Thyme (Naughty or Nice)

Thyme

For the men and women who can’t be open

about their love, even though they’re willing

to die to protect my country.

J
ULIEN
L
AFAYETTE
slammed the car door and headed up the walk toward his bungalow style house. The itchy feeling all over his skin had started three days ago, and it kept increasing as time passed. A normal person might visit the doctor, but Julien didn’t bother. He knew a prescription couldn’t solve the problem, whatever it was.

His family had always possessed a sixth sense, for lack of a better term. They knew when something was coming, when change was upon them; they just couldn’t tell if the momentous news would be good or bad until it happened. Usually, it was bad. It wasn’t something he preferred to contemplate at the moment.

He’d already lost so much…. What else could life take away from him? What else could he take away from himself? Fool. Julien snorted and shoved his hands in his jean pockets, fingers fiddling with his keys, beneath the warm Texas sun.

It was cold for Dallas, but warmer than a Louisiana boy knew growing up. Hell, Christmas was less than a week away and there wasn’t a speck of snow on the ground. The city would probably grind to a halt—useless and broken—if it did snow, he thought with a sneer. He hadn’t seen snow with his own eyes in far too long, and kept telling himself that it didn’t matter.

Snow meant snowballs. Snowball fights. Snowball battles with…. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled as he neared the porch. The words rang false, but he ignored the lie.

A brown package outside his front door drew him up short. He picked it up and read the label: scratchy, scraggly handwriting and no return address. It was from his nana. His momma’s grandmother was known as “the witchdoctor” to many believers in New Orleans—his hometown. Nana had lived there her entire life, and she seemed to fix everything.

Too bad she couldn’t fix what he’d…. Stop thinking about it!

Julien shook his head viciously, tucked the package under his arm, and tugged his keys from his pocket. The jeans were well worn and cottony soft from the endless cycle of washes they had received. He unlocked the door, kicking it shut behind him, as was his habit, and then shoved the keys back in his pants.

Walking past the living room and right into the kitchen, he breathed a sigh of relief. The itching had started to fade the moment he’d picked up the package. Nana’s otherworldly knowledge was scarily accurate at times, and no one in the family would dare go against anything she said.

She might be “the witchdoctor” to people outside the family. But, inside the family, Nana was a goddess—all-knowing.

A flash of red caught his eye, and Julien twisted the package around to see the word “Priority” in bold, red letters. He almost dropped it. For Nana to send something priority mail… this had to be…. He gulped, unable to finish the thought.

Julien set the package down on the counter and reached over to pull a knife from the butcher’s block. It was stainless steel and as sharp as it had been when he’d bought the set four years ago. The knives, along with the bungalow, had been his gift to himself for getting his master’s in accounting.

It was a poor consolation prize, since he certainly couldn’t have what he truly wanted.

He spun the package so that the seams faced him and slit through the brown paper. Then, as if he was still a child and it was Christmas Day, he shredded the paper and let it spill onto the travertine floor. The box underneath wasn’t large, maybe six inches square. He cut through the overabundant amount of packing tape and ripped open the box.

Nana had given him odd things in the past—an alligator toe key chain, candles that he had to burn
immediately
, and a note that read “Idiot boy”—but he didn’t want to contemplate that last one. It had been well deserved. Regardless, the ceramic teacup—pure white and plain, holding a small bag of herbs—was new.

Julien lifted the teacup out carefully, briefly enjoying the contrast against his dark skin. It reminded him of Gregory Verne—his best friend—who was whiter than an albino, they had joked more than once.

A yellow piece of paper in the bottom of the box caught his attention, and he set the cup down on the island so he could get it out. It was wrinkled, as if it had been read a thousand times over. And the bottom had jagged edges, as if the page had been torn…. He unfolded it to read:

December 24, 2001

Drink the tea. Now.

His breath caught in his throat as he read the date over and over. It didn’t change. No matter how many times he reread it, it didn’t change. The date mocked him. And he already knew what had been torn off, because she had sent it to him years ago.

Idiot boy.

He numbly turned the stove on. The tea kettle was already waiting, as it always was. Lafayette children learned at their mommas’ knees to believe in the healing properties of tea, among many other things. He opened the little bag and peered inside; the herb looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Nana would be disappointed that his lessons weren’t as clear as they should be. Then again, Nana’s herb garden was enormous.

A barely remembered tune echoed through his head. Something about parsley, sage, and rosemary. But it vanished as soon as he tried to grasp hold of it.

The kettle whistled, loud and shrill, jarring him from his thoughts. More like desperate attempt to distract yourself, he sneered. Anything to put off thinking about
that day
. He poured water over the bag in the teacup and then placed the saucer on top, before leaning against the counter to let it steep.

How many times had he wished that he could change things? How many…?

Julien clenched his hands into fists and shoved the thought away viciously. The past couldn’t be changed; he’d had a chance—a once in a lifetime chance for happiness—and he’d fled. All the excuses that made complete sense when he was twenty-two had been stripped bare over the years and revealed as just that—excuses.

Fear of losing something great had cost him something priceless.

He didn’t have the right to play “if only.” He’d forfeited that right when he’d broken his friend’s heart, unwittingly or not, and then destroyed his future.

If he hadn’t pretended not to notice Verne’s feelings… well, he would’ve realized what he truly wanted before Verne joined the Marines and it was too fucking late. He’d wished more than once that his twenty-eight year old self could go back and kick his own ass.

Yeah, because time travel is possible when Jules wants Verne. Dumbass.

Julien hung his head and twisted the cup in his hands, watching the tea bag swirl in the eddy of water. Steam rose, bringing with it a scent that he couldn’t describe very well, though it smelled like home, oddly enough. He snorted at the fanciful thought. Next, he’d think the damn tea smelled like Verne….

Was it possible to be homesick when you were at home? He wouldn’t have thought so back in high school or college, but now he believed it was possible. Verne had been beside him since they were kids; they even went to Penn State together.

And then he’d driven Verne away, away to war, across the fucking Atlantic Ocean, with infrequent e-mails and visits maybe twice a year. He’d made his own hell on earth. He should’ve listened to his momma when she said he shouldn’t over-think his decisions so much. Sometimes the simplest answer was the right one.

It was a lesson he’d learned too late.

His silent rejection of the feelings between them had followed too closely after September 11, and Verne didn’t hesitate to leave him and the pain behind to join the Marines and train at Parris Island—not that Julien blamed him. No. He’d always known the situation was his fault.

He was man enough to admit that.

The heat emitting from the ceramic cup soothed the remainder of the itching away, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever was happening—or had happened, as the case may be—Nana’s tea would fix it.

He lifted the cup and took a sip, rolling it around on his tongue. It was bitter, with a hint of sweetness. Kind of raw. Honestly, it wasn’t very good. But he knew better than to add sugar to his tea, and Nana’s note—from
that day
—
said to drink it “Now.” Idiot boy.

Julien tossed his head back and swallowed all of it in two massive gulps. Huh. Nothing. Only time would tell why Nana had bothered to ship him tea priority mail. Besides, most of her concoctions took a while to kick in, and he’d never known one to fail. It would work when necessary, and not a moment sooner. Luckily, patience was another important truth he’d learned at his momma’s knee.

He was carrying the teacup to the sink when the phone rang. He stabbed the speakerphone button. “Hello?”

“Jules?” His name was spoken in a soft, feminine voice. And he recognized it immediately.

“Momma Verne! How are you?” Silence. The faintest sound of a sob. “Momma Verne?” She hadn’t called him since December 1, but that was to be expected, because Momma Verne always called him the first of each month to check on him—even after what he’d driven Verne to do. She was too loving and forgiving by far. Regardless, he hadn’t figured she would call again until Christmas, and that was three days away.

“Jules, baby, it’s Greg.”

What? He couldn’t have heard—oh, so this is what it feels like to be deaf. He shuddered, wondering if he’d get to experience blindness next. “What?” he choked out.

“There was a little kid… and a landmine—”

Landmine? he mouthed at his reflection in the window over the sink. He scrubbed a hand over his short hair, feeling it scratch against his palm, and told himself that he wasn’t shaking… it was an earthquake.

“He’s asking for you, Jules,” she whispered. The phone line crackled, and he was damn glad he wasn’t holding the phone, because he surely would have dropped it by now.

Verne was asking for him? But— “He’s in Afghanistan,” Julien said. Verne had to be in Afghanistan. He was safe, and that damn tea Nana had sent him had hallucinogenic properties, and he was never talking to her again. Because this illusion was the cruelest thing he’d ever experienced in his life.

“He’s—we’re at a military hospital in Germany, Jules. They airlifted him here. He’s been in and out of surgery for the past three days.”

The cup in his hand fell and shattered to pieces in the sink; the teabag ripped, spilling open like a gutted creature. Like his heart.

“And you’re just calling me now?” He’d never sounded like that before: vicious, heartless, broken. But he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. His best friend, the man he was fucking in love with, had been hospitalized by a landmine, and Momma Verne hadn’t informed him. What the fuck?

“His legs are… he didn’t want you to know,” she sobbed. Sniffling followed, but Julien was still stuck on the words “he didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?” The agony of that question tore through him. Verne was his best friend, his whole world, and he’d thought the same was true in reverse. Yes, Verne’s romantic feelings toward him had seemed to fade, but he’d thought they were still friends.

They were
Jules
and
Verne
.

“The doctors weren’t sure if he’d recover, and he didn’t want to put you through…. It doesn’t matter now, Jules.” Before he could disagree with her, and explain, in minute detail, exactly how much it
did
matter, she spoke the words of his worst nightmares. “He was dying.”

It’s Greg. Landmine. Hospital in Germany. Three days. He was dying.

Julien started to hyperventilate. He collapsed to the floor and put his head between his legs, but it didn’t help all that much. Even if Nana thought he was being an idiot, she would never send him a hallucinogenic tea… not even to teach him a lesson. She wasn’t cruel. And that meant—oh God, that meant—

“This is real.”

The frantic repetition of his name ceased. “Yes,” she practically whimpered through the phone line. “It’s real.” There was a moment of silence, and then, “Jules?”

He dragged himself off the floor, hands clawing at the cupboards and countertops to support his weight. “Where in Germany? The hospital, where is it?”

“
Landstuhl
. If you fly into Frankfurt, we’ll have a train ticket ready to bring you to
here
.” She took a deep breath. “You are coming, right? Thomas and I can pay your airfare if you need us to or…. Please, come see Greg.”

“I’m coming, Momma Verne. I’m coming.” He heard the sigh of relief but stabbed the button to cut off anything else she might say.

Julien knew he couldn’t handle any more painful truths right now. Just one more would irrevocably destroy what little remained of his sanity. Work? No, his two-week vacation started tomorrow; he didn’t need to contact his boss. Family? Nana apparently already knew, and she’d tell his momma.

Then what did he need? He patted his back pocket. Wallet, check. Credit cards were in the wallet, so he didn’t need to worry about money. Passport! Julien tore out of the kitchen and down the photograph-lined hallway into his bedroom. He yanked open the door to his closet and then paused. Right, he’d need clothes, too.