I open the front door to the cottage, after Tom spends about fourteen minutes standing outside it, commenting on how nice it is, and how much it looks like the stereotypical east coast beach house.  He can’t get over the widow’s walk, and I keep telling him we can actually go inside and stand on it, but he seems to be happy just staring at it for awhile.

“You’re kidding me, right?” He walks inside, setting his bag and suitcase to the side.  I walk in after him, close the front door and lean against it.

“Home sweet, sweet home.” I smile.

“Charlie, you’ve been here for how long? And you’ve got a bean bag chair, a television and a folding table.” He turns slowly and looks at me with a furrowed brow.

“Are you judging me? I’m feeling judged.  It’s suddenly very judgey in here.” I push off the front door and walk toward the kitchen to put the beer in the fridge.

“No, I’m not judging—“

“Bring me the wine and the whiskey.” I say, cutting him off as he follows me toward the kitchen.  He turns around and goes back, grabbing the bottles from his bookbag.  It’s strange having him here.  It’s more than strange.  It’s not exactly my place, but it feels like there’s been a sudden invasion.  Having Tom here in Maryland, let alone the hobbit hole, is surreal. 

He walks into the kitchen, all crazy long legs and bright white teeth.  He’s smiling though, and that’s a good thing.

“I’m not judging you, Charlie.  I just can’t believe this is how you have been living for two weeks.”

“You should see the bed room.  It’ll really get you in the mood.” I wink at him and he grins bigger as he crosses his arms over his broad chest and leans against the counter.

“Oh we’ll get there, don’t you worry.” He teases, and I feel my face flush.  I turn around quickly and shove my head in the fridge.  No particular reason except that the beer should be super cold, so I need to make sure it’s all the way far, far in the back of the fridge, right before you get to Narnia.

“So you’re staying here with me then? Nice of you to invite yourself.” I mumble as I close my eyes for a split second, feeling the waves of chilly air waft against my warm face.  Tom is moving around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers and being all in all rather nosy.

“No, I’m not staying with you, actually.” He says in a lovely, pompous voice. I close the fridge and watch him as he keeps opening drawers and shutting them, until he pulls out a wine key.

“Where are you staying then?” I frown.  He expertly opens the bottle of red wine, pulling the cork out and then setting it on the counter.

“Some place nearby. I think it’s a Bed and Breakfast.  There aren’t really any hotels that are close.  It’s called the Smokey Oyster.” He grabs two mugs out of the cabinet as I feel my head retract back, doing a pretty good impression of a slug shriveling under salt.

“What?” He notices my face and he stops pouring the wine.

“That’s my mother’s B&B.” I breathe deep.  He gets a huge grin on his face, and it almost makes the dark half circles under his eyes seem less noticeable.

“Darling, really? That’s absolutely lovely.  Amazing.  I’d love to meet her.” He hands me a mug, and I notice that there is a cat on the side of it.  He’s drinking out of a mug that says “World’s Best Grandma” on it, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“No. Weird.” I gulp down my wine.  He shakes his head.

“No? Weird?” Tom hoists himself up onto the counter and sits, his long legs dangling over the side, his feet softly banging against the cabinets.  I still have not gotten over the fact that he is here.  The kitchen is small, but with him in it, it seems positively doll house sized. 

“My mom and I don’t exactly…”

“Call each other besties?” He finishes for me, taking a normal, adult sized sip of his wine.  Mine is already gone.

“Yes. Exactly.  She’s disapproving, judgmental, unforgiving and completely stuck in the past.”  I hold out my mug and Tom refills it, leaning forward and tipping the bottle of wine for me.

“She sounds great.  So I’ll check in in a bit then?  You’ll drive me there?” He doesn’t miss a beat.

“It’s actually right up the hill.  So you can walk your butt over there.” I step closer, nudging him in the thigh so that he will move and stop blocking the window.  I point outside, and we can sort of make out the big house.  He looks and nods. 

“Charlie.” He says softly, and I realize that I am standing right next to him.  His knee is bumping into my side.  He’s got his hands wrapped around his Grandma mug, and they’re sitting casually in his lap.  I turn slightly, and look at him. 

“Tom.” I say with a stern voice.

“I’m glad I’m here.” He holds out his mug, and I bump mine against his.  They make a dull clink noise and we both drink.

“I am too.  I’ve needed to see a friendly face.  And yours is about as good as they come.” I press my side into his knee and he smiles softly, close lipped, looking down at his hands.  I reach over and grab the wine bottle, splashing more into both ours cups even though they aren’t empty.

“This wine is pretty bad.” He grimaces, but keeps drinking.  I feel the laughter burst from me.  It feels so good to laugh—really laugh.  It’s been quite some time.  He’s the best at making me laugh, even if in dire situations.

“That’s what you get for letting me pick.” I shrug.

“The label was pretty good though.” He looks at the bottle.  We both know I pick my wine based solely on which labels look best.  This one was super modern looking and was made out of matte black paper with a bold white and gray graphic.  I smile and grab the take out box from the folding table. 

“Pick your poison.” I open the lid.  He immediately takes a chocolate cherry brownie, and devours it in two huge bites.  He chases it with some subpar wine.

“Mmm, I’ve missed these.  I had dreams about them.” He looks at me seriously and I look at him like he’s perhaps a bit crazy.  He shrugs.  “Makes the wine taste better, somehow.” He chuckles softly.  I break off a piece of cookie, and nibble on it.  We are quiet for a few minutes, eating in silence, both lost in our own thoughts.  Tom’s thoughts no doubtedly focused on desserts, and I’m focused on the Twilight Zone idea of Tom and my mother sleeping under the same roof.  Ugh.  The cottage is totally silent, with only the occasional buzz of an insect or chirp of a bird coming through from the outside.

“Want to talk about the elephant?” I ask finally.  We’re really hitting the wine pretty hard, and I top off our mugs, and then put the empty bottle in the sink to rinse out later.  I look at Tom and see his brows furrowed together, and he’s looking at his hands again.

“Let’s leave the elephant for a bit, yeah?  I think the elephant can wait. I’ve thought about the elephant enough.” He shrugs, and looks down at me.  His eyes are this open, icy blue that reminds me of glaciers, breaking off into the ocean and it sort of makes me feel weird.  I can’t totally put a finger on it.  His eyes seem to change color depending on his mood. I wonder if light blue means sad.

“It’s your elephant.  Let me know when you want to talk about it.” I say gently.  He nods in agreement and breaks off a piece of cookie.  Toffee chip.

“I think first you should show me the rest of the cottage.  And then we can drink more. And go up on that widow’s runway, and then maybe we can talk about the elephant.” He says.  I smile gently.

“Widow’s walk.  The widow’s weren’t strutting their stuff on the roof.  They were pretty sad, and lonely and just…waiting.” I say softly.  He looks down at me, nodding his head very slowly.

“I guess it’s an appropriate place for me to spend some time, then.”

**** 

It’s nearly three a.m. and Tom is totally drunk.  Like, totally, completely, frat boy drunk.  The night started off innocently enough (that’s a lie).  We drank the wine, and then moved on to beer.  I had one beer, and was pretty tipsy.  I think he had the rest of the sixer.  And then we moved to shots, which is probably where things should have stopped.

But, now we are sitting on the widow’s walk and just taking sips straight out of his bottle of Jameson, and it is wonderfully trashy and therapeutic and also really nice, because it is a gorgeous night out.  I changed into pajama shorts and had long ago lost my shoes.  Tom is still in his jeans and tshirt, but is also barefoot.  I’m sitting in the big Adirondack chair, and Tom is sitting on the ground facing me, his back against the metal railing. The moon’s giving off just enough of a silver, white gray glow that we can make out each other’s shapes, and parts of our faces. 

“Do you think there’s one person for every other one person?” Tom is slurring, but only slightly, and I commend him for how well he handles his liquor.  And beer. And wine. 

“I don’t know. I can’t think about that now.  If there is, then I’m screwed.” I sit back, my head lolling to the side.  I’m not as drunk as he is.  I’m merely tipsy.  Someone must be the responsible one, though we’ve got nowhere to go.  I still sort of just feel like I need to babysit a bit.  Make sure we don’t make any stupid decisions.

“Why? Why d’you say that, Charlie? There’s someone for you.  I know there’s gotta be.  To thine own self, be true.” He’s quoting Shakespeare, and it doesn’t even apply to this conversation.  I let it slide, and reach down, smacking his foot, which is resting on my shin. 

“Keegan is a whore, you know.” I say bluntly, squeezing his heel.  He makes a grunting noise and then takes a swig of whiskey.  He passes it to me and I take a small sip. It burns a bit as it goes down, but it’s pretty smooth.  He bought some expensive stuff, so it’s a shame we’re drinking it warm, out of the bottle on the roof of a hobbit shack.  I’m sure Jameson is rolling in his grave.  If there is a Jameson. Ah, who cares.  Tom puts his other foot on my other shin, and we sit, sort of facing each other in some weird foot and leg train. 

“Charles, she’s not a whore. Don’t do that.” He shakes his head.  “She didn’t get paid to fuck that guy.” He groans and then I’m laughing, but also feeling terrible at the same time.  He’s laughing too, and then we are both laughing ridiculously, stupidly hard.  Tom keels over slightly, grabbing his stomach and I fold forward.  My abs are screaming and I sort of fall out of the big chair, and onto the ground next to Tom.  It wasn’t even that funny, but we both are having trouble breathing.  He calms down a bit, and leans his head against my shoulder.  Every now and again, one of us will break into giggles, and get the other one started as well.

“I never thought she’d cheat on me.” He says suddenly.  “We’ve had our issues and we weren’t perfect, but…”  I swallow hard and lean my cheek against the top of his head.  His hair is soft, and he still smells good.  Just a little more boozy now.

“She’s not a good person, Tommy boy.” I say softly.

“It really hurts.  More than I thought it would.” He groans.  “And it’s complete shit that the whole world had to find out at the same time that I did.” He looks at me and I get the urge to kiss his forehead.  So I do.  He grins and flops a hand onto my leg.

“It’s really shitty.  You deserved a little privacy on this one, TW. She should have told you in person.” I grab his hand and squeeze.  He laces his fingers through mine and opens and closes our hands a few times.  They move as one and he seems amused by this.

“I don’t know if she was going to tell me at all.” He squeezes my hand in his and then lets our hands come to rest on the top of my knee.

“I don’t know either.”

“I should probably get tested for diseases.” He blurts out and I frown.

“That’s gross and you probably should, you dirty man.”

“She said she only slept with him three times, all within the last month.” He is really spilling the beans, but I don’t stop him.  He needs to get it out.  I bit my lip, and don’t say anything.  “So I should technically not have to worry, since we haven’t been together in three months.” He takes another drink from his bottle, and this one is not a sip.  It’s more of a…large, long gulp.  I blink a few times and let what he’s saying sink in.  That’s sort of a long time.  Gah. Why am I thinking about it?

“Three months? Since you two last…” I trail off, my mouth going before my brain can stop it.

“C’mon Charlie, you know…” He makes a whistle noise and then a clicking nose out of the side of his mouth.  “The ‘ol bob’s your uncle.” He waves his hands around.  Bob’s your uncle?

“I don’t think you’re using that in the right context.” I grimace.  He laughs loudly.

“Don’t tell me what’s the right context, American.” He jokes and I roll my eyes.  He starts softly chanting “USA! USA!” under his breath, with his fist moving along.   I sit up, pushing him hard off my shoulder.  He tips over, and I grab him by the arm and tug him back into a sitting position.  It is taking all my willpower to try and erase the last minute and a half of our conversation from my head.  I love being able to talk to him about everything and anything, but sometimes I just like to let it go in one ear and out the other. 

“You should probably not try to check into my mother’s B&B tonight.” I laugh.

“I will check in.  I’ll throw pebbles at her window and say ‘Mrs Kaye! What light through yonder window breaks?  It is the east and Charlie is the sun!” He hiccups and I sigh.  More Shakespeare.

“You can stay here tonight.”

“In your blow up bed.” He gives me a wobbly smile. 

“Yes.”

“I’d love to sleep in your bed, Charles Evelyn Kaye.” Jesus, Mary and jelly doughnuts, he is so drunk.  And it should be annoying and gross, but for some reason it is ridiculously adorable and cute, and maybe only slightly annoying.  As long as he doesn’t keep up with the patriotic chanting.

“Don’t call me that.  That’s terrible.” I laugh.  He grins and points a finger at me.

“It is your name.”

“No…it’s not really.” I grin.  He shrugs and then we both get quiet. 

“She says she still loves me.” He says a second later.  I swallow, and look over at him.  He has his head on my shoulder again, but his face is turned up toward me.  I can make out his eyes, which look dark and clear in the moonlight.  And his classic nose, and his sort of thin, but still somehow lush mouth. 

“Do you still love her?” I ask the million dollar question.  He keeps looking at me and he presses his lips together.

“I think I’m going to vomit.” He sits up really quickly, and then jumps up faster than I knew was possible.  A second later, my lovely Tom is puking over the side of the widow’s walk and down onto the sad little hobbit bushes.  I rub his back while he voms up half my bakery case and a lot of alcohol and then hand him a napkin leftover from our dessert binge to wipe his mouth. 

It’s not his finest moment, but to be honest, he’s doing much better than I would be if I were in his situation.  And I’m glad he’s here.  Sometimes you just need a second to be outside of your own head.  Sometimes you just need someone to listen, and let you ramble.  It feels good to know that I can be that for him.  A release.  A calm spot in a storm.  And I wouldn’t want him puking on anyone else’s bushes.  I’m not sure if that sounds right, but it is what it is.