by R. C. Martin
“Oh, god. No, Dodge. It’s late—I don’t want to—”
“You’ve been quiet and standoffish for the past couple of days. I’m worried. Bars are closed. We’ve got two options. You make me stand here in the middle of the street while you tell me what’s up, or you come to my place and I get you a drink. Either way, you’re unloading some shit—so what’ll it be, B?”
I don’t respond right away. Instead, I gape at him. For a long time, I stare and I think. Dodger has always been a good friend to me. No, a great friend. Even now, his insistence is nothing but kind and generous. Except, if he knew the truth, would he still look at me with the same compassion in his eyes that he has now? Or would he judge me? Or worse?
It’s the pity that I can’t stand. The pity is what hurts the most.
“Yeah, okay. You know the address. I’ll see you in a minute,” he demands, clapping his hand on my roof once more before he takes off toward his own car.
I peek my head out the window, opening my mouth to call out to him, but no words are spoken. Truth is, I’m tired of keeping secrets. Hiding my pain, hiding the identity of the man I love, hiding the reason behind the complicated nature of our relationship—or the current lack-there-of—it’s exhausting. So instead of declining his insistent invitation, I roll up my window, and I drive to Dodger’s apartment.
It only takes fifteen minutes to get there. He pulls into the parking lot as I’m turning off my car. I step out at the same time that he does. He lifts his chin at me, and we climb the stairs to the third floor silently. Unlike my building, his door opens up to the outdoors, and the quiet of the early hour follows after us. Just like almost everything else these days, it reminds me of Michael—of the wee hours of the morning when he would come and sneak into my bed.
My heart aches.
“Hope’s probably knocked out, so we can’t get too rowdy,” Dodger warns as he unlocks the door and steps inside.
A small smirk tugs at the side of my mouth, my amusement nudging my sadness as he flips on the lights in the main room. “Yeah. Okay. ‘Cause I’m a real party animal these days.”
“Make yourself at home, B,” he insists, giving my shoulder a friendly squeeze. “I’ve got to take a leak. Beer’s in the fridge. Hope might have some wine open, too. Whatever you want, it’s yours. I’ll be back.”
I watch him disappear down the hallway and then head into the kitchen. When I open the fridge and spot a bottle of white wine, I decide to give it a try. I take it out and place it on the counter before I start hunting for something to drink it from. Remarkably, I open four different cabinets, finding nothing but food, before I give up.
“Fuck, Dodge—what kind of storage system is this?” I mumble to myself.
“We keep the dishes in the pantry.”
I squeak my surprise, spinning around at the sound of Hope’s voice. She’s standing at the entrance of the small kitchen, her eyes squinting against the light. She’s not wearing much more than what appears to be one of Dodger’s t-shirts; her wild, blonde curls piled on top of her head in a messy bun that seems to be coming loose.
“I woke you. Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Mm-mm,” she mutters, dragging her feet as she walks by me. “My baby pees as loud as a horse. Besides, I only went to bed about an hour ago.” I watch her as she disappears into the pantry before coming out with two wine glasses. She flashes me a tired smile, handing me both. “Pour me one, too, will you?”
“Yeah,” I agree, reaching for the stems as I take them from her.
“Babe, you’re up,” Dodger observes as he joins us.
“I heard you come in, saw the light on, came to investigate.”
With my back turned, I don’t see him greet her with a kiss—but I hear it.
Another machete to the heart.
God, I miss Michael.
“B’s got man problems,” murmurs Dodge. “Thought she could use a drink.”
“Oh?” Hope replies, suddenly sounding more awake.
I turn toward her just as Dodger leaves her side to grab himself a beer from the fridge. I hand her a glass of wine and take a sip of mine as she lifts her eyebrows at me in curiosity.
“Well, are these man problems something you’re going to spill, or what?”
My stomach knots up with nerves as I bite the inside of my cheek. Dodger pops the cap of his beer and then props himself against the counter across from me, nonchalantly pulling Hope under his arm. She never once takes her eyes off of me as she leans into his side and takes a sip of her drink.
“Lay it on us, B,” Dodger grunts before taking a swig from his bottle.
I draw in deep breath, pushing aside all of my doubt and my fear as I confess, “My boyfriend’s name is Michael. Michael Cavanaugh.”
Dodger chokes as he swallows, coughing into his elbow before he stares at me with wide eyes. “What? Run that by me again?” he stammers.
Pulling my lower lip between my teeth, I don’t say a word, sure that I don’t need to. Reading into my silence, Dodger’s eyes grow wider still.
“Holy fuck.”
“Wait,” Hope mumbles, frowning as she looks back and forth between Dodger and me. “What’d I miss?”
“For the last three months, I’ve been having an affair with our state’s governor. We met at the Lounge—and it just…happened. It’s hard to explain, but—”
“Hold on, he’s married?” Hope asks, trying to catch up.
“Shit, Hope, what high ranked government official do you know who isn’t married? B—this is serious shit.”
I cling to my glass, pleading with them as I beg, “Please don’t judge him. Don’t judge me. I know it’s complicated. Messy. It’s messy, but I love him.”
“Wow,” Hope breathes, turning to set her wine down behind her. She then takes a step toward me and removes my glass from my hand. Setting it on the counter at my back with one hand, she reaches to open the freezer with her other. “Forget wine—we need something better.” She pulls out a container of ice cream and lifts her brow at me. “You’re going to have to start from the beginning. I need all the hairy details. I’m also going to need to see what this guy looks like. Is he old? Aren’t most high ranked government officials old? Oh, and, honey?” She pauses, cupping a hand around my cheek. “No judgment. We love you. This is a safe place.”
“Yeah, B. No judgment here—but—fuck.”
I nod, peering down at my shoes as I whisper, “I know.”
Hope’s hand falls from my cheek to my shoulder. She gives me a gentle squeeze and then leaves my side, headed for the pantry. When she returns with two spoons, I can’t help but to stare at her in utter confusion.
“How have I never noticed that you keep your dishes in the pantry? And why do you?”
Dodge chuckles, shaking his head with a shrug, and Hope grins as she hands me a spoon.
“That’s another story for another time. Right now, you’ve got some dirt to unload. Come on,” she insists, exiting the kitchen. “I have a feeling we need to be sitting down for this.”
“No shit,” mutters Dodge, throwing his arm around my shoulders.
As he escorts me out to join Hope, I take another deep, fortifying breath. There’s something cathartic about speaking the truth. While dad and Simone know about Michael and me, it’s not enough. It’s never been enough. What I feel for Michael, it wouldn’t be enough if the whole world knew.
For now, I’ll take what I can get.
Tonight—I’ll start with two.
Three Months Later
Blaine
I’M STARVING. I know that I should eat, but even with my food smelling delicious in front of me, my mind is slow on the uptake. Right now, my thoughts are consumed. On a good day, it’s hard for me to feel optimistic and hopeful about my future—a future that I’ve filled with dreams and purpose over the last several months, for the first time in a long time. On a good day, it takes all the extra energy I have to hang onto Michael’s promises and to the memories of
our time together. But today is not a good day.
Today, I miss my mom. Today, I miss My Forever. Today is Christmas Eve, and instead of feeling festive and happy, I feel lonely and sad. It doesn’t help with Simone looking at me the way she is. I know she’s worried. Her and dad both. I haven’t exactly been a ball of sunshine lately. They’ve been more supportive than they realize I need them to be, for which I am grateful; but they don’t understand what I’m going through. Not exactly. Not completely.
“What if he doesn’t?”
I look up from my Wisconsin Brat, catching her gaze from across the table. Absentmindedly tracing my finger along the edge of the red, plastic basket, I ask, “What if he doesn’t what?”
Her pretty brown eyes grow sad, and my heart aches at the pity I see in her expression. I’ve seen a lot of that lately. From my dad, from Simone, even from Irene and Dodger—the former I confided in when word got out that our governor was going through a divorce. It’s as if none of them believe he’s going to come back to me.
“Blaine—darling, what if he doesn’t actually leave her? What if he doesn’t come back?”
I shift my gaze down into my lap and stare at my hand. With my thumb, I spin the ring around my middle finger over and over, all the while reminding myself that her what ifs are just words. I convince myself that what he and I have, it’s bigger than our circumstances. I shield my heart against the lies that lie in what if—in the silence—in the waiting. I know in my heart that there’s no chance of reconciliation between Michael and Veronica. Just because he hasn’t been seeing me doesn’t mean he’s seeing her—at least not for reasons other than to discuss the end of their marriage, I’m sure.
“Blaine…” Simone murmurs, leaning against the table to shorten the distance between us.
I curl my fingers into a fist and lift my eyes to meet hers once more. I ignore the way her worry tugs at her brow and the regret I know she harbors in her thoughts. I’m certain that she finds herself partly to blame for my current state, having not discouraged me from the beginning. But I ignore it. I ignore it all. I have to. For Michael, for us, I have to.
“He will,” I state resolutely. “He’ll come back to me.”
“But—”
“He will!” I insist, pounding my fist against my thigh. “He has to. He has to.”
“Okay, all right. I hear you,” Simone comforts, reaching across the table to hold my opposite hand. “Why don’t we just finish eating? Tell me what you’re making your dad for Christmas dinner.”
It takes me a second to blink away the excess moisture in my eyes, and I swallow back my desperation as I offer her a nod. When I take a bite of my lunch, my mouth rejoices, and my stomach is soon to follow. Grabbing hold of joy wherever I can, I don’t take this lunch date for granted. I relax, willing myself to simply enjoy Simone’s company.
Michael
ISABELLA GROWS HEAVY in my arms, her dead weight resting against my shoulder as she naps. It’s not even noon yet; though, judging by the tired look I noticed in my sister’s eyes upon their arrival, I’d wager a guess that their three-year-old had the whole house up before the sun, too excited to wait for presents. I wonder, if I hold her long enough, if some of her Christmas spirit will rub off on me.
I’ve been surrounded by all things Christmas for weeks now. The mansion was decorated by the staff the day after Thanksgiving, and the city of Denver has been decked out for the holiday. I feel as though there are Christmas trees in every building I enter, and yet I can’t seem to get in the mood to celebrate. It’s been a long three and a half months. Now, I’m anxious for a new year. I need a fresh start—to put the mistakes, the regret, and the pain of this year behind me and start anew.
Except, as I stare out the window, at the snow covered view of the mountains seen beyond my parents’ backyard, I can’t help but question whether or not it’s time. Time to move on. Time to chase after the future that I intend to claim as mine. Time to chase after the woman that I love—the way she deserves to be chased. I wonder if I’m that man—or if I’m still the fool capable of creating more hurt and division than I ever thought possible.
“There are beds, you know,” says Abigail. I feel her hand glide down my back before she comes into view at my side. As she reaches up and runs her fingers through Isabella’s hair, she tells me, “She’s been up since three a.m. I’m sure if you laid her down, she wouldn’t wake up for a while.”
Gazing down at my beautiful niece, I shake my head and murmur, “I’m all right.”
Abbie sighs, dropping her hands to rest them upon her protruding belly. She then shifts her focus out the window. We stare together, neither of us attempting to exchange a word. I’m sure that today, of all days, my little sister has been instructed to play nice. Of everyone in my family, she’s been the most outspoken about what I did to Veronica. Even now, with the divorce mere days away from being final, she’s still standing up for my wife.
My ex-wife.
“She should be here,” she murmurs, as if she can’t help herself.
“Abigail, don’t,” I warn.
“We’re all thinking it. I’m sorry, but someone has to actually say it.”
“Say what?” asks Gabriel as he casually joins our conversation. He stands on the other side of Abbie, a steaming mug of dad’s signature hot cocoa in his hand and a knowing expression on his face.
“Veronica should be here. We’re her family.”
“I think you mean Blaine should be here,” he replies before sipping at his drink.
Folding her arms across her chest, Abbie asks, “Did you really just say that out loud? You’ve got to be kidding me. That woman is not family.”
“That woman is about to be family. You’re going to have to get on board with that eventually.”
Abbie snorts, and I stare at my older brother in shock, taken aback by what he’s just said.
“Honestly, Abbie, I don’t know how you don’t see it. Or maybe you just won’t see it—and I get that. I do. These last few months, something’s been missing every time we get together. Part of that is Ronnie, yes—but the other part of it is our brother.”
“Yeah, well, that makes sense, doesn’t it? Proof that he should have stuck it out and stayed married.”
“No. You’re wrong. Veronica doesn’t have a piece of him anymore. Look at him. It’s Blaine he’s pining over. It’s Blaine who should be here. He loves her, Abbie. There’s nothing any of us can do about it.”
“I’m telling you now, if that woman showed her face here, I’d leave.”
“Enough,” I mutter, finally finding my voice.
I snuggle Isabella a little closer, hoping her warm, heavy weight will ease the pain my sister’s wrath has caused. It’s during moments like this one that I’m reminded of what I have with Blaine—what I hope I still have with Blaine—and how it will forever be tainted. It’s my fault, and I hate that. I hate that I can’t change it.
“She’s not here,” I point out. “Neither of them are here. You’re stuck with me. I’m sorry if that disappoints you. Now, can you stop? Just—for one day, can we not?”
Abbie huffs out a sigh, immediately turning on her heel and leaving me with Gabriel. We look at one another and he shrugs before he says, “She’ll get over it.”
“You keep saying that.”
“She will. We all will. Life goes on. Your life must go on.”
I nod, wanting his words to be true, all the while afraid that they aren’t.
“I mean it, Mike. You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Punishing yourself. We’re all going to forgive you. A couple of us already have. For some of us, it might take longer—the point is, you can’t be the last one to forgive yourself. You’re miserable. You don’t even hide it that well,” he jokes, clapping me on the shoulder.
“You heard her,” I mutter, ignoring his last comment as I nod back in the direction Abbie fled. “Blaine isn’t welcome here. It seems
selfish, inviting her into my life—into the vacancy at my side. She’s not Veronica. She can’t fill Veronica’s shoes, and I don’t want her to feel like she has to. I screwed this all up. I took away her chance to simply be the woman that I want.”
“Listen to me,” he insists, now gripping my shoulder to hold my attention. “Taking some time to adjust, it was smart. One of your smarter moves, actually. But don’t get stuck. Don’t let other people’s opinions dictate your next step. You have to do what’s right for you—for your relationship. If it’s serious, and I know that it is, two things are going to happen if you don’t go get your girl.
“First, everything you sacrificed for her, everything you risked for her—your marriage, your career, your family, all of it—it’ll have been for nothing. Second, we’ll never understand why you did it. It’s easy to judge someone when you don’t know them. If she is as amazing as you believe she is, how could we not learn to love her?”
I shift my attention back out the window as I let his words take root. He’s not wrong. Every day I spend away from her is another day lost. I was willing to go down fighting for her, and here I am, doing the exact opposite.
“What if…what if I hurt her? What if I’m not the man that I thought I was?”
He coughs out a quiet laugh, earning my attention once more. Shaking his head at me, he mutters, “You’re scared.”
“Sometimes, I swear, what I feel for her is more than love. With Veronica, we had our seasons—but none of them felt like this.”
“Then my advice to you is don’t be the man you thought you were. Be better. Be better for her. That’s all you can do. Choose to be the man that loves her. Every day.”
I draw in a deep breath, absentmindedly reaching up to run a hand down Isabella’s back. I think of Blaine, of the man I wish to be for her, and I know I have some ground to cover. Three and a half months, I’ve made her wait. Three and a half months, I’ve been coming to terms with my new reality—only, I don’t like this reality. It’s missing her, and it’s time I fixed that.