Top Shelf: A Seacroft Novel Page 23

  His hair smelled like smoke.

  * * *

  They stayed in bed for the rest of the day. Seb didn’t speak. Brian snuck home mid-day, and Martin gave him the rental car keys and instructions for returning it. Martin settled himself against the back of the couch and surfed channels with the sound off. At some point, Seb rolled over and buried his head in Martin’s lap. Martin held him close. Seb was asleep again when Brian returned, carrying both their suitcases as well as a paper bag of fish and chips. Outside, the sun was down.

  Martin managed to coax Seb out of bed and down the hall to the shower. He left clean clothes on the back of the toilet, because Seb didn’t seem with it enough to do anything but put his smoky clothes back on.

  Brian was setting out plates when Martin came into the kitchen. “How’s he doing?”

  Martin shrugged. “He made a phone call earlier. His agent, I think. He hasn’t said much else.”

  Brian grunted, pulling the wrapped packages of fish and chips from the bag. “I hope Seb eats fish. It seemed like the easiest thing to get.”

  “It will be fine.” Fine. He’d described himself that way so often when he’d been anything but.

  The water turned off in the shower, and the silence made Martin tense. He wasn’t ready to see Seb’s blank face again.

  “He looks like you did,” Brian said as he unwrapped their dinner, “when you first got here. I thought you’d been brainwashed. You didn’t say anything to me for the first week. You got up to go to the bathroom, and then you’d go back to bed.”

  The bathroom door creaked open. Martin and Brian stared at each other, listening to the quiet sound of Seb’s feet coming down the hall. He didn’t stop as he passed the kitchen.

  “Brian brought us dinner.” Martin’s heart twisted when Seb flinched.

  “I hope you like fish and chips.” Brian sounded falsely cheery.

  Seb’s eyes were slashed with grief. “I’m not very hungry. I think I’m just going to go back to sleep.”

  The lump that formed in Martin’s throat nearly strangled him. Had he looked like that when Brian brought him here?

  “Hey,” Brian said as he pushed his chair back. “Come have something. You need to eat.” He moved across the kitchen and led Seb to the table with a gentle arm around his shoulders. It was such a familiar gesture. How many times had Brian done the same thing for Martin?

  Seb allowed himself to be seated. Martin resisted the urge to cut the fish into pieces like Seb was a child, but maybe he should have because Seb took a few fries and left the rest untouched.

  “How was the party?” Brian said. Martin could kiss his brother for trying.

  Seb pushed away from the table before Brian and Martin were halfway through their meal. He didn’t say anything, just shuffled out of the kitchen. A minute later, the pull-out couch’s springs creaked.

  “It’ll be better in the morning,” Martin said.

  * * *

  It was better. Or worse, depending how one looked at it. When Martin woke, for a second, he was at home at Brian’s, and everything was okay. And then he rolled into a puff of smoke-scented air coming from the sheets, and Martin remembered.

  The bed was empty.

  The house was empty. A plate of cold bacon and eggs sat on the table, as well as a note from Brian saying he’d gone to work and to call if they needed anything.

  “Seb?”

  A short investigation showed Seb wasn’t in the house, but maybe that was a good sign. If he was out, he had to be feeling better.

  Martin took another long shower, pulled the sheets off the couch, and threw them in the wash along with their smoky clothes. He threw out the eggs and bacon and washed the single dish in the sink.

  Then he started to worry.

  Was this how Brian had felt when Martin had been at his worst? Seb left no note. No indication of where he’d gone. No sign that he’d had anything to eat. He’d had all of about four french fries last night, and nothing else for more than twenty-four hours.

  If Martin had been like this when he’d first come to Seacroft, no wonder he’d lost weight.

  He called Seb. There was no answer, which became obvious when Martin found his phone on the coffee table. The battery was dead, so Martin plugged it in and then went back to the den to wait.

  Hours later, he was wearing a path up and down the hall pacing when Seb’s phone rang. Martin didn’t hesitate when he saw Oliver’s name on the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Martin?”

  “Hi! Yes. Hi. It’s Martin. Oliver, I’m sorr—”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I know. We—”

  “It’s not your fault. I don’t know what set Seb off, but I’m sure you can only be an innocent bystander.”

  “You don’t under—”

  “But Parker’s pissed that you guys ran off and—”

  “Oliver, it’s not—”

  “And Dad’s pissed that Parker’s pissed, and mostly because he doesn’t need much of an excuse to be pissed at Seb and—”

  “There was—”

  “And I don’t care, really. But a phone call or a note would have been good.”

  “Oliver, would you shut up and listen?”

  The phone went silent. Martin was breathing hard.

  “You’ve been taking lessons from my brother,” Oliver said, but he sounded nervous. Martin let the silence stretch, to make it clear he wasn’t joking.

  “We got a call, on Saturday night. Or Sunday morning. Anyway. There was a fire. The bookstore. It burned down.”

  More silence. Martin sat on the edge of the couch, which he’d folded up earlier when he’d stripped the sheets off.

  “The bookstore?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it bad?”

  Martin held the phone between his ear and his shoulder and put his face in his hands. “Define bad.”

  “Are you guys okay?”

  Martin had the fleeting thought that he really liked Oliver. There had been so much trepidation on the drive up to see them, so many expectations about Seb’s family and how the weekend would go. Martin hoped he could count on Oliver as a friend now.

  The question, though. Were they okay?

  “I don’t know where Seb is.” His voice cracked.

  It all came out. Thirty-six hours of tension and exhaustion, grief and fear. Martin told Oliver everything, although there wasn’t much to tell. The call, the fire, Seb truly looking like a ghost as he lay in bed or shuffled down the hall, and then disappearing altogether.

  “It’s really all gone?” Oliver’s slow exhale was audible over the phone.

  There was a sound. Martin’s fingers went numb as the front door swung open and Seb walked in.

  “I’ll call you back.” The phone tumbled out of his hand. He might not have even hung up, but it didn’t matter because Seb was back. He looked tired. The skin under his eyes was purple, and his lips were drawn into a thin line when all Martin wanted to see was the casual smirk that meant Seb was there.

  “Hey.” Seb’s voice crumbled like chalk.

  “Where did you go?” he said.

  “Nowhere.”

  “You scared me.”

  They stood there like that for a long time, staring at each other. Martin wanted to bury his face in Seb’s neck and hold on, but he had no idea how to make any of what happened better. “Are you hungry? We need some food. I could order a pizza?”

  A muscle twitched at the corner of Seb’s mouth, like he was trying to rally the troops to smile, but that was as far as it went. “I think I’m just going to go to—”

  “No.” The ice that had formed in Martin’s chest stabbed at him. “No, Seb. You’ve got to eat. You need . . . ” His protest died in his throat. He watched, powerless, as Seb went to the living room and lay down on the couch, face in the cushions.

  “Seb.” Martin tried again, but Seb’s hands came over the back of his head, covering his ears. It hurt to see him
like that. It hurt to remember Martin had done the same, desperate to block out everything around him.

  “Seb. Look at me.”

  It didn’t work. He knew it wouldn’t.

  22

  Seb woke up in pain. It was physical, though, which was a relief after what seemed like days of what felt like his organs had been burnt, along with all his belongings and most of his life’s work.

  Somewhere nearby, two people were speaking softly.

  He groaned. His neck was twisted, and his left hand was trapped under his body, tingling with pins and needles as it tried to stay alive. He shifted and unwound himself. He’d been sleeping on a strange couch. Martin’s couch. Martin, who watched him with sad gray eyes and secret smiles. Martin, who tasted like coffee and salt and—

  Smoke.

  The memory made his stomach cramp. One minute he’d been lost in the warm recollection of Martin’s skin on his, his breath in his ear, and then—

  Seb rolled. Closing his eyes and lying there until sleep came back would be easier. Sensation was coming back in his hand, and he shifted the pillow that was squashed in the corner of the couch to support his neck. Sleep. It would be better if he slept.

  His stomach twisted. He might be hungry. Somewhere recently, he’d eaten french fries, but how recently, or where, or with who, he couldn’t say. If he’d had anything to drink, even water, since his whole life literally turned to ash, he really wasn’t sure.

  He sat up, then braced himself against the couch cushions as his head spun. He stared up at the white ceiling, trying not to think. The memory was there, throbbing, just behind his conscious thought, and if he poked at it, he worried it would burst and drown him in what lay underneath.

  Martin was in the kitchen. He had his back to Seb as he entered. Penny stood beside Martin, a glass of wine in her hand as she spoke to him quietly. He nodded and laughed at whatever she was saying. Her gaze shifted, and then her eyes widened when she saw Seb leaning against the doorway.

  “Hey!” she said. “You’re up.”

  “I’m—I was . . . ” He didn’t recognize the sound of his voice. “I think I’m hungry.”

  Penny smiled at him, and relief swept over Martin’s face as he turned, and it made Seb wonder what had happened. It felt like only hours since he and Martin had been tangled in bed, loving each other, happy, but it had to have been longer. Everything was patchy, moments of shock and despair separated by long periods of nothing. He assumed he’d been asleep for most of those, but how long, and whether he’d been awake for parts and didn’t remember, he wasn’t sure.

  “Come sit.” Penny put an arm around his shoulders. He tensed under the weight, feeling brittle, but he let her lead him to the small table.

  “Are you hungry?” Martin asked. “Penny brought some food from the diner.”

  “Sure. And some water.”

  Penny placed a glass down next to him, squeezing his shoulder. Martin set a plate of pulled pork and potato salad in front of him. The smell of it made Seb’s stomach curdle. He drank more water and waited for the feeling to go away.

  It didn’t.

  “On second thought . . . ” He pushed the plate away.

  “No. Please.” Martin sat on his other side. His voice was sad.

  “I’m sorry,” Seb said. “I just . . . ”

  “You have to eat. Trust me, I know this. You need to eat something.”

  It was all so overwhelming. Their concerned faces. The smell of the food. The throbbing thing in his chest that told him nothing would ever be the same.

  “The insurance adjusters came to look at the diner today,” Penny said.

  “Really?” Martin’s hand slipped into Seb’s. It felt like sandpaper on his skin.

  “They said that even though there’s no visible damage, there could be smoke damage in the walls.”

  “That makes sense. Can’t be too careful, right?”

  The chitchat was obvious. If they weren’t pretending everything was all right, they were at least pretending life was going to go on.

  Seb poked at the potato salad. It smelled faintly of eggs, and not in a good way, but he put a little in his mouth, and the people sitting around him let out a relieved exhale. He tried not to gag while he chewed.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Martin sat at the edge of his chair, like he was ready to leap up at a moment’s notice. His eyes held a streak of panic Seb hadn’t seen in a long time.

  How long had they been back in Seacroft?

  “What day is it?”

  “It’s Monday.” Martin tilted his head, and the panic drained, leaving sympathy in its place.

  That wasn’t any better.

  Seb had called Kenneth at some point.

  “It’s not insured,” Kenneth said.

  “People insure art all the time.”

  “Art that has been purchased or assessed. If it’s your personal collection and you’ve never had it valued, it won’t be covered. Who’s to say how much it’s worth?”

  It wasn’t about the money. Not in the way Kenneth might have assumed. The pieces in his apartment, the pieces he’d kept, were the most valuable, but only to him. The books he painstakingly sliced out, word by word. The whole point of his work was taking something mass produced and making it unique, and in the process, he made something that couldn’t be replaced.

  But the insurance would at least have told him it was worth it. That someone else could still see the value of what was lost in a heap of ash and charred covers.

  Egg-flavored bile rose in his throat.

  “Seb?” Martin’s worried face swam into focus, and he had to wipe tears he didn’t know he’d been crying from his cheeks.

  He swallowed down the sour taste in his mouth and sniffed, forcing iron into his spine. “I’m fine.”

  “You aren’t,” Martin said. “But it’s okay. We’ll get through it.”

  The words did little to fill the empty ache in Seb’s chest. All he could see was the black nothing where his home, his studio, and all his work had been. It was gone. No amount of quiet sympathy and warm meals would make that better.

  “We’ll figure it out when Oliver gets here.”

  Martin’s statement took a minute to filter through Seb’s circular thoughts. When it did, it seemed impossible that he’d heard right. “Oliver?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s coming here?” Seb’s heart started to pound.

  “Tomorrow. He couldn’t get away from work today.”

  “Martin’s been taking care of everything.” Penny’s smile, like everything else that was happening, was probably meant to be kind, but she obviously knew more about what was going on than Seb, which only made the roar in his head grow even louder.

  “Ollie,” he said again. Oliver was coming. Coming here. Seb had spent the last few days in bed, helpless and oblivious while his family—

  “He was really worried. “

  “You called him?” The question came out like a croak as Seb’s throat tried to close over again. Oliver. The golden boy, the good son, was coming to rescue Seb and—

  “He called me,” Martin said. “Or, actually, he called you, but you weren’t home and your phone—”

  “You answered my phone?” Seb had lost everything, including his privacy apparently. Oliver was coming, and Martin couldn’t even respect basic boundaries.

  “He called and—”

  “Is anyone else coming?” Seb really was going to be sick. If Oliver knew, the rest of the family knew. His sisters, his father. They knew. They’d had time to plan and organize while he’d been wallowing in pointless self-pity. Parker would treat him like another project. His father would stand at the edges of the bookstore’s remains and shake his head like he’d known it would come to this all along. In this moment of loss and weakness, they would suck him back into the fold, and it was his fault for not seeing it coming.

  “Hey.” Martin came around the table as Seb pushed away from his chair. “Hey, it’
s okay. What’s wrong? What do you need?”

  Seb shook his head, shrugging away as Martin tried to wrap his arms around him. He needed an escape. They were coming. It was too late to stop them or protect himself from them.

  “Seb?” Penny’s sudden intrusion made the walls of the kitchen press in on him even more. He didn’t want an audience. They couldn’t see him like this.

  Before the thought was fully formed, he was moving. His suitcase sat against the wall just inside the den, like it had packed itself and was waiting for him. He grabbed it, along with the traitorous phone that sat on the coffee table, and stumbled for the front door.

  “Seb!” Martin called. “Wait! Where are you going?”

  The cold air on his face should have brought clarity, but Seb pushed onward up the street. He needed to go. It was cowardly, but it was too late to make his stand with his family. They had the advantage, and the only thing left for Seb was to not be here when they arrived.

  Footsteps chased after him.

  “Hey!” Martin’s face was flushed, and his eyes were wide as he caught up and stepped in front of him.

  Seb hitched the overnight bag that contained everything he owned over his shoulder. “I can’t.”

  “Stop! Just wait a minute.”

  Seb didn’t slow. Martin’s hand pulled at him, and he danced away.

  “Where are you going?”

  “What do you care?” Better than admitting he didn’t know.

  “Please.” Martin was breathing hard as he tried to keep up. “Talk to me. I’ve been waiting for you to talk to me for days.”

  Seb wheeled on him. The bag fell to the ground with a thump.

  “Days? You’re so concerned, aren’t you? How long did you wait before you went behind my back and called my brother?”

  “He was worried.”

  Seb snorted when Martin didn’t even try to deny the accusation. “He shouldn’t be. He hasn’t worried in years. Too busy protecting his own perfect image, while Seb the black sheep got on with his life. “

  “He’s your brother. Of course he cares.”

  “You think spending a weekend with them means you know them?” Seb’s hurt boiled into rage, whipping up like the flames that had destroyed his life. He had nothing left to protect but himself. “You think they care about anything but themselves and their own perfect lives? They’re just coming to gloat.”