Javi, Come Home

CHAPTER ELEVEN

     Fuck Javi.

     Tate can't sleep, lying in bed staring at his ceiling fan, thinking about the night. Javi had found his soft spot and dug a hole there, burying himself in Tate's sensitivity. How is he supposed to hate him when he's clearly sick. Tate's not that mean.

     When he'd dropped him off, he'd nearly fallen over getting out of his truck. Tate had to walk around and help him up the steps. Oscar met them at the door, his face clouded with concern. "I knew something was wrong," he'd said, sort of frantic. "I felt it."

     "Nothings wrong," Javi had said the same time Tate said, "He passed out."

     Tate was warmed by the way Oscar coddled Javi, pulling him away from Tate and hustling him into the house. He'd barely managed to thank Tate before he was rushing Javi out of sight. Tate loved Javi's parents for so many reasons. They'd been second parents to him but Oscar was the only father Tate knew. And the way Oscar fathered was fierce and devoted.

     For a long time Tate was jealous of what Javi had. Tate never knew his father. Margie and his dad were not a love story, not like Oscar and Lena. It was one night.

     Tate can't sleep and he's tired of trying.

     He finds himself on the road, driving in the dark with the windows open, enjoying the smell of the cool air. It's a waste of gas, he knows, and the price has gone up so much he knows he shouldn't be wasting it. Tate does well for himself, working for Oscar, but when you know poverty you never forget it.

     He was able to get himself a house after six months of living with Oscar and Lena after his mom lost their house. But that was because he'd starting refinishing and flipping furniture. It was just something he did for fun, he never expected it to be lucrative.

     Still, he's got a survivor's mindset when it comes to money. He's not wasteful. His mom's medical care is expensive. He's always thinking about bills, about saving, about being ready for any unplanned financial burden.

     He stops at the diner, not because he's hungry but just to not be home and not be blowing through his gas, either. It's nearing three a.m. and it's empty except for a lone trooper car in the lot.

     He takes a seat at the end of the bar. The diner's on a skeleton crew so it takes a moment before someone comes out. He doesn't recognize the waitress, a woman in her forties, who must only work the overnights.

     "Coffee?" she asks holding up the pot and he nods. "Milk and sugar?" she asks next and he nods again.

     She leaves a menu before walking away. Tate doesn't pick it up, nursing his coffee instead. He's not alone for long. When the cop walks up to him, he says, "I remember you. Speed racer."

     The cops sets his mug down and plops down on the seat next to Tate. "Do you remember me?" he asks, eyes twinkling at Tate.

     Tate nods slowly. "I remember you."

     "Good," he says. "I'd hate to be unremarkable." Tate doesn't say anything so he goes on. "What're you doing out here at this hour?"

     "Getting an early start on my day, I guess," Tate shrugs. "I assume you're on duty?"

     "I am," he says, looking Tate in the eye as he grins. "But it's a slow night."

     That's how Tate finds himself in the backseat of a squad car with Matt. He wasn't at all surprised when he'd made some honestly cringe comment about wanting to see what the inside of cop car looks like. He'd have been more impressed if Matt had just come out with it straight. Or crooked, he supposes.