Written in Scars(13)

Logan laughed. “Then I guess I’d better feed you.”

Sam freshened up in the bathroom, pulled on his jeans and T-shirt and followed Logan to the kitchen. Logan, dressed in cargo shorts and a 10CC T-shirt, was busy at the fridge. He handed Sam a carton of orange juice.

“There are glasses in that cupboard over there, if you’d like to do the honours, while I get on with the cooking. How does a bacon sandwich sound?”

“Perfect.”

“How do you like it?”

“Well-done and crispy.”

“Won’t be long.”

An old Kylie Minogue song came on the radio. Sam remembered it from childhood. It was one of his mother favourites. There was something very homely about this moment. Being here in Logan’s kitchen, listening to old music, feeling like he belonged. Don’t be stupid. You don’t belong here. This is not your home.

Maybe it could be? Not right now but someday.

He dismissed the idea –it was too fanciful. He found the glasses and poured juice for both of them. Logan had a large pan on top of the hob and began to lay bacon into it.

Sipping the juice, Sam wandered curiously around the kitchen. “You did all this yourself?” he asked, admiring the dark slate tiles on the floor. They were warm underfoot, obviously heated from below.

“I designed it and sourced the materials. The tiles, the wood, the granite, but I contracted the build. I’m not that clever. It’s how I did the whole house. This was just a shell when I bought it. It’s a listed building, so I couldn’t alter the exterior, but the insides are all new.”

“That’s amazing. Are you done now?”

“Almost. There are a couple of rooms upstairs that need attention. I’ll turn one into a spare bedroom and the other into an office. I have a study down here where I do my writing, but I’d like a separate office for all the business-related stuff. Accounts, contracts; all the boring admin tasks.”

It wasn’t boring to Sam. Logan was unlike anyone he’d met before. So dedicated and committed. A man who made things happened rather than just talk about it. This house, his books; they took work and perseverance. At work Sam had a desk next to a guy who was always going on about writing a book. All he did was talk and had yet to commit an idea to paper.

Logan had done that and made a success of it.

Against the far wall, stood a solid oak dresser. Its shelves were filled with framed photographs. Sam studied the images. Logan pictured with important looking people. He recognized a couple of MP’s, action men Bear Grylls and Levison Wood and a soap actress whose name he couldn’t remember. There were others too, possibly family; no mistaking Logan’s dad - older, but just as handsome as the man himself. Logan didn’t need to worry about aging with a father as attractive as that. There were several pictures of a woman in her thirties and a young girl, around ten years old.

“Is this your sister?” Sam asked, holding up one of the frames.

Logan looked up from the pan. “No, that’s Laura, my ex-wife.”

Of course. Amid everything else that had happened, Sam forgot Logan had been married before. “And this is your daughter?”

“Brooke. Yeah, that’s my little star. She stays here every other week. She’s ten now, almost eleven.”

“She’s pretty.” She had her father’s intense green eyes and black hair. Cute now, she’d be stunning in a few more years. “Do you mind if I ask: how long were you married?”

“Not at all. Six years. I was twenty-five. I knew I was gay but didn’t want to accept it. Part of me wishes I hadn’t done it, for Laura’s sake. But if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t have Brooke, so I can’t regret it too much.”

“When did you divorce?”

“Eight years ago. When Brooke was two.”

“And it’s all amicable?”

Logan nodded, taking two white rolls out of the bread bin and slicing them. “We get along better now than when we were married.”

Sam sighed. “I can’t imagine the same happening with me and Johan.”

The sentence hung between them for a moment. Logan kept busy with the cooking while the radio played an Elton John record. “Are you thinking about divorce?” Logan asked at last.

“Yes,” Sam said. “No. I don’t know.” He exhaled loudly. “I guess I have to. I never wanted it. I’ve always seen divorce as a failure. That marriage means something and has to be worked at it. But it won’t work with only one of us trying. It’s been broken for a long time. I just didn’t want to admit it.”

“I understand,” Logan said. “Come on, breakfast is ready. It’ll all look better after you’ve eaten.”

The bacon, crisped to perfection and served in the white roll with lashings of tomato ketchup, was delicious. They sat at the kitchen island with mugs of hot tea and listened to the radio. Once again Sam was struck by the notion of being perfectly at home.

While they ate, a huge ginger cat sauntered in through a flap in the back door. He paused mid-way to his food bowls as he noticed the stranger in the room. The cat stared fixedly at Sam before letting out a long meow.

“Hello,” Sam said, addressing the cat directly.

“This Hunter,” Logan told him. “My housemate and chief rat-catcher. How’s it going big-boy?”