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threedimensions
threedimensionsDimensions: [1-2-3]
Timeline: March 3-10 2001
Title: Change
Summary: Gary gets a phone call that changes his life: his ex has recently passed away—does he want their son to come live with him?
~2.8k
March 3rd
Gary Hayes slowly hung up his phone, and then he spent several minutes looking at it, trying to put his thoughts in order. He had just gotten the sort of phone call that transforms a man's life, though one of the most jarring parts about it was the choice he had been given: to change, or not to change.
Irina Tarasova, the woman he'd spent five years of his life with, the woman who had walked away from him ten years ago, was dead. Did Gary want her son—their son—to come live with him now, or would he prefer the boy remain in Moscow with his grandparents?
Jesus. Christ.
He shook himself slightly as he realized he was staring so hard at the phone that the area of his surrounding vision had darkened. His arms and hands moved numbly as they located his wallet. Thumbed out the used bookstore discount card, pulled out his social security card underneath it. The picture was there, under a years-old receipt. It had been taken when the baby turned one year old. Ten years ago, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever known. He knew what the kid looked like now—or what he'd looked like last year—since she'd regularly sent him pictures and notes, but she had been in very few of them. This was the only picture he had now of all three of them as she'd taken the rest back to Moscow when they'd left. Even as an infant, the boy had looked just like her, and it was more and more apparent in each new picture.
She had died in late January. He had stayed home and drank, staring at the TV and progressively turning it louder and louder, trying to drown out his head. The volume did not work; eventually, the alcohol did.
Did he want her son? His...son? He would do anything to have any part of her back. He had not only let her go, he had sent her away. Both of them. With barely a discussion; he was fixed on his point, rooted to his own spot like always. There had been no room for negotiation
Yeah, he had told her father on the phone, barely hearing himself and not feeling his lips. I'll take the kid. The boy would be on a flight arriving in Boston sometime in the middle of next week.
"Brandon," he said under his breath, focusing now on the child that had sat on his lap so long ago.
.
March 4th
"Come over here and help me," Gary said, when David answered the phone.
"Try more hand lotion," David suggested.
Gary rolled his eyes. "Fuck you. Get over here and help me clean out the extra bedroom. It's all full of shit and I can't carry it."
"What? Why?"
"I'm gonna start storing some baby panda bears in there," Gary said. "Thought I'd get into the endangered species racket. Lots of money, along with beautiful parkas, to be made."
He heard the other man sigh. "What's in the room?"
"Mostly boxes."
"Of?"
"Gold bars. You can take one with when you go."
"You're such an asshole..."
"Fine, it's my antique collection of shark tacos. Though some might be the last sixteen thousand copies of an alternate ending to Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire."
"That's probably worth a lot," David said dryly.
"Yeah, shark tacos are a delicacy."
"...you want me to pick up some food on the way over?"
"Yeah. As long as it's neither shark nor tacos."
"What, then?"
"Whatever."
"Japanese?"
"I said no shark."
"No shark," David agreed. "No Japanese tacos, either. Okay? Does that serve his royal fucking highness?"
"Sure. And bring beer."
"I think you mean sake."
"No. I mean beer."
David sighed again. "Okay, fine. What time?"
"I don't care. Time enough to get all this shit moved tonight."
"Okay. I'll be over, then."
Gary pressed END, and then he contemplated the phone's darkening display. "He's going to bring fucking sake," he told the hallway.
He was right, but he did give David credit for bringing a case of beer also. Gary drank nine of them while watching the other man hoist boxes from several stacks and carry them out to the living room. Gary had ordered more bookshelves, which were scheduled to be delivered tomorrow, and he would spend the morning, afternoon, and most of the evening putting them all away (or calling David back to shove the boxes in a closet somewhere). The most important part was making sure the room was ready for the boy. He had a bed, nightstand, dresser, and desk ordered as well; he would let the kid pick out his own clothes and books when he arrived. He was going to have whatever he wanted when he arrived, Gary decided.
.
March 7th
He had secured the entire week off from the hospital, finally, after telling anyone that cared to listen that he simply wasn't coming in, and that they could live with it or die over it. They were tired of hearing of it soon enough, but as no one was entirely sure how much he meant it, they probably signed off on his request just to give themselves a break from them. Fuck 'em. His son was on a plane scheduled to arrive at ten after one in the afternoon. The new furniture had arrived and was arranged in Brandon's room in his dad's apartment, along with two bookshelves that were almost full—Gary hadn't been able to help himself. He was at baggage claim around noon, searching the face of everyone around five feet tall, not caring how creepy he looked. Was he really going to go running after any kids anyway? He supposed he could hop, but he wasn't even sure if he wanted his own kid enough for that shit.
The plane was on time. He stopped breathing when he saw the flood of people that had disembarked streaming down the corridor. A few minutes later, her eyes found him in the form of an almost-eleven-year-old boy.
Gary's hand tightened on his crutch, though he didn't notice—he felt, instead, that he wasn't hanging on to anything at all. He raised his hand, caught the eye of the woman with him and nodded, and she led the kid over. She said something to him in Russian, and he responded, in flawless Russian, that he didn't speak Russian. The boy glanced at him, but he couldn’t read that look.
Gary managed to take his eyes off him and focus on his escort, who seemed to have been waiting for him to give her his attention back. "You are Gary Hayes?" she asked, in a very thick accent.
"Yes. Da—that's me."
She put her hand on the boy's shoulder. "This is Brandon. Please give letter from Sergei before I am leave him with you."
"Oh, uh, sorry." He handed her the letter Irina's father had emailed him to print and give to her, and she scanned it quickly, then looked up at him expectantly. His eyes were drawn back to the kid standing silently next to her, who was looking in the direction of the restaurants and souvenir shops. After a second, Gary remembered the other things he had been instructed to do, and he showed her the picture of himself with Irina and their son, along with his ID card.
"Okay." She handed him back his card and the picture, then addressed the kid in Russian, saying a lot to him that was probably to behave and be strong and that he could come home if he wanted (a part of the agreement Gary hadn't had any issue with—he didn't want to force a kid to be with him, who the fuck would?). His eyes stayed intently on hers, and when she finished he nodded. She kissed him on the forehead, then turned back toward the escalators and departing gates. She glanced back once over her shoulder, almost doubtfully, but neither saw her. Gary was looking at his son, and the boy was looking back at him.
"Hey," Gary said. "Uh...you speak English, right?"
"Yes, sir." The boy's voice was quiet and he was pale. He also looked very tired, and Gary guessed that he probably needed a sleep that wasn't on a plane as the flight from Moscow had been a full twelve hours. Also some food that didn't come from a plane.
"I'm, um, Gary," he said after a short pause. "Your father." The kid nodded but didn't say anything to that.
Good that he knew English, though—there was no reason he wouldn't, since Irina did and she was a teacher—but he didn't seem to have much of an accent, at least not on the only two words he'd vocalized. It would make sense if he ended up with a quiet, introspective kid that didn't say much and it was just as tiresome to try to force conversation with his own son as it was with every asshole he bumped into at work. Maybe it was just the shock of losing his mother. He had known her to be an extraordinary woman, and looking at this kid, his son that was perfectly her, he knew she had been the best mother he could have had. She probably would have been an amazing wife, too, but now it was too late. For both of them.
"Also, uh, don't call me 'sir'. Just 'Dad', or...or Gary, if you want. Whatever you want." He paused. "All I ask is that you save the 'hey, asshole' until you get to know me a little. It's a pet name with my nearest and dearest only."
"Okay." Brandon was still studying him, and Gary wasn't sure what to do or say now.
"Are you hungry?" he tried. The kid nodded slowly. "Well, what do you want?" Gary asked. He gestured towards the restaurants.
He thought he saw a flash of faint surprise on the kid's face, then he glanced towards the restaurants again and shrugged. "I like a lot of things."
"Even broccoli?"
"Yes, sir." The kid was still watching him carefully. Gary thought he'd probably be really uncomfortable, except it was still her gaze: her open curiosity, the light that shone behind her eyes. It was distant in the boy right now, but Gary didn't blame him at all. He had lost his mother six weeks ago, he wouldn't even be eleven for another week, and he was starting his life over with a parent he never knew, in a country he didn't remember. Gary felt something jag in his chest when the kid suddenly grinned. "Mama played a video of you for me," Brandon said.
Gary blinked. "She did?" He hadn't even known she had a video of him.
The kid nodded. "You made her a party."
Now he remembered. Her 27th—just a few months before she'd caught pregnant. He remembered the way she smiled at him with tears in her eyes when he gave her the ring. He remembered the tears in her eyes when she'd given it back to him almost three years later. He looked down at the kid, this kid with her eyes, and tried to smile. "I have pictures of you, too," he said. "But...you know? Maybe I'd rather have the real thing."
Brandon looked at him a long moment, holding his eyes and hardly seeming to breathe. Finally, he nodded. "Me too."
Gary reached out, hesitated half a second, then clumsily put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let's get you some food," he said. "Whatever you want. I mean that, right?"
"Okay," Brandon said. "Thanks...Dad." He smiled again before turning to look at the fronts of the restaurants along the corridor, and Gary couldn't take his eyes off him.
Her grin, of course. Their son, her son, his son.
.
March 10th
Gary was surprised at how little of an accent the kid had. He'd been pretty quiet most of the last couple of days, not that Gary blamed him, but when he had spoken, it was almost hard to believe he'd been in Russia for the last ten years. Irina had been fluent in four or five languages and worked hard with her own pronunciation, but this kid was not only fluent, he was well-spoken. And a fast reader, too—the little shit had so far finished two shelves of a case on which Gary had several medical books stored. He'd tested him with questions, too, and was further surprised to realize how much he was taking in. If he believed standardized IQ tests were worth a shit, he'd get the boy in for a series as soon as possible, but for now he decided to just let the kid settle in and roll with it. He'd never liked any of the attention he'd gotten as a kid for reading a goddamn book himself.
Brandon was talking more and more each day, too, and Gary wondered how much of it was grief, how much was apprehension, and how much was living with his grandfather all the years. Sergei Tarasov had confessed no desire to meet Gary after he and Irina were engaged, and Gary hadn't given a shit—Irina had described how incredibly strict he had been with her as a child. Gary had just managed, after four days, to get the kid to stop calling him 'sir' every other time he talked, but he was still watching his new parent, still speaking carefully.
Gary forced himself to be patient, to wait for him to decide if he thought his father was okay. Clearly he was an entirely different parental authority than his grandfather had been, and that was new, bore considering. Gary liked that the kid was wary—it would help him later. And, if he decided on his own that his father was okay, it was that much more likely that they could actually have some sort of relationship. He hadn't had any at all with his own drunk bastard of a father, and both of his older brothers had been gone since he was a teenager. A son, though. Gary was going to do everything he could think of to make that happen.
On Monday, Gary's vacation time would be up and he would need to return to work. It had taken him a few days, but he finally remembered about school, though right now he was really of the opinion that the cattle run that was public school was a shitty option for this kid, and he didn't care for the snottery that ran in most private schools. Besides, hadn't Irina always said she wanted to home-school her children in America?
"Hey kid," he'd said on Thursday night. "You want to get signed up for school?"
"Do...I have to?"
Gary shrugged, picking an onion off his slice of pizza. "Nah. If you wanna go, we'll get you signed up and all the crap you'll need, but if you don't...I have plenty of books here, as you already found, apparently. I could get more, too. Even the ones that they say you have to go through for school. You can probably read a book on your own by now, huh?"
The boy's eyes flickered with that excited light. "May I choose some new books?"
"Sure. Yeah, absolutely." Garry grinned when he saw how pleased the kid looked. "It's your birthday in a few days, anyway," he said. "I'll get that day off, too. They can cry into their Cheerios if they don't like it. We'll do something fun, and we'll get you some more stuff for your room and whatever else you want."
"So, I have to go to work again after this weekend," Gary informed his new roommate on Friday afternoon. "If you're not going to be going to school…what do you think you want to do while I'm gone?"
Brandon looked up from the book he'd been reading, which described surgical techniques from the early 1900s, and seemed to think about it. "Could I go with you?" he asked finally.
"To the hospital?" Gary hadn't expected that, he figured the kid would want to start gorging himself on American video games or TV—he'd had some in Moscow, of course, but not the wild variety readily available here, be it due to lack of availability or due to Grandpa Sir. "Why? It's mostly boring as shit and full of nasty sick people."
"I could stay in your office," Brandon said. He grinned again. "I won't be trouble. I can read. I like learning new things."
"I guess you do." Gary's phone chimed again—another missed call and text from David. He turned his phone upside down, ignoring that and all of the rest of the messages, and looked at Brandon, who had returned his focus to the pages, chewing the insides of his cheeks. Irina used to do that while she thought. He fucking missed her.
But he had the next best thing, and for now, that was going to be worth it. This kid was going to be everything to him now.
Timeline: March 3-10 2001
Title: Change
Summary: Gary gets a phone call that changes his life: his ex has recently passed away—does he want their son to come live with him?
~2.8k
March 3rd
Gary Hayes slowly hung up his phone, and then he spent several minutes looking at it, trying to put his thoughts in order. He had just gotten the sort of phone call that transforms a man's life, though one of the most jarring parts about it was the choice he had been given: to change, or not to change.
Irina Tarasova, the woman he'd spent five years of his life with, the woman who had walked away from him ten years ago, was dead. Did Gary want her son—their son—to come live with him now, or would he prefer the boy remain in Moscow with his grandparents?
Jesus. Christ.
He shook himself slightly as he realized he was staring so hard at the phone that the area of his surrounding vision had darkened. His arms and hands moved numbly as they located his wallet. Thumbed out the used bookstore discount card, pulled out his social security card underneath it. The picture was there, under a years-old receipt. It had been taken when the baby turned one year old. Ten years ago, she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever known. He knew what the kid looked like now—or what he'd looked like last year—since she'd regularly sent him pictures and notes, but she had been in very few of them. This was the only picture he had now of all three of them as she'd taken the rest back to Moscow when they'd left. Even as an infant, the boy had looked just like her, and it was more and more apparent in each new picture.
She had died in late January. He had stayed home and drank, staring at the TV and progressively turning it louder and louder, trying to drown out his head. The volume did not work; eventually, the alcohol did.
Did he want her son? His...son? He would do anything to have any part of her back. He had not only let her go, he had sent her away. Both of them. With barely a discussion; he was fixed on his point, rooted to his own spot like always. There had been no room for negotiation
Yeah, he had told her father on the phone, barely hearing himself and not feeling his lips. I'll take the kid. The boy would be on a flight arriving in Boston sometime in the middle of next week.
"Brandon," he said under his breath, focusing now on the child that had sat on his lap so long ago.
.
March 4th
"Come over here and help me," Gary said, when David answered the phone.
"Try more hand lotion," David suggested.
Gary rolled his eyes. "Fuck you. Get over here and help me clean out the extra bedroom. It's all full of shit and I can't carry it."
"What? Why?"
"I'm gonna start storing some baby panda bears in there," Gary said. "Thought I'd get into the endangered species racket. Lots of money, along with beautiful parkas, to be made."
He heard the other man sigh. "What's in the room?"
"Mostly boxes."
"Of?"
"Gold bars. You can take one with when you go."
"You're such an asshole..."
"Fine, it's my antique collection of shark tacos. Though some might be the last sixteen thousand copies of an alternate ending to Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire."
"That's probably worth a lot," David said dryly.
"Yeah, shark tacos are a delicacy."
"...you want me to pick up some food on the way over?"
"Yeah. As long as it's neither shark nor tacos."
"What, then?"
"Whatever."
"Japanese?"
"I said no shark."
"No shark," David agreed. "No Japanese tacos, either. Okay? Does that serve his royal fucking highness?"
"Sure. And bring beer."
"I think you mean sake."
"No. I mean beer."
David sighed again. "Okay, fine. What time?"
"I don't care. Time enough to get all this shit moved tonight."
"Okay. I'll be over, then."
Gary pressed END, and then he contemplated the phone's darkening display. "He's going to bring fucking sake," he told the hallway.
He was right, but he did give David credit for bringing a case of beer also. Gary drank nine of them while watching the other man hoist boxes from several stacks and carry them out to the living room. Gary had ordered more bookshelves, which were scheduled to be delivered tomorrow, and he would spend the morning, afternoon, and most of the evening putting them all away (or calling David back to shove the boxes in a closet somewhere). The most important part was making sure the room was ready for the boy. He had a bed, nightstand, dresser, and desk ordered as well; he would let the kid pick out his own clothes and books when he arrived. He was going to have whatever he wanted when he arrived, Gary decided.
.
March 7th
He had secured the entire week off from the hospital, finally, after telling anyone that cared to listen that he simply wasn't coming in, and that they could live with it or die over it. They were tired of hearing of it soon enough, but as no one was entirely sure how much he meant it, they probably signed off on his request just to give themselves a break from them. Fuck 'em. His son was on a plane scheduled to arrive at ten after one in the afternoon. The new furniture had arrived and was arranged in Brandon's room in his dad's apartment, along with two bookshelves that were almost full—Gary hadn't been able to help himself. He was at baggage claim around noon, searching the face of everyone around five feet tall, not caring how creepy he looked. Was he really going to go running after any kids anyway? He supposed he could hop, but he wasn't even sure if he wanted his own kid enough for that shit.
The plane was on time. He stopped breathing when he saw the flood of people that had disembarked streaming down the corridor. A few minutes later, her eyes found him in the form of an almost-eleven-year-old boy.
Gary's hand tightened on his crutch, though he didn't notice—he felt, instead, that he wasn't hanging on to anything at all. He raised his hand, caught the eye of the woman with him and nodded, and she led the kid over. She said something to him in Russian, and he responded, in flawless Russian, that he didn't speak Russian. The boy glanced at him, but he couldn’t read that look.
Gary managed to take his eyes off him and focus on his escort, who seemed to have been waiting for him to give her his attention back. "You are Gary Hayes?" she asked, in a very thick accent.
"Yes. Da—that's me."
She put her hand on the boy's shoulder. "This is Brandon. Please give letter from Sergei before I am leave him with you."
"Oh, uh, sorry." He handed her the letter Irina's father had emailed him to print and give to her, and she scanned it quickly, then looked up at him expectantly. His eyes were drawn back to the kid standing silently next to her, who was looking in the direction of the restaurants and souvenir shops. After a second, Gary remembered the other things he had been instructed to do, and he showed her the picture of himself with Irina and their son, along with his ID card.
"Okay." She handed him back his card and the picture, then addressed the kid in Russian, saying a lot to him that was probably to behave and be strong and that he could come home if he wanted (a part of the agreement Gary hadn't had any issue with—he didn't want to force a kid to be with him, who the fuck would?). His eyes stayed intently on hers, and when she finished he nodded. She kissed him on the forehead, then turned back toward the escalators and departing gates. She glanced back once over her shoulder, almost doubtfully, but neither saw her. Gary was looking at his son, and the boy was looking back at him.
"Hey," Gary said. "Uh...you speak English, right?"
"Yes, sir." The boy's voice was quiet and he was pale. He also looked very tired, and Gary guessed that he probably needed a sleep that wasn't on a plane as the flight from Moscow had been a full twelve hours. Also some food that didn't come from a plane.
"I'm, um, Gary," he said after a short pause. "Your father." The kid nodded but didn't say anything to that.
Good that he knew English, though—there was no reason he wouldn't, since Irina did and she was a teacher—but he didn't seem to have much of an accent, at least not on the only two words he'd vocalized. It would make sense if he ended up with a quiet, introspective kid that didn't say much and it was just as tiresome to try to force conversation with his own son as it was with every asshole he bumped into at work. Maybe it was just the shock of losing his mother. He had known her to be an extraordinary woman, and looking at this kid, his son that was perfectly her, he knew she had been the best mother he could have had. She probably would have been an amazing wife, too, but now it was too late. For both of them.
"Also, uh, don't call me 'sir'. Just 'Dad', or...or Gary, if you want. Whatever you want." He paused. "All I ask is that you save the 'hey, asshole' until you get to know me a little. It's a pet name with my nearest and dearest only."
"Okay." Brandon was still studying him, and Gary wasn't sure what to do or say now.
"Are you hungry?" he tried. The kid nodded slowly. "Well, what do you want?" Gary asked. He gestured towards the restaurants.
He thought he saw a flash of faint surprise on the kid's face, then he glanced towards the restaurants again and shrugged. "I like a lot of things."
"Even broccoli?"
"Yes, sir." The kid was still watching him carefully. Gary thought he'd probably be really uncomfortable, except it was still her gaze: her open curiosity, the light that shone behind her eyes. It was distant in the boy right now, but Gary didn't blame him at all. He had lost his mother six weeks ago, he wouldn't even be eleven for another week, and he was starting his life over with a parent he never knew, in a country he didn't remember. Gary felt something jag in his chest when the kid suddenly grinned. "Mama played a video of you for me," Brandon said.
Gary blinked. "She did?" He hadn't even known she had a video of him.
The kid nodded. "You made her a party."
Now he remembered. Her 27th—just a few months before she'd caught pregnant. He remembered the way she smiled at him with tears in her eyes when he gave her the ring. He remembered the tears in her eyes when she'd given it back to him almost three years later. He looked down at the kid, this kid with her eyes, and tried to smile. "I have pictures of you, too," he said. "But...you know? Maybe I'd rather have the real thing."
Brandon looked at him a long moment, holding his eyes and hardly seeming to breathe. Finally, he nodded. "Me too."
Gary reached out, hesitated half a second, then clumsily put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let's get you some food," he said. "Whatever you want. I mean that, right?"
"Okay," Brandon said. "Thanks...Dad." He smiled again before turning to look at the fronts of the restaurants along the corridor, and Gary couldn't take his eyes off him.
Her grin, of course. Their son, her son, his son.
.
March 10th
Gary was surprised at how little of an accent the kid had. He'd been pretty quiet most of the last couple of days, not that Gary blamed him, but when he had spoken, it was almost hard to believe he'd been in Russia for the last ten years. Irina had been fluent in four or five languages and worked hard with her own pronunciation, but this kid was not only fluent, he was well-spoken. And a fast reader, too—the little shit had so far finished two shelves of a case on which Gary had several medical books stored. He'd tested him with questions, too, and was further surprised to realize how much he was taking in. If he believed standardized IQ tests were worth a shit, he'd get the boy in for a series as soon as possible, but for now he decided to just let the kid settle in and roll with it. He'd never liked any of the attention he'd gotten as a kid for reading a goddamn book himself.
Brandon was talking more and more each day, too, and Gary wondered how much of it was grief, how much was apprehension, and how much was living with his grandfather all the years. Sergei Tarasov had confessed no desire to meet Gary after he and Irina were engaged, and Gary hadn't given a shit—Irina had described how incredibly strict he had been with her as a child. Gary had just managed, after four days, to get the kid to stop calling him 'sir' every other time he talked, but he was still watching his new parent, still speaking carefully.
Gary forced himself to be patient, to wait for him to decide if he thought his father was okay. Clearly he was an entirely different parental authority than his grandfather had been, and that was new, bore considering. Gary liked that the kid was wary—it would help him later. And, if he decided on his own that his father was okay, it was that much more likely that they could actually have some sort of relationship. He hadn't had any at all with his own drunk bastard of a father, and both of his older brothers had been gone since he was a teenager. A son, though. Gary was going to do everything he could think of to make that happen.
On Monday, Gary's vacation time would be up and he would need to return to work. It had taken him a few days, but he finally remembered about school, though right now he was really of the opinion that the cattle run that was public school was a shitty option for this kid, and he didn't care for the snottery that ran in most private schools. Besides, hadn't Irina always said she wanted to home-school her children in America?
"Hey kid," he'd said on Thursday night. "You want to get signed up for school?"
"Do...I have to?"
Gary shrugged, picking an onion off his slice of pizza. "Nah. If you wanna go, we'll get you signed up and all the crap you'll need, but if you don't...I have plenty of books here, as you already found, apparently. I could get more, too. Even the ones that they say you have to go through for school. You can probably read a book on your own by now, huh?"
The boy's eyes flickered with that excited light. "May I choose some new books?"
"Sure. Yeah, absolutely." Garry grinned when he saw how pleased the kid looked. "It's your birthday in a few days, anyway," he said. "I'll get that day off, too. They can cry into their Cheerios if they don't like it. We'll do something fun, and we'll get you some more stuff for your room and whatever else you want."
"So, I have to go to work again after this weekend," Gary informed his new roommate on Friday afternoon. "If you're not going to be going to school…what do you think you want to do while I'm gone?"
Brandon looked up from the book he'd been reading, which described surgical techniques from the early 1900s, and seemed to think about it. "Could I go with you?" he asked finally.
"To the hospital?" Gary hadn't expected that, he figured the kid would want to start gorging himself on American video games or TV—he'd had some in Moscow, of course, but not the wild variety readily available here, be it due to lack of availability or due to Grandpa Sir. "Why? It's mostly boring as shit and full of nasty sick people."
"I could stay in your office," Brandon said. He grinned again. "I won't be trouble. I can read. I like learning new things."
"I guess you do." Gary's phone chimed again—another missed call and text from David. He turned his phone upside down, ignoring that and all of the rest of the messages, and looked at Brandon, who had returned his focus to the pages, chewing the insides of his cheeks. Irina used to do that while she thought. He fucking missed her.
But he had the next best thing, and for now, that was going to be worth it. This kid was going to be everything to him now.