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“Yeah,” said Artair, shuffling on the spot. “I was meaning to stay longer. But the rain’s put a dampener to that.”
Luca smiled weakly. “Another dork joke?”
“Unintentional? But I’ll claim it.”
Luca’s mind raced with all the other things he’d let this man claim. All those things that he’d daydreamed about in the hours of cold and gray.
Standing on the doorstep, soaked and shivering, Artair suddenly seemed to shine with so much promise, wasted. So much opportunity, unfulfilled.
“It’s... it’s not you or anything,” said Artair. “I probably just overcommitted with the whole live wild off the land stuff.”
On cue, Artair’s stomach gave a ferocious growl, so loud and so sustained that Bowie jumped from where he’d fallen asleep, eyeing the still substantial belly with curiosity.
It would have been cute if it weren’t so tragic. In this state, the man looked wretched, and Luca could only imagine how awful it must have been for him.
Hungry.
Freezing.
Soaked.
Alone.
“Well,” said Artair, swaying so badly that it looked like he might collapse. “I guess that’s my cue. I just wanted to say that I’m glad I got to?—”
Luca didn’t hear any words past that. He didn’t fully understand what was going on—why Artair would just up and leave like this, rather than ask for help—but he knew one thing for certain: this was not how Artair’s summer was going to end. People were free to make their own choices in life, but this was ridiculous.
“Oh no you don’t,” said Luca, dragging him inside by the dripping collar and plonking him down, wet and heavy, onto the desk chair. “Look at yourself. You’re starving. How long has it been since you’ve eaten anything?”
Artair shrugged with one arm and tapped the window with the other, leaving a trail of drops across the desk from his saturated shirt sleeve. “I couldn’t exactly start a fire.”
Luca’s mind flooded with a hundred competing responses. He settled for simply hissing, “Idiot!”
“I...” Artair at first looked shocked, and then overwhelmingly sheepish. There was no way he could argue back, not in the contrasting faces of the only two people in the tower. One was well-fed and dry and warm; the other was dripping wet and cold and looked like they might faint from hunger at any moment. “Yeah, that’s probably fair.”
“Yeah, it is. What the hell was the plan? That you’d do a fifteen-hour hike through a howling storm? Then hitchhike all the way to San Francisco?”
“It’s what I usually do. Minus the storm.”
Luca tutted like a disappointed mother as he scooted around the tower. He pulled out a towel that Artair tried to refuse, before Luca slapped it over his head like a brightly colored shawl. Luca yanked out the largest clothes he had, the ones usually reserved for sleeping, and dropped them dramatically onto the driest part of the desk.
“I’ll be fine!” Artair said in feeble protest. “It’s really not that far to hike and?—”
“Listen, you handsome moron. Here’s what’s going to happen: You’re going to dry off, put on those clothes, and sit your ass down while I make you something to eat. And if you even think about reaching for that hiking pack, there will be trouble.”
“But... I don’t want to get in your way!”
“Clearly!” said Luca, making a threatening gesture with a plastic spatula. “Which is a great instinct to be found in six months’ time as a skeleton. You’re staying here until the rain lets up, so quit complaining and get naked.”
“Yes, Daddy,” he said, still mischievous despite his audibly groaning stomach. “Will you help me get dressed?”
Luca gave him a slap on the chest with the cooking utensil, the impact sending a spray of drops onto the floor. “Only if you’re a good boy.”
The lunchtime meal was nothing to speak of, but Artair treated it like the finest banquet ever cooked, scarfing down portion after portion until he was full and content and sitting obediently in the office chair, dressed in old sweats and a stretched-out shirt.
“Don’t judge me, okay,” said Luca, as he dished out another portion of rice and salami. “I’m usually a better cook than this. I’m just stuck with the ingredients out here.”
“You’re stuck?” said Artair, shoveling the fork between his beard. “How do you think it was for me?”
