It was Saturday and the idea of doing more
cleaning held little appeal. What else did he have to do with himself? Nothing.
The temptation to go into Lancaster or Harrisburg was there, to seek out a gay
bar, or even get on Grindr. Gay men had to exist out here. But… that wasn’t why
he moved here. He came here to get away from all that for a little while.
His mind made up, he went to the grocery
store in town with a long list. It was a big-chain grocery store, and he was
pleased to find nearly everything he needed. The October day was bright with
crisp leaves and a blue sky. When he got back home with his sacks of goodies,
it was still early afternoon. He opened the windows in the kitchen—struggling
against the one over the sink that stuck—turned up the music on his iPhone, and
started dancing around, organizing his supplies and digging out pots and pans.
He made the curried carrot ginger soup, a
lovely dish with fresh peas, green onion, and radishes, some savory
cheese-and-herb swirled biscuits, and a basic herb-roasted chicken. He truly
did love to cook, though the past few years, it never seemed worth the effort.
There were so many great takeout places in the East Village. Plus Kyle was such
a picky eater. He basically ate pizza and stripped-down salads, and that was
it.
It occurred to Christie while he was
prepping this meal that it was going to be a beautiful repast, and it was a
shame he didn’t have anyone to share it with. He could freeze some of it, but
it wouldn’t be the same. He thought of David next door, living alone, and of
his TV dinner. Would that be weird? That would be weird, right?
Pushing it from his mind, Christie spent
the rest of the afternoon jamming to tunes in the kitchen and working his way
through the recipes, having fun and dancing in his stocking feet.
When everything was ready, Christie decided
the meal deserved some pomp and circumstance. His aunt had a drawer of
tablecloths, but they were not quite his style. He used a white linen towel for
a place mat and put each dish on the table in the best china dishes he could
find. He used a red cut glass for his water and lit a candle in an old silver
candlestick he found in the cupboard.
He looked at the table and chewed his lip.
Everything looked beautiful. It smelled amazing too. He sucked some chicken
juice from his thumb—yum. It almost
seemed like a waste to eat it. He wished someone were here to share the meal
with him. Anyone, really. The idea he’d avoided thinking about while cooking
poked its head out again.
Well. He’d never been exactly shy. If he
was going to do this, he had to do it quickly. The food was getting cold.
With a nervous shake of his head, Christie
decided. He cut the roast chicken in half and put it on a large plate with a
little bit of everything else, covered it with aluminum foil, and ran out the
back door.
He hadn’t been to the Fisher’s farm before,
and it turned out to be a longer trip down the gravel lane than he anticipated,
maybe a quarter mile. He kept up a jog, worried about the food getting ruined.
Between that and his nerves, he had a fine sheen of sweat when he got there.
David’s farm was beautiful. The white barn
Christie had seen from a distance was huge and picturesque. It made Christie’s
fingers itch to draw it. The farmhouse was fieldstone with black shutters.
Electric candles in the windows gave it a cozy Colonial air and made Christie
realize how dark it was getting outside. Why hadn’t he grabbed his coat? It was
fucking freezing. He was an idiot—a shivering idiot at the moment.
Determined to drop off his gift without
further delay, he marched to the back door and firmly knocked.
Enthusiastic barking commenced. More than
one dog—two or three. Christie felt a little nervous. He liked dogs, but these
farm dogs might be territorial. And he was holding a plate of
chicken. He might as well have bathed in bacon grease.
A deep voice silenced the dogs and the door
opened. David’s face looked stern and worn for a moment, but when he recognized
Christie, a smile softened it. “Oh, hi.”
“Hi. Sorry to bother you, but I spent the
day cooking, and I made all this food. No way can I eat it all, so I thought
I’d bring you a plate. You know, to make up for causing you to burn your dinner
the other day, fixing my smoke detector and all.” God, he was overdoing it! Shut up, Christie.
“Oh.” David looked surprised. He glanced at
the foil-covered plate in Christie’s hand. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I was bored.” Christie’s shrug turned into
a shiver. He held out the plate. His mouth was dry. He was starting to wish he
hadn’t done this.
There was a reserve about David, a way he
kept himself at arm’s length. Christie sensed that when David stopped by his
house, but he put it down to the fact they were strangers. The vibe was
stronger here, on David’s turf. Christie felt like an intruder standing at the
back door. David was looking at the plate with an unreadable expression. Please
just take it.
Then the wind shifted and a delicious aroma
billowed up. David’s face grew curious. “Roast chicken?”
“Yeah. It was from a Thanksgiving magazine.
I made some sides too.”
Suddenly David moved. “Heck, you must be
freezing. Come inside.”
“Thanks. I can’t stay. I just wanted to
drop this off.” But Christie was stepping inside as he spoke, welcoming any
relief from the cold air.
“River. Tonga. Sit.” David shut the door.
The dogs sat obediently. One was a golden retriever and the other a large furry
black mix of some kind.
“Tonga?” Christie asked.
“It’s an island,” David said with an
adorably bashful duck of his head. He took the plate from Christie and raised
the foil, looked at it, and smelled. “This looks really good. You made this?”
“Sure. I just followed the recipes.” But
David’s words made Christie feel infinitely better about bringing it by. “Well.
I’ll leave you to eat it before it gets cold. I have mine back at the house.”
“Thanks. It beats the heck out of frozen
food.” David sounded sincere. He put the plate on the counter. “Hang on.” He
opened up an accordion door in the hall, revealing an overstuffed closet with a
collection of coats, hats, and shoes. He selected a black woolen pea coat with
large buttons and pulled it out. “You’re going to freeze to death.”
“It was stupid not to wear my coat. I
didn’t realize it was so far over here.”
David got an amused smile, but he wasn’t
looking directly into Christie’s eyes, so he still seemed uncomfortable.
Instead of handing Christie the coat, though, he held it open and moved behind
Christie.
Christie blinked. He couldn’t remember the
last time anyone had helped him into a coat. He held back his arms and let
David slip the coat onto him. It fit in the shoulders okay, but it was big
around the waist and hips. David turned Christie in a matter-of-fact way and
started doing up the buttons.
Christie’s eyes widened, and he swallowed
hard. What the hell? Did David think he was a child? But there was
something titillating about being taken care of, or maybe it was David’s
proximity, his handsome face focused on his task, his rough hands so close to
Christie’s body.
Yes, it was definitely the proximity. Wow,
David was a good-looking man. Who knew rugged could be so hot? And to think of
all the money Christie had spent on grooming!
There were only five buttons, and when
David finished the last of them, just below Christie’s chin, he looked up and
saw Christie’s face. He suddenly blushed, his nose and cheeks going red. He
dropped his hands and took a step back. “Sorry. That was… sorry.”
“I didn’t mind.” Oh God, Christie’s voice
had dropped in register and sounded rumbly to his own ears. That was a smexy
voice! What the hell was he doing? “Um… thanks for the jacket, David. I’ll
bring it back later.”
“No hurry.” David was avoiding his gaze
again.
Christie yanked the door open, escaped the
house with a silly little wave, and walked fast back to his aunt’s place.
Once inside he found his own food was only
tepidly warm, but still flavorful and delicious. The herb glaze on the chicken
was to die for, and it went beautifully with the floury-cheesy biscuits and the
curried soup. He hoped David liked it too.
He kept the coat on while he ate, snuggling
into the fabric and holding the collar close under his chin. It smelled of
earth and hay, a slight trace of motor oil, and the smell of a working
man—piney, sweaty, and altogether appealing.
He remained in the coat all through dinner.
But only because he was cold.
