Page 55 of True North
“He wouldn’t,” JT said, with bone-deep certainty.
“Okay. So there you go.” Curtis unbuckled his seatbelt as JT pulled up outside his building. “At least this explains why you haven’t invited me over this summer. I’ve been missing that hot tub.”
“Oh my god,” JT said, grinning despite himself. “Buy a house, Curtis. Get your own fucking hot tub.”
Curtis reached over and clapped JT on the shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Stay out of trouble.”
Instead of going straight home, JT pulled into a parking space and sat there in his truck for a while, looking at his phone with the windows rolled down. The clouds had cleared out while they were eating lunch, and the hot sun would send him packing before long. He felt emotionally raw from his conversation with Curtis, as if he’d fallen and scraped his knee, except instead of his knee it was his heart. He couldn’t bear the thought of going home to face Misha just yet.
He opened his camera roll and started idly scrolling through the pictures he’d taken recently. There were a lot of sunset shots of the lake and pictures of fish he’d caught. Then he stopped on a selfie Misha had taken when they were lazing around in bed together after sex. Misha was winking dramatically at the camera, one entire side of his face all screwed up. Behind him, JT was a laughing blur in the background.
Curtis wasn’t wrong. Misha had brought new light into JT’s life after a dark year of grief and self-doubt. He wasn’t ready for the summer to end, to go back to Toronto and lose the warmth and comfort that now filled his home.
He could ask Misha to go with him. Everyone he knew would disapprove, but JT wasn’t sure how much he cared. Having Misha with him would make him happy. He was a selfish bastard and only wanted to keep Misha close.
He tapped his phone several times to keep the picture up when the screen went dim. Then, finally, he turned on his truck and drove home.
* * *
Misha woke slowly, stirred into awareness by what he quickly realized was a hand in his hair. Someone was stroking his hair and tracing the curve of his ear. Not his mother, who was impossibly far away. Not his sister, Katya, who hadn’t spoken to him since he left Khabarovsk, furious that he had left. It was probably JT, then, touching him with such gentleness and care. Misha turned his head into the touch and opened his eyes.
JT smiled at him, haloed in the golden afternoon light streaming through the windows. He was kneeling on the floor beside the sofa. His hair was damp. “Hey. Sorry to wake you. You sounded like you were having a nightmare.”
“Yeah.” Misha rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, one and then the other. “I don’t remember now.”
JT clambered to his feet and perched on the couch beside Misha’s hip. “You eat lunch already?”
“No, not yet.” Misha yawned and stretched. Whatever he’d been dreaming about, it hadn’t disturbed him enough to shake him from his nap stupor. He felt warm and still very sleepy, as if he would be able to fall directly back asleep if he closed his eyes again. He reached for JT. “Lie down. Let’s sleep. I missed you.”
JT’s eyes creased with his smile. “You saw me this morning. Are you feeling okay? Didn’t you go back to bed after I left? You haven’t slept this much in a while.”
Misha yawned again. “No, I didn’t sleep this morning, I just said to you. I don’t know, maybe I need like, more energy to go to meeting tonight.”
“Oh, is that what it is.” JT’s smile deepened.
“Yeah, they talk so much. It’s make me tired.” He tugged at JT’s T-shirt. “Lie down. Hold me.”
JT hesitated, then said, “All right. Budge over.”
Misha happily turned onto his side and scooted against the back of the couch to make room for JT, who lay down facing him and pulled Misha into his arms. After a few minor readjustments, they got themselves situated comfortably, Misha with his face pressed to JT’s chest. He sighed and breathed in the familiar smell of JT’s deodorant.
“You’re going to fall asleep again, aren’t you,” JT said. His hand gently cupped the back of Misha’s head.
“Mm, no.” Misha rubbed his face against JT’s T-shirt. “I stay awake.” Then he yawned hugely, basically calling himself a liar.
JT laughed softly. “All right. Noted.” He tucked his foot over Misha’s ankle. Misha fell asleep there in the warm cradle of JT’s arms.
Twenty-Two
Misha opened the dishwasher and left the rack there to steam for a minute while he took the trash out and then went out onto the floor to bus a table. The busboy had quit, and Misha and the servers were having to fill in. He was realizing that while Brandon was a nice enough guy, he wasn’t great at running a restaurant.
The place was packed: Friday night at the peak of the dinner hour. Misha kept his earbuds in and his head down. His apron was damp and covered in aerosolized food particles from the sprayer, and he didn’t really want any of the customers to notice him. One of the servers gave him a harried smile as she went by, loaded down with a tray full of dirty dishes. Misha loaded up his own tray and turned back toward the kitchen. He was falling behind.
He accidentally caught a customer’s gaze as he went by and redirected his eyes to his tray. He was supposed to be invisible. Just the warm body that washed and sanitized the cutlery.
The pile of dishes needing to be washed had grown to frightening proportions. Misha unloaded the clean plates and loaded another rack to go into the machine. He still wasn’t as fast as Miguel, but he had the rhythm down now, and he could usually keep up with the onslaught and empty out his sinks in short order. Not tonight, though.
One of the line cooks, who had established himself as a huge dickhead by the second day of Misha’s employment, came over to yell at him about the pots he hadn’t gotten to. Misha slid a casual hand into his pocket to turn up the volume of his music. Dickhead’s pots always got washed last.