“Exhausted,” Simon said. “Don’t worry about it. Take a nap. Work from home.”
Alex let out a little laugh. “But I was going out to lunch with my boss today.”
Simon’s heart became a warm spot in his chest, which was nice because at this point, it was so cold he could see his breath. “Your boss could bring you lunch,” he said hopefully. “I don’t think he’d mind.”
“That’s really nice of him,” Alex said softly. “Considering he already brought back my friend’s dog.”
“Well, maybe he’s really a decent guy, even though he seemed like sort of a sociopath yesterday at lunch.”
“Not a sociopath,” Alex said and then abandoned the third-person conceit. “And for someone who thought witchcraft was weird yesterday, you certainly are doing well now.”
“Forty miles,” Simon said simply. “I think I’d have to see the pastrami sandwich and the floating arrow to believe it, but… forty miles. And not one of you wouldn’t have conjured that dog out of thin air if you could have only found a way. So, yeah. Don’t know how you opened a portal to my house in Jackson—or even why—but the dog showed up at eight o’clock last night, which was apparently when you were taking out your trash. I’ve, uh, got to take some things on faith.”
Alex practically melted into him, liquid and trusting, and suddenly Simon could believe in the pastrami sandwich too, because it was something he’d yearned to have in his life for so long. Alex, that was. Pastrami wasn’t really his thing.
Glinda did her business eventually, and they turned around and went back. Alex unselfconsciously took his hand and pulled him up their driveway, warning him to be careful of the squirrels and not to get too close to the apple tree.
Simon took a good look at the tree as they were passing and wished urgently for a bathroom. “Snakes?” he rasped. “I thought….” Because he’d seen this, hadn’t he? “I thought the snakes turned around and left.”
“Some of them,” Alex said, shuddering. “You know, Jordan likes snakes and insects, and this freaks even him out. The sunrise and sunset rituals do their bit, but….”
Simon paused at the doorway to the little stucco suburban house and realized that the squirrels—doing a single-file shuffle in a large figure eight across three driveways and adjoining yards—weren’t the only odd thing in the neighborhood, and neither were the snakes.
As he looked to the dilapidated, ill-fitting cottage on the corner, a starling swooped low to the lawn and a mammoth gray cat with long, glorious fur leaped three feet in the air and took it down with one paw.
Without ceremony the cat picked the poor thing up in its teeth, walked it across the sidewalk, and dropped it into the gutter by the street. Then he turned around, stalking proudly, and resumed cleaning his paws in the middle of the yard, surrounded by—Simon counted—eight other cats, for a total of nine.
“Alex?” he asked, as Alex tugged him inside the perfectly normal little stucco house. “What’s wrong with your neighborhood?”
Alex gave a tired laugh. “That, Simon, is the question of the ages.”
Inside the house it was warm and cozy, and it smelled divine. Alex took Simon’s black wool peacoat and hung it on a peg by the door as Simon was seduced into an enormous refurbished kitchen with a giant oven and a gleaming stainless-steel refrigerator. The smell of cinnamon rolls was so tangible it practically formed the silhouette of a voluptuous woman—or built man—and wafted him toward the oven. Bartholomew stood at the polished granite counter, ladling icing from a small glass bowl onto a tray of browned cinnamon rolls. Lachlan stood watch over him from about three feet away, and Bartholomew’s lips were moving almost unconsciously. Simon frowned, trying to make out the words, but Lachlan caught his gaze and held his fingers to his lips.
“He’ll be done in a minute,” he murmured, and Simon forced himself away from the kitchen—obviously the heart of the house—and wandered into the living room.
Which wasn’t bad. The carpet was beige and the furniture off-white, but a bold burnt-orange throw rug and throw pillows stopped it from being bland. The trim in the room was painted navy blue, and while the color combo was unusual, it was also interesting. Someone had put up some framed prints—two Picassos and one local artist—with either dominant blue or orange color schemes, as a counterpoint. There was a small coffee table, made from a big polished slab of wood set up on stained, sanded square supports, that housed remote controls and coffee coasters, as well as a couple of tech magazines and one on cycling.
Simon, who had needed a decorator to make sure his house in Jackson hadn’t consisted of a beanbag chair and a few blankets on the floor, was impressed. This house was warm and happy, and the two occupants—Alex and Bartholomew—seemed to have achieved a balance between friends and roommates without some of the friction that could arise between two people who were never destined to be lovers.
Even Simon could see that Bartholomew and Lachlan had been the ones destined, probably since the cradle, no matter how long they’d actually been together.
Alex had disappeared down the hallway into what were probably the bedrooms, and he came back having changed out of his bicycle tights and shirt and into soft sweats, obviously taking Simon up on the suggestion of staying home.
Without a word, Alex checked the kitchen, that faint smile gracing his lips when he saw Bartholomew deeply involved. He moved close to Simon and murmured, “It’s good you’re not being loud. Bartholomew takes his baking seriously.”
“What’s he saying when he does that?” Simon asked, and Alex breathed out sharply through his nose.
“Honestly? He’s casting comfort spells. We only just figured out he was doing it. His baking has always been sort of magical, but, you know, real magic. Trust me. This cinnamon roll is going to be one of the most amazing things you’ve ever had.”
“Don’t tell him that,” Bartholomew practically sang from the kitchen, pivoting on his back foot and turning toward the sink to run water into the icing bowl. “I don’t want you to jinx it.”
Alex chuckled gently. “Give it up, Barty. You’re a genius. We all knew it, but now it’s locked in stone.”
“Can I put them on the table, Tolly?” Lachlan asked, and Bartholomew glanced up at him, his adorable mouth going slack and a little stupid. Lachlan chuckled and kissed his charmingly freckled nose before setting the rolls on the table and heading to the refrigerator for milk. “Simon, was it?” he called over his shoulder.
“Yeah, Simon. I’m—”
“Alex’s boss,” Bartholomew said, pulling his attention from his boyfriend with an effort. “Yeah, the dog just showed up at your door. That is weird.”
“Forty miles!” Simon interjected, because when he let himself think about it, it truly freaked him out.
“Not the distance,” Bartholomew said, “but the location. That means something.” He frowned. “Magic always means something. Showing up at your door—that’s important.”
“I don’t know magic for shit,” Lachlan said baldly. “I was just asking him what he wanted in his coffee. We have some chocolate creamer. It’s not bad.”