Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
He was like some kind of annoying superhero, with muscles that never tired, an inhuman sense of depth perception, and the ability to tell when something was a fraction of an inch out of plumb—his words—by eye.
Rye was pretty sure sometimes he just said shit wasn’t straight because, hello, crumbling cabin. But lo and behold when Charlie would apply the level, he always turned out to be right.
It had been three days since he’d come in his pants while Charlie feasted on his mouth and pulled his hair and Rye couldn’t stop thinking about it.
When Charlie passed him a cup of coffee, when Charlie appeared behind him at the cash register, when Charlie sat across from him at the dinner table. They hadn’t explicitly talked about it, but it was there, a current thrumming beneath every interaction; the promise of sparks if they reached out and touched.
But they hadn’t.
Rye wanted Charlie to be the one to reach for him. He needed to know that Charlie wasn’t simply going along with this because he lived to help people. He had to be sure that Charlie wasn’t just doing it for him.
He threw on some clothes and gathered his damp hair into a hasty bun so it didn’t drip down his back while he was cooking dinner for Jack and Simon.
In the kitchen he pulled things out of the refrigerator and tossed them on the counter.
“So what’d you decide on?”
Charlie leaned against the doorjamb looking unfairly hot with his reddish-blond hair darkened by his shower.
Rye wanted to throw himself against that broad chest and feel those arms hold him tight. He wanted Charlie to come up behind him as he was cooking and rest hands on his shoulders. He wanted to go up on his tiptoes and press a casual kiss to Charlie’s cheek.
“Vegetable lasagna,” he said, since none of the other things were going to happen.
“That sounds good,” Charlie said. “Can I help?”
When he came closer, Rye could smell him. That damn jasmine shampoo and the woodsy scent of his soap that reminded Rye of how he’d smelled in the woodshop, fragrant shavings all around them.
“Sure.”
“You can put on your music, if you want,” Charlie said.
Rye shrugged.
“Come on, it seemed like you were having so much fun cooking the other day. I wouldn’t’ve asked you to cook tonight if I thought it was a chore for you.”
What a strange thing to say.
“I’m happy to do chores, Charlie. If I’m living here I want to pull my weight.”
“Not necessary. I was used to cooking before and I can cook now.”
“I do like to cook. I told you that. But that’s not the point. What, you can work all the time and do chores you don’t like and help everyone else but you think I’m only supposed to do things if I like them?”
Charlie shrugged. “Wouldn’t everyone like to only do things they enjoy if they could?”
“Um, no. Only children, the ultrarich, and total narcissists think doing only what you want is any kind of life. The rest of us have, like, ambitions and empathy and obligations to other living things. You don’t really think that, do you?”
Charlie shook his head, then shrugged.
“Do you?” Rye asked again.
“No, I...no. I guess not.”
But it fit more pieces into place for Rye. It wasn’t just that Charlie was used to having to take care of things and people. Charlie was willing to do things he didn’t enjoy in order to protect the people he cared about from having to do them.
He wondered if anyone did things for Charlie.
“What would you do if you only did things you enjoyed, then?” Rye asked.
Charlie’s chuckle was bleak.
“Jeez, I have no idea.”
“Well, maybe you should think about it.”
“Maybe I should,” Charlie allowed.
Rye put on Theo Decker’s second solo album on his phone and put the phone in a cup to amplify the sound.
“You need a speaker for in here,” Rye said.
After that, Rye zoned out, listening to the music and losing himself in the familiar motions of crushing garlic, slicing onion, and sautéing vegetables.
He and Charlie worked easily together. When it was time to layer the lasagna, Charlie said, “You didn’t boil the noodles.”
“You don’t have to. The sauce will cook them while it bakes. Plus it’s a pain in the ass.”
“Whoa,” Charlie said. “I never knew that. I made lasagna once but it was such a pain I stuck to spaghetti and meatballs after that.”
“Lots more tips where that one came from. Tune in to Rye’s Recipes every Friday night.”
Charlie smiled and nodded. Charlie’s nods were serious agreements, not offhand gestures.
Rye liked that a lot.
* * *
At first, Jack hadn’t seemed much like Charlie in anything but looks. But now Rye could see other similarities. They both had a certain acceptance of things as they were. An unflappability that seemed like peace. They both exuded a kind of steady calm, though Jack’s was a more casual, easygoing state, while Charlie’s seemed inviolable.