Fated (27 page)

“All right,” Isaac said, lifting his face toward Hart. His mouth unfolded in a wide smile, and the sun caught amber flecks in his almond-shaped eyes.
If there really are fallen angels on this earth
, Hart thought with a pang of sadness,
this right here is one of them.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

As Hart turned to go inside, Isaac began to pull off his suit jacket and put it on the bench, revealing a slightly sweat-soaked pale blue shirt underneath. It stretched over his chest not at all like the undershirt had done back in his kitchen in Riverside, but the sight was no less enticing.

Hart went inside. What thoughts to have on the day he buried his father.

“I just got breakfast,” he said when he came back out, two cups of coffee in hand. “The usual basics, is that okay?”

“Sure.” Isaac reached for his coffee. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing a dark yellow bruise in the crease of his elbow.

“What’s this?” Hart took hold of Isaac’s wrist to stretch his arm so he could have a closer look. The bruise felt thick and hard under his thumb. Little orange flecks dusted Isaac’s skin around it, and Hart had to stop himself from rubbing the freckles too.

Isaac covered the bruise with his free hand. “I just had to have some blood drawn last week.” His gaze didn’t waver, but the flicker of happiness Hart had managed to draw out of him was gone.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked again, taking his seat opposite Isaac.

“Yeah, just routine checkups, no big deal. I got some intern who’d never seen a needle up close.”

Hart still had hold of Isaac’s wrist and found himself unwilling to let go. Whether it was a lingering melancholy brought on by the morning or something else entirely, he felt unsettled. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If anything needed telling?” He squeezed Isaac’s wrist, and Isaac twisted his palm up, returning the grip with surprising, fierce sincerity.

Isaac’s voice was soft when he spoke, and Hart nearly felt overwhelmed with affection for this boy who no longer was a boy at all. Isaac’s petal-shaped mouth lifted in a smile. “Nothing ever needs telling, does it? But if there was something I wanted you to know, then of course.”

And there it was, the wisdom beneath all that youth. It was those sudden bursts of insight and his equally clever, sometimes biting wit that had drawn Hart to the sixteen-year-old seven years ago.

“That’s not the answer I was looking for,” Hart said, grinning.

“I know,” Isaac said, shrugging both shoulders.

Their food arrived, and at last Hart had to let go.

“The fish are all doing well.” Isaac’s attention remained on his plate as he cut into his fried egg, yolk soaking his toast. “And I finished grouting those tiles.”

Hart snorted. “You hate grouting.”

“Yeah, but so do you. It’s my apology for the Swordtail.”

“Fish are fragile, Isaac. They die all the time. Don’t worry about it. They’re replaceable, and I’d never jeopardize our friendship over something like that.” A sudden urge to open up came from nowhere and kept him talking, while Isaac kept silent, eyes wide. “You’re important to me. You know that, don’t you? I value our friendship above anything else.”

“I know,” Isaac softly said after a while. “I know and it’s… the same… for me.” He grew red to the roots of his hair, and Hart felt, not light exactly, but as if he’d put a heavy load down and didn’t have to lift it for a while longer.

Sitting here with Isaac, he didn’t want to think about death anymore. “We’ll go buy another fish when I come home.”

“You want me to come with you?” Isaac stared at him, a bit of egg falling off his fork and next to his plate. Hart laughed, and Isaac turned an even brighter red. “God, I’m such a klutz, I—”

“Here.” Hart grabbed a napkin and handed it over, Isaac’s fingers briefly gripping his as he took it. Attraction flared hot and bright in Isaac’s eyes, and this time Hart didn’t find it inconvenient at all. His phone vibrated in his pocket, but Hart pushed any reminders of the case and Toby from his mind. Nothing but Isaac and the memory of his father deserved his attention right now.

“You should come with me,” he said, “and choose one. That way it can be your fish. And then one day you can start your own aquarium.” He didn’t understand why Isaac’s face grew drawn again or why he tried to hide it with a wide but flat smile.

“Cool, I’d love that.” He pushed the food around on his plate for a bit but didn’t eat any more. “Are you coming home Monday still?”

“I don’t think so. This case I got involved in is really complicated. I might have to stick around for another week or two. Would you mind….”

“No, not at all. I like having a place to myself.” Isaac rested his forehead in his palm. His gaze fell on Hart’s nearly empty plate. “Do you think we could go somewhere inside, though? The heat is starting to get to me in this damn suit or something. I’m getting a headache.”

“Of course. I’ll show you Dad’s house. I think you’ll love it. Where did you park?”

“Behind the church.”

Hart rose to his feet, and he frowned when Isaac didn’t. “Come on, I already paid. We’ll go grab your stuff and take my car.” Finally Isaac got up. He squinted at the sunlight as if it hurt him, so Hart took his sunglasses from his jacket and lifted them to Isaac’s nose. “Not bad,” he said with a smirk, and Isaac smiled back. “You’re just tired from your drive. You can nap in Dad’s hammock.”

“There’s a hammock?”

He put an arm around Isaac’s shoulders and led him toward the parking lot. “Sure thing. Big enough for two. Listen, you weren’t planning on driving back today, were you?”

“Uh, I guess. I mean… I don’t have the money for a hotel and—”

“Bullshit. You’re staying with me, and you can drive back in the morning if you have to.”

“Yeah?” Isaac lifted his face, and Hart felt his throat go dry around a sudden yearning to bridge those few inches between them and kiss that soft mouth. Isaac’s eyelids flickered like he knew, like the tension was a palpable thing between them. A rubber band that had reached the end of its stretch, and any day now it would snap and break, or snap back and cause the two of them to collide.

“This is me.”

Isaac frowned at the cop car, then seemed to remember the reason why Hart had to drive it and slowly looked up. His gaze snagged on the faint redness of Hart’s cheek, almost gone now, unless someone searched with intent.

Not waiting for what would come next, Hart unlocked his car and took Isaac’s backpack to put it in the trunk. “You can sit in the back, if you like.”

That drew Isaac’s attention away. He stared at the mesh-wire divide and laughed. “Only if you cuff me up, officer.”

Hart nearly choked on his tongue, and he watched Isaac’s smug grin bloom under his own sunglasses as Isaac turned away and rounded the car. Wiping the sweat from his upper lip, Hart got into the driver’s seat and tried in vain to will away his half hard-on.

By the time Hart pulled into his father’s driveway, Isaac was asleep. He faced Hart, neck at an awkward angle, and he looked more troubled in his sleep than Hart had ever seen him. For a moment he considered leaving Isaac to his rest—the kid was probably wrecked from a drive he must’ve started at three in the morning to make it to the funeral—but the sun was shining on his head, which wouldn’t help his headache.

“Isaac?” No response. He gently touched Isaac’s arm. “Isaac, we’re here.” Isaac didn’t move, didn’t even flicker an eyelid, and an irrational surge of fear made him fling off his seat belt and sit up. “Isaac?” he demanded, putting a hand to Isaac’s cheek. It felt cold from the air-conditioning. With a faint groan, Isaac’s eyes blinked open lazily. The breath rushed out of Hart’s lungs like he’d been punched. For a moment he’d thought… he didn’t know what he’d thought. Isaac woke up more fully. Their faces were very close, and Hart could swear he felt his heart break witnessing the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. Reluctantly he removed his hand.

“I’m awake.” Isaac yawned, sat up, and stretched his legs from their awkward sprawl, making his entire body quiver. “Oh wow, this house is amazing. And huge. Did you really grow up here?”

“Yes, I did. Come on in, and I’ll get you something cold to drink.”

They left the car, and Isaac grabbed his bag from the trunk. That morning Hart had left the kitchen windows open, so when they stepped through the front door, the house smelled faintly of freshly cut grass. One of the neighbors must’ve used their morning to mow their yard, not that Hart could tell which one. Every house up here was old and well cared for, the landscaping offering everyone a thick wall of green privacy. He led Isaac through the hallway, into the kitchen, and back out again onto the cool, shaded porch. Isaac dropped his backpack at his feet and laughed at the hammock that hung off the deck above them. It had a mosquito net that was currently tied up in a knot, and Hart tugged it free, sending old leaves and a stray spider scattering.

“This is
awesome
.”

“Did you bring a change of clothes?”

“Yes, I did.”

Hart grinned. Saying he’d drive home again the same day, no money for a hotel, and still a change of clothes on him—Isaac was many things, but subtle was not one of them. “Go change out of your suit first,” he said when Isaac headed straight for the hammock. “Ice tea okay with you?”

“Just water please.” Isaac picked up his backpack again. “Where can I change?”

Hart pointed at the stairs through the kitchen. “Pick any bedroom or bathroom, it doesn’t matter. Do you need something for your headache?”

“No, I have… stuff.” He patted his backpack, lingered in the kitchen a little longer, and then disappeared up the steps. Hart heard him wandering around opening doors, and grinned when he imagined Isaac stepping into his childhood bedroom. Footsteps moved from one room to another, the old pipes rattling when Isaac ran the taps.

Ten minutes later Isaac reappeared, a little more life in his damp curls from where he had run his wet fingers through them. He wore a soft, worn-looking T-shirt with his university logo and a pair of shorts that hung precariously low on his hips. His feet were bare.

“So, can I go hang in your hammock now?”

“Yeah, of course. Your water’s on the table. I’m going to change out of my suit.”

B
Y
THE
time he walked back onto the porch in jeans and a short-sleeved button-down, Isaac was asleep again, this time in the folds of the hammock. Hands clasped over his chest, face serene, Isaac looked every bit the angel in the hammock swinging ever so gently back and forth. The sight made Hart feel more at home than he had all week.

After ten minutes Hart couldn’t sit there and stare at Isaac any longer while continuing to ignore the warmth spreading through his chest. The books were packed away. The living room was stripped of everything but the big pieces of furniture that would be taken away by the church. That left his father’s clothes, which he didn’t feel like tackling today, and the one room he’d been avoiding completely.

Sabine Gainsburg-Hart had her own room in this house, a small study on the ground floor with a bay window that faced the street. Her piano—tuned every year if his dad had kept up the tradition—had only gathered dust over the last week. Taking a seat on the worn leather bench, Hart lifted the lid and put his hands to the keys, wondering if he could still play the one tune she’d managed to teach him. Mindful of a sleeping Isaac, he didn’t particularly want to find out. He ghosted the piano keys with his touch but didn’t make a noise. Instead his gaze swept the room. Her guitar hung on the wall, exactly where it always had been. In the corner stood her violin, her flute in its case on the bookshelf. No books graced this room, however. Only sheet music, instruments, and a stiff-backed Chesterfield. Mom used to lounge on it while she directed her pupils through their painful lessons.

With heavy limbs Hart began to gather the sheet music. It left a bad taste in his mouth to be the one to erase the last of her existence, but there was no way he could keep all this, as much of a treasure as some of these
partitures
might be. Some of the composers resounded in his mind, bringing back afternoons filled with beautiful notes that either bounced off the walls or trickled down like rivulets of water in an underground cave.

And sometimes it was just downright noise. Hart hadn’t a penchant for music.
Not a musical bone in his body,
Dad used to say. Mom hadn’t minded; she played enough for all of them, and she had her own pupils to teach.

Every page he had placed on the desk was like a leaf out of his mother’s life, and for the first time in years he heard her voice, clear and perfect, in his head. For a moment he felt like he was six years old again, his feet dangling off the couch as his mother lifted her violin to her chin. Back then she’d still had hope he would play, one day. He never would now.

The violin, darling, is the hardest. Because it reaches right into you and touches your soul.

“It can be a gentle touch,” he finished her lesson with a whisper. “A caress from a lover’s hand. Or it can tear you up inside.”

“The violin is an extension of your heart if you play the strings right.” Isaac stood in the doorway, and Hart jumped at his voice. He had his fingertips pressed to his chest, and he was staring at the violin, not at Hart. “Sorry I fell asleep again. Do you play?”

“No. I—My mother tried to teach me, but I’m a hopeless cause, I’m afraid.”

“Would you mind?” Isaac indicated the violin. Hart’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he shook his head.

“Help yourself.”

Isaac lifted the violin case and placed it on the desk. When he opened it, he let out a low whistle. “This is a beauty.”

“I didn’t know you played.” Hart sounded wronged, as if he had any right to know these kinds of things about Isaac.

“Yeah. I’m pretty good actually.”

“Are you? Go on, then.” He sank back in the Chesterfield, no more comfortable now than when his father had first brought it into the house. For a little while, Isaac plucked at the strings, doing things Hart didn’t really understand but had seen his mother do often enough. Then Isaac closed his eyes, lifted the violin to his shoulder, and, without even a breath of hesitation, he began to play.