Between Lives - 7. Chapter 7

"Today, I'm the line leader. I've been waiting three weeks to be the line leader. I got put at the bottom of the list cause I was new, but yesterday was Chrissie's day, which means that today it's my turn!"

"I told you that if you were patient enough, your turn would come." Nate tugs on Sophie's ponytail. Kids stream by them on the way into the school, but Sophie hangs back, letting Nate fuss with her hair and backpack. He wonders if she senses that he's still nervous to let her go at times.

"Chrissy's a brat!" she exclaims, twisting away from his hands. She makes a clumsy attempt to cross her arms in front of her chest.

"Sophie!" Nate just barely swallows his laugh, because, as usual, she's right. He's seen Chrissy Morgan on the playground, and the child is a spoiled monster. He crouches down next to her and tilts her chin up until she's reluctantly looking him in the eye. "That's not a very nice thing to say."

She sniffs. "It's true."

Yet another moment (there have been so many recently) when Nate wishes his mother was there to explain the facts of life to Sophie. He's never any good at it; he's far too jaded, and that's the last thing he wants his sister to be. A low, frustrated sound escapes him. "It may be true, but that doesn't make it right to hurt her feelings."

"She makes fun of my clothes. She hurts my feelings."

Nate beats down the irrational urge to throttle Chrissy Morgan. "Hmm," he says, struggling for neutrality. "All the more reason to do what's right. Don't let the fact that she's being mean influence how you act. Believe me, one day you'll realize it's more satisfying to take the high road."

Sophie scrunches up her face. "The what?"

Nate pinches the bridge of his nose. "Never mind," he says, standing. "I'm not explaining it very well. Just try to be nice. Remember that's how you like to be treated, okay?"

Sophie squints up at him, chewing on the inside of one pale, freckled cheek. Her hair looks a brilliant red in the sun. It frames her face like a fiery halo, and he doesn't think he's biased when he judges her to be the prettiest girl in her grade. "Okay," she says finally. She starts to turn away – Nate's reprieve is over, apparently – but before she's taken two steps, she turns. "When is Will going to come see us?"

"Soon."

"But hasn't it been forever? Doesn't he love us anymore?"

Nate ignores the second question since he hasn't a clue how to answer it. "Soph, it's been a week. Remember I told you he got a new job? A good one. It keeps him busy." At least Nate hopes it does. Will sounded optimistic when he first talked about the computer system he was working on, but hasn't said much about it since. In this case, Nate is praying that no news is good news. "Actually, I'm seeing him this morning," he says, which is the truth. "Do you want me to tell him that you miss him?"

"Yes!" Sophie throws her arms around his waist for a brief squeeze. She grins up at him. "Can I go now?"

Nate frowns. "What?"

"Are you okay now? Can I go to school?"

A choked sound escapes him, one he hopes Sophie takes for a laugh. "Yeah."

"Yay!" Sophie spins in a circle like a ballerina, then scampers through the doors and into the crowd of students. Nate watches until he loses track of her in the throng.

"Everything okay?"

Bran's deep voice has him catching his breath, as usual. He's standing close behind him, so close that Nate can feel the heat from his body. "Yeah. Everything's fine. Just, you know, playground drama."

Bran laughs. "I don't know. But I'll take your word for it." His fingers skim over the small of Nate's back, making him shiver, but Bran only smiles, then tilts his head toward the street. "Feel like getting some breakfast? My treat."

Nate doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. The devil on his left shoulder cackles and reminds him – in moving, colorful images – why he'd love to spend more time with his neighbor. Bran has stayed true to his word, mostly; he hasn't pressured Nate in any way. But being a flirt, Nate's discovered, comes as natural to Bran as breathing. A frustrating turn of events, though it's led to some vivid fantasies lately.

The angel on his right clucks her tongue and reminds him he has another commitment that morning. "I can't today," he says. "I'm meeting Wi—my dad for breakfast."

"Okay." Bran follows Nate's lead and begins walking away from the school. "Where?"

A frisson of unease takes him. "Closer to downtown. Where he's working."

Bran whistles. "Hell of a bus ride this time of the morning. I'm headed over that way. Want a lift?"

"You're going nowhere near there. Campus is in the opposite direction."

Bran grins and shrugs, unapologetic. "I don't have class for an hour, and I really don't mind. Come on. It'll save you the fare and about twenty-five minutes."

The devil's back, whispering in his ear. What harm could it do? He'll have Bran drop him a block away from the temp agency, just to make sure there aren't any awkward questions. And they'll have ten more minutes together. Alone.

God, he's so pathetic. "Okay. If you're sure you don't mind."

They walk home side by side, saying nothing at all, but it's a comfortable silence. Bran grabs his pack, tosses it in the backseat of his car, and it isn't until they're half a mile away from the house that he speaks. "Still looking for a job?"

"Um." Nate drags his eyes from where Bran's hands rest casually on the steering wheel. "Yeah. Definitely." He's felt out a couple of places this past week, but the hours were all wrong at one, and the other wanted him on the books – social security number and everything. He hadn't been able to get out of that office fast enough. "Why?"

"Well . . ." Bran taps his fingers on the wheel. "I may know something. The pay's not great, but it's all under the table – cash – so you'll keep every cent. Interested?"

"Yes!"

Bran grins. "Okay. I'll talk to the guy today. It's over at the college. You could ride with me in the mornings. Can't guarantee anything on the way home, though."

"That's okay. I'll take the bus." Nate lets out a breath and sits back against the seat, feeling about fifty pounds lighter. Lately, worrying about money has kept him as tense and fidgety as those other thoughts, and some nights, he wonders if he sleeps at all, between the two. Luckily, he and Sophie escaped with a lot of cash, but it won't last forever. A couple more months at the most.

He's so distracted by the money situation, that when Bran's finger touches the back of his hand, he jumps.

"Easy," Bran says, clearly fighting a smile.

Nate looks down to where his hand is resting on the seat, Bran's fingers less than an inch away. He dares an upward glance, but Bran's focused on the road – at least he appears to be. Nate tries to regulate his breathing, cursing at how his pulse is pounding in his ears. He waits – one block, then two – and Bran never moves, the bastard. Just stares at the road and hums under his breath, before asking, "How much farther?"

"Two more blocks," Nate breathes, then, before he can change his mind, he covers Bran's fingers with his hand.

Beside him, Bran sighs.

They pull into a parking spot two blocks down. Bran squints through the windshield, and must like what he sees at the meter, because he smiles and settles back against his seat. Only then does he turn his head and look at Nate. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asks. As he speaks, he turns his hand under Nate's until their fingers are twined together.

"No," Nate says, but his voice his barely a whisper. He can't fathom how Bran would hear him.

But Bran does, because he smiles, says, "I'm glad," and squeezes Nate's hand in his.

There are people passing by on the sidewalk. Any of them could look. Any of them could see. Not a single one, however, is his father. Nate takes a deep breath and twists their joined hands just enough to bare Bran's palm. It's calloused in places, crisscrossed with many lines, and Nate finds himself tracing them with the pad of his thumb, over and over.

He's vibrating, just like the car, tense all over, and when he looks up at Bran, a wave of heat blooms in his stomach. Bran's eyes are closed, his mouth is parted slightly, and his own breathing is quick and shallow. He's as tense as Nate, his other hand clutching the steering wheel hard enough to crush the soft padding beneath.

Nate doesn't know which one of them will put a stop to it. Probably Bran, because Nate sure as hell doesn't plan to, but a moment later, a soft tap-tap-tap on the window breaks the spell. Nate yanks his hand back, gasping for breath, as Bran hits the button to lower the passenger-side window. "Morning, Mr. Rhodes," he says with a small wave. Nate feels a pinch of evil glee to hear Bran's voice sound as unsteady as he feels.

"Boys," Will answers. "I was just on my way over to meet you, Nate. You're early."

"Oh." Nate clears his throat and rubs his damp palms over his jeans. "Bran gave me a ride. I hope that's okay."

"Of course."

There's amusement in Will's voice, but his eyes are kind, not accusing. "Good," Nate says. "Okay."

Will reaches through the open window and squeezes Nate's shoulder. "Well, you're here. Ready?"

"Sure." He darts a glance at Bran. "Thanks for the ride."

Bran's eyes sparkle with mirth. "Any time."

"Jerk," Nate mumbles out the corner of his mouth, then climbs out of the car, Bran's laughter following him. With one last wave, Bran swerves out into traffic and drives away. Nate pulls together a watery smile for Will, but it broadens into something a bit more genuine once he takes a good look at the other man. "You look good."

Will does look good, compared to a few weeks ago. He's still thin to the point of gauntness – not that Nate can say anything on that subject without being a hypocrite – but he's filled out some. He's clean-shaven and his eyes are clear, if a bit bloodshot. "Thanks for coming," Will says. "I wasn't sure when I'd get over to your place, and I have a few things I think you can use."

"That's what you said. What are they?"

"Come see." He gestures behind him to a building that, frankly, looks like it should be condemned.

"You live here?"

Will snorts. His gaze follows Nate's as it roams the dilapidated structure. "I'm afraid I do." He gestures at a rusted metal door a few feet away. "Coming?"

When Will's eyes narrow, Nate knows he's hesitated too long. "Yeah. Sure." He follows Will inside.

Will leads him up the narrow stairs, treading carefully in the gloom. Nate's face screws up in distaste. Rubbish litters the steps, crowds into the corners of the risers, but Will ignores it – even the occasional used syringe – so Nate does too. Old fears rise up, clog his throat with fear, but he focuses on Will walking ahead of him and reminds himself that he trusts the other man now. Somewhat. Enough that he agreed to follow him up to his apartment, at any rate, and that has to count for something.

"Not much farther now. Sorry about the stairs." Will glances over his shoulder. "The elevator hasn't worked in a while."

"It's okay," Nate says. "I don't mind."

The twist of Will's mouth is almost a smile. He doesn't speak again until they reach the fifth floor. "This is it." He turns to the right and stops at the third door down. Nate stays close behind him, glancing left and right at the other doors. Several are standing open, and inside these abandoned spaces, all he can see is dust and small piles of trash. In the apartment across from Will's, the corner of a mattress is visible around the doorframe. Next to it, a mouse is eating something off the floor.

"High style, huh?" Will's raspy chuckle carries only a hint of humor.

"Yeah."

"I was lucky to find it, you know." Will fits a battered key into the lock, then pushes on the door. It opens reluctantly with a loud creak. "Not many people will rent to somebody without a job. Income, you know, that's all they're interested in. If you can pay the rent. Course, no one wants to give a job to somebody without a permanent address, so . . . ."

Nate ponders the no-win situation. "That doesn't seem right. How can you ever help yourself, then?"

"How, indeed?" Will mutters. He throws his keys on the table. "Close the door."

Nate obeys with only the slightest hesitation. Will has earned something from him. If it isn't respect, it's something close.

"How old are you, Nate?"

Nate's gaze travels over the small, dim apartment. "Sixteen," he says. "Why?"

"It's just . . . sometimes you give off the impression of being much older. And sometimes, your naiveté scares me."

"You mean about having the job and the address?"

"I mean about a lot of things, I suppose," Will says with a sigh. He spreads his hands, gesturing at the room around them. "Well? What do you think?"

Nate turns in a circle to look; the full inspection takes less than thirty seconds. A twin mattress and box spring sit on a sagging bed frame in one corner. A plastic milk crate, acting as a nightstand, keeps it company. Nate blinks when he sees a magazine lying open on top of it – Law and Order Magazine. He wants to step over, confirm the enigma, but he can feel Will staring at him, so he moves on.

On the opposite side of the room is what Nate supposes is the kitchen, though it's really just a fridge, a dilapidated free-standing range, and a butcher-block table perched between them. A utility sink tucked into the corner rounds out the collection. A dirty plate and a pot caked with yellow stains sit on side-by-side burners, while a glass, half full of what could be water (but Nate suspects might be vodka) sits precariously on the edge of the butcher-block.

The only other thing in the room, besides the stray item of clothing and a few stacks of magazines, is a sturdy wooden table. It has only one chair, but, as if to make up for this lack, holds a variety of liquor bottles. They're all empty.

Nate's mouth quirks. "Do you recycle?"

Though Will is standing behind him, out of sight, Nate can feel the tension flow out of the other man. A soft laugh confirms it, and Nate realizes he wasn't the only one nervous about being in this place.

"I probably should. But then again, there are lots of things I probably should do. Should have done." Nate turns in time to see Will run a trembling hand over his face. "It's too late now, and it doesn't matter anyway."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah." But Will doesn't meet his eyes. "Anyway, I have some stuff maybe you could use. Well, it's for Sophie mostly." Will crosses the room, pulls a box from the corner, and that's when Nate notices there are many boxes stacked along the perimeter of the room. Some are yellowed with age, all are covered in dust. Will winks at Nate as he sets the box on the table, carefully pushing the empty bottles aside to make room.

The box is labeled in black ink, the handwriting neat and slanted to the right. "Alex's clothes?" Nate asks, cocking his head to read the writing.

"Yeah." Will clears his throat and swallows. "Alex is my daughter. These," he gestures at the box, "should fit Sophie. Alex was seven when . . . when she wore this stuff. I figure that's about right. Seven?"

Nate nods mechanically, though his mind is spinning with this new information. "I didn't know you had a daughter."

Will pulls a pocket knife from his jeans and slices open the box. He doesn't answer.

Nate forges ahead anyway. "Is she—? I mean, is she—"

"She's not dead," Will says gently, saving him. "I just haven't seen her in a long time."

"Why not?"

"Her mother took her away." He peels back the flaps and the scent of mothballs overwhelms them both. Will waves his hand over his nose. "Christ! Sorry. They'll probably need to be washed."

"That's okay." Nate smiles in spite of himself as Will begins to place one small pink garment after another onto the table. "Pink," he says, smiling.

Will gives a sad chuckle. "Yeah. Alex loved it, too. Just like Sophie. Pink, pink, pink. Nauseating."

Nate laughs outright, all the way from his stomach, and it feels fantastic. "It does get to be too much. I'm dreading the day she wakes up and hates it, to be honest. It'll mean a whole new wardrobe." He winces at the thought.

Will claps him on the shoulder. "No sense worrying about something before it happens. You're a good brother, and you take good care of Sophie."

Unexpectedly, Nate's vision blurs, and he ducks his head, pretending to inspect the small pink t-shirt he's holding. A vise squeezes his throat. He has the powerful urge to blurt out everything right at that moment – the whole sordid story – because Will won't hurt him. He'll understand that sometimes Nate is so terrified he can't breathe. That sometimes, at night, when Sophie's sleeping and no one can see, he can't help crying, even though everyone says it's not the kind of thing a man does. "Thanks," he chokes out.

Will's hand tightens briefly on his shoulder, fingers strong and comforting against his collarbone. "Okay, Nate?"

"Yeah."

Will takes him at his word.

They empty the box and it turns out over two-thirds of the clothing will work. Sophie now has a new bubblegum-pink wardrobe to replace the two threadbare outfits they've been wearing for nearly a month. "Just like winning the lottery," Nate says as he refolds everything Will has given him. "She'll love them. Thanks."

Will sweeps the few discarded items back into the box and returns it to the corner, then meanders back, scratching at his stomach a little self-consciously. "Um, I'd offer you something to drink. But I don't really have anything."

Nate glances at the liquor bottles. "Nothing nonalcoholic, you mean." Will's face hardens, and Nate curses himself for not thinking before he opened his mouth. Their friendship is still fresh, too new for censure and criticism. The last thing he wants to do is alienate Will. "Sorry," he whispers.

"You may feel like you have a right to judge me. But you don't, you know." Will's voice rises, enough so that unease stirs in Nate's chest. Will must sense it, because he suddenly turns his back and walks to the room's one grimy window. His voice drops so low that Nate strains to hear it. "No right at all."

"I’m sorry." Tentatively, Nate moves forward and reaches out, fighting past the anxiety churning his stomach, and touches Will's arm. "You're right. I don't. I just wish . . ." He lets his voice die off, because wishes – he knows by now – mean absolutely nothing.

"You wish what?"

"Never mind."

"Say it, Nate."

"That you'd stop drinking. I think—" He stops and licks his lips. "I think you could have so much more if you did." He remembers the law journal lying open by the bed.

"I've had more." Will throws a glance over his shoulder. "It's not all it's cracked up to be."

The vast difference in their age and experiences is a gulf that Nate can't hope to bridge. He does understand one thing, though. Will is a man who's left his life behind. He's wandering – maybe not lost, but not found either. So few people would understand that, but Nate is one of them. "No, it's not, is it?"

As bonding moments go, it's dysfunctional, at best, but when Will turns and offers him a sad smile, Nate is happy for it nonetheless.

Will produces a handful of crumpled up plastic grocery bags and, together, they stuff the clothes inside before heading back downstairs and onto the street.

"Thanks again." Nate holds out his hand, and Will takes it with a bemused smile. There's a melancholic aura about him that wasn't there before, and Nate feels guilty because it's obvious he's partly responsible. "Hey," he says as Will's turning away. "Listen. Do you want to come to dinner tonight?"

"Dinner?" Will blinks, like Nate has spoken a foreign language.

"Um, yeah? The meal at the end of the day? Dinner?" Nate flashes a lopsided smile. "Sophie misses you."

Will stares at him.

Uncomfortable, Nate shuffles his feet. "You don't have to, if you have other plans. It's no big deal."

Will swallows heavily. "Sophie misses me?"

"Yeah." Nate laughs. "Are you kidding? She asks about you all the time."

"I didn't know." The corner of his mouth twitches, then very slowly, turns up in a smile. He hooks his thumbs in the front pocket of his jeans. "That would be nice. Dinner. I'd like that. What time?"

"Oh, I don't know. Six-thirty?"

"Six-thirty." Will clears his throat. "I'll be there."

They part, Nate for one bus stop, Will for another. Nate spends the ride home planning for the evening, cataloging what he has at home and what he'll need to buy. Dinner will have to be a simple affair, he's not a fancy chef, but he can manage a healthy, hearty meal, which is exactly what Will needs.

When Bran's car rumbles into the driveway between their houses later that afternoon, he smiles. He's left the window open on purpose, and sure enough, less than a minute after Nate hears the car door slam, Bran's face appears on the other side of the screen. "Whatcha cooking?"

"Stew," Nate answers in a bored voice.

"It smells delicious. Can I have some?"

If there are any constants in Nate's life these days, Bran's appetite is one of them. "Yes," he says, drawing the word out. "If you do me a favor."

Bran doesn't answer right away, and Nate glances up, suddenly worried he's taken the teasing too far. "Bran?"

"You want me to do you a favor? Really?"

"Well." Nate puts down the knife he was using to cut the vegetables. All of a sudden, his hands are unsteady. "You don't have to."

"No!" Bran's face disappears from the window, and a moment later he's barreling through the back door. He drops his backpack and jacket on the floor before approaching Nate cautiously. "No, I want to do it. Whatever it is. I just . . ." He sidles close and pushes a bag of celery out of the way before leaning back on his elbows across the Formica. "You've never asked for anything before. I kind of got the feeling you didn't trust me."

He hadn't, but none of that was Bran's fault. Nate fingers the knife handle while he ponders when it all changed. "I trust you," he says quietly.

"Good," Bran says, leaning closer, "does that mean I can flirt with you now?"

As if he hadn't been all along. Nate gulps. "If – if you want to." His hands are shaking for a different reason now. He flashes back to earlier that morning, and his body warms to the memory, waking and stretching. It's far from the first time today he's found himself replaying the scene in his head.

"Are you sure? I thought you weren't interested."

The aloof tone feels like a slap in the face. Nate's lips press into a thin line, and he pulls another carrot from the bag in front of him. Unable to speak, he shrugs one shoulder.

But when he picks up the knife again, Bran stops him. "I'm sorry, Nate. That was cruel." He pries the cleaver from Nate's hand and places it a safe distance away. "I do want to," he whispers before brushing Nate's hair back and pressing a light kiss to his temple. "Very much."

Nate shivers. "Now?"

"Well, you look kind of busy right now," Bran says. His eyes sweep over the countertop, littered with chopped vegetables, then grins at the steaming pot on the stove. "And I'm hungry."

"And your stomach takes precedence, of course." Nate blows out a breath.

Bran shrugs, then steps back. "No one has ever accused me of being complicated. Did you say you needed a favor?"

Nate clears his throat and retreats to the refrigerator. "Um, yeah," he says, trying to collect himself. "I was hoping you could pick Sophie up for me? Just this once."

"Will they let me?"

"I added you and Miss Emma to her emergency contact list last week."

Bran arches an eyebrow, but leaves off commenting.

Nate rushes ahead. "My—my dad will be home for dinner, and I wanted to have something besides boxed macaroni and cheese for once."

"Whatever for?" Bran smacks his lips.

Nate rolls his eyes. "Don't you ever get sick of that stuff? Never mind. Don't answer that."

Bran laughs. "I'm just teasing. Sure, I'll pick up Sophie. I'm honored you asked, actually. Is that weird?"

"No," Nate says, staring hard at him.

"No, I guess it isn't," Bran agrees. "Okay." He retrieves his backpack and jacket and slings them over his shoulder. "It's almost her dismissal time, so let me drop these off next door, then I'll take off." He turns to leave, but Nate reaches out and catches his arm.

"Thanks, Bran. For everything." Nervous, he nibbles on his lip. Of course, he wants to say more, but he's never been eloquent. He hopes his eyes convey what he can't seem to verbalize.

Bran's gaze is fixed on Nate, watching his teeth work the flesh of his bottom lip. "Damn," he mumbles, then surges forward for a quick, hard kiss. "You," Bran says, pointing at him, "are going to get me in big trouble." He waves goodbye over his shoulder. "See you in a bit."

Nate stands in the middle of the kitchen for a long time after Bran leaves, fingers pressed to his mouth, oblivious to the pot of bubbling stew on the stove. The contact was so unexpected, so brief, that it was over before he knew what was happening, His mind, however, happily replays it for him, an endless loop of sensation, until he's flushed all over, mouth bone-dry. He wonders if Bran knows that was the first time anybody has ever kissed him.

It takes him forever to refocus on the task in front of him. In fact, he's barely started to chop vegetables again when there's a sound at the back door. He looks up to see Bran in the doorway, Sophie in his arms.

It takes a moment, but Bran's ghost-pale complexion registers the same moment that Sophie's crying does. He drops the knife and rushes forward, scooping Sophie out of Bran's arms and cradling her close. "What's wrong?" he demands. "What happened?"

"Nate," Sophie whines. "I don't feel good."

"They had her at the nurse's office when I got there." Bran runs a hand over her hair. "They said she started feeling sick about an hour ago."

Nate cuddles her close, gasping when his cheek touches her forehead. "She's so hot."

"She's burning up. I think you should take her to the doctor."

"I—okay. Where's the nearest one?"

"Well, there's an emergency clinic near the hospital."

Briefly, Nate mourns the safety and security he's nurtured these past weeks. It's unfair how easily they're wiped away, like a sandcastle under a wave. Cold, detached, he nods and carries Sophie in the living room, then wraps her in the throw they keep folded over the back of the couch. His mind is spinning, calculating how the next part of their deception will play out. Sophie whines, and he rubs her back as he stares out the window.

"Nate?"

Bran has followed them. He's standing in the doorway, a strange look on his face. "Can I do anything?"

"No." Nate shakes his head. "I'm fine. We're fine."

"Maybe you should call your dad?"

Sophie starts crying, soft, hiccupping sobs against his chest. "No, no," Nate whispers to her. "Bran's talking about Will. Don't cry."

"Are you going to go get him?" she asks, turning her face up to his. Her hair is a sweaty, matted mess. He smoothes it off her cheeks, wincing at how hot she feels, and not liking one bit the red patches rimming her eyes or the scratchiness in her voice.

"Yes. I'm going to get him right now. It's going to be okay." Once more, the lies. It's frightening how they settle around him, familiar, like an old blanket. He rocks her back and forth. "Don't worry. Everything is going to be just fine."