Ennis Delmar

If'n you ever wanted to ask something of Ennis, now's the time. Just don't hold him to it later.

Sometimes closed spaces make a man itchy. Ennis is one of those men. And more often than not, lately, he can be found outside. Not doing much of anything, really. Working with the horses, smoking, tossing a rock or two into the lake. So it's not really any sort of surprise that he's sitting out back, cigarette in hand, hat beside him.

Ennis has got a good life, and he's got a good wife, and when he hops into that truck with Jack, it shouldn't feel quite so much like freedom, it shouldn't feel quite so much like coming home. But it does, and he can't quite bring himself to feel guilty about it, neither. From the moment Jack's postcard had come-

Friend,

-he'd been like a colt, skittish as all hell and nothing to do but wait. He told Alma Jack might not even show, but he didn't believe that; couldn't never believe that, not for a minute. He knew Jack would come, and he knew he wouldn't be able to help himself.

This letter is long overdue.

Four fucking years overdue; four years of thinking and trying to forget and spending late nights up after Alma's asleep, doing that thing that ain't so natural, when it's not a woman you're thinking about. Figured he'd gone off and got married; gone off and got drafted; gone off and got his stupid ass killed. Figured he'd never see him again, figured he'd never have the chance to hop in that truck and leave Alma behind, if just for a night.

But here he is. Good god damn.

They're hardly in the room before Ennis has Jack pinned against the wall, hands scrambling at his shoulders, kissing where he can. It's hard to remember that this isn't his Jack. This is some other, younger, different Jack. But he smells like Jack and tastes like Jack and kisses like Jack.