Trent got up and motioned for Wood to follow him while Bishop pretended to be busy watching Edison stir the chicken stew. Trent pointed out the utility room, the hall bathroom, the closet, and linen closet. At the end of the short hallway, Trent leaned against the wall and pointed to a room with the door already open. “That’s you.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “This is me.”
“You always keep your door shut that tight?” Wood asked, noticing how close they had to stand in the confined space.
Trent scoffed. “Is there a reason you want it open?”
Wood couldn’t stop himself from staring. Damn, he liked the way Trent worded that, liked how loaded it was with suggestion whether the man realized it or not. “No. No reason at all.”
Trent swallowed visibly and tried to take a step back, but he had nowhere to go. “Yeah, I like my door closed. But, if you want me—I-I mean, if you want something—then pound on, I mean, knock on my door. And I’ll come.” Trent’s eyes got round when Wood licked his lips. “Out! I’ll come out.”
“You boys play nice now,” Mike said, shaking his head and grinning on his way out the door.
“It’s late. We’re heading out too,” Bishop said. “Wood, you still need a ride to the oceanfront when you get off work tomorrow?”
“Yeah I do.” Wood headed back toward the kitchen, trailing behind Trent’s masculine scent.
“Cool. I’ll see you tomorrow around seven.” Bishop slung his coat on and added, “Trent, you wanna roll with us? I’ll probably show him around and grab a bite to eat down there. Did you know that Wood loves seafood as much as you do?”
“Well, shit. Let me propose right now,” Trent joked, then immediately regretted it when three sets of blown eyes focused on him.
After several beats of weird silence, Wood said, “I haven’t had fresh fish in a long time. Sounds good, Bishop. Thanks, man.”
“All right then.” Bishop hesitated as if he was afraid to leave them alone. He pointed at the hefty bags by the door. “Wood, did you need some help unpacking, or…?”
“Nah. I’m good.” Wood stood a few feet from a still-embarrassed-looking Trent. It was a good thing they were losing their audience because he wanted to speak to him privately and maybe start to chip away at the ice between them.
“Trent, I’ll text you later,” Bishop said on his way out the door.
“Enjoy the stew,” Edison said, then waved goodbye. “Make sure to put the leftovers in the fridge. You can’t leave chicken out overn—”
“I think they got it, babe.” Bishop urged his boyfriend out the door.
The trailer became so quiet he could’ve heard a pin drop on the carpet. Wood wasn’t afraid of eye contact, and he held Trent’s guarded gaze with his own patient one. He tilted his head toward the simmering pot on the stove. “That smells good. I thought maybe you’d want—”
Trent shook his head as if he was confused and damn near jogged to his bedroom at the end of the hall and slammed the door before Wood could finish his sentence.
“I thought maybe you’d want to leave me standing here alone and talking to myself like an idiot,” Wood finished quietly. He glanced around his new residence for the foreseeable future and smiled. It wasn’t luxury, and it wasn’t lifestyles of the rich and famous. But it was warm, clean, and his as long as he held up his end of the deal. With Trent gone for a moment, he figured he’d make himself at home.
Wood took his bags to his room on the opposite side of the trailer as Trent’s. The space was larger than what he was used to with a nice-sized window and dark curtains. It appeared the carpet was recently cleaned, and the bed was stripped with a fresh pile of sheets stacked on top. He even had a television and a small radio on the one dresser in front of his queen bed. He tossed his bags in the empty closet to put away later. Right now his stomach was rumbling, and his throat was dry. He realized suddenly that he didn’t have to wait for anyone to tell him it was time to eat dinner. He could eat whenever he wanted. He could eat in his doggone room if he pleased. It was his space. Wood felt a smile curving his lips as he thanked god for his good friend. If it wasn’t for Bishop, he’d be dragging his bags to a men’s shelter.
He left his door open and went back to the amazing smell still engulfing the small kitchen. He peeked inside each cabinet, noting where the bowls, cups, plates, and pots were. They didn’t have a lot of cookware, but it was enough for two people he supposed. Wood had grown up in a home with parents who loved to cook, so the kitchen was the most extravagant room in the house. He missed that, every day. When he looked in the refrigerator, he was surprised to find it fairly stocked with eggs, milk, lunch meats, and a door full of condiments. He ignored the beer and grabbed the quarter-full bottle of Tropicana. Instead of adding a dirty glass to the sink, he opened the container and turned it up to his mouth, taking a couple of deep swallows.