“I think he’d love that. Sebastian, say hi,” Fredric said. He felt his pocket, then pulled out a treat and held it in her direction. “He’ll love you more if you give him this.”
He heard her feet squeak over the tiles—running shoes, probably, and he realized he didn’t miss the sound of sharp stilettos on the hard floors. “Does he know any tricks,” she asked, then stopped as she plucked the treat from his fingers. “Sorry, that was a dumb question. He’s a guide dog. He knows like, all of them, right?”
Fredric grinned. “Maybe not all, but he certainly knows enough. Just have him sit for you.”
She gave the command, and he heard Bastian’s impolite chewing a second later. “He’s gorgeous.”
“Mm. And he’s quite aware.” There was a moment of silence that settled, awkward in the way that meeting strangers always was. He could tell a lot by voice, but there were days he did wish that losing a sense super powered his others. He wished he didn’t have to wonder how old she was, or if there was a dangerous look in her eye, or if she was sizing him up to see if he was someone who could be taken advantage of.
And then he forced himself to remember he wasn’t in that world anymore. And he knew things weren’t black and white, and nothing would be miraculously and fundamentally good just because he’d escaped his former life, but one of the reasons he’d done this was to learn how to trust. Old habits would die hard, but he had to let them go.
“So,” Agatha said, saving him from trying to figure out what the hell to say, “when do you move in?”
“Right now,” he said, and he heard her suck in a breath.
“With…nothing?”
“With a massive moving truck full of things I don’t need,” he answered with a grin. “And four strapping young men who I’m sure will provide a nice view for anyone who can appreciate it.”
She laughed quietly. “I do love a little window dressing. Can I help with anything?”
Fredric’s smile softened. “Thank you, but no. I have a fairly strict system.”
“Fair.” She hesitated, and he could feel it charged between them. “Are you married?”
“Divorced.” The word felt foreign on his tongue, but in the best sort of way, like a person finally understanding a brand-new language.
“Am I sorry?”
Fredric laughed. “You are most definitely not.”
“Then, dinner at my place this week.”
Fredric shook his head in disbelief, and he put his hand on Bastian’s head when the dog nudged his thigh. “This feels like a hostage negotiation.”
Agatha cleared her throat. “Sorry. Sorry…I get…I’m not super great with social cues and…” She stopped abruptly.
“Dinner sounds lovely,” Fredric said after a beat, and just like that, the threads of tension snapped, and air flooded the space between them. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“I love cooking,” she said, and it sounded like maybe she was smiling. “My boyfriend is really terrible in the kitchen, and I’m actually better at baking, but I can throw together a mean casserole. Um. If you can eat that.”
“I can eat just about anything,” he said. “Why don’t you come by the day after tomorrow, and I can let you know how things are going.”
“Yes. Yeah, okay.” He heard the smile in her voice. “Can I pet him one more time before I go?”
Fredric smiled widely and gestured for her to go ahead. She didn’t hesitate to drop to her knees next to him, and the warmth of her there—the proof of her presence beyond her voice—settled him. This was home. Or, at least, it was becoming home. It was a terrifying leap off a cliff that didn’t seem to have a ground beneath it, but if this was free fall, he’d be happy meet the ground with arms wide open.
Chapter 2
Ilan used to think that his overall bitterness and distaste for love and relationships would have made sense if he had shitty parents who hated each other. If he had grown up in a house of sharp words and sharper claws, the way Julian had with his mother.
But that wasn’t the case. He grew up humble, yes. Poor by the standards of every other child he went to school with and tormented because his uniforms were always second-hand and his shoes were always a size too small. But he was loved. Obscenely and completely.
He was their only child decades into their marriage, but not really a “miracle baby” even though they were a lot older than most when he was born. His mom had always said they took one look at him and decided he was so perfect, they didn’t bother trying for another.
Being the only child got to his head during his years where empathy was an abstract concept, and he cared more about getting his way with everything. Then he was disabused of the notion that he was special the moment he set foot on St. Alban’s campus. Within five minutes of standing on a playground in his second-hand uniform, facing kids who zeroed in like his poverty was bait, he’d been pushed down and punched in the gut and the hem of his shirt was torn.
He endured it for a week—eating lunch alone, listening to people laughing behind his back, nicknames that were cruel but not clever. And just as he felt the spiderweb cracks give in to the pressure, ready to shatter every confidence he’d ever had, Julian appeared.
He’d been out sick, but suddenly the attention shifted to this chubby boy with a massive scar under his lopsided nose and big, clunky hearing aids that he couldn’t hide under all his floppy hair. He walked with his arms wrapped around his stomach and his eyes staring at the floor, and he didn’t react to the taunts, but Ilan had a feeling he still heard them.
And something about that boy told Ilan he might be the most important person he’d ever meet. So, he walked up to the next bully that opened his fat mouth, curled his hand into a fist, and punched him,
Blood followed, and wailing filled the hallway, and Ilan was dragged off to the principal’s office and suspended for two days. His dad might have lost his job, and he was given a thorough lecture where his mom laid on guilt thicker than she ever had in his life. But he regretted nothing. In fact, when he got back to school, Julian was waiting for him at the fence, looking like he might throw up on his shoes, but there was a bravery in his face that made Ilan want to curl his larger body around that boy and protect him.
“You punched Christopher in the face. Are we friends?” Julian demanded the moment Ilan walked up.
The smile that spread across Ilan’s face felt like it was going to make his skin crack. “Yeah. We’re friends.”
It was as simple as that.
Two days later, Julian dragged him by the hand to meet his dad, who was standing at the far end of the fence with his hand around a long white cane. Julian was half-out of breath when he spoke, because even then, his legs were only half the size of Ilan’s. “My dad’s blind. Do you know what that means?”
And he did. Their rabbi was blind, though he’d only actually met him face to face a couple of times. “He can’t see?”
“Nope,” Julian said. “He’s nice though. Not like my…” and then his words died, and Ilan felt like there was something very big and very important that had just gone unmentioned. But the time for pressing him was over because they’d reached the man, and he let Ilan go to take his dad’s hand and tugged on it. “This is Ilan. Can you come inside and meet his dad? Please? He works in the office, and I want Ilan to come over one day. He’s my best friend.” Julian’s voice was high, tight, pleading in a way Ilan had never heard before. Like he expected to be turned down and stepped on.