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Lars found that he didn’t particularly mind his touch.
For as long as he could remember, all the way back into childhood, Lars has hated the feeling of being touched. His father’s hands had always come with conditions. They arrived attached to anger, disappointment, impatience. Even before the bottles started flying, Lars had learned to recognize the warning signs: the tightening jaw, the narrowing eyes, the hand reaching out. Every instinct he possessed had taught him to shrink from it.
Touch had become heat after that. Scalding, white-hot pain. Every touch felt like fire, burning his skin and lingered there far after the hands of that person had been removed.
Gus, his older brother, didn’t enjoy being just out of reach either but had always been a little more understanding. He had left home shortly after their mother’s passing and rarely came home as Lars got older. But after moving in with Gus when they were both older, he was more okay with the passing touches. A nudge here, bumping shoulders there. Lars had grown to be okay with it because it was his brother and he loved his brother.
Bianca was the only other person he felt comfortable enough—safe enough—to be touched this way. Yet even with her, there had always been an awareness. A consciousness of every brush of fingers, every embrace, every moment of contact. Pleasant, certainly. Comforting, even. But nothing like how he was being touched now.
He’s taller than Lars, not by much just a few inches, and originally it had been intimidating. A new man in town that no one knew, with a daughter in tow. It made him mysterious and appealing to the older women in town but to Lars, he had wanted to be anywhere but near this new man.
Over the past six months, Lars had grown to know Courtland Gentry equal parts well and none at all. Like himself, Court didn’t speak a lot. It took people coaxing information out of him and even then, his answers were short and gave away nothing. Still, Lars had picked up on things, it was what he was good at.
Court stood like a man who had seen too much or done too much or maybe a bit of both. Lars knew he had previously worked for the government, so maybe it came from there. He chewed gum, but not around his daughter who Lars had learned hated the sound of chewing.
Court was also quite fit. The clothes he wore often tried to hide it but during the short few weeks upon his arrival it had been warm enough still for short sleeves.
The muscles beneath his shirts suggested someone who worked with his hands, but his hands themselves didn’t match. There were calluses, certainly, but not in the places Lars expected. The scars didn’t help either. Some were old and silver, faded by years. Others looked newer, as though whatever had happened to him hadn’t happened all that long ago.
Nobody in town seemed particularly interested in asking about them. Too respectful and kind to ask, but nosey enough to whisper.
Most people carried their lives openly. The woman who worked at the grocery store wore her wedding ring on a chain around her neck instead of her finger because arthritis made her knuckles swell. Mr. Shaw at the hardware store limped worse in the winter than the summer. Karin preferred yellow flowers even though everyone always brought her red ones.
People told stories constantly. They just didn’t realize they were doing it. Court was harder to read and told no such stories.
That was another thing Lars had noticed. People liked mysteries right up until they risked becoming real. It was easier for everyone to accept the explanation Court offered. Former government employee. Single father. New to town. End of story.
The thing Lars couldn’t quite understand was that Court never seemed interested in taking anything from him. Most people wanted something. A conversation or eye contact or explanations about Bianca. Helping out here or there or ‘Come have dinner with us, Lars.’
Even the kindest people occasionally reached for pieces of Lars they felt entitled to understand. But Court never did. He accepted whatever Lars offered and seemed perfectly content with what remained unsaid.
The porch light spilled a soft amber glow across the narrow stretch of siding beside Court’s front door. Somewhere behind them, the distant hum of cicadas rose and fell with the evening breeze. Lars barely heard them.
His attention remained fixed on the startling fact that he could feel Court everywhere.
The solid warmth of him standing close. The steady pressure of a hand resting against his side. The broad line of his chest only inches away. None of it should have felt comfortable.
Yet Lars found himself strangely reluctant to move.
A few moments earlier, one of them had stepped aside at the same time as the other. Lars wasn’t even certain how it had happened. An awkward shift. A laugh. A misjudged step.
Now he stood caught between the porch wall and Court’s body. He wasn’t trapped, it felt important for him to note.
Court would move immediately if Lars asked. They both knew that. Perhaps that was why Lars remained exactly where he was.
The cedar siding pressed cool against his back. Court’s hand rested near his waist, more reflex than intention, as though steadying him had become an unconscious act. The touch should have sent panic racing through his chest.
Instead it settled there.
Lars became acutely aware of his own heartbeat. But it was not the frantic pounding of fear he’d come to associate with being touched. It was infinitely softer and arguably more dangerous of a feeling. Lars was nervous.
The kind that made his stomach feel weightless. The kind that made every breath seem suddenly significant.
Court was looking at him, not saying anything. Lars had never understood how silence could feel crowded until now.
There were a hundred things suspended between them. Questions neither seemed capable of asking. Answers neither seemed ready to give. The space separating them had become so small that it felt absurd to pretend not to notice it.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Lars found himself studying the details. The faint line between Court’s brows. The shadow of stubble along his jaw. The scar near his chin that disappeared whenever he smiled—which was such a rare thing to see from Court.
Lars was finally close enough to memorize all these details.
Every instinct that had guided him through most of his life insisted he should be uncomfortable. His skin should be crawling. His muscles should be tense. He should be counting the seconds until distance returned.
Instead he found himself wondering what would happen if Court stepped closer.
The absurd thought struck him with enough force to steal his breath.
The evening seemed to narrow around them, reducing itself to the quiet creak of the porch beneath their feet and the warmth gathered in the small space they occupied together.
Lars could feel the shape of his own vulnerability with startling clarity. It was a thing so rare in his life that he almost failed to recognize it. Trust.
And standing there, with the rough wood at his back and Court’s hand resting lightly against his side, Lars discovered that trust felt remarkably similar to longing.