2014
2.1
Laughter floated over the damp, dark earth of the newly turned vegetable patch quilting the earth behind the cozy house. Apple trees snowed with delicate white blossoms nodded at the bottom of the garden, saturating the drifting breeze with their sweet fragrance. Beyond the apple trees, soft green buds unfurled along the arched branches of the poplars and the intermingled spruce were tipped with tender blue sprays of new needles. Sticky amber casings littered the grass at their roots.
Sam really should have left as soon as they finished discussing the new well Vivid planned to license on Gord's land. Instead, he had lingered with Gord on the back porch, a jug of lemonade on the small cedar-plank table between them, cool spring sun squinting overhead.
Sam held his sketchbook folded open on his lap, a fat, soft-leaded pencil loose between his fingers. Gord picked at his guitar as they talked, strings dancing joyfully under his fingertips. Beneath his battered cowboy hat, his brown hair was cut in a fresh, short style. His newly trim, tidy beard framed the square angles of his jaw pleasingly.
"It's just so bizarre," Sam said wistfully, looking out over the enceinte garden. "Sometimes I feel like I don't even know myself anymore."
"How's that?" Gord asked, playing a little melody. Frowning, he played it again, slightly different; then one more time, minutely different again, as Sam spoke.
"It's just-- I mean, the truck and the car was straightforward enough. He needs the truck for work, so I kept the car. No fighting there. The dog was a lot harder. Since I'm away so much with work I couldn't really object to him keeping her, you know? It wouldn't be fair to Molly. But it hurt, and I argued about it even though I knew I shouldn't. And of course, since he has the dog, he needed the house for the yard. I've been living in the condo since we separated, I'm used to it, but the way he just assumed it--" Sam shook his head, watching a black squirrel scamper along the branches of the nearest apple tree.
"Then, of course, there's the money. God, that's been a fight and a half. I'm not making much income with Vivid, we're mostly compensated in shares, but I've always made more money than he does. It's gotten ugly."
Sam laughed, as though he didn't even understand what he was saying.
"And now we're literally fighting over the fucking furniture. I don't know how we got to this point. I can't even imagine what it would be like if there were kids involved. And I never understood why divorce always seemed so acrimonious." He laughed again, ruefully.
Gord strummed a few notes, giving him a considering look. "You made a life together, hard to just divide that up."
"I just never imagined that I would become this person, you know what I mean? This petty asshole. And then one day you wake up and you realize you are that person. It's unsettling."
In the apple tree, the squirrel scampered out along one slender branch. Supple limb bowed gradually beneath his weight until he was nearly to the thin end, bough arcing helplessly earthward, and then just before it seemed the branch must crack the squirrel let go, small hairy legs outstretched, reaching for the tip of a branch on the next tree. Scrabbling claws dug into pliable bark while the abandoned branch snapped up to bob tremblingly in place, white petals shuddering free to drift gently to the ground. The squirrel scrambled up among rustling green leaves and out of sight.
"I can't help wondering if I'm fighting it all so hard just because I'm afraid to let him go," Sam confessed, then scratched at the side of his neck, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "That makes me sound desperate, doesn't it? Ignore that."
"Too late." Gord gave a soft smile to show he intended no cruelty. "How long you been married?"
"This month would be eight years, but we've been together twelve years total. God, it sounds long when I say it like that." Sam sighed, protracted and sad. "That's if you count the two years we've been separated, I guess."
"You think it woulda been better if this'd happened sooner?" Gord picked up a stub of pencil, made a note on the wrinkled paper beside him.
"I really don't know. Sometimes I can't even remember why we thought it was a good idea to get married in the first place. I mean, twenty-five felt old enough to make that commitment, but looking back, we were basically children." Eyes falling again to the sketchbook on his lap, Sam listlessly added a few more feathery lines to the petals on the apple trees in his sketch of the garden. "Thanks for letting me rant."
"It's no trouble."
"No, really." Sam's laughter was small with embarrassment. A loose lock of fine black hair tickled his brow, and he brushed it away with the back of his hand. Dark eyes looked out over the ripe earth of the garden as he went on. "It means a lot to me. I don't see a lot of our friends anymore, and those that I do are mostly still friends with him, too, so they don't wanna hear about this. It's nice to have a friend who's sorta removed from it all."
Gord cleared his throat, eyes falling to his guitar. "Glad I can help."
Sam went back to his sketch, pencil slowly growing more sure on the page. It felt good to draw again. There was a quiet sort of peace in the attempt to invoke the small beauty of the world between clumsy lines on creamy paper. He didn't know why he had ever given it up.
Across the table, Gord plucked out shimmering strands of melody that floated up through cool air, pausing occasionally to jot more notes. A song began to take shape between the dance of nimble fingers. It sang with the bright, hopeful joy of the delicate spring day.
Their silence was hemmed not by the absence of sound but rather the abundance of it. Birds trilled in the trees, a discordant counterpoint to Gord's guitar. Leaves rustled, whispering the green, wet secrets of living things. Wind gusted, creaking the rusty weathervane that leaned precariously from the corner of the eaves.
After a while, Gord offered, "S'pose it could be worse."
"Right now it doesn't feel like it," Sam said wryly.
With two fingers, Gord tilted the brim of his hat up a little as he eyed Sam. "Y'know, my mum walked out when I was ten. No goodbye, just up and left. We haven't seen her since. Didn't even show for my sister's weddin', or my old man's funeral."
Sam's lips pulled downwards. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Was a long time ago. Just wanted to say, sounds to me like yer handlin' it well as you can. Least you still talk to him. There're worse ways to deal with it."
"Maybe you're right," Sam agreed, quietly.
"'Course I am. If yer lookin' fer advice you should always ask a country boy."
Gord's teasing tone startled Sam into laughter.
"Right," he chuckled. "That growing up faster thing."
Gord's lips curved up in a small, amused smile. "Basically the same as talkin' to a wise old geezer, 'cept nicer to look at."
Eyes met above matching wide grins.
A cheery chord hummed from Gord's fingertips. As he looked back down at his guitar, pale spring sun glanced like gold off close-cropped beard, lit his eyes a clear forest green, draped silken shadows down proud arch of neck to frame the breadth of strong shoulders.
Watching, Sam's lungs felt just a little too small for his breath.
Flipping his sketchbook to a clean, fresh page, he started sketching Gord and his instrument. Smears of pencil suggested curls of beard, gentle curve of callused fingers on the graceful neck of the guitar. The shapes coalesced quickly, crest of hat and shine of eye and angle of jaw.
Eyes flickering between subject and page, Sam spoke absently. "You know, it's really beautiful here. Are you gonna stay? I know you said maybe not back to Montreal, but Mark mentioned you were thinking about selling."
Gord didn't answer for a while. Lashes lowered across his eyes as notes skipped pure and bright from his fingers.
Eventually, he said, "Don't know yet. It's a lotta work and a lotta money to keep it up. Gettin' a little lonely out here, too. Been drivin' into town every other day just to see a human face."
"That hard to get company around here, huh?"
"That hard," Gord agreed, with a huff of deep laughter. "Unless I wanna talk to my cousins every day, and as much as I love 'em, I can only do so much of that, let me tell ya."
"You thought about a pet? A dog, maybe?" Sam chuckled. "Sorry, my bias is showing. Cats are lovely too, I'm sure."
"Been considerin' it, actually. Don't wanna rush into carin' for somethin' alive if I'm just gonna sell right away, though. Won't know where I'll be, if I'll be able to provide for 'em."
"Fair enough. And you're not seeing anyone?" Sam ventured, tone light and unconcerned.
"Just this friendly landman comes 'round every few weeks. Can't just flip on a dating app and get a dozen matches out here, y'know."
Gord glanced up with a teasing smile as Sam laughed, and he caught sight of the sketch. His gaze went thoughtful.
"That me yer drawin'?"
Sheepish, Sam's hand moved automatically to cover the page. "Yeah. Do you mind?"
"Can I see?"
Sam hesitated a moment before he turned the book. Gord twisted his guitar out of the way, tucking it up under one leanly muscled bicep so he could lean in and study the drawing.
Amused, he said, "You got a nice hand, but you messed it up real bad."
"What?" Sam frowned down at the lines of his drawing. "What'd I miss? I mean, it's not done yet, but--"
"You made me look handsome," Gord told him, chuckling.
"Well, you are handsome," Sam protested without thinking. Blossoms of soft pink in his golden cheeks, he added, "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable."
Gord leaned back, smiling, teeth gleaming white. Studying Sam appraisingly, he scratched at the back of his neck, his other arm still draped languorously over the chestnut curve of his guitar. Callused fingertips caught the brim of the cowboy hat and tipped it up on his broad forehead.
Sam's chest rose and fell quickly.
"I should prob'ly confess," Gord said, slowly, "I've been wonderin' for a while, now, how you might feel 'bout a man with a beard."
Sam blinked at him for a moment before a broad, pleased smile bowed his full lips. He knew he shouldn't, but the half-forgotten feeling of being wanted by someone he wanted in return was heady.
In a teasing tone, Sam said, "Well, my husband never wore a beard. But if you wanna kiss me so I can give you a proper answer, I definitely wouldn't object."
With a warm, deep chuckle that arced shivers down Sam's spine, Gord caught the crest of his hat in one broad palm and set it on the table. Gaze never leaving Sam's, he eased his guitar strap over his head and laid the instrument on the worn porch beside him. Careful to avoid lemonade jug and glasses, he leaned across the narrow table.
One rough palm cradled Sam's cheek tenderly. Sweet, damp breath brushed warm on Sam's lips as Gord nudged the arch of his nose against the gentle slope of Sam's. Fierce forest green eyes held soft night-dark ones. Sam's pulse pounded in his throat.
Calluses snagged against smooth golden skin as Gord's fingers traced a warm path down the sensitive skin below Sam's ear.
Sam murmured, "Tease."
He gripped the front of Gord's plaid shirt to pull him closer.
Chapped lips caught supple ones. Unconsciously, Sam leaned into the kiss, petals of heat unfurling in his belly as Gord gripped the back of his neck and pressed unhesitatingly into his mouth.
Dark lashes lowered across hazy eyes. Eager lips pulled shallow breath up out of panting lungs. Short beard brushed soft against smooth-shaven chin.
When at last Gord pulled away, smile gentle on damp lips, Sam didn't let go of his shirt.
Breathlessly, he said, "I think you'd better do that again, I don't have an answer for you yet."
Another deep laugh made more blossoms of heat flicker through Sam's stomach.
"How you feel 'bout movin' inside, where we don't need to worry 'bout knockin' over the lemonade?"
"Yes," Sam said, agreeably, "that's probably a good idea."
In Gord's bedroom overlooking the expectant garden, a gentle breeze ruffled light curtains, carrying with it the fragrant scent of downy apple blossoms. Birdsong trilled, clear and melodic, through chill air lucent with dazzling spring sun.
Atop crisp white sheets, hungry touches exposed immeasurable need in ways words could never articulate. Starving men following voracious kisses to a raw, painfully honest place, where satisfaction felt both infinite and impossibly insufficient.
Afterward, they lay with sweaty limbs entangled as their heartbeats slowed. Sam played with the curls of dark hair on Gord's chest, a content smile on his lips, while a rough palm massaged his shoulders absently.
Against the arch of Gord's neck, he murmured, "I can't say in a general case, but I like this bearded man."
Gord's laugh rumbled deep in his chest.
When Sam left that day, the start of a handshake turned into embarrassed laughter, which in turn gave way to an intimate kiss. Gord watched from the doorway, eyes thoughtful, as Sam waved, and his little silver car bumped away down the drive under the winking eye of the cool spring sun.