Page 36 of In Frame
“You. The way you just…give me things. Handed right over. I just…how’re you real?”
“Maybe I’m not.” Leo widened eyes dramatically at him. “Maybe I’m a ghost. You’ve spent the night with a ghost. Like one of those old stories out of folklore. Urban legend. Tomorrow you’ll find out this house was never here, or I’ve had a black ribbon keeping my head tied on the whole time, or something.”
“There’s a flaw in your logic,” Sam informed him calmly, “I can touch your neck right now,” and did, hand settling big and firm and tanned over Leo’s skin. His other hand finished putting himself into Leo’s phone, with impressive coordination. “I like you being not dead, thanks.”
“Oh, well. I suppose I’ll have to be alive for you, then.”
“I’m good with that,” Sam said, and his hand tightened on the nape of Leo’s neck, just for a second. “You text me, okay? Let me know…how your interviews go. Your press. Or just how you’re feeling. What you’re up to. Anything you want to say. I’m listening.”
“Sam,” Leo said. He hadn’t exactly meant to. Only feeling the name on the tip of his tongue. “Are we…what are we? Are we…friends? More? Something?”
Sam gave him a helpless shrug, clearly equally at sea in the fog. Then stepped in close and kissed him: an almost rough frantic brush of a kiss, a collision of lips. “We’re…something, Leo Whyte. Hell if I know what. But I want to be here, and I want to talk to you, and…we’ll see, all right? We’ll just…see what happens.”
“I can do that,” Leo said. “I’m good at improvising.” Hecould be. He was.
“You’re amazing,” Sam said, “now go get ready for your interviews,” and kissed him quickly again, and left without looking back: a sturdy dark-haired American shape in an ill-fitted suit amid diamond-etched mist, heading down a private lane for a car and an airport and a faraway destination.
Leo, who could never resist a tempting idea, and who still had his phone screen showing Sam’s number, promptly texted, while watching him go,I like your shoulders.
I like you, Leo.
How’d you know this was me?
Seriously?
I might’ve been someone else deciding to text just this second! Or perhaps a sudden attack of magpies stole my phone and decided to compliment you. They do that sort of thing, you know. Just because you’ve never seen them doesn’t mean they don’t.
Sam started typing, stopped, started over. He’d nearly reached the corner; he paused to wave, though at the end of the lane the gesture was small.In that case, tell the magpies thanks but I’m not interested, I’ve got someone pretty awesome in my life already.
Really? Who?
Sam did the start-and-stop typing again. Then:You know I mean you, right, and that’s not a real question?
Leo stared at the text. Sunshine streaked his vision. He did know, and he didn’t. He’d thought so, but he’d thought Sam was joking; he’d been teasing back. He wasn’tin Sam’s life. He wasn’t that important—
Was he?
Sam, no doubt because Leo hadn’t answered, asked,Leo? Still there? Yes, I mean you. Followed, a second later, byDon’t make me come wrestle the magpies until they give back yourphone.
Leo’s mouth made a sound, which was an astounded gut-punch laughter-bubble of sound; he took a step back, leaned against his door-frame, put a hand over his mouth so the laughter wouldn’t become a sob, and let the morning slide home into his chest like an arrow.
I’m here. No avian assault and battery required. Thank you, though. Not only for the offer.
Any time. You just say when. Gotta run, though, your car’s here. Thanks again.
It was that or my unicycle, and I expect this option’s easier with luggage!
Sam sent him a smiley face, which Leo assumed meant an end to conversation; he stepped back inside, shut his door, gazed down at the screen.
He’d not put on a jacket yet. His arms were chilly under summertime orange fabric. He felt cold, or warm, or confused. Did confusion manifest in perplexed bodily temperatures?
His kitchen hadn’t changed—small and bright, white and blue and yellow and silver, holding traces of bacon and sweet strong tea—but it felt different. Emptier, or larger: having known Sam’s shape, Sam’s laughter, next to that cupboard. Holding a plate. Leaning elbows on a countertop.
His backside ached slightly. Not badly. He wouldn’t want to attempt sitting down on hard surfaces, but he rather liked the sensation. He’d done this. He’d had Sam inside him. He’d felt all that.
Hehadhad Sam inside him. Good God.
Standing in his kitchen, surrounded by sunny color and the memories of large skillful tanned hands, Leo took a deep breath, let it out. He felt so much, too much: his jeans against his skin, the softness of a favorite shirt, the brittleness of the early light. Sam had left, would be on the way home, would in alllikelihood never be in the same place as Leo Whyte again. Or if so would be taking pictures, pressed close amid the throng.
