The Solstice Kings - Kim Fielding Page 0,2

of his paintings across town and back every day.

After guzzling a quick coffee, he trudged out of the French Quarter and caught the St. Charles streetcar, where he jostled with commuters and tourists to create space for himself and his duffel. He usually walked, but by now it was pouring. He’d gotten soaked while walking just a few blocks, and he shivered in his old denim jacket and sodden tennis shoes. He wished he had a parka—oversized and fluffy and warm as an embrace—and that he’d arrive home to a roaring fire and hot chocolate and fuzzy slippers. Or better yet, that home was located somewhere really warm. With sunny skies, broad sandy beaches, towering palm trees, cute guys in skimpy bathing suits.

He fucking hated the cold, and yet somehow he’d never managed to spend a winter in the tropics. New Orleans was the closest he’d come. It was as if something inside him perversely insisted on keeping him chilled, at least a little bit. Some years he’d even stranded himself for a few months in Denver, Chicago, or Minneapolis, where he’d frozen his ass off and cursed himself freely for his stupidity. Compared to those places, even Kemken was balmy.

God, Kemken. He used to know every inch of it, from the creek banks to the alleys in the small downtown. When he was a kid, he’d often escape his pack of cousins and wander into the thick woods behind his grandmother’s rambling monstrosity of a house. Bundled against the damp chill, he’d spend hours among the towering trees and dripping mosses with only wildlife for company. He never worried about getting lost. Looking back on it now, he realized he’d been searching for something in the forest, although he had no idea what it might be. Maybe just some peace and quiet.

Or maybe….

The streetcar jolted to a halt, and Miles realized he’d reached his stop. He squeezed his way to the door and, when he hopped out, twisted his ankle hard enough to make him swear and limp the three blocks to his apartment.

His single room was dark and smelled faintly of mildew. Even after he switched on the lights and turned the heat up high, the space didn’t feel welcoming. Maybe he should have redecorated after Andy left. Miles took in the putty-colored walls, now empty of Andy’s artsy photography. The stained and scuffed wooden floor. The battered frame of a Murphy bed and a few pieces of equally timeworn furniture that he and Andy had bought at thrift stores. The corner where Miles kept his art supplies. The dollhouse-sized kitchenette. And the poor dying lavender on the dreary windowsill.

How had he ever thought of this as home? Had he ever been comfortable and happy here, even when Andy was still around? He couldn’t remember.

After changing from his wet clothes into dry slouchy ones, Miles put a kettle on the electric burner and then turned on his Bluetooth speaker—last year’s birthday present from Andy. He randomly poked at his phone to start some music and ended up with a Spotify playlist in Icelandic. If he’d been paying attention, he would have chosen reggae or something else with a tropical island vibe. But fine, cold and remote it was.

A short time later he sat in the too-soft chair near the window with his tea cooling on the rickety table beside him and the lavender plant in his lap. “I’m sorry. You deserve better than this. Andy shouldn’t have picked you if he couldn’t commit properly, and he never should have abandoned you. You shouldn’t be languishing here.”

Miles was fully aware that he was projecting heavily, and onto an herb no less, but saying the words out loud made him feel marginally better. He wasn’t the only one Andy had left. And deep in his heart, Miles couldn’t even blame the guy. Andy liked noise and crowds and parties, all of which had been part of Miles’s life when they met. But for Miles, the gatherings had grown oppressive and the drinking and drugs were becoming too much. Becoming dangerous. Once he had sobered up and decided to skip the bars, he and Andy had very little in common. So when Andy was offered an advertising photography gig in New York, he took it—and he didn’t invite Miles to come along.

“It’s all right.” Miles inhaled the lavender’s aroma. “Deedee will give you a good home. She has lots of windows at her place and even a little patio. You’ll have