liminalmemories

Evan giggled, cheeks pinking beautifully. “Your bar—”

“Oh, so it’s my hypothetical bar now?”

Evan rolled his eyes. “This hypothetical bar that hypothetically belongs to both of us won’t cater to fuck boys from like twenty years ago. You can play whatever terrible music you want.”

Instead of grappling with the fact that 2013 was twenty years ago and crumbling into dust, Tommy said, “I should not be given that power. Do you know what music I would play?”

“Weird industrial metal interspersed with like monastic chanting," Evan said without missing a beat.

“I’ll have you know monastic chanting got real big in the early nineties.”

“I can't tell if you're lying or not.” Evan scratched his scalp. “The other problem besides your terrible taste in music—”

“Hey, you love my weird industrial metal playlists,” he said, smiling as Evan tugged at his hair in reprimand.

“—is there's a lot of standing involved. Might tax your hip.”

“Not if I get a bionic one. We have the technology now.” That earned him another eye roll, but a loving one. “I don't think a bar is for me.”

“We'll think of something else. “Or,” Evan added with that beautiful smile, “you can be a house husband.”

That was a tempting thought. He could spend his days tinkering and reorganizing their cupboards and refrigerator using that color coded system they kept tossing around or maybe get that irrigation system up and running for the backyard. Hell, he could even finish rebuilding Evan's old Jeep.

“I wouldn’t even last a week before I started climbing the walls,” he said, rolling his head along Evan's broad thigh. “You'll have to put me down like Old Yeller.”

Evan laughed at his dramatics. “So we'll find something else for you to do.”

2. “I think we missed the extremely obvious,” Tommy said, plating the croque monsieurs.

“If you mean we should open a restaurant, I agree.” Evan proudly showed off the bi flag he’d assembled out of various berries. “Just think of all the specials we can have for Pride.”

“Now why do I get the feeling most of those would be banana based?” he asked.

Evan waggled his eyebrows and playfully poked his tongue into his cheek. Not for the first time, Tommy was tempted to divorce him just so they could get married all over again.

“That can be the back up plan,” he said, arms held out so that Evan could slide in to steal a kiss before he stole one of the plates. Tommy followed him to the table, his hip twinging as he sat. Growing old was a motherfucker, but it also brought him this: breakfast with his husband in the home they made together. “I meant I could give helicopter tours.”

Evan paused midway through shoving half his croque monsieur into his mouth. Almost fifty and he still ate with all the grace of a feral coyote.

“Chew before you choke.” He pointed his fork at Evan. “Do not make a ‘that’s what she said’ joke. It doesn’t even make sense in this context.”

“I was going for an anilingus joke if you must know,” Evan said with a full mouth because he was disgusting. He swallowed. “You love to fly. I know this.”

“You should.” Tommy took a normal human man bite. He finally go the bechamel sauce right. “How many helicopters have I stolen for you at this point?”

“The first doesn’t count. That was for Hen.” Evan speared a couple of strawberries, leaving the flag lopsided. Tommy grabbed some blackberries to even it out. “You love to fly, but you don’t actually like people. It takes you forever to warm up to someone.”

“Well, that’s not true. I liked you right from the start.”

Evan ducked his head, cheeks pink and pleased. More than a decade together and it was still so easy to make him blush. “You liked me, but it took you a long time before you opened up with me. My fault too,” he added quickly. “Remember the break up?”

“Like I could forget.” He stole a strawberry from Evan’s plate. “But this is just flying people around for a couple of hours. And the whole point of the tour is for them to be looking at the view and not bothering the pilot.”

Evan took a smaller bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Babe, I love you, but think about the kind of people in LA that can afford a helicopter tour. You really want to stuck in the air for at least an hour?”

“All right that is a good point,” he conceded, grabbing a few blueberries before Evan could get to them. “But consider this: we move to Hawaii and I open my own helicopter business and you get to mentor a whole new station and save even more lives. And,” he added casually, “I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to grow a mustache.”

“Wait,” Evan said, torn between laughter and outrage, “are you trying to Magnum PI me?”

“Tom Selleck in those tiny shorts were a formative experience for me.” He rubbed their feet together. “You got the legs for those tiny shorts.”

“You horny monster.” Laughter won, and Evan was glowing with it. “If I promise to wear the shorts, can we stay in this expensive city where we already own real estate instead of moving to an even more expensive state where we don’t own real estate?”

Tommy heaved a giant sigh. “Those shorts better be really tiny.”

“The tiniest ones we can find.” Evan’s face softened. “If you really want to fly tours then I’ll get started on getting you whatever licenses you need.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” he said.

Evan flung a blueberry at him. “I’m worried that you’ll find it boring. It’s not flying suppressant to a wildfire.”

“It’s a lot safer.” He considered all the calls Evan had been sent on over the years. “Probably.”

“Less chance of being swallowed by a whale,” Evan said, sneaking socked toes up Tommy’s pants leg.

Tommy sat with that, and when they finished their croque monsieurs and all the fruit, he said, “Let’s file it alongside the bar idea.”

“I’ll start a list,” Evan said, and pulled out his phone.

3. "I don't see why you gotta retire at all," Sal said, halfway through the fruitiest cocktail that Marge was willing to make, which was quite fruity and the color of a tacky sunset. Sal only ordered cocktails when they were at a gay bar, probably as a form of cultural exchange. As the kids used to say, Sal was a little confused but he had the spirit. "I always said you could move up the ranks if you wanted to."

"And I don't want to," Tommy said. "I'm a pilot, Sal. I belong in the skies."

Sal heaved a beleaguered sigh. "Save the dumb quotes for Howie." He took a delicate sip. "They're always looking for more instructors at the academy if you don't want to be in the field anymore. I never got why you wanted to spend all your time up in a tin can."

"Evan and I talked about it." He took a moment to line up the words in his head. Age and parenthood had granted Sal patience. There would have been a time Sal would have hounded him for an immediate answer, but now Sal waited for him to be ready. "I've been doing this job a long time." He did some quick math. "Jesus, almost all of my adult life."

Sal laughed. "Yeah, we somehow went and got old."

They were having a nice conversation over drinks, so Tommy didn't go and ruin it by pointing out that he hadn't ever thought he'd make it past twenty-six. "I love this job," he said, not having to search for the words; he and Evan had excavated them months ago. "I wouldn't have done it so long if I hadn't."

"Wouldn't have put up with Gerrard if you didn't," Sal said, holding out his cocktail glass and then giving it a little waggle when Tommy didn't toast fast enough.

"But I'm not like Evan or Hen or even you." He considered his cocktail, which was only marginally less tacky than Sal's. Hen was on the short list for deputy chief and he'd give up his license if she didn't get it. Evan was a captain, and he loved helping people too much to go take a position that would take him out of the field. And Sal had his house and the union and his holy crusade to make LAFD live up to its PR slogans. "I love it, but I'm done. I'm ready to be done."

Sal blew out a long breath but didn't fight him on it. "You'll be missed."

Tommy snorted. "I'm retiring. I'm not dying." He kicked Sal in the ankle. Sal retaliated, and they jostled for a minute before Marge shut that down with a pointed clearing of her throat. "And I'm not retiring right now."

"But soon, right?" said Sal, who knew him too well.

"Within the next two years. Three if I can't figure out what I want to do next."

"You can always give helicopter tours." Sal made a face. "I take that back. The first annoying customer is getting dumped into the ocean. You can't give tours."

"Evan already made that argument when I suggested it. And I never really considered it."

Sal gave him a long, knowing look. "You wanted to do it because of Magnum PI, right? You love a man in tiny shorts."

"I really do," Tommy said, and pulled out his phone to text Evan.

"What about a bar?" Sal suggested. "You could open a gay badge and ladder."

"I don't want to open a bar," he said absently as he texted Evan Sal agrees with you about the helicopter tours.

Sal leaned forward. "Hey, Marge! You looking for a partner for this joint?"

Marge looked up from slicing limes. "Deluca, what makes you think I want to enter into an legal partnership with him? I won't even marry my partner and I've known her a hell of a lot longer than Kinard here. Like her a lot more, too."

Tommy sent an air kiss her way. Evan texted duh the only thing we agree on is you be there in about 30 love u!!!!! That was followed by a separate text containing nothing but a dozen heart emojis and a few eggplants thrown in for good measure because there was no emotional state Evan couldn't find an emoji for. God, Tommy loved him.

"Also," Tommy added, "and I don't know if I mentioned this, but I don't want to run a bar."

"You're such a bitch." Sal grabbed him by the back of neck and planted a smacking kiss to his forehead. "Whatever you end up doing, you know me and the girls support you."

"I know." He dug his knuckles into Sal's ribs. "Now go see them. Give Gina my regards."

Sal shook him lovingly by the back of the neck. "You and her are so weird. Hey, bring the kid around to dinner. We'll brainstorm some career options.'

"He's not a kid," Tommy said. Evan was quickly catching up to him in the gray hair department and the increasing way he was squinting at his phone suggested he needed a pair of readers. "But sure. We'll put something into the calendar."

"All right, nerd. Tell the kid I said hi." With one more shake, Sal left to go back to his family and Tommy waited for his to arrive.

4. “I was the same way,” Marge said, replacing his cocktail with a club soda. He’d never been that big of a drinker, but had cut back even further over the last few years. These semi-regular outings with Sal was the only time he indulged now. “That’s how I ended up with this place.”

Marge was a handsome butch who was constantly changing how she kept her hair—for the past few months her gray hair was spiked in a mohawk and before that it was slicked back like a 1950s greaser—and had been behind the bar as long as Tommy had been coming here.

“You didn’t want to be put down like Old Yeller?” he said.

She grinned. “Pretty much. I didn’t want to continue what I was doing but I also didn’t want to be a retiree. That’s how I ended up with this place. Mac, the guy who owned it before me, needed to get out of town and needed money, and so I cleaned out my savings and took out a loan and Susie only had a single breakdown. Worked out for all of us in the end.”

“Why a bar?” he asked, frowning at his drink. “Wait, hold that thought. Where’s my fruit, Marge? Come on, you know a fruit needs fruit.”

“You ever see The Birdcage?” she asked, unimpressed as she dumped a bunch of cherries and limes and berries into the club soda, threatening to send it spilling over the glass edge.

“It’s that kind of question that makes me think you don’t like me. Have I seen a The Birdcage? What kind of fag do you think I am?”

“The kind married to a man who has seen two and half movies in his life,” she shot back.

That was a fair point, not that he would ever admit it. “So the movie made you want to open a gay club?”

He couldn’t keep the doubtful lilt out of his voice. The bar had a monthly drag night and did a trivia night whenever he and Evan badgered her into holding one, but it wasn’t the kind of place that played whatever was the hot new song and it definitely wasn’t the kind of place you came to dance and get drunk and do recreational drugs. It was a bar where you came to drink with people like you. It was a place where you got to exist as you were.

“You remember the sock scene?” she said.

Tommy sucked air in through his teeth. Of course he remembered that scene. His parents rented the movie because they liked Robin Williams, but his dad demanded they turn it off when it because it was about a bunch of queers. He and his mom watched it later when he was at work, and little eleven year old Tommy Kinard had almost started crying as Albert came out in that suit. He changed everything about himself, how he dressed and how he walked and how he sat, and all he kept was the pink socks, which was enough to give him away. All he wanted was to try to help his partner and his partner’s snotty kid, and they hated him for it.

“I cried myself to sleep over that,” he said. “I didn’t even know why.”

“Yeah, me too.” Marge looked around her bar, the regulars at the bar, the couple in the corner, the group of young kids playing the worst game of darts he’d ever seen, all of them obvious in how they walked and talked and dressed. “That’s why I bought this place. No one can tell us what kind of socks we need to wear. This is for us.”

“Us,” he repeated, and thought of the first time he bought an capital-G Gay movie and the terror that the cashier would know about him. And then he thought about last week when he scooped up a couple of gay romance books and the cashier didn’t even blink. “We should have more places. Hey, you own the building, right? Do you use the second floor?”

“Mostly for storage. Susie thinks I should turn it into an event space, but I do not want events happening here.” She gave him a knowing look. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he said. “I need to talk to my husband first.”

“Speak of the devil,” she said, and went to get Evan his basic beer.

“Hey, handsome,” Evan said, draping himself along Tommy’s side rather than sitting.

Tommy slipped an around around Evan’s waist. “Hey yourself. Not going to sit?”

“If I sit I might never get up again. Thanks, Marge,” he said, grabbing the beer. “What were you talking about? You looked very serious.”

“Pink socks,” Tommy said, sneaking his fingers under Evan’s shirt. “What do you think about a gay bookstore? One that also sells gay movies?”

Evan’s brow furrowed with how seriously he took the question. “I think,” Evan finally said, brow unfurrowing as he smiled, “that I’m going to start a spreadsheet for the financials.”

And there, in front of Marge and the regulars, Tommy kissed his husband. He spared a thought for little eleven year old Tommy, crying himself to sleep over some pink socks. That kid was going to be okay, and one day he was even going to be happy.

5. “This is a great a movie,” Tommy said to the kid who couldn’t be much older than sixteen.

“It looked interesting,” the kid said, swiping pink hair out of their eyes.

The store was small and, tucked as it was above the bar, got warm during the day despite the best efforts of the a/c unit shoved in the window. But Tommy loved, this little place full of books and movies and art. It was somewhere a kid with pink hair didn’t have to be scared about being clocked because it was for them. It was for all of them, him and Evan and Marge and everyone still figuring it out.

Ilya thinks about the day they'd spent together yesterday. Not even a full day, and still more time than they've ever had before. More time to get to know Shane, to learn that he's the kind of person that looks up a recipe to make hamburgers and then follows that recipe to the letter even when it doesn't serve his purpose. The kind of person who knows the exact make and model of the water pump in their well. The kind of person who can look at Ilya with sparkling eyes and say, but Sir, I'm just a bell boy. Who'll come while sucking his cock even though his last shower was an international flight and a long, warm drive ago. Who wants all of Ilya, including the ugly and the disgusting. Who wants total honesty.

So Ilya takes the honest leap before he can wake up enough to tell himself why it's a bad idea.

"I like you," he says.

"I like you too," Shane says, without hesitation, without thinking. So that's probably true, too.

Shane kisses him softly on the corner of the mouth.

"Stay here," he says. "I want to make you breakfast."

"Okay," Ilya agrees. He pulls Shane down for a second soft kiss before he lets him go.

Lying back in Shane's sheets, Ilya closes his eyes and lets himself rest. He can't remember the last time someone made him breakfast, not like this. During the season, breakfast is a re-heated burrito full of mince meat or a hotel buffet. In the summers, breakfast is whatever he can scrounge up for himself.

Here, he's got someone to take care of him. Shane, who wants to do things for Ilya, never demanding anything in return, is like a dream come true. One that can't possibly last.

Ilya, suddenly not tired any longer, opens his eyes. His gaze falls on Shane's bedside table. He scoots over, opens the drawer. There's brand new lube and an unopened box of condoms. They hadn't gotten around to actually fucking last night, neither wanting to let go of the other for long enough to get the necessary supplies. They've got time. Further back in the drawer, Ilya finds a dildo. It's purple. He grins as he pulls it out.

"Nice to finally meet you," he tells it, as he looks it over. It's smaller than he is, probably around average in size. It somehow feels like such a Shane thing to own. One medium dildo, in medicine grade silicone. A very average sex toy collection.

He puts everything back in its place and pulls on a pair of shorts to join Shane in the kitchen.

Shane has set the table on the deck outside, cups of coffee and plates of toast, bacon and scrambled eggs. It smells amazing.

"You're here," Shane says with a big grin when he sees Ilya, like he thought maybe Ilya would've slipped out the front door and started walking back to Boston, instead. "Come on. Sit."

He pulls the chair out for Ilya. It's starting to feel like his birthday. Like his best birthday ever.

"Thank you," he says, sitting down where Shane wants him. "For breakfast. You make a good wife."

Shane blushes and attempts to hide a pleased smile by taking a sip of coffee. Ilya returns it anyway.

They eat in silence for a while. That feels new and luxurious too, that they have so much time together they can waste it by not even talking. It's a very comfortable kind of silence, the kind that doesn't need to be filled.

"I was thinking," Shane says, eventually.

"Mm, how exciting for you," Ilya teases him. Shane gives him a pleased grin.

"Shut up," he says happily. "No, I was thinking, if you haven't been with anyone. Did you get tested? Because I haven't either, and I did. Not that I thought… but just in case. And I'm okay, everything came back green, I can show you if you want-"

Ilya shakes his head and holds his hand up, making Shane come to an abrupt halt.

"Breathe, Hollander," Ilya reminds him and Shane takes a deep breath. For a moment Ilya wonders how far he could take this, bossing Shane around. Stand on one leg, Hollander. Flap your arms like wings. Make chicken noises.

He shakes it off. Back on track.

"I think you are trying to ask me a question," Ilya says, and Shane nods.

"Yes," he agrees, then stalls by drinking more coffee. He's really nervous about this. "Yes, I am. I'm trying to ask you, if. We should stop using condoms."

Ilya feels struck by lighting. He's never fucked anyone without a condom, always careful about pregnancies and diseases. He's never been in a serious relationship with anyone, the only time he'd consider going without. And here is Shane Hollander, perfect, responsible, by-the-book Hollander, asking Ilya to fuck him raw.

"Just for the summer," Shane hurries to say. "I know we're not… When you go back… But maybe just for the summer?"

It's such a considerate thing to say. Shane isn't asking for Ilya to make any promises - promises Ilya desperately wishes he didn't want to make in the first place - and not to choose what happens later, either. He's being very pragmatic about it; if we're going to spend two weeks fucking our brains out, and you're good and I'm good, let's skip protection.

"For the summer," Ilya agrees, trying to match Shane's level of pragmatism. "Yes. I want that."

"Do you?" Shane asks, smile as bright as the sun. He's no longer matching his own level of pragmatism. Ilya feels vaguely like he's shown too much of his hand.

"Yes, Shane, I want to come in your asshole," Ilya says. It doesn't lessen Shane's enthusiasm one bit. If anything, it makes it take on a different dimension, too. Shane's jaw drops.

"Fuck, Ilya," he says softly, like he hadn't considered that part of unprotected sex before. "I really want you to. I wonder if I'll be able to feel it."

"Are you-" Ilya starts. Shane nods before he's finished asking the question.

"Wait, what's — " Buck tries to ask, but for a short guy, Chim still has all the strength of a firefighter, and he drags Buck along with him as he walks away from the bar.

Buck manages a glance back and a helpless shrug at the amused look on Tommy's face.

3) It turns out Buck took Tommy's place at the 118 and on the trivia team. Hen and Chim seem more mad that they lost their MVP ("I hate to admit it," Hen says, "But that man knows sports and movies and 20th century history to a really impressive degree." "Henrietta!" Chim snaps. "Do not speak fondly of the betrayer.") than that they lost their colleague and…maybe friend? Buck's not sure how much of the shit-talking is just for show. He's not going to be a lot of help to them for sports or movies or history, and when Hen asks what his specialty is and Buck says, "I dunno…trivia?" Chim lets his head drop to the table with a groan.

"Okay, listen to me," Chim says firmly, pointing two fingers at his own eyes and then at Buck's. "He wasn't here for the last one and we weren't here for the one before that. This is our first opportunity to show him we don't need his freakish knowledge of basketball stats. Do not fuck this up for us, Buckley."

Buck's starting to think that maybe this isn't going to be quite the chilled bonding experience he was expecting.

4) There's a round on aquatic creatures that Buck absolutely knocks out of the park. Then there's a round on 90s rom-coms, followed by one on sports that has Chim howling with rage and glaring daggers over at Tommy's table where he's squished between two other burly firefighters and scribbling industriously. There's a break after that, and Buck offers to go to the bar when he sees that Tommy's heading up there too. He can feel Chim glaring at him the whole time, so he doesn't do more than offer Tommy a smile. Tommy has no such qualms, beelining over to him once he has his drinks — Buck tries not to look at the way he's holding three bottles of beer in one hand, the necks slotted in between his thick fingers.

"Hey," he says, sounding bright and breathless. "How's it going?"

"You know Chim's going to give me hell for talking to you, right?"

Tommy winks. "Why'd you think I'm here?"

"Oh," Buck says, and tries not to let himself droop, because Tommy's really cool, and Buck doesn't want him to only be talking to Buck to get a rise out of someone else.

"Well," Tommy says, and his free hand rubs at the back of his neck. "I mean. Not just that."

"Buckley!" Chim yells. "Stop fraternizing!"

Tommy laughs. "When he gets really mad, he gets his little vein, right here," he says, tapping his own temple. "See how it goes."

"Yeah," Buck says, feeling giddy.

5) The 118 don't win. Harbor — because Tommy is a pilot, Buck realizes with an inexplicable swooping in his stomach. So. Cool — don't win either. In fact, they come joint third, tied exactly. He thinks Chim's madder about that than if the Harbor team had won outright. So he's a little confused when, once the winners have taken their prize and the quizmaster has wrapped up, Chim and Hen head directly for Tommy's table for an exchange of back slaps and greetings.

"I thought we weren't allowed to fraternize," he says, because he's trailed after them.

"During quiz time," Chim says.

"Quiz time is sacred," Tommy admits.

"You can talk to each other as much as you want outside of quiz time," Hen tells them.

Buck's not sure why, but he looks at Tommy right as she says that, and feels like he's been frozen solid by the color of Tommy's eyes, the laughter lines around them as he smiles.

"Is that a promise?" he asks, his voice low, and Buck feels like they're the only two people left in the bar.

"Yeah," he says, pretending he can't feel himself blushing, can't feel the weight of the stares Hen and Chim are switching back and forth between him and Tommy like spectators at a Tennis match. "Yeah, I'd like that."

They swap phones to trade numbers and Buck feels a zap of electricity when their fingers graze as they pass them back. Tommy's put his details in as 'Tommy (quiz night)'. Buck doesn't think too much as he changes it to 'Tommy (hot pilot)'.

Buck opened said big fat mouth but Sal beat him to the punch. "I planned this little social visit all on my lonesome."

Chim was too tired to even begin to detangle the Raso-Deluca-Kinard-Buckley codependency web to figure out if Buck had gone crying to his union daddy about whatever had his panties in a bunch now. With Buck, it could be anything.

"If this is union business then get in line." He held out for an entire ten seconds before giving in and snatching up the cup. "I already got the deputy chief after my head about the late evaluations. You know how long it takes to write up an entire station's evals when half your shift is spent putting out literal fires?"

"I'm familiar," Sal said dryly.

Chim downed half the coffee, which was a mistake; his pulse rabbited. "What the hell is in this?"

"Four shots of espresso, a fuck ton of syrup, and I think she poured in a packet of instant coffee."

He stared in horror at the cup. "Why?"

"She fears neither god nor death." Sal stood and slid his phone into his shirt pocket. Chim would bet good money if those cell phone belt clips were still around, Sal would be a proud owner. He was such a dad. "Let's take this to your office."

His vagus nerve went wild and his pulse kicked up another notch that had nothing to do with the espresso. "You've already made yourself comfortable. We can do it here."

Sal made a point of looking around the open concept loft at where all of Chim's firefighters were doing a great job at pretending not to listen in on their conversation. He was particularly impressed by Eddie's intense pantomime of searching the fridge for the quart of milk two inches from his face.

"This is a conversation better suited to an office that has a door, Captain Han," Sal said.

Ravi, who was heading towards the coffee machine, turned on his heel and beelined straight for the stairs. Coward.

Chim forced a smile. "If you would follow me, Steward Deluca."

"I know the way, asshole," Sal said, and didn't even wait for Chim to take the lead.

"Now who's the asshole?" he muttered and hurried to catch up with Sal. He was surrounded by assholes with long legs. This was why Hen was his favorite.

They made it all the way to the office before Sal paused, hand on the doorknob. Like the bay doors, Bobby had liked to keep his office open. "It sends the wrong message if it's closed," Bobby had said once. "We're here to help. People need to know they're welcome."

Before Sal could get off a quip or, even worse, be understanding, Chim pushed past and inside. At some point between the lab and all of them returning to work, someone had packed up all of Bobby's personal effects and cleaned the place out. The pictures and the #2 Dad mug that May and Harry had gotten Bobby as a gag gift on Father's Day went to Athena. The little figurine of an old fire wagon was in the Buckley-Kinard household. He'd caught a glimpse of it when they went over for dinner, which was a whole ordeal as they had to pack up the kids and both Jee and Nash hated being in their car seats. He had been irritated when he saw it, not because he wanted the figurine—that would have been one more thing for the kids to break—but because it hadn't even been a choice. Of course it went to Buck, just like Bobby's recipe cards, written by various Nash generations, had gone to Buck. Just like Bobby's final orders had gone to Buck.

The only attempt Chim had made at personalizing the office was to put up the obligatory framed photos of the wife and kids. He hadn't seen the point of anything else given how little time he was in there since the LAFD was all in on going paperless, which meant his laptop's new home was on the kitchen table. The air was stale. A tin layer of dust covered everything. Sal sneezed.

"So," Chim said, absolutely not hesitating as he took a seat behind the desk and laced his fingers over his stomach, "why are you here, Sal?"

Sal sat across him, mimicking his posture with his own hands folded over his stomach. "I'm just curious about why Firefighter Buckley has not taken the full family leave he's entitled to as a new parent."

The effort it took not to roll his eyes hurt. "Christ, I can't believe he went whining to you about this. Actually, you know what? I can believe he went whining to you. Isn't this a conflict of interest?"

"Buckley is only married to my best friend," Sal said, deeply unimpressed. "It's not like he's my brother-in-law and I'm his direct supervisor. Now that would be a lawsuit waiting to happen."

Chim took a deep, calming breath. "Buck took a couple of weeks when Theo moved in. I can't force him to take every minute available to him." That was polite and professional and more of an explanation than Sal was owed, and yet something about Sal's face, the set of his mouth or the fact he apparently stole Tommy's bitchy eyebrows, goaded him into adding, "It's just a foster placement. It's not like he's got a new baby. Besides, Buck is the donor, not the dad."

Sal went very still and very quiet and very dangerous. "Then I guess you think Hen shouldn't have taken her family leave when she and Karen took in Mara."

Through the horrific churning of his stomach, Chim said, "That's different. Hen and Karen were adopting Mara. And Hen didn't take the full leave either. Hell, I only took a couple of weeks when my son was born. Buck isn't being singled out."

"Yeah, let's talk about PTO." Sal deliberately unlaced his fingers. If this were a nature program, this would be the point where Buck would explain to Jee and Nash what a threat display was. "I've been doing some digging. Unofficially, of course."

"Of course," Chim agreed, annoyed.

"The 118 has a lot of unused PTO sitting on the books, which I find concerning."

"Oh, do you?" The annoyance was reaching the flashover point. "Tell me more about how to do my job."

Sal's expression didn't change; he used to be easier to rile. "It's not a good sign when your people aren't using the time they're due and that they've earned. Now I don't know if it's because they're all workaholics, in which case you got yourself a culture problem, Captain Han, or because they don't think they're allowed to take it. And if they don't think they're allowed then that's where I come in."

The flashover ignited. "You know, Sal," Chim said with forced geniality, "it's a shame that you never made captain. I remember you keeping us going through all those shitty captains after Gerrard. You were good at it."

"I sense a 'but' coming," Sal said, clearly amused, which only made the Chim's anger burn hotter by sucking up all the oxygen in the room.

"But you are not a captain and you are definitely not the captain of the 118." He jabbed a finger into the desk. "You do not get to come into my house and lecture me about my job and tell me how to look after my people. And if Firefighter Buckley has an issue with the way I'm running this place then he can put on his big boy pants and come talk to me instead of running to the nearest dad shaped figure to fight his battles for him. We all miss Bobby but some of us have to be the actual grown up in the room!"

Now Sal's expression changed, but instead of the self-righteous fury he remembered Sal being so good at it, Sal just seemed sad. "Howie, do you even want to be captain?"

That shocked him out of his fury. "What kind of question is that?"

"An overdue one, I'm guessing." Sal looked around the office, taking in the blank walls and the few framed photos and, more irritatingly, the ill fitting way Chim sat behind the desk. "I was surprised when I heard Hen declined the captaincy. I had her marked down for climbing the ranks ever since that night she found the car we all missed. You remember that?"

He snorted. Did he remember the night he and Hen became partners? Like he could forget how Hen metaphorically kicked their asses into being brave enough to dump Gerrard.

"I faintly recall it," he said at his most snide.

That got Sal to smile. "That's when I knew that someday I'd be calling her chief." The smile dropped away. "But then I hear she turned Simpson down. She didn't want it anymore."

"Bobby was mentoring her. She stepped up as interim captain when he was away. She was the one making the hard decisions. That's how she got on Ortiz's shit list." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "She doesn't want it like this."

"Nobody wants it like this." Sal heaved an old man sigh. "Do you know why I became a union steward?"

"Well, Sal, if I had to guess, I'm going with the fact you got an anti-authority streak a mile wide and love to fight with the brass."

"Well, you're not wrong," Sal said, a flash of wry humor. "But I was here for Gerrard. I saw what he did to Tommy. It was worse for you and Hen, I know," Sal added before Chim could rightfully protest. "He ground us down and turned us into the worse version of ourselves."

"Us?"

"Me." Sal leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. "I hate who I was under Gerrard. I hate how I treated you. I hate that my own best friend didn't feel safe to come out to me for years. I hate that it took me so long to do the right thing. I won't let another firefighter go through what we did. I will not let the brass protect more Gerrards."

"Is this your superhero origin story?" Chim said, knowing he'd crossed the line from good natured shit talking to mean bastard, but he couldn't stop. "It doesn't have the same flair as Spider-Man's origin, but, hey, at least you get the power without the responsibility."

Sal leaned back and donned a wide smile. "I'm going to do you a favor, Howie, since you're an old friend and we were in the trenches together."

"Lucky me," he said dryly. "That favor better be getting Buck to cool it on the snickerdoodle front. If I have to so much as see another cookie I'm transferring him to Alaska. I don't care how much Theo likes him."

"I'll do you one better. I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Bobby back when Firefighter Diaz almost killed a guy." Sal's smile became that of a great white shark. "I shut down the 138. I made sure there was an investigation into the culture the captain fostered and the harassment he encouraged. Every single firefighter who participated in the systematic sexual harassment was fired and denied all benefits. I oversaw the transfer of those affected firefighters to good houses with good captains. I dug and documented and uncovered every terrible, horrific thing they did, and I burned it all down and put heads on pikes and I salted the fucking earth. There will never be another Gerrard. I will not allow it, not even if it's the 118 and not even if it's your head."

"You self-righteous asshole," Chim said quietly, so furious he couldn't take a full breath. "You think you scare me? I've been dealing with people like you my entire life. I survived Gerrard. So if you want my head, Deluca, you're gonna have to fight for it."

"Howie," Sal said, not gentle because the only people Sal were gentle with was his daughter and Tommy, but kind, "do you want to be captain?"

Chim threw up his hands because the only other option was throwing a punch. "What fucking difference does it make? Hen doesn't want it. Eddie and Buck aren't anywhere near being ready to take command."

"You're not the only senior firefighter here," Sal said.

"But I am the only who fucking cares."

That was, Chim realized too late to do any good, a horrifying thing to say about the 118. It was the same thing Gerrard said every shift, the little phrase that allowed him to turn people into things: Gerrard was the only who cared about the job.

"I didn't mean that," Chim said into the asphyxiating silence.

"How did you mean it?" Sal said with what certainly sounded like genuine curiosity.

He forced himself to take a breath and then another. He brought his shoulders down a notch. "If I didn't take the badge," he said slowly, carefully feeling his way through the sentence, "then we would be stuck with whoever Simpson assigned here. We wouldn't get another Gerrard. I know you won't let that happen." He wasn't even annoyed with the way Sal tipped his head in faux modesty. "But we had a lot of captains between Gerrard and Bobby. You remember what they were like, right? They weren't bad captains but they—”

"Didn't give a shit," Sal said. "I remember."

The exhaustion ate away the last of the anger. "I don't want to get some guy who doesn't care about this place or about family dinner or about us." God, he was so tired. "We're Bobby's legacy and that matters."

Sal nodded thoughtfully and said, "I gotta ask one more time. Howie, do you want to be captain?"

"You're killing me, Smalls," Chim groaned. "Why do you keep asking that? Are you actually gunning for my job?"

"I'm asking because what it sounds like to me is that you took this job because no one else would and you were afraid the station would get saddled with a--"

"Mook?" he suggested.

Sal flashed a smile. "Yeah, with another fucking mook." The smile faded. "But you didn’t want this job, not like how Hen did and how Buckley does. And I think you resent the hell out of everyone for not stepping up and forcing you to do it, and I think that’s eating away at you.”

"I don't," he protested. "I'm not saying I would have chosen this if it weren't for everything, but I don't resent them for it. I'm doing this for them and for Bobby. We're a family."

Sal looked at him like Chim was an unstable building and Sal was trying to figure out the safest way to evacuate everyone inside. And then, with devastating precision, he asked, "And when was the last time you had family dinner?"

"Last shift," he said automatically, and then: "Wait, we had that call and Buck didn't get a chance to cook when we got back. So the shift before that. Or on Sunday. One of those days."

“You don’t seem sure about that.”

Chim opened his mouth to tell Sal to stop harassing him in his own station, but Sal had the audacity to be right: he wasn’t sure the last time they all sat down to dinner together. Buck had taken over cooking duties, but dinner was served buffet style with everything laid out so the rest of them could come and eat when they wanted to. It wasn’t like they were all retreating to their separate corners—people tended to cluster around the tv, on the couch, at the table, or leaning against counters because they were all raised in a barn—but they weren’t eating together, not like they before. Chim closed his mouth.

“Yeah,” Sal said, almost sympathetic. “This is your house now and you’re not handling it well.”

“So,” Chim said cheerfully, “this is the part where I tell you to get the hell out of my house.”

“This is what I’ve observed in the time I’ve been here,” Sal said, terrifyingly serious. “You have accused Firefighter Buckley of going behind your back by bringing me in, stated that he is not entitled to his full family leave per California law because he is only fostering Theo and implied that Firefighter Buckley is a child. You admitted to setting the precedence for not using PTO that the people under your command are entitled to and are resentful that Firefighter Buckley any family leave at all. You then proceeded to make several unprofessional and disparaging remarks about a firefighter under your command to another member of the LAFD. Is this you handling it well, Captain Han?”

“Let me tell you what I’ve observed,” Chim shot back, forcing his hands to lay flat against the desk. “Everything you just said exclusively pertains to how I’m treating Buck, which isn’t helping your case that he doesn’t immediately go running to you when another kid is being mean to him on the playground. My actual four year old daughter doesn’t complain as much.”

“That is a hell of a thing to say about your brother-in-law,” Sal said, “and an actionable offense as his captain.”

“Jesus Christ.” He dragged his hands down his face. “I know he’s your brother-husband, but this is still Buck we’re talking about. I’ve known him longer than you. Hell, I’m the reason you two even met.”

“You thought he was being unfairly treated and brought in an union rep to help him,” Sal said, tone heavy with meaning.

“Worst mistake of my life. Now I’m stuck dealing with both of you until one of us dies.” That was, Chim once again realized too late, too mean and too honest. “Bad joke.”

“That wasn’t a joke,” Sal said.

He gritted his teeth, and said, “I admit that was out of line. My son wouldn’t go down last night. I’m operating on about an hour of sleep.”

“The thing is, Howie, I don’t fucking care.” And there was the Sal that he knew and barely tolerated. “And those people out there, your people, don’t care either. You’re the captain. You don’t get to be tired or cranky or a goddamn asshole just because you missed some sleep. You don’t get to take out your frustration and resentment on Buckley because he’s your brother-in-law and you think that makes him a safe target. As you so aptly put it, Captain Han, you have to be the grown up in the room but all I’m seeing is a child throwing a tantrum. And my actual child knows how to behave better.”

“Tell me how you really feel, Sal,” he said, too exhausted to work up more anger. A tension headache throbbed behind his right eye. All he wanted was five goddamn minutes of quiet where someone wasn’t crying or grieving or expecting him to fix the unfixable. All he wanted was to be left alone so he could remember how to be a person again. “I’m serious. Dig deep. Lay it on me.”

“No one wakes up and makes the decision to be a hateful asshole, not even Gerrard.” Sal sounded as tired as Chim felt. “We give ourself little permissions every day. Your kid kept you up last night so that gives you permission to disparage Buckley in front of his coworkers. You didn’t take your full family leave so no one else should either. You care more about this job than anyone else, which means you can treat them however you want.”

Chim winced. “I get it, okay? I’m being a real asshole.”

“You don’t actually get it,” Sal said, and Chim had never seen him look so sad, not when Tommy was in the hospital and not even when he got himself fired. “I told you I’m here as a courtesy since we’re old friends. What’s happening here, all these little permissions and excuses you give yourself, this is how you get a Vincent Gerrard.”

“And you won’t let that happen again,” Chim said through a mouth gone sick and sour with shame.

“I never liked Nash, but I liked what he did for his place and what he did for you. I don’t want to have to salt the 118’s earth, but I will if I have to.” Sal stood. He wasn’t the biggest guy Chim knew—that honor went to his brothers-in-law—but had a talent for for filling the room, and right now there was no space left for him. “You saved Tommy’s life, and I am forever grateful for that, but I won’t protect you if you keep going down this road. The next time I com here, it will be in an official capacity.”

“Good talk, Sal,” Chim said, unable to summon up even the thinnest sarcasm. “My favorite part was the explicit threat at the end.”

Sal flashed that shark smile. “Don’t be dramatic. You’ll know when I’m threatening you.” The smile softened into something approaching genuine affection. “If you going to do this, Howie, you gotta do it right. And you don’t have to do it at all if you don’t want to. You can step down.”

“That will be all, Firefighter Deluca,” Chim said.

“Good to see you, Captain Han.” Sal nodded at him and then finally got the hell out of Chim’s house.

Chim got a full four minutes of quiet before the bell went off and then another minute before Hen shouted, “We gotta go, Cap!”

2. Tommy forwent buying a bottle of wine because he knew fuckall about wine, but he picked up some flowers and a some pretentious beers from the one pretentious liqour store in town and went to dinner. Everyone knew Mr. Artie was gay, but they were polite enough not call attention to it, probably because the entire population under the age of twenty would riot if they tried to oust him from his position.

Mr. Artie was delighted by the flowers and Tommy nursed a beer and watched as Mr. Artie and Steven moved around each other with the familiarity of long years and pretended that he didn’t ache.

When dinner was eaten and Steven had chased them to the rocking chairs on the back porch so he could clean up, Mr. Artie said, “Have you thought about what you’ll do now that you’re home?”

His grandfather had also been asking that, but it stung less coming from Mr. Artie.

“I have my pilots license,” Tommy said. “There’s some outfits nearby that run tours. I might do that. It’s not bad money.”

“And you like flying,” Mr. Artie said, gently rocking. “You’re good with the kids at the library. You’re even good with the people you don’t like.”

“Now that’s not true,” Tommy said, matching his rocking speed to Mr. Artie’s.

“It is. You’re a kind man, Tommy, and I don’t want you wasting away here.” Mr. Artie reached across the space between them and gently took Tommy’s hand in his. “You more than earned that GI Bill. Consider putting it to use. There’s no rule saying you can’t keep your license and do something else.”

Tommy swallowed around the familiar pain. “Do you think school is for me?”

Mr. Artie squeezed his hand. “It’s for everyone, but I think you would make a wonderful librarian, if that’s where your passion leads you.”

“Okay,” he said quietly, and squeezed back.

3. Tommy took a couple classes at the community college and then took a couple more. His grades were decent and then more than decent when he really buckled down. Mr. Artie helped him apply to school, most of them in Los Angeles, all of them out of town, and wrote a recommendation letter so glowing it felt like it belongs to someone else.

When he received an acceptance letter, Mr. Artie whooped so loudly he disturbed every teenager in the manga section.

“There’s something else,” Tommy said, hands shaking so hard that Mr. Artie took hold to steady him. “I’m gay.” It was the first time he ever admitted it out loud.

“Welcome to the family, honey,” Mr. Artie said, and held him so tightly that Tommy felt it in his ribs.

4. Tommy got his bachelor’s and then his master’s and joined the greater Los Angles Public Library system as a reference librarian who had a reputation for being able to find information on any subject, no matter how obscure or embarrassing. Tommy lost count of how many times he directed a blushing queer kid toward The Joy of Gay Sex and then on to his favorite informative pamphlet on trans sex.

So it didn’t even make his top five strangest requests when a beautiful man with a birthmark stamped above his eye said, “Hey, what are the new frogs?”

“Is this for a school project?” Tommy asked, already pulling up JSTOR.

“Personal research,” the guy said.

A cute kid on crutches, practically hidden by the guy’s, holy shit, long legs, piped up. “My cousin says we discovered all the frogs and there are no new ones, and she’s wrong.”

“But you need citations to support your case,” Tommy said, and the kid nodded vigorously. He refined his search to find something more kid friendly. “Well, it turns out you’re in luck. New species were discovered this year. I’ll get you set up at a computer and you can read some articles. I’ll even show you how to format a bibliography. That should shut up your cousin.”

Tommy led the kid and his dad to a computer and showed him the same search he used and pointed to him where the printers were and ignored how the dad’s gaze kept tracking to him.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Tommy said.

“You’ll be our first call,” the dad said. “I-I mean, if we have more frog questions. Or other questions. Like about, um, space.”

“Space?” the kid said.

“Yeah, like what’s going on up there,” the dad continued with an agonized expression that meant he was actively wishing for death. “Um, thanks for your help.”

“Any time,” Tommy said.

By the time the kid finished with his research, a stack of printed articles stuffed in his backpack, Tommy handed the dad a list of books about the history of space exploration. “Just in case you were curious about what’s going on up there,” he said.

“I know you’re making funny of me,” the dad said, “but joke’s on you. I’m going to read every one of these.”

“That’s why I gave you the list,” Tommy said, and smiled as the kid groaned and dragged his dad to the exit.

5. “Do you got anything on the history of ceiling fans?”

Tommy looked up into the handsome face of the dad from last week.

“Moved on from frogs, huh?” he said, already defining the parameters of the search. “Did your son win the argument?”

The guy blinked. “My—you mean Chris? He’s not my son. He’s the son of my partner. Work partner,” he added quickly. “I’m a firefighter, and so is Eddie. That’s Chris’s dad. I’m Buck. Uh, Evan Buckley. Hi.”

“Hello, Evan Buckley,” Tommy said, and tapped the nameplate on his desk. “That’s me.”

Evan made a show of looking at the plate. “Thanks for the space recs, Tommy. I really liked the one about the cosmonauts.”

“Just don’t go reading that one article about the lost cosmonauts. The scholarship on it is appalling.”

Evan was suspiciously quiet.

“Evan.”

“So are you really not going to ask me why I want to know about the history of ceiling fans?” Evan said.

“That doesn’t even make the list of top twenty weird things I’ve been asked to find references for,” he said. “And I don’t research and tell.”

Evan pouted. “We had a call the other day where a ceiling fan beaned this guy hard on the head, and I got curious about them.”

Of course he did. Tommy printed the list he compiled. “A lot of this is going to be about design, but I think you’ll find some good sources in there.” He tapped the bottom of the list. “I also added some micro histories in case you got bored with the fans. The one on salt is good. So is the butter.”

Evan stared intently at the list. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Tommy leaned in and lowered his voice. “You seem like the type to like fun facts. These are very fun facts.” He leaned back. “Anything else I can help you with?”

Evan jumped and glanced behind him where a sleep deprived student looked to on the verge of tears. “Uh, no, this is great. Thank you.”

“It’s what I do,” Tommy said, and waved the student forward.

6. Evan became a regular after that, stopping at least once a week with a new topic he was interested in: tattoos, African currency swords, clown eggs, a biography on Archduke Ferdinand, bones.

“Bones,” Tommy repeated. “Are you talking about in an anthropological sense? Do you want to read up on hominid fossils? Or are you more interested in it from a medical science angle?”

“Surprise me,” Evan said, and smiled at his sigh. “Hey, what’s your favorite thing someone has asked you to look up?”

Tommy thought about it while he picked out the densest anthropological textbooks to give Evan. “One woman came in asking for more information on sky burials. I never heard of it before, so I liked that I got to learn about it alongside her.”

Evan perked up. “What’s a sky burial?”

“It’s a mainly Tibetan practice. In higher elevations, the ground is too hard to bury the bodies and there isn’t enough wood for cremations. So when a person dies, their bodies are broken down and fed to the vultures.” He chanced a glance at Evan who was listening intently, the same as he did with everything Tommy told him. “I know it sounds macabre, but it’s—”

“No, it’s beautiful,” Evan said, smiling. “I think I’d like that.”

Tommy turned his attention back to his search. “Yeah, me too.”

When he sent Evan off to find the textbooks and the few resources on sky burials, his coworker June rolled over and said, “It’d be less embarrassing if you just asked to suck his dick.”

“This is why they don’t let you around kids,” Tommy said, and shoved her away.

7. Evan, Tommy learned, liked documentaries and histories and saw maybe two movies a year, and made a noise when Tommy asked if he ever read fiction.

“Sometimes,” Evan said. “I have a hard time finding anything that keeps my attention.”

Tommy started him with some Alexander Dumas (The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Crisco) and then a few old adventure stories (The Scarlet Pimpernel), and then a couple of romances and some fantasy, some of which he liked (Discworld) and some of which he didn’t (Tolkien was a bust), and then some scifi since Evan liked learning about space.

“Try this,” Tommy said handing over a copy of A Matter of Oaths, which he’d set specifically aside. “It’s one of the early queer space operas.”

Evan mentioned some ex-girlfriends and Tommy had carefully let slip that he dated men, and Evan had sweetly proclaimed himself an ally. But this was different. This was the book Mr. Artie had given him one rainy, miserable day that had made little fourteen year old Tommy feel less alone.

Evan smoothed gentle fingers along the spine. “I’m excited to read it.”

6. “While this courtship is very sweet,” Mr. Artie said that evening during their regularly scheduled call, “have you considered asking him out?”

“He’s straight,” Tommy said, pawing through his fridge for something that was edible. “And it would be unprofessional.”

“Honey, you told him about sky burials and had him read A Matter of Oaths. The only thing left at this point is to ask him to dinner.”

“Ask him to marry you!” Steve called out.

“I should have become a grossly overpaid private pilot,” Tommy said.

“You would have been so miserable,” said Mr. Artie, “and you would never have met your Evan.”

Well, Mr. Artie wasn’t wrong.

7. Tommy was late coming back to lunch, which meant he was going to get an earful from June, who hated covering the reference desk. She saw him heading over and, with audible relief, said, “Thank god. Your regular needs some help.”

Evan reluctantly turned around with a small wave. “I thought you were off today.”

“The flu’s been taking everyone out. I’m covering.” He slipped behind the desk. “What are we looking up today? You were on that bee kick last week.”

Evan turned a beseeching look on June, but he would have better luck with some actual bees; she happily abandoned him for her beloved microfiche archive.

“Uh, queer history?” Evan fiddled with the cuffs of his baby pink cardigan. “My coworker, uh, friend Hen, she’s married to a woman and I thought I should look into it more. I mean, I know there’s Stonewall and the AIDs crisis and then gay marriage.”

“Those are the highlights,” he said dryly and instantly regretted it when Evan winced. He made an effort to soften his tone. “There’s a lot more to it than that.”

“There is!” Evan snapped his fingers. “And I figured maybe I should learn more since Pride is coming up.”

“In four months,” he said absently, trying to figure out what to even suggest. Evan liked histories, but did Tommy start him with Stonewall? Did he give Evan a history about queerness during the Harlem Renaissance? There were more contemporary sources, things Evan had been alive for—the repeal of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell and Obergefell—but that was an US centric approach, and so many countries had their own queer cultures.

“I didn’t think this would stump you,” Evan said with a brave little smile.

“You know I like to make sure I get it right,” Tommy said, and printed out the list. “Start with these photography collections. It’s just queer people living their lives. If you like that, we can move on to specifics.”

“Thank you,” Evan said quietly, and made it two steps before turning back. “Hey, you also have a copy of The Joy of Gay Sex, right? I just want to be thorough.”

Tommy laughed so hard he could barely point Evan in the direction of the stacks.

8. Between his shifts and Evan’s shifts and a baby version of the flu felling him, it was three weeks before he saw Evan again. They’d been short staffed and apparently every high school student in the city waited until the last minute to write their report on Of Mice and Men, and all he wanted was to go home and watch something devoid of any kind of educational value.

Evan, dressed in a nice button up shirt and nervously bouncing on his heels, was waiting outside.

His eyebrows bounced up. “Evan, what are you doing here?”

Evan shoved his hands into his pockets only to immediately take them out again. “I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to go to dinner. With me, if that wasn’t clear.” His hair was so carefully styled. “Also I watched this program on sky burials the other day and that’s genuinely what I want now.”

Tommy cracked up and reached for Evan’s hand. “Tell me about it at dinner.”

Evan laced this fingers together.

9. Tommy brought Evan home for Mr. Artie’s retirement party.

“Oh, honey, you did good,” Mr. Artie said, immediately pulling Evan into a hug. “Be honest with me, did the sky burials work?”

“That and the history of salt,” Evan said, any nervous shyness vanishing. “I’ve really been looking forward to meeting you.”

“You are the first boy Tommy has ever brought home.” And Mr. Artie hugged Evan so hard he must have felt in his ribs. “Welcome to the family, Evan. I’m so glad you’re here.”