Sandbridge Box Set

Chapter 4-2

Trick seemed to be happy to wait patiently at the door to the apartment while Andy dug up some towels. Jeff had left a huge stack of them in a wide variety of shades of orange. The number of towels probably made sense for a guy living at the beach with a dog that liked to swim, but Andy might’ve preferred a different color scheme; all the orange in the place was a little eye-searing. He put a handful of towels down on the sofa—obviously the dog’s favorite spot—and then pointed, and Trick bounded over and up, tail wagging happily and spattering water everywhere.

Andy locked the door and pulled the chain—though it wouldn’t keep out a fifth-grader, much less a determined intruder—and stripped down to his boxers. He threw his jeans over the back of a chair to air, since he’d been wearing them for two days straight and would be wearing them again tomorrow.

The little apartment was ridiculously quiet, the rush of surf no competition for the constant noise of traffic and trains and people that Andy was used to. It was far too dark, as well; the nearest streetlamp was at least a block away. The sheets were clean, as advertised, but the bed was unfamiliar, every uneven dip and lump like a rock in Andy’s back. He had new appreciation for the princess and her pea, the way even minor irregularities seemed massive.

He didn’t really expect to sleep. Everything was a little unreal—this place, these people. He missed the apartment in New York. It hadn’t been big, but he and Nick had put a lot of effort into making it nice. It was one of the things Andy had liked about Nick, actually—that their tastes had been so similar, that they both took pride in their living space. The bed had been the biggest one they’d been able to fit into their tiny bedroom, the mattress the nicest they’d been able to afford, soft and warm. Andy missed that bed.

He shouldn’t miss Nick. He knew he shouldn’t. But it was too dark and too quiet—which only made the few noises seem louder—and he was in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers with unknown motivations, and it was hard to forget that it was ten miles to the nearest bus stop. Andy felt like a changeling in a fairytale, like he’d come into a strange world, not entirely human, an unwanted replacement for the one who actually belonged here.

He couldn’t go back. Shouldn’t even think of it.

But lying there in the too-dark, too-quiet, too-strange room, an ache of longing closed Andy’s throat and choked the breath from his lungs, and he desperately wanted nothing more than to feel Nick’s arm around his shoulders, his waist, pulling him into familiar warmth.

A harsh sob tore its way through Andy’s throat, and another. He threw his arm over his face, welcoming the pain of its press on the bruise as a distraction, though it wasn’t enough to actually stop the tears or the way each breath seemed ripped out of him, ragged and thin. He covered his mouth with his hand, not wanting to be overheard, and resenting having to worry about it.

A soft clink was all the warning Andy had before the bed dipped and bounced and Trick squirmed up under his arm, licking at his face.

“Oh, God, get—get off,” Andy coughed, pushing until the dog had backed away a little. Trick didn’t get down off the bed, though; he laid against Andy’s side and nudged at Andy’s arm with a soft, plaintive whine.

“You’re spoiled,” Andy said, and Trick didn’t seem to care that his voice was hoarse. “Spoiled rotten.” He draped his arm over Trick’s back, petting drowsily, and let the dog’s warmth lull him into sleep.