She’d been the one who found him in the basement he now lived in, tear-streaked and reeking of vomit after his eleventh-grade history teacher had forced him to give his presentation in front of the rest of the class despite his promise to do any amount of extra credit instead.
Simon swallowed, overcome with affection for her.
“The dogs are great, though. There’s this really big St. Bernard who’s a cuddly baby and throws himself around even though he’s probably two hundred pounds. And he has cats, too, and one of them comes on the walks. Her name’s Pirate—she’s a calico with a black spot over one eye—and she leads the group like a little cat tour guide.”
Simon’s grandmother squeezed his hand.
“It’s so good to see you happy,” she said wistfully. Simon ducked his head, but a nice, comfortable kind of warmth accompanied his grandmother’s touches. She didn’t rush him the way his father did, didn’t try and finish his sentences the way his mother did, didn’t try and convince him to just try and be social the way his sister, Kylie, did. The way his teachers and school counselors had.
“Yeah,” he said. He gulped the last of the tea and put his cup in the dishwasher. “I’m gonna go get started on work. You need anything before I do?”
“I’m fine, dear. I’ll be in the garden, I think.”
Simon hesitated. His grandfather’s rose garden was the place Simon still felt his presence most strongly, and it was where his grandmother went when she wanted to think of him.
“Is it bad today?” he asked softly. He wasn’t sure if bad was the right word, precisely. After all, it wasn’t bad to miss the man you’d spent your life with, was it? It was merely...inevitable. But it was the shorthand he’d used the first time he’d asked, when he’d found her at the fence, one swollen-knuckled hand pressed flat to the wood and the other clutching the locket with her late husband’s picture in it, and it had stuck.
She smiled gently at him. “Medium.” With a pat to his arm, she left him to make his way down to the basement.
After a year, the graphic design business that Simon ran from home had become sustainable. The ability to make a living had been a relief, but the bigger relief had been the opportunity to quit his job working for the company where he’d dreaded going every morning and the cubicle that had left him open to social incursion from all directions.
Now, he conducted all his communications via email. He made his own schedule, which meant he could take long lunches to spend time with his grandmother—or, more recently, take time to walk Jack’s dogs. He didn’t mind working on the weekends to make up for it if necessary. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere he wanted to go. In the quiet of his basement office, without the anxiety of the company work environment, Simon could lose himself in color, shape, font, and balance.
Today, however, Simon was distracted. He’d get to see the animals again tonight and already his skin tingled with the promise of contact. After the third time he found himself staring off into space, he pinched his arm, hard.
“Stop it.”
He told himself that it was pathetic to be this excited about getting to hug some dogs or cuddle a cat. He told himself that he was an adult and taking a walk should not be the highlight of his day.
He told himself a lot of things, but it still took him longer than usual to finish his work.
* * *
That evening, back in the clothes he’d worn to walk the dogs earlier, Simon stood once more before Jack’s door. This time, he was able to ring the doorbell and the sound was met with yipping and barking from within. After a minute, he heard a groan that could only be Jack and then a stream of swearing.
When the door finally opened, Jack’s hair was flattened on one side and sticking straight up at the crown.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “Sorry. Fell asleep.”
Simon glanced at his face and took in the shadows under his eyes, like someone had pressed thumbs there hard enough to bruise. He took in the creases on one cheek and the tightness around his mouth that might have been pain, and wondered what had happened to his leg.
He opened his mouth to say it was fine, but the words inflated in his throat until they were a balloon choking off his breath. There was the itch of panic and then he swallowed the words down and could breathe again. He nodded.
Suddenly, exhaustion hit him. He should’ve anticipated it, what with the effort it had taken to drag himself here this morning, the effort it had taken to go inside, and now the effort of doing it all over again. It was an exhaustion that sapped all his reserves and put a certain end to any chance of conversation that might have existed.
The anger rose and with it Simon could feel his chest get hot. The heat crept up his neck and his ears blazed. Before his face could turn red he clenched his hand into a fist and gritted his teeth. Then he closed his eyes, held out his other hand, and prayed that Jack would understand.
“Listen,” Jack said, not understanding. “It’s probably too much to ask. Twice a day. Maybe—”
Frustration consumed Simon and he drove his fist into the door jamb. It hurt. He held out his other hand without looking at Jack and, after a minute of shuffling noises and barks, felt the leashes placed on his palm.
Simon closed his fingers around them and nodded. Then he headed out into the cooling dusk without a backward glance, cursing himself silently all the way.
Away from the house he sucked in deep breaths. Again. Damn it.
“Your dad makes me nervous,” Simon told the animals. He could hear the misery in his shaky voice.
Bernard woofed gently in reply and Dandelion trotted excitedly at his side.
“I’m kind of crap with people,” he told them.
Rat snarled at nothing.
“It doesn’t help that your dad’s, uh...pretty hot. Even if he is kind of intimidating. But I’d be grumpy too if I broke my leg and couldn’t walk you. Wish you could tell me how he broke it.”
Simon went on chatting to the animals until Puddles stopped short. Simon peered at the ground, keeping Jack’s list of the dog’s fears in mind. It was a stick shaped like a lightning bolt.
He tried to guide Puddles to give the stick a wide berth, but the dog wouldn’t budge. Simon studied the stick, trying to intuit what it was about it that made Puddles so afraid.
After a minute he snorted at himself. Who knew better than him that fear didn’t have to have a reason?
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of it.”
He picked up the stick and threw it deep into the trees. Puddles let out a yip of relief while the other three dogs surged forward in an attempt to chase the stick.