He opened his hand to look at the ribbon, the dent in his palm fading as he stared down, and faced the idea he’d been suppressing.
I have Ariana’s ribbon back. Brian could Find her! His heart raced and acid caught at the back of his throat, in a flash of hope and fear. This is all he needs!
All these months, he’d desperately wished Brian could use his Finding talent to search for Ariana, but Brian used a token, an object with connections to its owner, to follow a person’s thread. It’d felt like some kind of cruel irony, or karma, that he’d lost the ribbon— his only connection to his sister— before he ever met Brian. He’d tried so hard not to be bitter about that, despite nightmares where Brian was about to lead him forward and the clip vanished from his hand. One more regret for his collection. That was life, right?
That’s all changed now.
Maybe.
He looked down at the faded ribbon. It’d been a new hair-clip, all those years ago. Had she worn it once, or three times? Ten? Would it still lead to her, or had a decade of Nick holding it tight made it connect only to him?
And what if Brian touches it and there’s nothing there? What if he says she’s dead?
His hands shook as he struggled with his little treasure box. It was hard to hold the ribbon and the box, while sliding the strips of wood in the right order until the top opened, but he couldn’t set the clip down.
The box was mostly empty. At the bottom was a picture of his parents, printed from an old newspaper announcement of their engagement. On top of it, a picture of himself, grinning like a loon at his Academy graduation, spiffy in his uniform, so sure he was about to set the world on fire. Then, rattling loosely, one key to his bank box where he kept the important legal crap, a pebble from the beach where he’d gone on his first actual date, and a coaster from the bar where he and Charlie came out to each other, back before Charlie’s injury. A round knob was from the window crank of his first car— an ancient piece of shit that only lasted seven months, but it’d been his.
He set the hair clip in gently, shut and latched the lid. Wait. Later. Don’t think about it now.
He was in the middle of the timesuck of moving. He had a truck burning rental money in the driveway. Now was not the time to get tangled up in something else as complicated as Ariana. He tucked the box carefully back into his backpack, well down near the bottom, and set it beside the door. Not losing that again.
When he returned to the bedroom, Charlie was sitting on the bare box spring, texting.
“Ordering breakfast?” Nick asked, leaning on the doorframe.
“Reassuring my mother, again, that I won’t let you talk me into heavy lifting or a boxing match or mowing the lawn or anything else that would wreck my shoulder.” Charlie gave the phone an extra-firm tap, stood much too creakily, and stuck it into his hip pocket. “I could go for some food, but you’re buying.”
Nick was torn between ragging on Charlie’s mom for hovering, and kind of agreeing that he wasn’t good for Charlie’s health. He settled for, “I don’t have a lawn.”
“I told her that.”
“Why don’t you go pick up some donuts or something? Let me grab you some money.” He picked up the envelope off the floor. Sure enough, twenty bucks. He held it out.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Maybe.” He made himself grin. “Before you find my butt toys.”
“Ooh, toys.” But Charlie came out of the room good-naturedly. “Sure. I can fetch some stereotypical cop food. Jelly or chocolate?”
Nick didn’t let himself flinch at the reminder of their lost jobs. “Both. And coffee. Lots of coffee.” He dug his keys out of his pocket. “Take my car.”
As soon as Charlie had headed out, Nick began hustling to get the mattress and box spring out to the truck. Charlie wasn’t stupid about his disability, but he hated to give in to it. The last thing Nick wanted was for him to cripple himself up just so Nick could bring his damned bed. He wrapped an end of each piece with cling wrap for the skid-factor and dragged them out, not worrying about a little damage.
Lifting and heaving the stupid things was good. It made him breathe hard and sweat and not think. He shoved the box of his probably-useless-in-North-Carolina winter gear over and manhandled the mattress against the truck’s side wall, cursing at its unwieldiness. At least there was room to maneuver. His stuff, which had looked like so much, between the trailer and the rental house, didn’t even fill half the truck.
Just as well. He and Brian didn’t have a new place to put it yet. They’d managed three days together in a dumpy motel, before he’d had to return the previous rental truck to Minnesota. It hadn’t been long enough to do much planning. A little smile quirked his lips at the memory of what they had managed to fit in.
He turned and sat on an overstuffed carton, pulled his phone out of his pocket and hovered over the text icon. Brian likes it when I call. He hates struggling with texts. It’s called being a good boyfriend, not jonesing to hear Brian’s voice— Nick wondered who he thought he was fooling, inside his own damned head. He tapped his favorites list.
The phone rang for a while, but right before it would’ve cut to voice mail, Brian panted, “Yeah? Hey! Nick.”
Three ordinary words, and something in him relaxed. “Yup.”
“What’s up? Ouch!”
“You okay?”
“Dropped something on my foot.” Brian’s breathing steadied. “Is there a problem? You’re still arriving on Friday, right? You didn’t change your mind?”
“Of course not.”
“Sometimes I worry.”
Fucking understatement. Brian had no self-confidence. Nick had quit his job, his trailer was up for sale, and he’d closed off the lease on the house. He’d spent two weeks packing and organizing and sorting both places, and apparently Brian still didn’t believe in him. Over a mix of affection and irritation, he said, “I promised you. I don’t break promises.”
Brian’s sigh was loud enough to hear. “I trust you. I don’t trust life.”
Hell, can’t argue with that. “Yeah, okay. But Charlie’s around to beat life into submission with one hand tied behind his back.”
“Ha. Yeah. Go Charlie. Is he all right?”
“Seems to be.” He hadn’t actually talked to Charlie about all the shit that had gone down on the boat just weeks ago. Nick’s gut sometimes twisted, remembering that he’d pulled a guy with Charlie’s morals into a mess that ended up close to murder. Does Charlie still have nightmares? At least he didn’t have to shoot anyone. Sometimes he thought there were new shadows in Charlie’s eyes, but then other times there weren’t, and Charlie was dealing with enough other shit that it might not all be Nick’s fault. “He’s still set on moving down with us. He still gets on my case. I think he’s fine.”
“And are you fine?” Brian’s voice softened.
“Sure. Why?”
“You haven’t said why you called.”
“I can’t just want to chat with my boyfriend?” That word still sat oddly on his tongue, but he was coming to like the taste of it.
“Of course you can.” Brian’s tone deepened. “Should I tell you what I was thinking about this morning? In bed?”