Owen

Owen

Chapter thirty-seven

By Roy Reinikainen

Sam stood on the back porch of his folks' house, leaning against the railing and studying the neat rows of vegetables, Jonah's dreams taking shape. In the distance, lightning flashed from beneath a bank of towering clouds, sending a deep rumble of thunder to startle the birds. His meeting with Owen, earlier in the afternoon, had left him more depressed than he had ever been. 'When will all this end?' he asked himself. 'What do I have to do to make it end? What can I do? And,' he continued, 'what will take the place of,' he glanced around, 'this, if things do change?'

He turned at an unexpected knock on the front door.

"Helloooo." It was Owen's voice, calling through the screen! The fact that he didn't just walk in spoke volumes about how their relationship had changed over the months since that evening at the doctor's. Even though Owen had yet to move, he still did not feel comfortable intruding on his friend's privacy, or Sam's parents' home.

"Coming!" Sam shouted, feeling a surge of joy at hearing Owen's voice.

"Hi'ya, Owen!" he smiled brightly, as he trotted into the living room and opened the door, as he caught his breath. Owen took two steps into the room, then paused as he and Sam seemed to drink in one another's presence. Owen's shirt, as usual, hung from his back pocket. His smooth chest glistened with a faint sheen of perspiration, the sight of which caused a twitch in Sam's groin as he imagined himself tasting his boyhood friend, licking over the ripples of Owen's chest and belly, as he'd often done in the past.

"Ohhh," Owen managed, on an unsteady exhaled breath, "I . . . I wanted to tell you earlier, but . . ." He glanced away, his grey eyes unsure of whether he should continue. "I'm . . . I'm missin' you, Sam," he said, with a catch in his voice. "More'n I can say, I'm missin' you. I . . . I . . . I miss seein' you, or hearin' your laugh, or . . . touchin' you. I miss bein' able to talk to you. Even though we're livin' under the same roof, it's like we're strangers. I . . ." his breath caught in his throat. "I . . . miss you . . . and what we had . . . so much." He hung his head, not knowing what to do now that he'd said his rehearsed few words. "I wanted to tell you that, over at Bailey's building, on the porch . . ." Sam nodded, once. "But," Owen continued, "I'm findin' I can't think of anything but you." Owen almost wailed. "Ohhhh, Sam! What am I gonna do?"

Sam gulped a breath of air. He reached out and touched Owen's arm, desperately wanting to take him in his arms. "Am I no longer Sammy to you?" he asked, his eyes watery.

Owen's mouth opened and closed as he attempted to speak. "Always," he finally managed, in a husky voice. "Until my dying breath. I . . . I . . . just didn't know if you still wanted to be." Owen abruptly turned away, and after a few gulps, regained control of himself. He turned back to Sam, wearing an apologetic look, opening and closing a hand, in a gesture of helplessness. "I'm sorry if sayin' these things is upsetting t'you. I just . . . had to."

Sam gulped a breath of air. Before either he or Owen could question his actions, he pulled Owen into an embrace, which silently conveyed all the emotions he'd held in check since Owen left for college. He buried his head on Owen's shoulder and silently cried, his tears joining Owens, as they held one another.

He cried because of the loneliness he felt when Owen was away. He cried because of Owen's return, and the friendship which had changed over the past months. He cried because of Jonah, because of Lucas, and Owen's loss of his father. He cried because of his own father's illness, and the happiness he felt when he learned his parents would soon be returning home. But, mostly he cried because he finally . . . truly . . . believed that Owen did, indeed, still love him . . . forever, and always, just as Owen had always said.

They held one another as their emotions exhausted themselves, then sniffed, wiped their eyes, and grinned in shared embarrassment. Sam gestured to the screen door. "Here," he urged, holding the door open. "Let's sit out here so we don't have to stare at one another, wonderin' what to do."

Owen snorted as he passed. "So, sittin' down will make things better? I mean, are you sayin' it's not just me that's feeling all awkward and torn up inside?" He sniffed as they left the house, and crossed the porch; Dog followed closely, slowly wagging his tail. As always, Owen responded to the liquid brown eyes and knelt, scratching Dog behind his ears and accepting a lick across the back of his hand as thanks. "I've never felt this way around you," Owen murmured, as both men eased themselves into adjoining rocking chairs. "You've always been the one person I could say anything to. What's happened to us?" he asked, in a husky voice.

Sam watched as Owen's blunt-tipped fingers rested lightly on the arm of the chair. 'Beautiful hands,' he thought; 'so warm and tender and expressive.' Most of the time, Owen spoke as much with his hands as his voice. Today, they lay lightly on the arms of the chair, as much at a loss for something to say, as Owen. Only minutes earlier, those hands . . . those warm hands, had tenderly rubbed up and down his back, just as they always had. In those moments, while they cried on one another's shoulders, it was if nothing in their lives had changed.

"I should be one of the happiest guys in town," Owen said, slowly, as if searching for words,. "I'm home, surrounded by family and friends; I am livin' with a person who loves me, and whom I love . . . yet, Sammy . . ." he turned a hand palm-up and spread his fingers, "you're not in my life, and you not bein' there is tearin' me up inside. It's like you've died or somethin'. I see something and tell myself that, 'I have to tell Sam 'bout that. Then I remember that I never know when I'll see you next. Seein' you at dinner or breakfast is not the same thing as being with you . . . here . . . like this . . . just you n'me.

"Jonah tells me you're doing fine, but," he softly snorted, "that's not nearly enough. I don't know what you're doing, what your life's like, what you're thinkin', what you're dreaming. I need to hear your voice, hear you laugh . . . touch you, and," Owen bowed his head, "be touched by you. It's as if you're dead." He looked up. "All I've got left are memories and your photograph, and," his voice became firm, "no matter what the doc says, I'm not lettin' it go."

Sam reached across the small space separating the two chairs, and tentatively touched Owen's hand. "I'm missin' you too, Owen." His fingers ran over the back of Owen's hand, then the palm, as Owen turned his hand over, and they finally interlaced their fingers.

"Is it a bad thing?" Sam asked, "wantin' to touch you . . . to . . . to . . . hug you, to hold your hand? Me . . . wantin' t'do those things doesn't mean I'm lovin' Jonah any less; only that I'm wantin' you in my life, too. I'm missin' the man I still . . . love. I want us to be . . ."

"Together," Owen began, in a voice of barely concealed hope.

"Forever, and always," Sam finished, tightening his fingers. "Oh, I've missed bein' able to talk with you, or to touch you,"he murmured, as his breath caught. "Havin' you in town . . . livin' here, has been worse than when you were at school, 'cause I can see you, but not talk to you . . . not like I want to. I see you with Lucas, and you're smiling. Then, you see me watching and you get all sad-looking." Sam turned to his friend. "Tell me why we're torturing ourselves like this. Why can't we be together like we always thought we would be. Is it Lucas?"

Before Owen could answer, Sam continued. "I don't think so. He as much as told me, at lunch a while back, that he wished the three of us - he, and you, and I, could live together. He wouldn't say somethin' like that if he didn't want me near you, would he?" Sam searched Owen's grey eyes, then bowed his head. "It's me and Jonah, isn't it?"

Sam abruptly stood, startling Dog. "I do love him, Owen. Not like I love you. Nothing like that, but I do love him . . . in a different way. He's always seemed so vulnerable, that I guess I want to be like a big brother to him, or something."

"Not his lover?" Owen asked, as he stepped to Sam's side and tenderly wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him close.

Sam looked out to the distant fields, one hand resting on the porch railing. He seemed to think a moment, then shook his bowed head. "No, not his lover, I'm sorry to say. I love him as a brother, or something, not like a lover." He turned back to Owen. "That's awful, isn't it? Yet, I just can't cut things off, like that," he said, making an abrupt cutting gesture with a hand. "It's just not somethin' I can do."

Owen tightened his embrace, nuzzling Sam's thick black hair. "Oh, Sammy. If you're unhappy, surely he's unhappy too. Have the two of you talked about your feelings?" Sam silently shook his head.

"No . . . we haven't been doin' too much talking, recently. We're not arguing, or anything. It's just like we don't have much to say to one another. He's busy, thinking about the greenhouses n'stuff, and I'm busy with Bailey's building and finishing school." Sam shrugged. "I want there to be more between him and me, but whatever we had has faded away. I don't know why, but it has. I want to call an end to things, but . . . I just can't. It's not in me to cause heartache."

"Who'll be the one feelin' the heartache, Sammy, you or Jonah?" Sam shrugged. "I know I will, just 'cause I'd be doin' something I hate doing, to someone I really do love." Sam turned around, enveloping Owen in a tight embrace. "I love him, Owen, but, no matter how wonderful he is, he isn't you."

Lucas and Jonah picked their way through piles of construction material, all neatly stacked, awaiting the contractor to begin assembling the first of a half-dozen greenhouses. Jonah's mother had gladly volunteered some of her land for the new project, and had taken an active interest in the planning, and potential markets for the products Jonah intended to grow.

"I'm needin' to talk a bit, Lucas," Jonah said, perching on the corner of a sack of plywood. "Are you up to listening?"

"Sure . . . anytime."

"It's 'bout me and Sam," Jonah began. "I'm not happy. I know he's not happy, and I can't imagine going years and years feelin' this way. Still, I don't want to hurt him . . . at least not any more than he's already hurtin'."

"You're asking me what you should do?" Lucas asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands. "I can't do that, Jonah. I can listen, but I can't tell you what is the right thing to do. You have to ask yourself that." Lucas paused, waiting for Jonah to say something. "Do you have any inkling of what is the right thing to do?"

Jonah nodded. "Me tellin' Sam that we can't go on as partners. I want him to be a good friend. I love him as a friend; just not as a person to live with." Jonah looked up, worry creasing his face. "Am I an awful guy, Lucas, for thinkin' like I am? It's not as if I'm not taking his feelings into consideration. I am. I'm worried though that he'll end up alone. I mean, you and Owen are together. Where does that leave Sam if I'm not with him?"

"Jonah, staying with someone because you're afraid that they'll be alone if you're not with them is not a good reason to remain in a relationship. You stay in a relationship because you care for the opposite party . . . deeply. But, if it'll make you feel any better, if you and Sam should ever separate, I don't believe he'll be alone for long. Owen and I would be only too happy to have him as part of our relationship."

"You would? But, I mean, that would mean a relationship with three guys. Can that kinda' thing work?"

Lucas shrugged. "I love Owen. Owen loves Sam. I care for Sam, a great deal. I could very easily come to love him. Now, how he feels about me is another thing. But, yes, I think it could work. I would darn sure work at making it work, I can say that. I think Sam and Owen would say the same thing.

"So, I guess, all this boils down to you doing what is best for you. If you think it's best for you to not be in a relationship with Sam, then you should end what you have and move on to whatever is best for you. If you think that possibly what you and Sam are experiencing are the growing pains of a relationship, and that things will smooth out, given a chance, then you should consider giving the relationship a chance to mature. Only you know which, if either, of those things applies, just as only you can know which course of action to take."

Jonah huffed a laugh. "You're not much help," he said, jokingly. "I was hoping you'd say, 'Jonah, this is what you should do.'"

Lucas grinned and shook his head. "I could say something like that, but you don't intend to ask me to make every decision you face, do you?" Jonah snorted. "So, you should begin by making this one. Owen and I will support you, no matter what you eventually do, just as will your mother . . . and, I would bet, Sam. You're stronger than you know, Jonah."

"It's just that, Mama delayed making a decision with Pops, and look what happened."

"What I see that happened is that Owen was born, and Abigail, and Opie, and you. If your mother had made a quick decision, none of you would be here, and I'm thinking the world would be a much less interesting place." He gripped Jonah's hand, then linked fingers.

"There was a time," Jonah began, "when I thought you might be the person for me."

Lucas grinned. "I was thinking something along those same lines, but both of us realized that wasn't the right road to go down. There are other gay men in the world, Jonah. Sam isn't the only one."

"Yeah," Jonah replied, studying the ground, "but will that guy be free to be with me?"

"How did the presentation go?" Corey asked his friend, Riley, at the same time trying not to grimace at his friend's choice of clothes. Even being from the back of beyond, as Corey often thought of Hillsboro, the small mountain town in which he grew up, he knew one should never wear a corduroy jacket over bare skin - a yellow corduroy jacket, at that, with a fuchsia handkerchief flopping loosely from the breast pocket. Thankfully . . . for their fellow students, Riley had added a pair of green and white striped shorts to his ensemble, instead of the brief swimsuit he'd worn to class one time. The full pouch of the pale blue Speedo, combined with Riley's muscular buttocks, had caused quite a stir. 'Probably the only reason he wasn't asked to leave was because he was wearing a crisply pressed white shirt and bow tie,' Corey smiled to himself. 'The show off!'

"What did you wear?" Corey hesitated to ask.

"Why, Corey," Riley drawled, in an accentuated Southern accent. "One might think you disapprove of my choice in clothes!" He held the corduroy sport coat wide, as if flashing someone, displaying the light spread of brown hair covering his flat stomach and muscular chest, and the small gold ring piercing his left nipple. "I just seek to establish my own identity. Besides, I like to be comfortable. I assure you, I can dress properly, if the occasion demands, and you may rest assured, I was wearing appropriate attire while giving our presentation. I even wore socks . . . and underwear." He made a face. "I hate underwear." He thought a moment. "I hate clothes. I hate other men in clothes, too." He held up a finger, his eyes alight.

"I know! My calling in life is to run one of those nudist farms, or something!" He made a face. "I'm wondering. Do you suppose what one of those nudist places in a city is called? I wouldn't mind if the place had a nice tree and some manicured lawns, but nature!" He grimaced. "I can do without that, thank you very much. Imagine, I could be without clothes all the time!

"When I was growing up, my mama insisted that I wear them, though, at least when I was downstairs, just so I wouldn't scare the maids. She later told me she was actually afraid the maids might take advantage of me, once they'd seen my . . . wanger. I swear, Corey. She called my willie a wanger." He shuddered. "Imagine me wanting to poke a girl, and a maid at that! Even so, I spent most of my time at home, in the buff. M'sister just rolled her eyes when m'brothers started going starkers, too." He laughed. "The second floor of the house became a clothes-free zone. Even Dad would hang out with us guys, sometimes. Get it? . . . Hang out?"

"Yes, I get it," Corey sighed, having heard the same story many times before. "You just like showing off your body," Corey laughed.

The, "as do you," response, caused Corey to shrug.

"How was your trip?" Riley asked, turning sideways in the easy chair in Corey's apartment, and casually throwing a bare leg over the chair's arm. "And, where's Barto, or whatever his name is?"

"Bailey," Corey corrected, automatically. "He's having dinner with his folks."

Riley nodded.

"I'm thinking that I'm in love," Corey sighed, sliding to the floor and propping himself against Riley's chair. He looked over his shoulder, at the puzzled face of his friend. "And," Corey continued, "it's making for some tough decision-making."

"Love?" Riley prompted. "I thought Bailey was the one."

Corey slowly shook his head. "You'd be much more suited to him than I," Corey continued, smiling up at his friend, as Riley shifted position, placing a leg on each side of Corey, and began massaging his shoulders. "He and I are from different worlds. I'm in love with Riverton, the small town we visited."

"Oh, I thought you were talking about being in love with a person."

"I wouldn't say I'm in love with him, but I have got a serious case of like, I can tell you that. A very, very serious case."

"Well, we graduate soon. What does no longer being a student mean to you? Are you going to stay here? Are you planning on going back to that self-described rain-soaked hell-hole, in which you grew up, or are you intending to move to the place you love, where I assume the person who has given you a serious case of like, lives? I do, of course, assume that this wonderful person feels about you the same as you do about him."

"I don't know," Corey managed to say, as Riley tenderly pinched both nipples.

When Corey squirmed, Riley laughed. "Does what's-his-name know about your sensitive nipples?"

"All we did was kiss and cuddle," Corey protested, swiping Riley's hand away from his chest. "So, no, he knows nothing about any part of me but my lips and tongue."

"Hmm. Two of your best parts, I must say," Riley grinned. "I imagine he'll be thrilled with the rest of you, once all is revealed. You are certainly one stunning package. He'll be very lucky. What's this lucky man's name?"

"Jonah. Jonah Carver."

"Hmmm," Riley hummed as he ran his fingers through Corey's hair. "Does all this mean that you and I can't play, tonight? I certainly would like to experience your tongue and lips one last time before you leave to find your future, and I . . ." he sighed. "I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do, since I don't have anyone, like your Jonah, waiting for me." He leaned forward and kissed Corey's neck. "I know. You told me a few years ago that it'd never work with us as partners, 'cause we come from different worlds. But," Riley's breath was warm against Corey's ear, "but, those worlds disappear when all we're wanting to do is have a good time. Whenever I'm with you though, like this, I wish . . ."

"Yeah, me too. It's our hormones talking, nothing more."

"I really do like you, though. You know that don't you?" Riley scrambled to sit on the floor, facing Corey. He clasped both of Corey's hands. "I mean, really." Corey gave him a grim smile of understanding. "Are you feeling guilty because of this Jonah person, or because of Bailey? Do you guys have an agreement?"

Corey shook his head. Riley, the man with the palest green eyes he'd ever seen, was intently watching him, perfectly aware what those eyes could do to a person. 'And those lips,' Corey thought. 'If Riley had been alive during Michelangelo's day, the sculptor would have certainly chosen him as a model.' The sensuous lips, the perfect body, strong hands, and generous endowment, added together, totaled the perfect man. 'Just not the one for me,' Corey sighed.

Corey drew himself back to the present. "No, to both questions. I really hardly know Jonah . . . and Bailey," he shrugged, "we've never spoken about monogamy, or anything. If I had agreed to that, with anyone, I wouldn't have gone as far as I already have with you, or I wouldn't have been laying in that field with Jonah." He grinned. "I can't say I wouldn't have been tempted by either of you, though. You and Jonah are 'bout the sexiest guys I've ever met. Bailey, in his own way, is sexy, too. I haven't allowed myself to commit to him too much, because of our differences. We're just you and I, Riley. We're great in bed; we laugh and have a good time, but . . . there's a chasm between the two of us that neither can cross."

"Are you feeling guilty for not feeling about Bailey, like you think you should? Do you know if he's feeling the same things . . . about you?"

Corey shrugged, then grinned, as Riley began sucking on one of his fingers. 'I've never known why I think having my fingers sucked is such a turn on,' Corey thought. 'Riley knows exactly how to get me going.'

"I don't have any underwear on today," Riley murmured, releasing Corey's hand, and reaching out to grope him. "Wanna see?"

Riley wasn't sure whether the low moan was an answer to his question, or to the firm grip he had on Corey's erection. "Hmmm," he smiled, as he laid on his back and pulled an unresisting Corey on top of him. "Let's get nekkid," he murmured, between kisses. "I'm thinking that I'd like a flip-flop fuck, tonight." He squirmed, putting as much pressure as he could on the firm mound of Corey's erection. "You can go first," Riley breathed, between kisses.

Corey buried his tongue in Riley's mouth, pressing himself against the swell at Riley's groin, then stood and hurriedly stripped. When he had cast aside his underwear, he tugged Riley to his feet and pulled him close, then mashed his open mouth against Riley's, their tongues battling. The two men had met during their freshman year at school, and had been off and on sex partners since. As Riley had said, they'd determined early-on that they were not meant to be partners, but partners or no, they had had lots of fun.

"You're the best kisser I've ever met," Riley smiled, as he stripped out of his clothes and gestured for Corey to sit on the sofa. "I wanna squat on it," he answered Corey's questioning glance. "That way I can get fucked and kiss you at the same time."

"I'm not the one with the sexy lips," Corey murmured, scooting forward on the seat of the sofa, watching as Riley stood with one foot on either side of him, slowly lowering himself onto his hard penis. Corey gasped at the heat of Riley's hole, and the feeling of the sphincter grabbing his cock, as Riley squatted.

Riley's erection bobbed between his spread legs. "Kiss me, handsome," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "Then shoot in me." He bounced, rocked, and squirmed, as he milked Corey's erection, while sucking on his tongue and kissing his cheeks and neck.

"Damn, but I'm feeling stuffed," he groaned. "You . . . always . . . make me feel like . . . this," he grunted, as he bounced. "No one's ever fucked me like you can," he managed to say, as he reached behind himself and toyed with Corey's balls.

"Are you about to cream?" he asked, when he felt Corey's scrotum tighten. Without waiting for an answer, he met Corey's lips in a passionate kiss, thrilled when Corey groaned and grasped his shoulders tightly, as he pumped Riley full of his seed.

"Mama," Jonah called, before opening the screen door to his mother's house. "It's me, Jonah, come to visit."

Bea, Jonah's mother, left the kitchen, wiping her hands dry on a blue and white checked hand towel, while in the dining room, the doctor's and Owen's voices stopped. Bea appeared to finally be fully recovered from, at least, the external wounds, her late-husband had inflicted. The bruises and cuts had healed, she had gained some weight and no longer looked like a poor imitation of a scarecrow, and her hair now shone brightly. She seemed to be constantly smiling, a faint flush to her cheeks, showing her happiness at the world around her.

For his part, the doctor, while not as immobilized as earlier, still sported a cast. "At least, I can wear a shirt now," he smiled. "I'm feeling almost human. And," he grinned, "I no longer need help showering."

"Darn," Owen had laughed. "I sorta enjoyed those showers." He'd jumped away from Daniel's playful punch.

Everyone's bright smile of greeting faded as they saw Jonah's disconsolate expression. "What is it, sweetheart?" Bea tenderly hugged her son, then guided him to the dining table and motioned for him to sit.

"Shall Owen and I leave?" Daniel asked, unsure whether to sit or not. Jonah shook his head and gestured toward a chair.

"No, you guys can stay. What I have to say affects you, too."

"I . . ." Jonah bowed his head. He set his cap on the table, then raked his fingers through his hair and rubbed his neck. "I told Sam that I couldn't live with him any longer." Jonah, facing away from his older brother, didn't see Owen's flash of exultation, replaced immediately by a closed-eyed, grim expression. "I'm feelin' trapped," Jonah continued, "and I don't want to feel that way. I've spent too much of my life feeling as if I have no options. When I moved in with Sam, I thought that would end; it didn't.

"Oh, Sam's wonderful. He hasn't done anything wrong, other than be so serious all the time." A slight grin escaped Jonah's serious expression. "I sorta was beginning to feel like he thought of me more as a son than a partner . . . or someone to have fun with." Jonah propelled himself out of his chair.

"I'm sorry, everyone. I'm needin' to stand up."

"It's okay, sweetheart." Bea studied her son as he walked across the dining room, pausing in front of the window which overlooked the newly planted fields. 'What a handsome young man he's become,' she thought, before flicking a glance toward Daniel, then Owen, whose mouth was drawn in a grim line.

"You were saying that you wanted to have fun?" Bea prompted.

"It's not only that. I was finding that I was growing to think of him more as a father figure than as a partner . . . a . . . lover. I don't need a father figure, and I don't want to look back years from now and realize that I should have done something to stop from feelin' bad. That's what would have happened, y'know? Sam and I would have both hung on, both feelin' miserable, just 'cause we're both the type of guys who can't let go once we've started something. This about killed me today, but it had to be done, if either Sam or I are ever gonna be happy."

Jonah turned to his brother. "Sam's gonna be unhappy until he's living with you, Owen. It's you he loves, not me."

Jonah plopped down onto the dining chair. "I'm sorry Owen, for screwin' things up for you, and I'm not really bein' fair to Sam, talkin' about him like I am. He's a wonderful guy; you all know that, but if I had to live with him for very long, I think I would go nuts, feelin' all walled-in . . . confined . . . you know?" Bea nodded, indeed aware of what her son was feeling.

"As tough as it was, I thought it was best to call a stop to things now, rather than wait. This way, I hope that both of us can still be friends. I really like him, Mama." Jonah bowed his head. "I just don't . . . love him, like I thought I did."

"How was he, Jonah? When you left, I mean? Was he okay?" Owen asked.

"He was sittin' on the porch, starin' into the distance. He gave me a hug and a kiss and thanked me for bein' honest with him, then went back to starin'."

Owen stood. "Mama, Daniel, Jonah. I think I'd better go find out how he's doing. You did the right thing, Jonah, feelin' like you do. Sam was right to thank you for bein' honest with him. I thank you, too." He squeezed his younger brother's shoulder, then hurried from the house. Once the screen door had slammed behind him, he sprinted toward Sam's house, heedless of the darkness, feeling a lightness in his chest he'd not felt for a long time.

Lucas looked up as the doorbell, to his and Owen's new home, rang. "Just a moment," he asked his father. "Someone's at the door." Lucas trotted across the brightly colored rug and polished wood of the apartment's floor, and opened the door, his smile fading as he saw the look on Sam's face.

"May I come in?" Sam asked, his voice dead from lack of emotion.

"Of course." Lucas stepped aside as Sam walked into the apartment, his head bowed, his hands in his pockets. "Let me finish this phone call," Lucas murmured. "I'll only be a second." He walked toward the opposite end of the apartment, speaking in a low voice, then placed the mobile phone on the granite kitchen counter.

"Sam?" he asked, concern coloring his voice, as he approached his friend who was standing in front of one of the large windows overlooking Main Street. "Is it your father?" he asked, thinking that he might have received bad news from the hospital. Sam shook his head, and turned to Lucas, his self-control near the breaking point.

"Jonah's left me," he said, gulping a breath of air. "He's moved back to his mother's."

Lucas hurried to Sam's side and enclosed him in a hug, rubbing his back. "I will not cry," Sam said, stepping away from Lucas' embrace. "I'm afraid if you hold me, Lucas, that I'll break down."

"And why the hell shouldn't you cry?" Lucas grabbed Sam by the shoulders. "Your freaking world has just been turned upside down! What's it going to prove if you stoically accept all this with a stone face? Nothing! Go ahead, yell, stomp around, do whatever it takes to get this out of your system."

"But, Jonah's done nothing wrong."

"So?" Lucas asked, holding his arms wide. "I'm not asking you to call him names. He's probably feeling pretty rotten about the whole thing, too." Lucas lowered his voice. "Sam, holding your feelings in doesn't make you more of a man. It just means that somehow, somewhere, those feelings will surface, most likely at the worst possible time. You can't ignore them forever."

Sam gave him a tremulous smile. "I understand. Maybe later."

Lucas heaved a sigh of acceptance as he led Sam to the sofa, dimmed the lights, then sat at Sam's side, pulling the unresisting man to him with an arm over his shoulders.

"When did this take place?" Lucas asked. "Talk to me. Tell me what happened."

Sam shrugged. "There's not much to tell. I've known for a while that Jonah wasn't really happy. He's been talking about feeling as if he's at the mercy of everyone else, never able to make a decision on his own. Trapped. I thought that maybe, with the greenhouse business n'all getting going, he was just nervous about all the new responsibilities."

"It was more than that, apparently," Lucas prompted. Sam sniffed and wiped his eyes as he nodded.

"He was nice about the whole thing. Of course, he would be, being who he is, but still, it's not easy. I feel as if I've been kicked in the belly. I . . . I didn't want to stay alone in the house tonight. Would it be okay, if I stay here with you'n Owen, just for this one night?" He looked around. "Where is Owen?"

"He's having dinner with Bea and Daniel. I've been discussing things with my father, and visiting with my mother."

"So . . ." Sam began, "he'll already know. Owen, I mean."

Before Sam could finish the thought, Owen rushed into the apartment, a frantic expression on his face. When he saw Sam sitting with Lucas, he seemed to relax. "I went to your house," he explained, closing the door, "but everything was dark. I looked in all the windows and, after knockin' on your bedroom window, figured you weren't home. I didn't know where you were, if you were okay, or what was going on." He sat at Sam's side and took his hand.

"Jonah told me what's happened. I'm so sorry, Sammy."

"Don't be," Sam answered, snuggling closer to Owen, laying his head on Owen's shoulder, and finally letting the tears flow.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, as Lucas stood.

Lucas leaned over the back of the sofa, embracing Owen with one arm and Sam with the other. "There's nothing to be sorry for." He tightened his embrace. He kissed Owen's cheek, then Sam's. "I'll leave the two of you alone for a bit."

"Don't go!" Sam turned to look over his shoulder. "Not 'cause of me, anyhow!"

Lucas rested a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm only going as far as the kitchen to make us some hot chocolate. That's m'mother's favorite cure-all. I'll be back in just a couple minutes. Also, I need to answer the phone," he added, as his cell phone began to twitter. Sam nodded, trying to grin through a watery blur, then snuggled closer to Owen, who tightened his embrace.

"Jonah did the right thing," Lucas heard Sam tell Owen. "If he wasn't happy, he shouldn't be in a relationship with me. I don't blame him for anything. If anyone is to be blamed for something, it's me, for not realizing that his unhappiness wasn't because of being overwhelmed with his new responsibilities, but with our relationship."

"It wasn't you, Sammy," Owen murmured. "I was over at Mama's and heard Jonah tell her and Daniel what happened. He kept telling us that you weren't at fault for anything; that it was all inside him. He said that things had moved too quickly for him, and that now that things have settled down, with Pops n'all, he felt penned-in, feelin' like everyone's making decisions for him, instead of allowing him to make decisions for himself. So . . . you're not to blame for anything." Owen gave him a stern look. "Understood?"

Sam nodded, smiling crookedly. "Yeah, I know, but, like I told Lucas, I feel as if I've been kicked in the belly."

Both men looked up as Lucas came back into the room, carrying a mug of steaming chocolate for each of them. Sam accepted a mug and smiled thanks, then turned to Owen as he accepted his own mug. "I was askin' Lucas if I could possibly stay here for tonight. I don't want to be alone tonight. Would it be okay?"

"Of course you can stay," Lucas said, his response echoed by Owen's. "We're all family, Sam. We look out for one another."

"But you n'Owen . . ."

"And you," Lucas interrupted, "are family. Not just Owen and me, or you and Owen, but you and me and Owen. All three of us. Each of us is tied to the other. We always have been. Now, with Jonah back at Bea's, we can admit to those ties. I told you, weeks ago, that you had a place to live, should anything ever separate you and Jonah. I wasn't just saying that. This is your home, as much as it's Owen's and mine."

"Who was calling?" Owen asked, setting his empty mug on the coffee table and digging in his back pocket for his ever-present red handkerchief, which he handed to Sam.

Lucas paused for a moment. "It was Jonah. He was calling to make sure Sam was okay."

Bea sighed, closing her eyes, sinking deeply into her favorite overstuffed chair with an almost sensuous sense of pleasure, a mug of steaming mint tea within easy reach. She reveled in her new freedom . . . and in the silent house. Abigail and Opie were visiting her sister and brother-in-law, in Evanston, and Jonah was over at Scott's, discussing plans for the greenhouses. Since splitting up with Sam, he'd thrown himself into the greenhouse project, coming home with only enough energy to eat a quick meal, shower, then go to bed. It was difficult to watch, but, as he had told her, it was his decision.

Tonight was one of the first nights in weeks that she'd not spent some time with Daniel. Like the girls, he was in Evanston, meeting with a few colleagues for dinner. There was a time in her life where a man's absence would have made her feel . . . ill at ease. 'Now,' she smiled to herself, 'I've learned that I do not need a man to justify my existence. Not even Daniel's.' She huffed a silent laugh. 'I learned that the hard way. Depending on anyone, like I did, meant I allowed myself to be placed in a prison.' Her lips twisted slowly upward. 'I did not even realize how much of a captive I was until I was freed. I was naive to believe that the only type of prisons there are, are those with metal bars.'

She took a sip of tea and stared across the room to where Jonathan often sat. 'Never again,' she vowed. 'I expected him to build a world in which I would be happy.' She shook her head, wearing a crooked smile. 'I've since learned that, if I want a world in which I can be happy, I need to rely on myself to see that my dreams become reality.'

Bea thought of Daniel, and the sense of calm she felt whenever she was with him. Once, she would have attributed her feelings to him. Now, she knew differently. "Thank you, Jonathan," she said aloud. 'For making me realize that one can not be given happiness. It is a gift one gives one's self.'

~ to be continued ~

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