Page 14 of Doors & Windows (Liam & Jonah’s Story)

Jonah

The reprieve of the September morning chill didn’t last long.

As Jonah worked, the sunlight and the breeze off the water brought with it a salt-sticky heat.

By the time his stomach growled in demand for lunch, his shirt clung to skin with sweat.

The repeated stretch and pull of a paint roller across a house this size, with its high ceilings and long corridors, was hard work, but it left a satisfying burn in his arms and back.

He had managed to finish most of the upstairs rooms. The only one left to tackle was the nursery. It had taken some restraint on his part to steer clear of Liam’s space and give him solitude to work, but bringing him lunch seemed like as good an excuse as any to take a peek.

Jonah grabbed the cooler he had packed this morning and headed toward the sound of music, smiling as he drew closer. When he reached the doorway of the nursery, the sight before him stunned him in place.

He wasn’t sure which was more breathtaking—the half-finished depiction of a sunrise on the wall, or the sight of Liam so completely immersed in his element. Both. Either. Jonah was frozen in place, mesmerized .

Liam moved like a dancer when he painted. Like he was born with something in his body that drew him to this work inevitably. His movements fell in sync with the music, a Beatles song Jonah recognized from the radio stations Ellis liked to play in his truck.

And the singing. Liam was singing .

The sound was a revelation. Jonah wondered if Liam even realized he was doing it or if it was a byproduct of being so enthralled in his work that he forfeited any self-consciousness.

He could have watched him forever, but the scuff of Jonah’s boot betrayed his arrival. Liam yelped and spun to face him, nearly kicking over a tray of mixed paint at his feet.

Jonah was already raising his hands in apology. “Sorry,” he said, though he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“ F-minus on execution.” Liam clutched his chest with the hand that wasn’t holding a paintbrush. “How long have you been standing there?”

It took Jonah a moment to find words, because Liam’s face was streaked with stray swipes of paint, dappling the space between his freckles with pink, and Jonah suddenly, desperately wanted nothing more than to see that color smear beneath the pads of his thumbs.

“Only a minute,” Jonah said.

Liam’s face was already red from the heat, which robbed Jonah of an opportunity to see him flush. “Okay, weirdo.” He played it off smoothly, folding into a mix of a curtsy and a bow. “Enjoy the performance? ”

“Very much.” Jonah's reply came out helplessly earnest, so he redirected their attention to the mural. “Liam, this is…” Every compliment fell short on his tongue. “You’re so good at this.”

Liam’s nervous tells were charmingly predictable; the dropped gaze, the way he busied his hand with squeezing the excess paint from his brush. “It’s not really anything yet. Just color and outline.”

Jonah stepped further into the room, coming to a stop beside him to get a better look at the wall.

“It’s weird to think that you’re painting this for people who haven’t even been born,” he said.

“Like, these babies will grow up and probably never meet you, but they’ll spend the first years of their life against the backdrop of something you created. ”

Liam’s eyes went wide, his cheeks rounding with a puff of air that he let out in a long whistle. “Wow. Okay. No pressure or anything.”

Jonah laughed and shifted closer, letting his shoulder bump against Liam’s. “You’re doing great,” he promised. “It’s going to be perfect. It already is.”

Liam bumped him back, his knuckles brushing against Jonah’s. “Well, thanks.”

The moment went soft between them, in the way it tended to do with Liam. Jonah drew in a breath and cleared his throat, stepping back. He shook the cooler in his hand.

“Lunch break?”

“You made lunch for us?”

“It’s nothing too exciting.” Jonah rubbed the back of his neck. It was his turn to be self-conscious .

An unexpected skill Jonah had picked up since moving to New York was cooking.

Ellis had made it clear on his first day in the house that Jonah had free reign over the kitchen and everything in it.

On days he wasn’t on a job or holed up in the library or at the park, he spent a lot of time hovering over a stovetop, trying his hand at new dishes.

He’d made a routine of it: checking out a cookbook, then swinging by the grocery store on the way back to the house to pick up what he needed.

He always ended up with more than he could eat, leaving a fridge full of leftovers for him and Ellis to share.

Ellis had offered to chip in some cash for these expeditions, since he was benefiting from it, but Jonah didn’t allow it.

Ellis was covering enough of his expenses as it was.

Having money in his pocket to buy fresh ingredients was a privilege Jonah would never be able to take for granted.

The whole cooking endeavor had initially been born out of a mind for practicality.

He had wanted to spend his newfound income wisely, and learning to prepare his own food was a survival instinct that would help him build the independence he so craved.

He liked it more than he thought he would, the act of creating something whole out of a bunch of separate pieces and knowing it came from his own hands.

Perhaps, he thought, that was what drew Liam to the art he made.

“Of course it’s exciting,” Liam said. “It’s the first time I get to try your cooking.”

“‘No pressure,’” Jonah echoed .

They ate on the terrace on the upper level, accessible only through the sliding glass door of the primary bedroom.

The back of the house faced the ocean. It was hard to wrap his head around the idea that this was the view from someone’s house.

Although the people who resided here would never have quite as good a view as Jonah did now, of a paint-speckled Liam Cassidy smiling in the sunlight, copper curls tossed by the ocean breeze.

Jonah wanted a mural of that image painted across every wall inside his mind.

Liam was far more enthusiastic about a lunch that came out of a handheld cooler than anyone had a right to be, but Jonah couldn’t deny the satisfaction he felt watching him hum around the first bite, eyes closing in genuine delight.

The food was simple enough, because Jonah had been limited to things that could be eaten cold after sitting for a few hours—a sandwich on homemade ciabatta and spicy cucumber salad.

Despite Liam’s compliments, Jonah insisted he could do better with access to a stovetop.

“I guess you’ll just have to cook me a big, fancy dinner next time,” Liam said, oblivious to the way Jonah’s heart thumped to the beat of that promise.

Next time. Next time. Next time.

They hadn’t talked about what happened—or what didn’t happen—that night in his bedroom.

Not even the morning after, when Liam had been all soft smiles and careful touches.

Jonah suspected Liam was waiting on him to initiate the conversation.

And Jonah knew he should. But Liam, as always, sorely overestimated Jonah’s bravery .

But now there was a next time, spoken into existence like a tiny miracle, and Jonah could breathe a little easier knowing he hadn’t ruined everything.

They didn’t take too much time to eat, quick to feed the hunger from a long morning of work.

Jonah wasn’t eager to abandon such a perfect moment, but it was ample consolation that the tradeoff was getting to watch Liam work after the break.

So he took a moment to commit the image of Liam against the backdrop of the beach to memory, then they packed up and headed inside.

Jonah thanked himself for saving the nursery for last.

His body was tired, but sharing space with Liam for the afternoon bolstered his spirits more than any amount of caffeine and a night of sleep could have hoped to.

Liam brought the music back, the volume notched slightly down to allow for conversation. He seemed more reserved about singing out loud with an audience, much to Jonah’s disappointment, but his inhibitions seemed to lower the longer they worked together.

By the time Jonah had finished the first coat of lavender on the three remaining walls, the tuneless murmurs under Liam’s breath had graduated to resounding belts, occasionally with the use of a wet paintbrush as a microphone.

Jonah found it impossible to resist when that paintbrush was extended to him in invitation, the light in Liam’s eyes infectious.

Jonah leaned in, inches away from smear of canary-yellow paint across his chin, and sang the line he had been prompted.

His voice crackled and dipped, a muscle weak from disuse—when was the last time Jonah sang ?

—but naked delight poured over Liam’s face as if a chorus of angels had opened the sky.

The lavender was such a light pigment that it needed three coats, but Jonah still finished his portion of the work before Liam.

With Liam’s permission to openly spectate, Jonah balled up his flannel and stuffed it under his head, lying back on the tarp-covered floor.

He laced his fingers behind his neck like he was soaking in the rays from Liam’s painted sunrise and watched from between tented knees.

Liam tossed him a wry grin over his shoulder, another snapshot Jonah stored away for safekeeping and got back to work.

Liam kept the music low, but neither of them felt the need to carry a conversation. It was clear Liam was fully engaged in the final stage of the painting, and Jonah didn’t want to distract from that. He was plenty content to be a fly on the wall, an indulgent witness.