Boot(s)

21-Boot

Bobby O'Callahan

I had overslept, so I was in more of a rush than usual. When I thundered down the stairs and into the kitchen, Pete was already awake, MacBook open in front of him as he sat at the kitchen counter. A cup of coffee in his hand drifted a little too close to the computer screen. When I walked by, I gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Morning."

"Morning," his voice was always ten times lower in the morning. It made my skin break out into goosebumps. "Coffee's in the pot. English muffin in the toaster." He had been here a week. Strangely, he was always up before me. And every morning, coffee was waiting and so was breakfast. It sent a warm hum throughout my body that lasted until I got home to him again.

I grabbed the pot of coffee, turning to look at him. "Thank you, Sergeant," I smiled. He looked above his computer screen, saw me beaming, then shook his head and went back to whatever he was doing. A smile dusted across his lips though. Subtle. Like he didn't even know it was there.

I peanut buttered my toast and was reaching for a paper plate when he spoke up again. "Hey Bo..." he trailed off. I glanced over my shoulder at him.

He was looking at something on his computer, his eyes about two inches away from the screen. I chuckled. "What's up?"

"...Why is my credit card bill low? Like suspiciously low?"

I cleared my throat from the anxiety that had quickly gathered there, poured my coffee in a to-go cup, and beelined it for the front door. "No idea. I wouldn't worry though. Gotta run."

And I almost got away with it. But he saw he me out of the corner of his eye, busting my ass to get out of there, and of course he knew that something suspicious was me. "Hey! Bobby O'Callahan don't you move another muscle!" I froze in my pursuit, turning around slowly. He had a finger pointed in my direction, but his eyes were on his computer. Slowly, he let his hand drop. "What the fuck?" He whipped around to face me. "I don't see the inn. I don't see the shopping we did. What the fuck!"

I shrugged, smiling nervously. "Veteran's discount?"

"Shut up, asshole. You know I have plenty of money, right? You know I can afford this stuff, right?"

I held up my toast-and-coffee hands in defeat. "Yes! Of course, I know that!" I didn't. "I, I just wanted to help out, that's all." I took a few backward steps towards the door. "I gotta run. By the way, you have an appointment at 12, Nance is picking you up."

He had turned back to his computer, but at the mention of the appointment, his eyes flashed to my retreating body. "Appointment? No, I don't. What appointment?"

"Noon! Nance'll be here!"

"Bobby—" If I had to bet, the rest of that sentence was something like: Bobby O'Callahan get your ass back here, but I had already grabbed the truck keys and was out the front door before I could hear him finish.

__

When I stepped into the foyer at the end of my workday, the house felt about ten degrees hotter, but it smelt like Giada DiLaurentiis was cooking up dinner at my stove. I hung up my keys and kicked off my boots, breathing in the garlic, the marinara, the basil until I could practically feel it running through my blood. My stomach was already growling.

In the kitchen, at the stove, was Pete. He had my Google Home blasting some classic rock I didn't recognize. He had his back to me, a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. He was holding himself up with a steady hand on the counter, his crutches forgotten, leaning against a chair. I felt my lips curl as he glanced over his shoulder, hearing my footsteps. "Hey," I said.

He smirked. "Hey yourself." I walked behind him, taking a deep breath in over his shoulder. He was stirring tomato sauce. Fresh basil sat on the counter in a small pot I didn't recognize. Breaded chicken was simmering on a back burner. "What's all this?" I put a hand on his lower back in what I hoped was a comforting, friendly gesture and not an I'm praying on you one. It was then that I noticed, maybe for the first time since I had seen him like this (this being thirty, flirty, and thriving), he was wearing a short sleeve t-shirt.

"Nothin' special. Cooking up a little chicken parm." I was too focused on his biceps to pay any attention to what his lips were doing. There were so many tattoos I didn't recognize. So many I wanted to touch, to trace, to know.

"Ain't that right," fluttered off my tongue like I had been listening. I forced my eyes away from the ink, staring instead, into his. "Where'd you learn to cook? I know the army didn't teach you that. Or did it?"

I could see his cheeks tinge pink. He focused back on stirring the pot. "Don't worry about it. Give me a hand, would you? Grab me that pan. Yes, that one. And put the chicken in it. Use the tongs. Yeah, like that..."

Once the chicken was deemed "appropriately dressed" (Pete's phrasing) in mozzarella and tomato sauce and secured in the oven, he turned to face me, one hand on the counter by the stove, the other on the kitchen island.

One of his eyebrows shot up. "So. I guess I should thank you."

"What? For the inn?"

"No, Bo—"

"For the clothes?"

"No, not that either—"

"The bedroom?"

"No, Bo, and please let me finish because now I just feel like a god damned bottom feeder with all your handouts."

"They're not handouts! I—"

"Bobby! Enough." He paused for just enough time for me to grin sheepishly. "But before I continue this thank you, I am first going to say that you had absolutely no business doing what you did. And it is a man's decision to make choices about his own body." He paused again, and suddenly; things were making sense in my mind. The appointment today. The thank-you chicken. The grin that was on his face even though he was reprimanding me.

"Oh my god," my fingers covered my mouth like I was a kid. With that thought, I quickly pulled them away. "No way. You can get one? You're a good candidate?"

He nodded gently, like if he said it out loud, none of it would be possible. "Yeah. I am. I am, Bo," and then none of it was gentle. He was smiling and I was smiling and then I was crushing him and even those biceps around my waist didn't feel too constricting. If anything, they weren't tight enough.

We pulled away from each other at the same time, but I didn't let go of his shoulders. "Peter that's so amazing. Do you understand how amazing that is? A prosthetic could change your life. Seriously, that's what the doctor told me on the phone. He's great, isn't he?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "I know. He said it's great that I've still got most of the knee joint, which is good for mobility purposes. And he can recommend a good physical therapist for after who deals with this stuff. I think Nance is figuring out all the insurance and dealing with the VA but this is... It's huge. So, thank you."

I let my hands slip away from his shoulders. The way he was looking at me made me want to stay there, though, in that sweaty hot kitchen, dirty dishes piled in the sink, until death did us part. A timer, somewhere, maybe on his phone, stunned us both out of that rom-com moment. That let's-run-away-right-now moment. He was the first to tear his eyes away.