Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
“So this is the kitchen,” Edgar said, handed them a glass.
The kitchen was dated but clean, with brown-and-white-flecked linoleum and brown countertops. The walls, ceiling, and cabinets were painted a pleasant light blue, which lent a much-needed lightness. Five-gallon water jugs were stacked in a corner, an Audubon society calendar hung on the refrigerator, and aloe plants grew on the windowsill.
“Living room.” Edgar led them through the shotgun house.
Jamie didn’t realize it until they stepped into the living room, but they’d expected Edgar’s apartment to be sterile and lacking personality, like his clothes. Instead, the apartment was a beautiful, curated space. There was a thick circular rug on the floor and a large bookcase crammed with worn paperbacks. An air conditioner hummed in the beside an extensive record collection. Art lined the walls, gallery-style.
The large sectional and worn leather recliner faced the fireplace and mantle, above which hung a large painting done in pinks, oranges, yellows, and teals. The backs of three heads and the ocean stretching beyond them, kicking up spumes in the surf. The sunlight spilled over everything, gilding hair and sand and the circling gulls like a benediction.
“Wow,” Jamie said. “That’s fantastic.”
“My mom painted it.”
It was the first time Edgar had mentioned either of his parents.
“She’s really talented.”
“I think so too.”
“Are y’all close?”
Edgar’s face did something complicated, and he stared at the painting as if the answer lay inside its brushstrokes.
“No,” he said finally. “We used to be. It was me, my brother, my sister, and my mom against the world. Well. Against my dad and the world. But she…” He touched the edge of the canvas where a bright spot of blue sky bloomed. “We don’t see her anymore. She was in a hospital for a while, and now…well, she’s not really in touch with reality these days. Bathroom’s through there.”
Jamie squeezed his shoulder, a silent agreement that they were done with the subject.
Though as dated as the kitchen, the bathroom had been arranged with care. A thriving fern hung in front of the window, reclaimed wood shelves hung in the place of a medicine cabinet, and a tangle of driftwood claimed the windowsill.
Past the bathroom was the bedroom, which was minimally decorated. A large bed, a heavy antique dresser that had seen better days, and an old peeling steamer trunk were the only furniture, and the walls were mostly bare. Above the bed hung another painting in the same style as the beach scene. In rust, ochre, violet, and gray, a lone figure stood looking at a barge traveling down the Mississippi. The figure appeared to be made from the same material as the muddy water, as if they could drift through each other.
The painting made Jamie desperately sad for Edgar’s mother and for her children.
Other than the painting, the only decoration was a complicated macramé wall hanging and a few potted plants. The effect was peaceful. Where the kitchen was practical and the living room was expressive, the bedroom was a quiet sanctuary. The light blue walls added to the calm.
Suddenly, something dawned on Jamie.
“It’s haint blue,” they said. “The walls, the cabinets, the rug…”
Haint blue was the color of porch ceilings all over the South. It was tradition now but had originally arisen from the association of blue with water and the belief that ghosts couldn’t cross it. By painting the entrance to your home blue, you tricked spirits into thinking it was water so they couldn’t pass.
Edgar had taken care not to invite anyone in.
“It’s to protect you. So the ghosts can’t come in here?”
Edgar frowned. “It probably doesn’t do anything. But it makes me feel better.”
“It’s a nice color,” Jamie said. “Whether it does anything or not.”
Edgar snorted. “I actually don’t like it much. Maybe I’m just sick of it. I dunno.”
Jamie reached for his hand and gently tugged him close. “Maybe it’s time to repaint,” they offered softly.
“Maybe,” Edgar said.
They’d moved closer and closer as they spoke until they were shoulder to shoulder.
“You smell good,” Edgar murmured as he pressed a kiss to Jamie’s neck.
The touch of his lips sent a pulse of heat through Jamie.
“Do that again.”
Edgar pulled Jamie closer and did as they said. His fingers searched for Jamie’s, and he clasped their hand. A surge of pure tenderness rose in Jamie.
“C’mere,” they said and guided Edgar’s mouth to theirs.
They kissed Edgar slowly, savoring his mouth. Edgar kissed tentatively at first, sweetly. Fuck, was he sweet. But when Jamie pressed a thumb to the corner of his mouth, Edgar curled his tongue around it and then kissed Jamie like he wanted to consume them.
Needing more access to Edgar, Jamie pushed him down on his back on the bed and straddled him. Edgar’s mouth dropped open in surprise, then he let out a shuddering breath.
Jamie inched their hips forward experimentally and pressed slowly into Edgar’s erection. Edgar’s throat flushed, and color burned high on his cheeks. His dark hair was in disarray, and his lips were plump and pink with kissing. He looked debauched.