Page 18 of Protecting the Nerd

Beside her, his father stepped forward, a thin man whose hands shook with the unmistakable signs of Parkinson’s. He watched us with cautious eyes, emitting an aura of silent introspection. “York.”

York shook his father’s trembling hand. “Dad.”

Then he gestured me forward. “This is Quillon. My boyfriend.”

The word hung between us, charged and pulsing with newness. Surprise flickered across their faces, but his parents didn’t show disdain, more a reserved acceptance. They exchanged brief, unreadable glances. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Quillon.” His mother extended her hand to me.

His father repeated the words as he shook my hand, and that was the introduction. No drama, yet everything felt wrong and off and false.

“Welcome to The Lodge,” Mrs. Coombe said, her smile taut at the edges.

“Thank you.” I put as much sincerity as possible into the words. Jesus, I’d traversed glaciers warmer than this welcome.

We settled in the family room, where a stone fireplace begged for winter nights and stories. Plush sofas invited conversations while a large, handcrafted rug anchored the space. It looked homey, cozy, and warm, though the air felt chilled with frost.

“Can I get you boys something to drink?” Mrs. Coombe broke the stillness.

“Water would be great, thanks,” I said.

“Water for me too, please,” York murmured, watching his parents with an analytical eye. He seemed to be gauging their reactions, like an antelope keeping a watchful eye on a lion, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble.

Lining the mantel was a series of framed photographs, each capturing moments frozen in time. York as a gangly teenager, his smile more tentative than confident. Another showed him at what must have been his high school graduation, his cap slightly askew.

But my attention was drawn to the collection of photos of another man—Essex Coombe. His image was everywhere, from his childhood to what looked to be a prom night, his graduation picture, and countless photographs of him in his Marine uniform, commanding and proud. He’d been handsome, though too much of a slick charmer.

“How did you two meet?” Mrs. Coombe asked. She’d brought us both water, the first sign of normalcy since we’d arrived.

“At a Star Wars convention,” York said. “We hit it off instantly.”

“That’s good. We’ve been hoping you’d find someone. You’ve been alone for far too long.”

I had the weirdest feeling of being stuck in a bad movie where actors were reciting their lines but without the expected emotion behind them. Nothing about this meeting made sense.

“Quillon, what do you do for work?” York’s father asked.

We had rehearsed that too. I could hardly tell them I was a bodyguard. “I work for a company that sells security systems.” I stuck as close to the truth as possible.

“You have a technical background?” Mr. Coombe asked.

“No, I’m more of a hands-on guy. York wows me with his knowledge and math skills.”

“Essex was also a hands-on person,” Mrs. Coombe said. “York spent his childhood with his face in a book, but Essex was always outside, doing stuff. He had a group of close friends, and they would go exploring together everywhere.”

“Quillon knew Essex in the Marines,” York said with a desperate edge to his voice.

His mother’s expression shifted while his father’s shoulders tensed as if bracing against a blow. “You did?” she whispered.

“We were in boot camp together and served in the same unit for a while, but our paths diverged. But we met several times throughout his career. He was an exemplary Marine.”

“Could you…” She choked at the swell of emotions. “Would you share a memory of him? Anything. We don’t get many visitors who knew our Essex.”

York’s parents leaned in as though my words could bridge the chasm that loss had carved into their lives. I glanced at York, whose eyes conveyed a plea: tread carefully. I felt like walking through a minefield, knowing I could step on an IED at any moment.

“Sure.” I squirmed a little under the weight of their gazes. “One time, we were on deployment when he was temporarily assigned to my unit as a sniper. We were sent out on patrol and quickly ran into trouble. A group of combatants had us pinned down, and we were unable to fight our way out because we were outnumbered. Essex managed to slip away and somehow scrambled to a rooftop. He provided us with the necessary cover, sniping off hostiles one by one until we were able to escape. He saved our asses that day.”

Every word of that was true. He’d also bragged about it for weeks, never missing an opportunity to lord over us that without him, we’d be dead.

“Thank you,” his mother whispered, her hand pressed to her heart. “He was always our protector. Even when he was little, he’d stand up for his brother, wouldn’t he, York?”

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