Page 57 of Reckless

I stepped aside. “Come on in.”

He did. He shook the rain from his hair in the entryway — a quick, doglike motion — and wiped his boots on the mat with a diligence that bordered on stalling. I leaned against the doorframe and watched.

He looked up and caught me staring, and flashed me a shy smile before glancing away again.

Something in my chest loosened. I turned and led him down towards the living room.

“I was going to make dinner,” I said over my shoulder. “It won’t be good, but it’ll be hot. But maybe we can sit for a while first?”

“Okay.”

I showed him into the living room and watched him take in the space—the low beams, the sofa, the bookshelves against the wall. The rain painted slow rivers down the windows.

The record player sat on a low table near the window, a stack of Neal’s LPs in a milk crate beside it.

“Sit,” I said. “I’ll make tea.”

Robbie sat on the sofa. He sat the way he always did — elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose, like he was ready to stand up at any moment. On impulse, I crouched beside the milk crate, flipping through the sleeves. Mingus. Monk. Bill Evans. The vinyl was heavy and cool in my hands, the cardboard edges worn soft from decades of handling.

“This was Neal’s collection,” I said. “I don’t even like jazz, but it seemed wrong to throw them out.”

Robbie was quiet.

I pulled out a sleeve. “This one was his favourite.”

I set the needle down. The opening notes of Waltz for Debby filled the room—the piano, soft and searching, the bass throbbing underneath like a heartbeat. I straightened up and watched Robbie listen. His hands had stopped hanging loose. They rested on his thighs, palms down, still.

“Come here,” I said.

He looked up.

“Come here, Robbie.”

He stood and crossed the room. Stopped a foot away from me, close enough that I could smell the rain in his hair and the clean wool of his jumper.

“Closer.”

He took a half-step. His chest was nearly touching mine.

I reached up and took his face in my hands. His jaw was smooth under my palms—he had shaved carefully, the skin soft and only nicked in one spot near his chin. I ran my thumb over the cut.

“You’re nervous,” I said.

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

He let out a trembling breath. “Yeah.”

“That’s fine.” I traced the line of his cheekbone, then the curve of his ear. “You can be nervous. I’m nervous too.”

His wide gaze was full of doubt. “You don’t look it.”

“That’s because I’m better at hiding it.”

His mouth twitched. It was almost a smile. I wanted to kiss it, but I didn’t. Not yet.

“Here’s what I want to do,” I said. My voice came out lower than I intended—the doctor’s voice, the tone I used to calm frightened patients. “We’re going to listen to this record. All of it. And at some point I’m going to touch you, and you’re going to let me, and if at any moment you want me to stop, you’ll tell me. Yes?”