The next morning was even colder than the last. Winter was settling in quickly, and Anson knew there would be no warmth for him whether he stayed in town or continued on his journey north. He stayed abed for a long while after he awoke, uncertain and uncharacteristically distracted.

When he’d returned to the hotel the previous day, he spent the rest of it hidden in his room, either in bed or carefully watching the window. He couldn’t definitively feel that the townspeople wouldn’t form a mob, and he glanced through those dark curtains often in attempt to catch a glimpse of any rowdiness. As much as he wanted to tell himself that Heath would keep their relations a secret, he was in the right spot to reveal it without being attacked – Anson disregarded his marriage, after all, the other man could easily claim he was coerced into it to save himself any ire from the bigots he had the potential to set upon that old hotel.

But no one came for him, just as sleep barely did, and by morning Anson decided he was probably safe. Safe, maybe, but not thrilled with the situation: he hadn’t expected the rejection, and now he didn’t know how much Gin was aware of, if he was allowed to return to that little restaurant, if he ought to just leave before this got any more dangerous. There were too many variables, and with all his experience he knew the safest bet would be to just move on, and yet every time he closed his eyes he saw the look on Heath’s face after he kissed him, all heat and desire. He could still feel the way he’d tugged his hair, the little pull of attraction when he’d grabbed onto his lapel.

And the bitterness, he felt that too. He didn’t know why he’d felt so certain of things, why he’d gotten so daring, why the shock still left a burnt taste in his mouth. When he kissed him he half expected to be attacked – but when he blew him he’d thought it was a submission to yearning. Maybe it wasn’t, then, maybe it was just a confused man making a mistake with a beautiful stranger.

That didn’t really help his mood, though, so he sought distraction instead. It was already the middle of the day by the time he found the courage to get up and shower, maybe convinced the routine of it would do him some good as he had, after all, so little of that in life. The bathrooms were empty and the water was hot, just as usual, and he felt some tepid relief in that steamy room. When he dressed, he went less formal than he’d had in a long time; presentation was everything, that was his life-long lesson, but today it seemed he was presenting to no one but himself. He donned black trousers and shining dress shoes as per usual, then a white button-down sans his thin black tie with a wooly red cardigan over it. His hair made the independent decision to be entirely unkempt, and he allowed it without a fuss, all curls and tangles as he returned to his room to deposit his laundry.

Boredom set upon him, but he didn’t have the nerve to go into town just yet, and so made the decision that it was time to explore the lodging he was so quickly settling into. He walked down to the lobby slowly enough to admire the ornate carvings of the banister and notice the small puff of dust that rose from the deep red carpeting with every step he took. Once there he spotted Robert, astute as usual, and gave him a friendly wave.

“Afternoon.” He approached the fellow, who seemed a bit trapped behind the reception desk. He nodded crisply in return. “How are you?”

“I’m fine sir, and yourself?” He spoke formally, and looked a bit glazed over when Anson set his elbow against the counter and leaned over to him.

“I’m a bit bored, in truth. Was wondering about this ol’ place.” He smiled warmly, though Robert didn’t react. “Whatcha got in here, a parlor? A bar?”

“The bar isn’t open yet, sir.” He gave Anson a wary look – he must have seen quite a few drunks pass through the place in his day. “There are cigars available in the parlor room, if you please.”

“I’m not really a man for cigars.” Anson said, then had a thought. “Say, that paper you left for me the other day, where’d it come from?”

“Eureka, sir, it’s about an hour north. This time of year, I mean – the weather will grow heinous soon, and then there’s no leaving this town ‘til spring.” He said, and Anson felt a small jolt at the thought. It was a gentle way to say they’d all be trapped together, and for someone with a secret that wasn’t such a pleasant idea. He hastily moved on.

“But why’d I get it? Did you travel out there to get some papers?” He asked, and Robert shook his head.

“No sir, a hotel has a great deal of business that needs tending to. Food for room service, liquor for the bar, office supplies. Sometimes one needs to gather products and materials, so when one travels into the city they return with a boon or two.” He said, though his tone was strained. He never said he was the one taking care of the business either, so Anson had to assume that was information he didn’t want to divulge. A boon, what an odd term to use – odd enough to imply there was greater meaning behind those words. But he didn’t want to seem as though he was digging, so he held onto what he’d learned and instead focused on a lesser portion of the conversation.

“Well shit, I didn’t know this place had room service.” He said with a chuckle, and Robert looked the slightest bit more at ease. “I just came down here to look around, see what I’m missing.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed you haven’t been around.” He replied, his tone ever haughty. “Gone to eat at the Italian restaurant for a few days, now.”

Anson didn’t allow himself to stumble as he put on a charming grin.

“I’m a sucker for good Italian.” He admitted. “But room service would be a pleasant change.”

“Let me procure a menu for you, sir.” He rifled through some papers on a shelf beneath the desk and handed Anson a menu not unlike the one Gin had offered the other day, a single sheet of paper in a black leather cover. The fare was typical, and Anson imagined it was quite mediocre – scrambled eggs, a turkey club, meatloaf. It was funny how quickly he’d gotten used to the chef’s food. “Leave it in the mail slot outside your room during the mealtimes listed and we’ll deliver.”

“Well I thank you kindly.” He took it with a nod. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Robert managed the most manufactured polite chuckle of all time, and Anson left without taking offense. He was an austere man, but Anson wasn’t about to stop being kind or charming to him, lest the fellow grow suspicious. It seemed he was already, with that Italian remark, but maybe that was just some of Anson’s old paranoia surfacing.

He walked away, towards the stairs, but didn’t climb them and instead strolled past to admire the fountain. The marble was lovely, the angels carved into it cherubic, and the golden tile shone brilliantly. It all had an old-world feel, the sense of a bygone era, and Anson was still unsure where it sat on the line between captivating and haunting.

Past the fountain he found a small bar, and walked inside brimmed with curiosity. There were small round tables all about, dark wood with simple chairs to accompany them, and the bar matched that dark mahogany with stools padded in more dark red velvet. Behind it sat shelves loaded with alcohol, some of the bottles dusty and half empty, others shiny and unopened: this must have been what that aforementioned supplies run had been for. The small room was empty and the bar unmanned just as Robert had promised, so Anson continued on through a set of french doors to his left.

Next it was a smoking room, another small room filled with lush leather sofas and chairs backed in velvet. The room itself was dark, the walls painted deep red with an ornate red and gold oriental rug on the ground. The fireplace was unlit, and above it sat a mounted stag’s head that stared Anson down with beaded eyes. On the coffee table there were several boxes of cigars of seemingly high quality, and Anson made a note to himself to swipe them if he ever needed to get out of town quickly.

He exited the room, returned to the bar, then ended up in a narrow hallway that headed right, beneath the stairs. He followed along until the hallway opened up to another lobby of sorts, with five mahogany doors presented to him. The place was still and silent, only lit by a few brass sconces on the walls, with a dark red runner to cover the wooden floors. When Anson stepped forward, the wood creaked, and he realized his breath had caught slightly in his throat. He chose the second door, strode over bravely, and wondered if he ought to knock – but it was so quiet he doubted anyone was in there, and swung the heavy door open.

He was met with instant disappointment – it was a conference room, with a long table and several old wooden office chairs crowded around it. He wasn’t sure what he expected, it was a hotel after all, and closed the door quietly. He moved to the first with far less bravado and noted the word ‘EXIT’ depicted in small brass letters on it, which worried him a moment. He didn’t want an alarm to trigger if he opened the door, but when he looked around he couldn’t see any wiring and decided to risk it. When the door opened, he was quickly grateful for the silence, though the blast of wind wasn’t so pleasant. It was freezing out, and he shoved the hand that didn’t hold the menu into a pocket as he stepped out to look at the new space he’d found. A courtyard met his eye, with a brick patio and a view of the rest of the town before he could spot the distant ocean. It faced the same direction as his room, and would be a lovely place in the summer with a few lawn chairs and some sunshine. There was a trellis that had once been covered in vines, though they were crisp and black with death now, and plants surrounding the patio that had died from the cold and been neatly cut back.

Other than that, there was nothing more, though Anson saw marks on the ground from where outdoor furniture had once been and knew if he’d come another time he would have enjoyed this place. He gave up and went inside, then decided the other doors would be nothing of interest and headed back down the hallway. His intention was to return to his room, but when he walked past the bar he found it no longer empty – the bartender was wiping down the counter, and Anson stepped in curiously. When the other man noticed him come forward, he gave him a nod.

“Afternoon, sir. What’ll it be?” He asked. He was a tall black man in a pair of glasses and an impeccable black suit that matched the clerk’s, undoubtedly the hotel’s uniform.

“You’re open for business?” Anson asked in return, and when he nodded again he hesitated. “Feels a bit early.”

“I can do non-alcoholic. How do you feel about cranberry?” He asked, and Anson shrugged. He might as well have a treat, he hadn’t actually eaten that day and he could at least have some form of company today. He nodded and pulled up a stool, and the bartender took out a tall glass from beneath the bar. “Name’s Sonny, by the way.”

“Anson.” He replied. “You get a lot of patrons here?”

“We get the occasional fellow coming in every once in awhile, though they very often like to imbibe.” He grabbed some ice and a bottle of ginger ale from a cooler Anson couldn’t see below the bar. “So usually it’s quiet, it’s just a little more so lately because of the weather. When there’s so many storms way fewer people have the nerve to pass through.”

“The weather was why I had to stop.” Anson said, though didn’t mention why he chose to stay. “And now it’s dreadfully cold.”

“I hear ya.” He poured the ginger ale over ice and threw it back in the fridge, then returned with two bottles, cranberry and apple juice. “It’s foul, I’m glad I don’t commute.”

“The employees live here?” Anson asked thoughtfully. “I guess that’s who I hear in the showers.”

“Good thing we keep clean.” He stirred everything together and handed him the glass, though Anson got the feeling he was being intentionally quiet about something. “What do you do, sir?”

“I’m a bible salesman.” Anson answered, then took a sip of the drink. It was tart and sweet and reminded him of that hibiscus tea he’d had at the library the previous day but with a distinct autumn flavor. Tasty, but he wished he’d asked for something warm. “I was actually wondering if the owner of this establishment was around, I’d love to maybe sell them one for their parlor.”

Sonny looked uncomfortable, and Anson stared him down a moment without any desire to comfort. Surely the bartender didn’t have much power, but he would be easier to shake down for answers than the closed-book receptionist. After a moment when it appeared he would give no reply, Anson smiled with a feigned warmth.

“This is great, by the way.” He said, and Sonny nodded slowly and began to wipe down the counter once more.

“Thanks. Always fun to make a drink.” He smiled politely, though said nothing more.

“How long have ya worked here? Are you from this town?” He prompted, and Sonny nodded once more.

“Yes, my grandpappy bought his freedom during the gold rush. I’ve worked here since I was old enough to man bar, and my father did so before me.” He answered, and Anson gave him a look of interest. “Bartending’s in my blood.”

“You’re suited to it.” He said. “And you’re easier to talk to than that fellow at the front desk.”

Sonny laughed aloud, and Anson smiled a bit.

“Don’t let Westin get to you. He warms up after a very, very, very long time. A professional through and through, that’s all he is.” Sonny chuckled to himself. “Why get close to passerby, after all?”

“He must have been born and raised here.” Anson said, mostly to himself, but Sonny answered.

“Of course. Everyone who works in this hotel is from here.” He said, then looked thoughtful and returned to wiping down the counter without another word.

Anson chose to finish his drink in silence after that, though he had a lot to think about. Why everyone who worked in the hotel would be someone born and raised in the town was a curious question, and its answer seemed steeped in distrust of outsiders and some form of paranoia that Anson was all too familiar with. There were more questions to be had, more answers to be given, but that was all in due time, and he was again a bit on edge as he considered how much time he had there. Hopefully, all would be well and Heath wouldn’t say a word against him.

He departed after his drink was finished, quite cold, and chose to return to his room. He waved again to Robert as he walked past, who nodded curtly in return, and wondered how friendly the gentleman was with the bartender. It was hard to imagine them as cordial, but if there was some sort of shared secret about this place between them, well, that could affect everything. It would be wise for him to watch them closer.

When he climbed the stairs and arrived back into the hotel room, he went to the desk, pulled out a pen and opened up the menu. After his eyes traveled through the ‘Entree’ section, he circled the pot roast with potatoes, celery and carrots and threw it in the brass holder beside the door. Next he ceremonially kicked off his shoes and curled back into bed to warm up, where he stayed for a long while. A stretch of time was dedicated to general groaning and shivering, and once he warmed up he had a marathon of staring aimlessly at the ceiling.

He grew bored after that and pulled down his trousers for some entertainment, his hands cold but his mind willing. He tried to conjure up a few images of Heath and their previous day together, though not of the rejection that came so swiftly afterwards. Unfortunately he was unsuccessful in not thinking of it, and though he pumped his cock relentlessly it failed to respond. He was too tense, too dejected, so he gave up on the endeavor, turned onto his side, and took a nap instead.

It was dark when he woke up later, though at first he didn’t know why. He peered around the room a minute, bleary, until a knock sounded against his door once again. At that he stretched, mentally willed himself away from the warm bed, and shuffled over to the door. When he opened it, whoever had been there had already vanished, but on the ground rested a silver tray and a cloche, and he knew it to be his dinner. He picked it up and carried it inside, then rested it carefully on the edge of the bed, as the writing desk was slanted and didn’t allow a tray, a huge fault in the room’s design.

He lifted the cloche to find a large bowl of stew with a piece of bread on a small plate beside it. There was a fork, knife and spoon wrapped in a fine linen napkin, and he unfurled it to see they were high quality and heavy. With the napkin set aside, he grabbed the fork and sampled the stew, still piping hot; the meat was tough, but he liked the vegetables. The sauce had an artificial sort of taste that he actually quite enjoyed, maybe due to nostalgia or the comfort of preservative-leaning American cuisine. He tried the bread and deemed it acceptable, if a bit stale. All in all, a decent meal, far more so than he usually had on the road but far below what he’d been having at the Italian shack.

He supped in silence, though he mostly ignored the roast itself and ate the bread and vegetables. He feasted until he was full and then had a bit more, and when he was properly stuffed he set the utensils into the bowl, wiped his mouth with the napkin and placed the cloche back over the whole thing. Then he set it out into the hallway, somehow certain that it would disappear quickly. A small part of him wanted to stand by the door the next few hours and wait for a footfall to discover just who was cleaning up after him, but now he was so tired and glutted that he decided to pass. Warm and satiated, he turned off the light and crawled back into bed and dozed off once more. When his tray was removed from the hall, he was too far gone to hear it.

This morning was just as cold as the last. Anson felt clear and relaxed when he awoke, very thoroughly rested, but he wondered if he could ask Robert about an extra blanket. He had fallen asleep in his thick cardigan and even that hadn’t kept him warm. He stood up and went to the window – because he’d gone to sleep so early he’d woken up early, too, and the sun was only just rising on the other side of the building. The ocean was still a dark abyss, the houses around him still shuttered. He was used to being up this early to avoid traffic, but usually he was on the highway with some shitty coffee in his gut, not looking over a cozy little town in the middle of nowhere, and it was surprisingly calming to view the horizon in stillness rather than out his rearview mirror.

He immediately recalled his situation with Heath and felt his ease fade slightly. The desire to hunker down was beginning to call to him, but he wasn’t about to stay if he didn’t have anyone to stay for. It was already a bad idea, he was messing with something he shouldn’t be, but that was a moot point this late in the game. For now the question was still of his safety, and then of what he should do about his new friend.

A shower seemed to be the best remedy to all this early-morning brooding, so he rather leisurely collected his things with the decision to wear his black suit again – he aimed to walk around town once more and wanted to keep up with aesthetics. Then he headed down the hall to the powder room with either a hope or fear of seeing someone else at such a different time of day. Whatever he wanted though, his anticipation was slashed when he swung open the heavy door and found the room as remarkably empty as usual.

But the pipes rattled, so somewhere else in the building Robert, Sonny or a mysterious other party was doing just as he was, stripping down and getting clean. He held that thought in his mind, an analytical observation, as he blasted the hot water and soaked himself thoroughly. Afterwards he gelled and combed back his hair to combat errant curls and made sure his suit was pristine.

When he returned to his room and glanced out the window he found that it was properly morning now, not so early as he was alone witnessing the world. In the distance, a barge was leaving the docks, and he wondered if that was a sign to the fisherman’s wives that the day had begun then decided to take it as one himself. He wrapped himself tightly in his long jacket and pulled on a pair of black gloves, then decided to seek caffeine and entertainment in the library.

He took to the stairs as usual, now quite familiar with the terrain, and waved to Robert at the reception desk. His hair was perfectly dry, and it seemed that he got up far earlier than everyone else to bathe, ever the professional. Anson approached quick enough to catch Robert’s expression, mildly disgruntled at the disturbance, and had to hold back a little giggle. Though no attempts to torture the man were being made he couldn’t help but enjoy the suffering.

“Morning, Robert.” Anson grinned.

“Good morning, sir.” He allowed.

“Listen, I was wondering if I could request an extra blanket or something tonight. It’s mighty cold.” He asked, and Robert nodded.

“I’ll turn up the heating on your floor.” He said, and Anson felt immediately thankful. “You must be unused to the cold.”

“It’s true, I’ve been traveling along the southern border this past year to sell my bibles.” Anson replied, and tried to gauge the other man’s interest in them. Robert looked entirely unfazed.

“Well the room will be warmer this evening, sir. To accommodate your southern inclinations.” He tipped his head, and Anson sensed that the conversation was over and didn’t push it. So he thanked the man pleasantly and took his leave.

A gust of wind hit him sharply as he exited, and though he was bundled up tight he was still quaking in his shoes within a minute. He hugged himself tightly on the way to the library and cursed himself for not owning a scarf. In the two or three minutes it took to get to that old brick building his nose was all red – he could’ve cried with joy when he spotted David opening the door.

“Morning.” Anson called out to the other man, who was similarly huddled within a few thick layers of his own. “You just opening?”

“Sophia’s already in.” David answered, and held open the door for him. Anson rushed in, instantly grateful for the rush of warmth that hit him. David followed and rubbed his hands.

“I’m going to run to her for a cup of tea.” Anson said amiably, and David gave him a wry grin.

“Given how often I’m sucking down her coffee, so am I.” He said. “Walk with me.”

Anson nodded, and the pair walked pleasantly towards the back of the library. David was a quiet man, which sorely reminded him of Heath, though he seemed more stoic, with a hint of insanity in the form of chaos just beneath the mask. His love for reading appeared to make him an internal adventurer of sorts, present but eternally distracted.

“What are you reading right now?” Anson asked conversationally, and David shrugged.

“I’m rereading The Hobbit for the umpteenth time.” He answered. “I was going to go through that bible of yours, take some notes and maybe do some kind of research project for the hell of it, but the patrons have been looking at it and I didn’t want to take it away from anyone.”

“As a librarian is wont to do.” Anson complimented conversationally, though he was secretly quite pleased at the attention the bible brought. He wasn’t short on money yet, but a couple extra bills were always appreciated and if he could get a few more buyers out of that one book he’d feel real damn accomplished.

They arrived at Sophia’s nook to find her pushing around the tins on her shelf, getting organized as a kettle began to steam. When she heard their footfall, she turned and smiled at them both.

“Morning, darlin’s.” She greeted them as she shrugged off her coat. She still wore slacks, with a stylish pussy-bow top. “My two favorite boys, the old and the new. What can I get you?”

“Your very favorite will take a strong coffee.” David said with a roll of his eyes as Anson felt a genuine grin bubble to his lips. “What’ll you be having, second favorite?”

“I think I’ll take the same.” He said, in want of the energy after a very lazy day. “As the inferior favorite.”

Sophia laughed and grabbed a small burlap sack, then reached inside and grabbed a handful of coffee beans that Anson could smell five feet away. She poured them into a small box on top of her little table and began to turn a lever that sat atop it to grind them.

“What book are you working on, then?” David asked, and now was Anson’s turn to shrug.

“I’m in-between. I’ll be looking around the shelves for a bit today, after I warm up with some joe.”

“Who’s Joe?” Sophia asked as she measured the grinds she’d made, and David groaned with what Anson suspected was a secret appreciation of the joke.

“Every time.” He muttered, and she waggled her brows as she dumped the grinds into a coffee dripper. The kettle began to wail, and she pulled it off the burner and slowly poured a bit into the grounds, careful not to splash. “I could recommend a book if you need some inspiration.”

“I’ll browse your selection first. I’d love to see what you have.” Anson said instead of ‘I don’t want you to see what I read.’ “But maybe later I’ll come to you.”

“He’s good at recommending.” Sophia put in. “You’d think it’d be all knights and faeries but he actually knows what to give people.”

“Me? Competent? Quite the shock.” David said, his brows raised high, and Sophia gave him a cheeky grin as she set down the kettle. “You know I’m a librarian, not just some hermit in a big brick building, right?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.” She said and handed them the cream and sugar pots. David gave her a joking look of chagrin as she poured the dark coffee from her pitcher into two teacups; the first depicted what Anson believed to be snapdragon, the second a patch of little blue flowers with yellow centers that he couldn’t quite place.

“Thank you.” David said as he took the snapdragon cup that was offered to him, and Anson said the same given his own. David poured in a bit of sugar and nixed the cream, but Anson poured a big wallop of both. “I’ll leave you to your reading.”

He tipped his head and took off, and Anson tested his coffee with a quick sip – Sophia made it strong, that was certain, and it was still bitter with all that cream and sugar. He poured a bit more of each, had another sip, and smiled to himself. Good thing he’d gotten it piping hot or it would be entirely cool from the additions; now it was a lovely temperature, perfectly warm but meant to be had rather quick lest it go cold. With a large gulp, he thanked Sophia again and wandered off to inspect the shelves.

The library had a surprising selection for such a small town in the middle of nowhere, no doubt thanks to David’s meticulous enterprising. He eventually found another old favorite, Death In Venice, and settled down at his usual table. He drank the coffee quick as a lick and enjoyed every drop, then became absorbed in the tale. He had sat there for about an hour, enthralled in the story, until a shadow fell over him. When he looked up, he felt his eyes widen and his heart drop into his gut.

It was the first time he’d seen Gin without her waitress uniform. She looked like one of those new rockabilly girls he’d noticed around, especially in the south, with high-waisted capris and a gingham shirt tied at the waist, classic red to match her converse. His heart pounded as he tried to assess the severity of the situation; he couldn’t tell how much she knew from her calm, blank expression, nor was he aware of how much she’d told the rest of town. There was a high possibility that just outside those heavy library doors a restless crowd was waiting for him. To top off the whole nightmare, he noticed above all that Heath was nowhere to be found, and he didn’t dare decipher all the awful possibilities as to why he wasn’t present.

Wordlessly, Gin pulled up the chair across from him and sat down, her gaze even and subdued. Anson tried to appear more peaceful than he felt, but from her lack of a friendly greeting he already knew they weren’t so friendly as they had been, so clearly she was at least aware that something was wrong. He could only wait for her to speak first.

“This is . . . this is unpleasant, Anson.” She finally said after a long stretch of silence. “I trust you understand you’ve upset me.”

“Yes.” He said, his throat dry, but offered nothing more. She didn’t wait for him to speak again.

“We made it clear that we don’t trust many people, and when we thought we could trust in you, you invited yourself –” She looked around and lowered her voice. “You invited yourself to my husband.”

He nodded bashfully, but felt some stubborn refusal to apologize. He wanted to wait to figure out if that would make things better for him, and if it did then sure, he would lie and insist he felt guilty about it, falsely beg for forgiveness. She continued again without waiting for him to speak, and he suspected that maybe she needed to put on a brave face and get through it.

“Heath has his inclinations. I’ve known about them for ages, he told me when we’d met. I don’t know how you figured that out, but that’s not really something I’m concerned with when I come back from shopping to find him sobbing.” There was a fire in her eyes. “He feels so guilty, so miserable because he’s married, he’s in love with me, he wants me, but in you came and he couldn’t help himself.”

Anson briefly wondered if that was an exact quote, an admission. If Heath was just as interested in him as he was in that handsome chef with the cute little smile and a passion that inspired love and lust alike. Gin leaned back in her chair and inspected him a moment, the anger on her face now paired with pain.

“He made an awful mistake, but you willfully beguiled a married man, your friend wed to another friend – two who put far more faith in you than they did anyone else in a long time.” She sighed. “So you understand quite well how much you’ve hurt us.”

“Yes.” He said again, as he knew this time she expected an answer. “Yes. I trespassed in your marriage. I betrayed your trust. I hurt you.”

“And my husband.” She added quickly. “I imagine his feelings matter to you.”

“Of course they do.” He replied earnestly. “I never meant for this to hurt him, I just wanted – I don’t know. I didn’t expect him to become so agitated.”

She studied him once more, her brow creased with thought. I just wanted him, that was his first thought, but not one he planned on telling Heath’s wife.

“We didn’t tell a soul. You’re perfectly safe.” She said, a tad softer now. “I’m sorry, I should’ve prefaced with that, you look nervous.”

He felt the slightest bit of ease flow through him like a gust of cool air. At least he was safe, even if everything else may have been falling to shit. The newly temperate note in her voice made him wonder, though, if maybe she was less angry because she knew he was just a man caught in the pull of attraction as opposed to one with malicious intent, though that was just for the time being, just until his situation no longer allowed it. Maybe she felt safer thinking she still had his trust.

“I still won’t tell anyone about the two of you.” He responded, and she acknowledged it with a nod. He had nothing more to say from there, and went silent as he waited for his punishment. If they hadn’t told anyone about it there was no angry mob outside, but she might still tell him off further or ask him to leave.

“We put a lot of faith in you.” She said plainly, a reiteration of all she’d let out thus far. She seemed curious to know if he fully understood that, and he looked around carefully before he leaned in and lowered his voice.

“The fact that you were married in ’42 wasn’t lost on me. I’m so sorry.” He said, and she appeared suddenly distraught, though she was keeping her emotions at bay. “That was the year they started the internment camps for your people.”

She nodded wordlessly. He suspected there had been terrible losses for her, but he wouldn’t bring up such horrible things, not at that moment.

“Heath lied when he said you two weren’t criminals anymore. You fled from the government’s prison and he abetted you. Neither of you can ever go home.” It was only a hunch, but from the heartbreak on her expression he knew he’d inferred correctly. “You don’t deserve that, Gin, no one in those camps did. I understand why it’s been so long since either of you has made a friend – the risk of jail is too great. But I won’t tell a word of it. Not for friendship or affection, but because that’s the right thing to do.”

She looked away and hastily wiped a tear. It had been nothing but the truth, but it was the right thing to say, too, the thing that kept anything left between them alive. He let her take a minute to gather herself, and when she finally looked at him it was with the same quiet determination she’d sat down with.

“I think you should have lunch at the restaurant later.” She said, and Anson felt a jolt move through him. It sounded so much like an olive branch that he didn’t dare believe it, instantly convinced that there was some sort of trick at play. But if she wasn’t going to punish him now, why wait until then? There was no advantage to it, only that Heath would be present, and Anson didn’t think he’d masterminded some sort of revenge plot. She watched him process the invitation. “It’s up to you, of course. Just think about it. I think it would be good for us.”

And then she stood and left without another word. Good for us. The phrase rang of mending fences, something Anson would love. He could regain their friendship, earn a place with them again, see how Heath was doing and what he would be open to in the future. Of course that was a terrible thing, to immediately wonder how he could take advantage of this to fuck the man he wanted, but without that their friendships were just a pleasantry, and he was far used to living without those. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would do going forward, but it wouldn’t involve mere friendship alone.

He waited a full four hours before he left that library, with most of that time spent staring idly at the wall as he tried to predict what would happen. But he couldn’t comprehend any of it, so he just had to admit he was starving, bundle himself up, and return his empty cup to Sophia with a friendly goodbye. From there he walked quickly to his car still sat in front of Cliffside, then climbed in, not thrilled at how cold it was. He drove to that little shack by the sea with more apprehension than he cared to admit, but repeatedly tried to smooth his nerves with reinforcements of a solitary reminder: they didn’t tell anyone. He wasn’t in danger anymore, at least no more than usual.

The parking lot was empty save for Heath and Gin’s shared car, which meant Heath would leave the kitchen and speak to him. He turned off his own car and took a heavy breath – it had been years since he’d been so nervous, but he wasn’t about to let it get to him, wasn’t about to be ruined by a little fear. He got out and found the wind even stronger out on the mountain in front of the ocean and swayed as he went to the door. When he opened it, he saw Gin right away, now in her usual yellow dress. She was at a table scraping wax, and when she looked at him she didn’t grin, but didn’t frown – only waved her hand to his usual chair at the bar. He went over with false confidence and took off his gloves and jacket, though the little building was very cold. When he sat, she came over and handed him a menu.

“Cold out.” She said softly, and he nodded.

“I thought I would get blown out to sea with that wind.” He remarked, though not with as much pep as he would usually muster. He looked down and was caught by surprise. “This is a different menu.”

The kitchen door opened with a familiar little sound, and he looked up with all haste to take Heath in. He didn’t look well at all, with dark circles beneath his eyes and an unusual pallor to his skin as though he missed the last two nights’ sleep. So the guilt had been as strong as Gin claimed, that was interesting. Maybe it should have pained Anson, but in that moment his concern was with what Heath would say to him, their first words since he’d banished him from the kitchen.

“It’s the winter menu.” Was all he said, and his voice sounded weak and frazzled. “We create them seasonally.”

Anson nodded and inspected it carefully, and he watched from the corner of his eye as Gin sat across from him, though Heath stood still.

“Because all the produce dies off in the cold.” Gin explained after a moment, with a careful little look meant to hide any hesitation. “We rely more on canned and preserved stuff.”

“Richer flavors, denser textures, more fats and dairy.” Heath jumped in, and Anson sensed some relief in his words at the subject matter. The plan seemed to be awkwardly glossing over the events of two days previous, and it was one Anson could unquestionably get behind. As long as they were friends, that was good enough for now.

“Good thing this is an Italian restaurant.” He considered giving Heath a charming grin, but felt maybe they weren’t ready for that yet. “So you mostly use tomatoes. Those are fine out of the can.”

“Very true.” Heath smiled faintly, then gestured down at the menu with some regained animation. “Tell me what you like.”

He read through the entrees quickly. “The lamb and polenta doesn’t have any mint jelly, does it?”

“God no.” Gin groaned and took the menu back.

“That question was almost patronizing.” Heath remarked, and moved to step back into the kitchen. “Want anything sweetheart?”

“I’ll take the last serving of last night’s gnocchi if you wouldn’t mind.” Gin answered, and he nodded with an affectionate grin and disappeared into the other room. Anson was so temporarily hurt he almost wondered if that was their plan all along, to parade their relationship in front of him for the sake of pettiness: but he would be able to tell if they were remotely near capable of that sort of cruelty and the pair didn’t set off any alarms. Gin took out three sets of utensils, which thankfully meant Heath would be eating with them, then looked around for a minute, a bit out of place. Anson took pity on her and spoke first.

“How are those candles going?” He asked, and immediately regretted it. She’d been out buying that candle wax when he was sucking her husband’s cock, after all, but if she made the connection she didn’t show it.

“They’re all as usual.” She said idly. “I was just scraping off the wax earlier, but it’s long past time for a lunch break.”

“So hurry it up in there!” Anson shouted through the wall, and laughed when he heard Heath respond with a muffled ‘Mama Mia!’

“Sometimes he pretends we’re actually Italian.” Gin noted. “The only word we know is ciao, but since it means hello and goodbye I guess that counts as two.”

“You know a ton of food words.” Anson pointed out. “So what if you can’t ask a local for fellazione?”

“Wow! Where’d you learn that?” She asked wide-eyed, and he fibbed easily.

“Have you forgotten I’m a traveling bible salesman?” He questioned. “If I go more than a day without meeting an Italian-Catholic I’m suspicious.”

She laughed, and he heard the kitchen door open and turned to find Heath with two steaming bowls.

“Honey, can you get my dish?” He asked, and she jumped up and went to the kitchen as Heath set down her and Anson’s meals. Heath chanced a glance to him, the first time their eyes met since the shouting that had occurred two days prior, and he gave him a shy little smile that Anson returned. The door opened again, and Heath sat down and fiddled with his utensils as Gin handed him his food.

Anson looked down to his own dish and found that it matched Heath’s. It was a simple, elegant looking lamb stew that sat atop a bed of what looked like grits, all topped with shavings of parmesan. He could smell the tinny tomatoes beneath the heavy hit of rosemary and black pepper and was reminded how hungry it was.

“Leftovers again.” Heath said in an apologetic tone. “At least ours reheats well.”

“I don’t mind at all.” Anson replied honestly, pleased at the old rhythm they’d started to regain. “What is this, anyhow? It looks like cornmeal.”

“Yeah, it’s basically grits. A cornmeal porridge.” Gin answered as she grabbed a fork. “But Heath loads it with cream and butter just in case the pile of red meat wasn’t enough for you.”

“Perfect.” Anson said, then picked up a piece of lamb liberally coated in sauce with a bit of the polenta and took a bite. Lamb was so often tough and dry, but this was perfectly tender, and the sauce was basic without being bland. The garlic wasn’t as harsh as it so frequently could be, and he detected carrots, onions, and celery also simmered along in the stew. The polenta was so creamy without a bit of grittiness, a great accompaniment to the stew.

He groaned aloud and shoved a second forkful into his mouth, and from the corner of his eye saw Heath adjust slightly in his chair and sent a quick prayer that he’d been hastily hiding some arousal that had accidentally been Anson’s doing. Gin only smiled.

“Always so complimentary. It’s going right to Heath’s head, you know.” She said, then took a bite of her own dish that Anson surmised to be small dumplings tossed with a ground beef sauce that had a fragrant smell of red wine about it. “This is good, sweetheart. Of course I said the same thing yesterday, but it bears repeating.”

Heath could only give them a bashful half-wave as he chewed through a large mouthful of polenta. Anson giggled at his expense.

“The poor dear can’t even calm his fan-club.” Gin cooed, and Heath made an indignant face, though with his cheeks so full it could only come off as laughable.

“Aw.” Anson said, though he was still chuckling. “How do you take this abuse, Heath?”

“What? I am the perfect wife. We’re the picture of domestic bliss.” Heath finally swallowed his bite and prepared to speak. “Sh.”

“Wow.” Anson laughed, and Gin dissolved into laughter as well. Heath chuckled quietly to himself, his cheeks all red from the attention. Once Gin got back in control of herself she simply rolled her eyes, gave Heath an affectionate look, and went back to her food with one handed rested gently on the counter.

“After this can I convince you to indulge in some pandoro?” Heath asked him with a hopeful look. “It’s a very cakey sweet bread.”

“Cakey, huh.” Anson said, and Heath gave him a look. “I don’t know, honestly, this is so good and I’m getting monumentally stuffed.”

“What if we split it?” Gin asked through a mouthful of gnocchi. “I absolutely adore pandoro, I promise it’s so good.”

One of her fingers twitched on the hand she had lying on the counter, something Anson for whatever reason noticed as Heath nodded enthusiastically.

“We have a mascarpone sauce.” Heath tempted him, and Anson felt a grin tugging at his lips. “Maybe there’s even some candied orange peel back there.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll have some.” He finally agreed, and Gin made a little ‘aha!’ sound at the deal. “I thought I was supposed to be the salesman here.”

Heath laughed heartily at that, and stood to collect the dishes. Anson stacked his bowl into Heath’s, and Heath slid both of those onto Gin’s plate. When her dish was taken away, she left her hand on the counter.

“Two forks, right?” Heath asked, and Gin nodded enthusiastically. He left for the kitchen, and she gave him a coy grin.

“Thank god you’re here so I have an excuse to eat dessert.” She said, and Anson smiled warmly, honestly glad for the newly returned camaraderie.

“My pleasure.” He replied with a bow of his head.

It didn’t take long for Heath to reappear with a small blue plate – on it was an unusual star-shaped slice of very golden, light-looking bread. When Anson inspected it more closely, he found that it looked quite like brioche, and was topped with a ribbon of a pale sauce flecked with vanilla bean and a delicate little pile of sugar-coated orange peels. Gin handed him a fork, then offered one to her husband.

“I’m so full, I might explode if I have a single bite of this.” He said, but took the fork anyway.

The three of them dug in at the same time, but Gin got to it a second before Anson did and let out a little sound of enjoyment.

“Amazing, darling.” She said, and Anson took a bite himself. It was highly comparable to brioche, very buttery and rich, yet he could easily imagine himself eating the whole slice. The mascarpone was creamy with a great hint of vanilla, the overall dish not too sweet. He went back in for a bit with orange peel on it as Heath only took a single bite and rested his fork on the edge of his plate.

“Thanks. Yeah, I prefer this to panettone.” He said after he swallowed, then looked to Anson. “That one’s not as sweet, has a lot of dried fruit.”

“I’ve seen them in the decorative boxes.” He nodded. “In New York, late November.”

“Last year?” Gin inquired, and he shook his head as he chewed a large bite.

“A few years ago. I’ve been driving for a long while.” He explained, then quickly sidetracked the conversation. “Which do you prefer?”

“Pandoro.” Gin said easily, then pulled the plate a few inches towards herself. “Sweeter.”

Her hand lingered on the counter next to the plate, and suddenly something clicked and Anson understood exactly what was going on. The goal of this wasn’t to awkwardly brush aside what had happened between he and Heath the other day. It wasn’t to retain the only friend they’d had in over a decade simply because they wanted company. There wasn’t even some sort of twisted revenge plot lying beneath the surface of all these niceties. She wanted him to hold her hand.

You invited yourself to my husband, that was what Gin had said in the library earlier, not that an invitation never would have been given from the both of them. This was that moment, that invitation being extended. In the most subtle of all ways, the couple were expressing their interest in him, the question being whether or not he should return it.

He stole a glance at Heath, who had been looking at him and gave him another shy little grin. Anson returned it as his gaze ducked back down to the plate, the answer obvious. The feelings he had for Heath were too strong to deny, too strong to walk away from. Gin was charming and easy to talk to and, above all, irresistibly beautiful, and Anson supposed that if he ever had to fuck someone to get to someone else he could’ve done far worse. What he felt for her was only friendship (at least for now) but he would fake it if he had to, and he’d faked plenty more than love.

“What’s your favorite season to cook in?” He asked, eyes still on the remainder of the sweet bread as he set his hand on the counter. “Since you’ve got seasonal menus.”

“That’s easy – Summer.” Heath answered. “Everything’s so ripe and fresh and in season.”

“Even though the kitchen gets to be about two hundred degrees.” Gin put in. “We get slow roasted like the lamb you just ate.”

Quickly, smoothly, Anson took her hand in his, and she grasped him lightly as he rushed on to the next sentence before either of the pair could make a comment on it. He wanted to keep it as organic as possible and have the risk at a minimum; there was so much on the line here.

“I can’t imagine standing over that stove in the heat, though I suppose you make more stuff cold then.” He said, and Heath nodded without a glance to his wife’s hand.

“The bruschetta may be my favorite menu item all year round.” He said, and lit up a bit. Anson was grateful to see the color begin to return to him. “Fresh tomatoes, red onion, basil, all served with garlic-rubbed toasted baguette slices. It’s so simple and fresh, but there’s so many ways to fiddle with it. Like –”

“Okay, settle down there.” Gin smiled. “Look at this, you’ve awoken the evil genius in him.”

“I can’t imagine he’s too evil.” Anson said. “If he were to threaten me with a peach or something I wouldn’t be shaking in my boots.”

“You can make peach bruschetta!” Heath exclaimed, and Anson snorted.

“The two of you are going to be trouble, aren’t you?” Gin asked as she put down her fork and allowed Anson to snatch the last bite. “Suddenly I feel like I’m raising toddlers.”

“I should start on these dishes.” Heath said quickly at that, and Anson perked up.

“Do you need any help?” He asked. “I feel bad, I’m the one dirtying the plates.”

“You’re paying, aren’t you?” Gin asked with a laugh, and Anson suspected that for all that had occurred she wasn’t quite ready to leave him alone in that kitchen with her husband again. Baby steps. “Don’t worry about it, doll, business is business. In fact, I’ll do the dishes, seeing as someone has cooking to do.”

“Crab cioppino doesn’t make itself.” Heath dolefully agreed, and Anson decided it was better not to ask. “Maybe next time I’ll let you work and we’ll put our feet up.”

“As long as you’re still the one cooking.” Anson said, and Gin released his hand and pulled away. He stood, and the pair did as well as he threw his jacket on. Gin came around to his side of the counter to give him a loose hug goodbye, and he kissed her on the cheek. Heath came over a hug too, unusually intimate for two gentleman of the age, and Anson kissed his cheek as well. Though he would have given both a peck on the lips he didn’t want to rush into it yet.

But he was ready. It was a beautiful risk, a frightening trove of possibilities, and he couldn’t wait to taste it. After all he’d had a long life of danger and even if this was exponentially less than that of his old days, it was enough. It felt right – now all he had to do was ensure they weren’t learning as much about him as he did them.

He left with a far lighter heart than he’d held the last time he walked out that door. It was far from the last time he would see them.