Chapter 15

                                    

                                          
Rain falls in thick droplets and soaks through my clothes in a matter of seconds. Lake stones dig into my ass as I sit by the water, but I tolerate the discomfort. My head is resting on my knees, my arms wrapped around my shins. I've thought a hundred thoughts as I've sat here. And yet I've not been able to process a single one.
Firstly, fuck them all for not allowing me to carry a gun, I decide with a scowl. There'll be no more of that. 
Second, I need to find out the truth about my father's death. I've never had reason to doubt the official story until now — that his heart had given out. After a long career of fighting and drinking, it had simply had enough. Now... I'm not so sure.
The more I think about it, the more I abhor the idea of taking over whatever gang shit he'd been a part of. Tommy had made him sound like some criminal mastermind, lurking in the shadows and pulling strings, running things behind the scenes. But he's been gone for two months now. Things have clearly been able to run themselves for that long. The way I see things, any of his cronies could nominate a new leader, or they could all disband and go elsewhere. I won't lose any sleep either way. 
It all makes sense. 
"Trying to catch your death?"
I inhale sharply. I should have known someone would find me. "Go away, Arthur."
But rather than leave, he sits beside me on the shore of the lake. I breathe in white musk, fabric soap, and whiskey. 
"Sorry for not telling you sooner," he mutters. "I... honestly, I'm not sure if you'd want to know."
I'm not even sure myself. "I had to find out at some point." 
"Reckon that's why your father always kept his distance?" Arthur asks. "Protecting you from all this shit as much as he could?"
"Don't talk about my father," I say, harsher than I intended. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I just..."
"It's alright," he says, in his thick accent. He glances down, and I see his eyelashes cast shadows, his moustache twitch as he smiles sadly. "Expect it'll take you a while to adjust. We're all a bit fucked up in this house, anyway."
"None of you ever talk about it," I say quietly. 
"If you were there... you wouldn't either." Arthur pulls a half-empty bottle of whiskey from his coat pocket. He takes a swig, and holds it out to me. "Not to mention, we're no bunch of fucking softies."
I take the bottle from him. It's not a wise decision. But fuck it, this is no time for wise decisions. 
"I've told you. You're not so scary to me."
"Yeah. Ah, well... probably need to fix that." He sniffs. "Can't have you thinking I'm a pansy."
"I think nothing of the sort." I should give the bottle back, but I trace the neck with my thumb pad. "I've seen you with everyone else. Hard as nails. Sometimes I wonder if you're just particularly nice to me." I push on, fuelled by the whiskey. "Sometimes I almost hope it's because... because you've taken a liking to me."
Arthur's silent at first. I take another drink and hand out the bottle between us, expecting him to grab it back. I don't expect his hand to rest upon my own, his fingers closing around mine. 
"'Course I have," he says. "I was a right mess before you came to us. Still am, but... maybe not as much." He gently takes the bottle, and drinks some more. My hand feels cold now. 
"You don't have to get all wet for me," I tell him, as the rain falls around us. "I'll find my way back."
"There are worse ways to keep you safe than a bit of rain."
So we sit in silence, sporadically taking a drink of whiskey and passing the bottle between us. And it feels nice. To not be alone. To have a... well, I'm not sure what Arthur is exactly. We aren't friends. We're not coworkers. We're people sharing a roof, brought together due to the decisions of other people. We owe each other nothing.
But that doesn't explain this connection I feel to him. The way I want to wrap him in my arms and hold him, wrap my legs around him until there's no space between us. I want to be close to him. He brings me some comfort I've never found in anyone else. And while I'd be terrified of him if I was anyone else, I meant what I said — he doesn't scare me. Tommy, on the other hand, does. John sets me alight in ways I'd never care to admit, but I can never get a measure of his seriousness. Michael's dark and brooding.
But Arthur, he feels the most like home.
He picks up a flat, smooth stone. "Ever learn to skip rocks?" He asks.
I stand to my feet. No, I haven't, but how hard can it be? I search for a rock like his. I aim and launch across the lake... and it sinks to the bottom with a splat.
"You want to try and angle it on its side," Arthur explains. He lowers his arm, then gives the rock a swift throw. It bounces once, twice, three times, before falling beneath the surface of the water.
I frown. "Let me try again."
He's clearly amused as I try to find another suitable rock. I finally find the perfectly sized stone, but as I'm about to throw it, he reaches out and grasps my arm, halting my swing.
"You want to come from underneath." He shifts and stands behind me, wrapping me with his arms. He holds my hand with the enclosed rock. Guiding me, he draws our arms back together, before tossing the stone out once more.
It bounces twice, sending ripples across the lake. The reflections of trees are distorted, and a nearby pair of mallard ducks quack in irritation. I notice the rain has stopped. And I notice Arthur and I are still pressed together.
We're both still. We've both momentarily paused breathing. His palm is so warm against the back of my hand, his body so long and lean against mine. 
I turn to face him. My eyes are wide, confused and pleading, though for what, I cannot say. His eyebrows are furrowed. 
"You've had a big shock," he says quietly. "It wouldn't be right." 
My breath hitches in my chest, but I'm powerless for words. Half of me wants to agree with him, while the other half wants to protest. 
He traces his thumb across my lower lip. I can taste the rain water. I can feel a buzzing sensation where he touches me. 
And then he pulls away. He drives me home. We don't say another word as we take our separate bedrooms. 
I lie in the darkness, hands over my head. I can still feel the outline of the rock in my palm.