this boy lost a cat? No. He’d said that Chewie—from Star Wars?—was a dog.
“Excuse me, please” came a woman’s voice. “Blue?”
The kid froze in his arms and loosened his hold only by the slightest bit.
“I want you to know that Chewie came through, and he’s resting, and—”
“Oh, thank God!” The kid sprang from John’s arms, practically leapt over him (he did swing a leg over John’s head), and as John fell back on his ass, he saw the kid launch himself into a heavyset woman’s arms instead. “Oh, thank you!” he sobbed. “Oh my God, thank you!”
“There, there,” said the woman. She stroked his back, and John realized it wasn’t placating or condescending at all, but it would have sounded that way had he said it. Why the hell was that?
The kid was crying again. What had she called him? Blue? Surely not. What kind of name was that?
She meant that he was blue. She’d meant it sweet and comforting and—
“Blue, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. Chewie is going to be fine, although the break was bad. In three places. He’s pretty young, and his bones are soft. Dr. Lee had to wrap one bone in wire and….”
Blue started crying again—she really was calling him Blue—and God, how could anyone have that many tears? John couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Not when Viv left. Not when his son had—rather indifferently—moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico, to become an artist (and who actually did that in real life?). Certainly not when his father died a little over a year ago. Even Alistair hadn’t cried about that, but then, when was the last time he’d seen his son cry?
John’s heart hurt at the thought, but what could he do about it? It wasn’t like he hadn’t reached out to his boy.
Well… maybe not often. Somewhere along the way he’d just sort of given up.
The woman had Blue at arm’s length now and was looking at him very seriously. “He’s going to need a lot of care, and in the first few days, help even getting outside to use the bathroom. Can you carry him? He’s not light and—”
“I… I can carry him, Elaine,” said Blue. “I carried him here, didn’t I? I’m a lot… lot stronger than I look.” He was nodding very vigorously at that last, and then he held up his arm and made a muscle, and it was lovely and surprisingly large for such a slight kid. His whole arm—and look, even his hand—was lovely.
Lovely? You really think the kid’s arm is lovely?
Blue. His name is Blue.
And yes. God, yes. Lovely.
The woman—apparently her name was Elaine; was he ever going to catch up here?—turned to him. “Are you Blue’s father?” she asked.
Father? He blushed fiercely then. He had no idea why. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong. But why wouldn’t she think he was Blue’s father? Blue had to be younger than Alistair. And when she walked in, he’d been holding Blue, and that made him blush harder—feel guilty, even—and he didn’t know why!
Of course you do.
Holding him like that. A boy. What’s wrong with you?
I was comforting him.
Blue had grabbed him. What was he supposed to do?
John climbed up off the floor. “No. I never met him before today.”
Blue shook his head while Elaine raised a curious eyebrow. “No. I don’t even know his name,” Blue said. “He just held me.” He turned and aimed drenched eyes and soaked eyelashes—all stuck together—at John and smiled rapturously.
“John Williams,” he said, introducing himself and trying to decide if this was a decorous time to offer his hand.
“Like the composer?” Blue asked, and it took John by surprise. As famous as that man was, John had only been asked the question a half-dozen times in his whole life. He loved the composer’s music. Had followed him since he was a little kid. Who didn’t love the music of Star Wars and Superman and Raiders of the Lost Ark and E.T. and Jurassic Park?
“Yes,” he said with a slight smile. “Just like that.”
Elaine did offer her hand to shake, and he took it and then was startled when Blue stepped into him and laid his head back onto his shoulder.
“Elaine Arehart,” she said and explained she was the co-owner of Four-Footed Friends and that Chewie was a labradoodle that belonged to Blue and had just had an operation. “I think he’s going to be fine.”
John, who wasn’t sure why she was sharing all this with him, or just what a labradoodle was, told her he was happy to hear it.
“Probably will,” she replied. “If he’s properly fed and brought back in for a few checkups. He was pretty malnourished.”
“Food!” Blue cried and stepped away from John and dug into the pocket of his tight (very tight) jeans. John couldn’t believe how tight. Blue was slim but well-shaped in the legs, and his ass—it was like… well, he didn’t know what it was like except full and incredibly round. Blue pulled his hand back out after that struggle of getting it in and held out a very wrinkled bill of some kind. John wasn’t sure which denomination.
Elaine nodded. “Good.”
“When can I take him home?” Blue wanted to know, and the answer was not for a couple of days.
“We want to keep him for observation.”
That made Blue’s eyes get all big again, and she assured him it was best for Chewie.
It was only then that she asked what John was doing there. “Sorry about that,” she offered. “With all the drama….”
“No, I understand,” John said. And he told her the impulsive reason he’d come, but suddenly he wasn’t sure if now was the time to look at dogs.
“Do you know what kind of dog you might be interested in?”
“A cockapoo?” he blurted, even after thinking now wasn’t the time after all.
Elaine pursed her lips. “We don’t have one right now. Got a shepherd and a border collie and an—”
It was right then that Blue staggered and would have fallen to the floor if John hadn’t been there to catch him. He helped him sit back down on a pile of bagged dog food, and Elaine squatted and asked him if he was okay.
“Do you want some water?”
“I—I think I need more than water.”
“I think I’ve got a little juice. Or coffee. I can make some great coffee.”
“Juice,” he muttered.
She stood and went off to get it, and John sat down next to him and, without thinking about it, put an arm around his shoulder. Blue snuggled closer, and another one of those shocks went through John. Electricity and—he trembled—a surprising… rightness.
I can’t believe this.
Elaine came back and handed Blue a small bottle of some kind of juice. And then this… knowing look came into her eyes and she asked, “When was the last time you had something to eat, Blue?”
He shrugged. “I had some lasagna yesterday,” he replied.
“And today?”
Blue shrugged again. Frowned. “Nothing?”
Nothing? John asked himself. It had to be three in the afternoon. And then before he even knew what he’d done, John said, “Why don’t I take you to dinner?”
Blue pulled away just enough to look up at him with those beautiful russet-brown eyes. “I couldn’t do that….”
“Why not?”
“Yes,” Elaine said. “Why not? Chewie is going to be out for a while, and we’re closing at six.”
Blue looked back and forth between them, an obvious war of decision going on in the eyes that had become such a fascination (obsession) to John.
“I’d feel so guilty,” Blue said. “Leaving Chewie alone and letting you”—he looked up at John again—“feed me?”
A protectiveness he couldn’t begin to explain rushed through John at the words, a feeling he couldn’t remember having since Alistair was about eight years old. I don’t know this kid! But he saw a depth of sadness in Blue’s expression, heard a questioning, a need, and he gave Blue a little squeeze and told him it was okay.
“And Chewie probably won’t be awake for some time,” he told Blue.
“You mean I won’t be able to talk to him today at all?” he asked, and John thought the boy might cry again.
“Probably not,” Elaine told him.
Blue took a shuddering breath.
“Can I see him for a second?”
Elaine smiled. It was a lovely thing. “Of course,” she said, and the three of them went to the back. Chewie was in a kennel, deeply asleep, with an IV bag helping, presumably, to keep him there. Or give him fluids. Whatever. John didn’t know. Both probably.
Blue talked to his dog for a few moments, and for some reason it made John’s heart swell, and that protective feeling grew even stronger.
Then Blue looked back up at Elaine. “You sure I can’t come see him one more time before you close?”
“Honey,” Elaine said and reached out to clasp his upper arm. “He will be out of it.”
“I don’t care. I know that he’ll know I’m here for him.”
She let out a long sigh, dropped her shoulders in obvious defeat, and then actually gave a half laugh. “I’ll wait for you. But don’t make me wait too long! Mara has a movie she really wants to see tonight. Something with Cate Blanchett. She’s been wanting to see it for months, so don’t get me killed.”
“I promise!” He turned to John. “We can be back by then, can’t we?”
John nodded. Sure. Of course. “I’ll make sure.”
Blue smiled, and even though his eyes were damp from tears, John thought it might just be the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.
“I just wish more people cared for our four-footed friends the way you do,” Elaine remarked. “Maybe there wouldn’t be so many homeless animals.”
Finally Blue said he was ready, although John thought he could easily have waited another hour with the youth. Or two. (Three.) Blue hugged Elaine and then looked at John with an I’m-in-your-hands expression, and John felt that protectiveness grow even more. Without forethought, he put his arm around Blue’s shoulders—the top of his head came to John’s chest—and led him outside to his car.