Lone Star by Josh Lanyon Page B

hour. That Web would walk him out to his car and Mitch could finally ask him why he had come to Austin.
    “Are you walking me out?” he asked Web as Web held his jacket for him. They were standing in the hall, Mitch having said his goodbyes to everyone in the front room. Christmas carols were playing, the music camouflaging their conversation.
    “I’m drivin’ you home.” Web watched Mitch try a couple of times to zip his jacket.
    That meant something right there, didn’t it? Men did not casually help other men into their jackets in the regular world.
    Mitch raised his face to Web. “You are?”
    “I sure am.” Web was smiling, but he was serious.
    Mitch’s initial pleasure faded. “I’m not drunk.”
    “I don’t think you’re drunk, but you’re over the legal limit.”
    “Three glasses of wine. I drank less than anyone tonight. Except maybe your mama. I sure as hell drank less than you.”
    “True. But you’re not used to drinkin’, and you’ve already used up your allotment of Christmas miracles.”
    Mitch made a sound of disgust, temporarily forgetting that he’d wanted a chance to be alone with Web anyway. Web opened the door and Mitch followed him out into the cold, moon-silvered night. Their breath frosted in the wood smoke–scented air, their boots crunched on the dry, frozen ground.
    They climbed inside the white pickup truck parked behind the house, and Web turned on the heater.
    “I’m glad you came to dinner.”
    Mitch, fumbling with the seat belt, looked at him, but it was too dark to make out his expression by the light of the dashboard.
    “Me too.”
    That was all either of them said until they were on their way. Mitch watched the house growing smaller and smaller behind them until it vanished in the red dust of the taillights.
    “I used to pray my daddy would go on a long trip and your family would adopt me.” He was ashamed of the words once they left his mouth.
    Web changed gears. “I know.”
    Sure he knew. He’d known Mitch too well not to know Mitch envied him a little. Well, okay, a lot. Mitch had longed for a family that seemed as warm and accepting as the Eisleys. Mrs. Eisley was as pretty and nurturing as the mom in a 1950s family drama, and Mr. Eisley was both easygoing and steady as a rock. He’d been a great one for laying his big paw on your shoulder and dispensing fatherly wisdom.
    But it was still not the kind of thing you could—should—ever admit. “I know he—my father—did the best he could do.”
    Web said nothing.
    The tires ate up the road. In a matter of minutes Web would be dropping Mitch off and driving away. If he didn’t say something now, he might never get the chance again.
    “Did you really come and see me dance in Austin?”
    Web expelled a long breath as though he’d been holding it, waiting for the question. “Yep.”
    “Why didn’t you…”
    “Why didn’t I what?” Web’s voice was even. “Go backstage and say hello? I meant to. I went all the way to Austin with that very purpose in mind, but when I saw you on that stage somethin’ changed. I saw that you were right where you needed to be.”
    The instinctive protest that surged through Mitch startled him. It was nearly a physical reaction. Like his body responding to a severe food allergy, rejecting the very idea. “You should have found me, you should have said hello. Something .”
    His voice was too raw. Mitch reddened, glad for the darkness that concealed so much.
    “I figured if you’d wanted to hear anythin’ I had to say you wouldn’t have left the way you did.” That wasn’t fair. Mitch started to protest, but Web added, “You were…beautiful. Like somethin’ magical. From a fairy tale. Or another world.”
    “You should have come back and said hello. Said something.”
    “Maybe,” Web conceded at last.
    Not much of a concession. Mitch was remembering how he’d danced all those performances wondering if there was anyone from home in the audience,