Page 5 of The Leaving Kind
He pushed his palms into the nice cool tile beneath his ass and began to lever himself upward.
“Are you sure you should move?” the stranger asked.
“Nothing is broken. I can feel my extremities.” He hurt all over, though. Even before this, he’d woken with the vicious edge of a hangover poking at his temples and a relentless pounding that sounded as if it was coming from outside his head. That’d been the front door.
Now he had more bruises than he’d collected in a week at the playground in elementary school, but he’d heal. In fact, that’s all he wanted to do. Everyone needed to leave so he could shower, toss the outfit he’d laid out for today off of his bed, peel back the covers, and crawl into oblivion.
Sitting up, Victor turned to the stranger crouched beside him. “Really. I just need to pull myself together.”
Tholo forced his way into the conversation. “How about we—”
“How about you fuck off, Tholo? As in pick up your crap and leave the premises.”
Nothing like a good, sharp whack to the head to reorganize his priorities. The urge to toss Tholo’s belongings across the lawn had faded, along with the need to make a fool of himself. Cool reality had been reestablished, and Victor couldn’t even find it within himself to call her a bitch. She was only doing her job.
He turned back to the stranger. “Thank you for your assistance, but I’m fine.”
Dark brown eyebrows dipping, the man studied him with the same mild concern before nodding and pushing to his feet. He then extended a hand toward Victor. “How about if you try standing up?”
“Sure.” Victor grasped the broad, callused palm and hauled himself upward, noting that the stranger hadn’t done much more than provide a steady handhold. Interesting. Victor had half expected to be pulled to his feet. His slight stature usually inferred weakness in the eyes of others. People assumed he lacked any sort of strength, whether physical or mental. Apparently, Mr. Pickup Driver had read him differently.
“Victor.” Tholo’s voice was quiet and flat. His accent once again almost absent.
“I thought I asked you to leave.”
“I am. I will. I ...” Tholo glanced toward the stranger, and for once, he appeared uncomfortable, as though he’d stepped into an audition he hadn’t read the script for. When he returned his gaze to Victor, his expression was appropriately sad. And almost ... Was that a real, live tear in the corner of his eye?
Tholo reached inside the lapel of his light sport coat and withdrew a lavender envelope. He held it out. “This is for you.”
Victor couldn’t make himself take it.
Mr. Pickup Driver eventually plucked it from Tholo’s fingers. Then he lifted his chin toward the drive. Tholo’s car—the oddly understated BMW that spent more time in long-term parking than on the road—waited there like an unwilling spectator.
As Victor watched, Tholo and the stranger picked up the rest of Tholo’s belongings, the boxes Victor had packed yesterday afternoon before he’d started drinking. They carried them to the car, stowed them in the trunk and the back seat, and then Tholo was gone. Their life together, four years and change—three wonderful, the last a badly stitched article that should have been two separate pieces of material—reduced to a slowly retreating crunch of gravel.
Tears threatened again. Victor blinked them back. His throat hurt. The center of his torso ached, as though his heart had coerced all of his internal organs into revolt. Or perhaps that was also the wine.
The back of his head felt tender, and Victor was almost afraid to touch it. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the floor. No blood on the tile. Despite feeling less than together, he’d not done a Humpty-Dumpty.
He could already feel the bruise forming on his tailbone, though, and for some reason, his left knee hurt. Twitching the cloth of his robe aside, he inspected the joint and gasped at the rising welt there. The shelf. Damn it.
When he looked up, the stranger stood in front of him, his gaze also fixed on Victor’s knee. His lips twitched.
“Don’t even think about it,” Victor warned.
The man’s lips narrowed and flattened. Then he extended a hand. “I’m Cam. I’m here with your mulch and trees. From Shepard’s?”
Victor stared at him a second. Then he shook the offered hand. “Victor. I’m here with ...” A bruised heart and butt.
Cam’s lips twitched again.
Victor bit the inside of his cheek.
“I don’t mean to—” A smile overtook Cam’s mouth.
“You certainly shouldn’t.” Victor would bite harder, but he’d injured himself enough for one day, thank you very much.
Cam’s brown eyes were sparkling. He still wasn’t what Victor would call handsome, but there was something there. Years of life. Of living. Pain, but happiness too. The gentleness Victor kept noticing amidst the chaos of the afternoon. Empathy as well. Hard-earned and genuine. Or perhaps that had always been there.