Joe didn’t budge.
“Should I…? Okay, I’ll go first.” Tom jumped to his feet and rushed down the hall to the bathroom. He closed the door and went to the sink, where he splashed his face with cold water. What the hell was wrong with him? He wiped the excess water from his face before studying himself in the mirror, willing himself to remember something—anything. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and tried to recall. It was all in there beyond the veil of blurred shapes and colors. Faceless people, muffled voices. What if his memory didn’t come back? He quickly shook himself. Whatever happened, he’d figure it out. He was a survivor. Holding up one of his hands, he flexed his fingers, his bruised and reddened skin stretching over his knuckles. Whoever had hurt him, he’d hurt them back. At least that was something.
With a sigh, he dried his face and turned off the light before heading into the living room. Joe was huddled in the armchair under his blanket. He was pretending to be asleep. Tom had no idea how he knew that, but he did. With a small smile, he went back to the couch. If Joe wanted to pretend whatever had happened hadn’t happened, then Tom would go along with it. He owed Joe that much.
Tom woke the next morning to the most amazing smells: the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the mouthwatering whiff of baked pastries. His stomach growled, demanding to be introduced to the source of such decadence. Getting up, he stretched and noticed his jeans and T-shirt had been cleaned and carefully draped over Joe’s armchair, along with his leather jacket. The clock on the mantel said it was nine in the morning. Wow, had he really slept that late? Guessing by his reaction, sleeping in wasn’t something he did often, and considering he’d slept on a couch, he was even more surprised by it. How early had Joe gotten up to get Tom’s clothes washed and bake whatever smelled so good?
He padded down the hall to the bathroom, and after washing up, shaving, and running a comb through his disheveled hair, he got dressed, smiling at the feel of his own clothes—the only thing connecting him to the man he was. They fit perfectly, from his dark jeans and charcoal-gray long-sleeved T-shirt to his black socks and boots. He looked himself over in the mirror. Not much color in his wardrobe, but it felt right. The clothes were good quality, and his jacket a designer brand. Suddenly, a thought struck him. They’d taken his wallet but left a really expensive jacket behind.
With a frown, he looked down at his boots. They were worth a few hundred, easy. Why not take the boots? He couldn’t have had much in his wallet. Not more than what the boots and jacket were worth combined. What had he been doing in a garden, anyway? It was a strange place to end up, not to mention get mugged. Maybe he should check his jacket. Joe had mentioned there was no ID or anything on him, but maybe he missed something.
Tom found his jacket and sat down on the couch with it, carefully inspecting every pocket both outside and inside. He patted the sleeves and felt up the lining. He had no idea what he was looking for, but if he could just find something, he might have a lead. The motions seemed familiar to him.
With a renewed sense of purpose, he went over his jacket inch by inch, checking every stitch, every inch of fabric. His heart sank when all he found were traces of dirt and pink flower petals inside his right pocket. Dammit. With a heavy sigh, he threw his jacket on the couch cushion beside him. For a moment, he thought he might have found something, no matter how minimal.
Well, he wasn’t going to learn anything new moping around on the couch. He stood and walked to the kitchen when he heard the lovely melody of an old jazz song. He laid his head against the chipped wood of the door with a smile, letting the lyrics of some sweet love song wash over him. Just the thought of Joe made his insides go all warm again. Amazing. The man didn’t even have to be in the room and he managed to lift Tom’s spirit. Why?
This thing he had going on with Joe, it was strange. He shouldn’t feel this way about someone he’d known for such a small amount of time. Joe had every right to be cautious. Slowly, he pushed the swinging door open and peeked inside, biting his lip to keep himself from chuckling at the sight of Joe bouncing along to the tapping cymbals and vivacious brass, a tray of muffins in his mitted hands and a blue-and-white-striped apron tied around his waist, the color making his eyes seem more blue than green. Slipping inside, Tom watched Joe for a bit before speaking. “Morning, sunshine.”