Page 37 of Walking Wounded

He aches, and he wants, and he hates himself.

Madison says, “Hi, Hal,” in a shy voice, and breaks the spell.

“Just hi for Hal?” Matt asks. “And not for your poor old man?” He tousles his youngest’s hair.

“Maybe if you had guns like that,” Tara says in a stage whisper.

Madison says, “Tara!” and goes scarlet.

Luke pours wine, Matt says he’s going to get his father, and Sandy pulls the potatoes out of the oven.

Luke jumps when he feels a hand against his ribs. And wants to jump again when he turns his head and realizes the hand belongs to Hal, and that Hal’s standing right beside him, and thathe has his arm around Luke.

Luke’s brain screeches, alarms go off, and that’s before Hal makes eye contact and says, “Hey,” in a low, almost shy voice that sounds a whole lot like Madison’s did a moment before.

“Uh…hi.”

Hal’s eyes drop a fraction, and Luke wants to believe they’re going to his lips. “I was hoping,” Hal starts, and then sighs. “I’m sorry about last night. I really am. I said some things, and, well, I’m sorry.” His gaze returns, bashful, contrite, asking for forgiveness.

Luke works very hard not to lean into the pressure of the fingers at his ribs. The location of Hal’s hand is maddening. Friends, bros, grab around the shoulders. Lovers do the whole waist thing. But this is the middle distance, in the landscape of confused intentions, and he has no idea what Hal means by it…if anything.

“What did you say?” he asks, because he can’t think withHal’s handon him right there.

Hal releases a deep breath; Luke feels it brush past his ear. “I’m sorry, okay? Am I forgiven?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Hal’s fingers tighten, a squeeze between Luke’s rib bones, and then he withdraws. His hand trails, for a moment, across the span of Luke’s back.

Holy shit.

Holy…shit.

~*~

There’s a formal dining room at the townhouse, but Sandy says family always eats in the kitchen. Luke doesn’t know what to make of being included tonight. Or of the sheer amount there is to eat. To his ramen-fed eyes, entirely too much food weighs down the long rectangular table surrounded by windows.

Matt takes the head of the table, Sandy the foot. Luke is told to sit beside Hal, and he does, the two girls and Will opposite them. When he glances at Sandy, to see if she arranged all this on purpose, she’s busy scooping a potato onto her plate.

Luke spends the entirety of the meal trying not to dwell on the way he and Hal’s elbows keep brushing together as they eat.

Matt may be the senator, but at home, it’s clear Sandy is the president of the household, and she steers the conversation, asking each of them about their days.

Madison got an A on a pop quiz at school.

Will napped.

Matt met with lobbyists he turned away, and who were then spitting-mad and went straight to some political rag to talk about what an uncooperative ass he was. (“Everyone hates Dad in this city,” Tara grumbles.)

When it’s Tara’s turn, she kicks Luke under the table, and he glares back at her. Like she actually thought he’d rat her out? She gives a vague answer about class being boring, which draws disapproving looks from her parents.

“What about you, Luke?”

He feels Hal’s gaze come to him, that strange, brilliant, soft look from before, when they were touching. Rather, when Hal was touching him.

“I walked around,” he says to his plate. “Spent some time in a few bookshops.”

“Find anything good?” Hal asks.

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