A Second Harvest (15 page)

Oh Lord. Shame burned through him, and he shut his eyes.

Was he that obvious? Was he a pathetic closeted homosexual fixated on a beautiful young man? At least Christie was a young, beautiful
gay
man. It wasn’t like David was drooling over a youth at Sunday school. But gay or not, Christie couldn’t possibly be serious about his affections. Why would he want David? Christie was the essence of life and confidence, talent and charm. He was young and perfect in face and form. David was over-the-hill and led the life of a boring farmer with two grown children. It made no rational sense. At best David was a temporary stopgap while Christie was staying at his aunt’s. Maybe Christie
was
dallying, flirting with the old man. For David, though, it was earth-shatteringly serious—and dangerous.

He sat with that pain for long minutes, his eyes closed and his muscles physically aching from the heavy load of stress, the sense of failure, and humiliation.

But he finally realized, fool or not, he hadn’t done anything irreversible, not yet. He hadn’t tried to touch Christie. His golden rule of “only in my mind”
was still unbroken, even if, in his heart, he had already committed that sin, already fallen for a man.

Lusted after him.
His dream came back to shame him once again. The way he rutted against Christie in that impossible igloo, as impossible as their being together in real life. He wouldn’t be pitiable. He wouldn’t try to take advantage.

There was no way around it. He needed to distance himself from Christie Landon.

Chapter 12

DAVID’S RESOLVE
disintegrated the moment he stepped into Christie’s house on Sunday evening and saw what Christie had done. He took in the scene with jarring, shocked flashes of comprehension. The little dining area in the kitchen of Ruth Landon’s house had been transformed into a tropical paradise.

Christie had set up tall foam core panels showing blown-up photos of a beach scene all around the small kitchen table. The table itself was set in a large wooden tray that was filled with white sand. Exotic music played low, something with drums and the sounds of the ocean. There were paper lanterns that flickered with light, a tropical print tablecloth, and dishes heaped with rice, grilled pineapple, and fish. Christie had even changed the air itself. The thermostat had been cranked high, there was an artificial breeze blowing, probably from a fan somewhere, and the house smelled of the sea, tropical flowers, and delicious food.

David squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed. Holy cow. No one,
no one
, had ever done anything like this for him. Heck, no one had ever done more than bemusedly tolerate his interest in faraway places, much less taken him seriously,
listened
, and tried so very hard to give him something special.

Bora Bora.

“David?”

David swallowed and opened his eyes. Christie looked nervous. “Too much?” he asked with a self-deprecating laugh. “I told you I’m obsessive. When I get a creative vision, watch out.”

“It’s amazing,” David managed, his voice rough.

“Cool. Well… um, we might as well eat before the food gets cold. You’ll want to take your shoes and socks off before you step into the sand.”

It was a practical consideration that somehow got David moving again. He noticed Christie’s feet were bare. He had long, thin feet. David forced himself to look away. He took off his work boots, one at a time, and tucked his socks inside them without saying anything. He rolled up the cuffs of his jeans while he was at it. Somehow he managed to make it to his chair at the table. The fine sand felt cool against his bare toes. After he sat down, he dug them in, memorizing the sensation, his foolishness hidden by the cover of the table.

Christie sat down too, the color still high on his cheeks. He had never looked more beautiful. But there was something different about him, a studied reserve in his face. He didn’t look David in the eyes. “So I made
poisson cru
, which is tuna marinated in lime and coconut, grilled vegetables, a Tahitian fruit pudding, sticky rice, and vanilla panna cotta for dessert.”

“You… you shouldn’t have… it’s incredible.” David’s voice sounded gruff.

“Well.” Christie looked up at him with an oddly fierce look. “In lieu of plane tickets to Polynesia, it will have to do.”

David looked at the table. He should start putting food on his plate, but he couldn’t move. There were things bubbling up inside him—painful things, sharp things. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“David? Are you all right?”

David opened his eyes and looked at Christie. He couldn’t possibly speak the words, but it must have shown on his face because Christie’s expression grew shuttered, a cold blankness coming over him. When he spoke his voice had a callous edge.

“It’s fine. I already know what you’re going to say. I wanted to make this meal for you because I wanted to thank you for your friendship. It’s meant a lot to me. But I won’t be able to keep doing this, you see. I need to go visit my friend Kyle in New York for a few weeks, and I have a new brand campaign that’s going to have me swamped. So I won’t have time to cook.”

Ever
, that’s what he was saying. Christie didn’t want to be friends anymore. And even though David had planned to say much the same thing, his chest lurched horribly at the blunt words.
No. Please, no.

He couldn’t reply, so he nodded just once, his mouth twisted tight.

“It was Joe, right?” Christie’s face was strained. He spoke with great care, eyes on his plate. “He told you I was a fag.”

“You didn’t—you never mentioned….”

Christie shrugged with an expression that said he couldn’t care less. “Where I’m from people just
know
.
At the start I didn’t think about having to
tell
you, or that I….” His voice faltered, then picked up again, strong and bitter. He raised his gaze to David’s, defiant. “Frankly it’s no one’s goddamn business. Do you go around announcing that you like women? But I’m sorry if you feel shocked or something. You don’t have to stay. I get it.”

There was an out: Christie was holding open the door and even getting angry so David had an excuse to coast through that exit easily, guiltlessly.

But instead Christie’s words swept David up and washed him the other way. Why did he think for one second it would be a good idea to distance himself from Christie? He suddenly never felt surer about anything than he did at that moment—he could not give Christie up. If he walked out that door and never saw Christie again, he might as well die. Because life wasn’t worth much before Christie appeared, and it would be worse having had this and lost it. The mere thought ripped his guts out.
You’re trying to scare me away because Joe hurt you. But I don’t care. I won’t let you.

He unclenched his fists and picked up his fork and knife. “This looks great. I like fish.” Stupid, banal words, but they were all he could muster.

He cut off a piece of the delicate whitefish. A knife wasn’t even needed; it flaked easily under his fork. He managed to give Christie a small smile before putting the morsel in his mouth. It melted on his tongue, tasting of lime and heat and of places he’d dreamed of many times.

Christie’s blue eyes watched him warily. “Going for the macho stoic response, huh? Shall we just not talk about it?”

David blinked at him. He knew Christie was just lashing out, but the words hit home. He wasn’t
ignoring
it. Maybe he did ignore things, or rather, silently put up with them. Maybe that
was
his weakness. But that wasn’t what he was doing now. He was… he was just deciding he wasn’t going to let it come between them.

“By the way, it wasn’t my nefarious plan to seduce you, if that’s what Joe is worried about,” Christie went on, his words still bitter. “Yes, you’re a very attractive man. And yes, I’m gayer than a box of rainbow stickers. But I know you’re straight, and believe it or not, I have no trouble finding men. I don’t need to steal my kicks from a guy who’s not interested.”

David’s fork clattered to the plate, loudly. His emotions roared up, too much to handle. It was all too much—what Christie had done for him in arranging this whole special meal, Joe’s disgusted accusations, his own fear and guilt and wanting. But mostly he couldn’t stand the hurt that radiated through Christie. He couldn’t bear that Christie felt rejected.

Before David could think twice, he made a noise like a growl, lunged forward, grabbed Christie’s face with both hands, and crushed their lips together.

There was an absolute tempest inside him. It felt like a class-five hurricane, raging and howling and sending bits and pieces of long-standing walls flying. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a statement, a moment of rebellion, an act of desperation, or maybe one of solidarity. His mouth was closed and hard. But after tensing below him for a moment, Christie relaxed, softening into him.

David’s stomach flipped over and, contrarily, the storm inside him eased. Christie’s mouth felt very warm and plush. A sort of peace came over David, and he sighed. He pulled back enough to rest his forehead against Christie’s. His eyes felt welded shut, like they’d never open again. He could feel Christie’s breath on his face.

“Oh my God, David,” Christie said with quiet shock. “How long have you had that bottled up inside you?”

David’s insides quivered with either silent laughter or silent sobs. “A long time. Forever, I guess.”

He gently disentangled himself and sat back in his chair. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…. I just wanted you to know that I don’t care what Joe said, and I don’t judge you. I’m the last person to judge anyone. I don’t want to stop being friends. Okay?”

Christie watched him with a sad expression. “Okay.”

“Okay.” David picked up his knife and fork.

They ate quietly for a while. David had lost his appetite in the swamp of emotions, but it slowly reawakened as his blood cooled and the flavors tempted his tongue. The sticky rice was wonderful, especially when paired with a little of the whitefish and mango salsa. There were even little black seeds sprinkled over the sticky rice.

The black seeds were such a pretty touch. Christie paid attention to small details like that. He had so much energy and so much heart, and he found such joy in creating. He was the opposite of lazy. He would never, for example, have a drawer that had been jammed for twenty years. David admired that tremendously. Maybe part of it was Christie’s age. He wasn’t old enough to have had his spirit crushed yet. Then again, maybe Christie never would be crushed. He stood up for himself. He knew what he wanted. He wasn’t ashamed, not of being gay or anything else. What different lives they’d led.

He shot Christie a look. Christie was watching him with thoughtful curiosity, as if he were seeing David in a new way. And that was pretty terrifying. “When you lived in New York, your friends, the people you worked with….”

“Knew I was gay? Of course. Most of my friends were gay too. It’s not a big deal there.”

“There are still hate crimes. Right? I see them on the news.”

“Yes. But most people are fine with it. You can’t live your life worried about what some assholes think.” Christie frowned. “I mean, I know it’s not that simple in a small town like this.”

It wasn’t simple in David’s life, not at all. Most everyone he knew was Mennonite, and it was considered a grave sin in their doctrine. But he didn’t want to think about his reality right now. He wanted to hear something new. “Tell me what it was like in New York.”

So Christie talked. He told David about his best friend, Kyle, and how he’d just gotten married to another man at city hall. He talked about some of his other friends and how they all dressed up for the gay pride parade each year. He talked about the clubs in New York and the dancing. He admitted he’d drunk too much and needed a change.

It was the first time he’d talked in such detail about his life in the city, and now David knew why. It all sounded foreign to him—interesting and sophisticated but also shallow. Wasn’t there someone special to Christie? Someone who was more than a friend or a one-night stand? His descriptions of the small apartment he lived in were grudging and dismissive, like he hadn’t spent much time there. David was too much of a homebody to thrive in a life like that, even if… even if he were younger and free and… and a lot of other things he would never be.

“It was brave of you to come here alone,” David said over panna cotta and coffee.

Christie shrugged. “Like I said, I needed a break from the city, and I had to deal with Aunt Ruth’s things…. Besides, lack of courage has never been my problem. More like too little self-preservation instinct. It’s gotten me in trouble a time or two.”

Silence fell, and by the time David finished the last bite of his dessert, there was a new tension in the air. Christie shifted in his seat, moving his legs toward David. His knee rested lightly against David’s thigh.

David knew he should move away, but he couldn’t manage it. The press of Christie’s knee started currents moving inside him that had been still for a long time. It felt sexier, somehow, then the kiss they shared, maybe because David was in pure shock through most of that.

Dear Lord, I kissed Christie Landon.

“I can help clean up,” David said nervously. He started to pick up his plate, but Christie grabbed his wrist, keeping him from getting up.

“You can talk to me, David,” Christie said quietly.

“I…. Yes.”

You’re one of the only people I’ve ever been able to talk to.
Even so David wasn’t sure he could talk about being gay. Not yet. He had to figure things out on his own first. He felt like he should make something clear. “I know…,” he started haltingly. “I don’t expect…. I know I’m way too old for you. But I very much appreciate being your friend.”

Christie stared at him, his pupils large and black. He softened his grip and moved his thumb, just once, along David’s wrist. “I keep telling you forty-one is not old. And I find you
seriously
hot. You have no idea.”