by Beth Bolden
Damon answered on the final ring. “Hey,” he said, sounding distracted. “Everything okay?”
“I’m in your house, eating a sandwich, and you’re not here.” Xander wasn’t going to buy that faux casual tone of his. Everything wasn’t okay, and no matter what Damon pretended, he couldn’t believe otherwise.
“I had stuff to do today,” Damon said. “Besides, I thought you’d have your hands full with training. How’s it going?”
“I do, and it’s going well. But I wanted to talk to you.”
It must have been clear from Xander’s voice what he wanted to talk about because Damon went silent.
“I didn’t want to do it over the phone, but you’re not here.” He knew he was supposed to be apologizing, but frustration still leaked into his tone.
“If this is about the conversation from last night, we’ve both said enough, don’t you think?” Damon asked snidely, and it cut Xander to the bone.
“No . . . yes . . . I mean, I wanted to apologize.”
Damon sighed heavily on the other line, and Xander felt his unease begin to ratchet into a full-blown panic.
“You were being honest, why would you need to apologize?”
Xander didn’t miss that Damon had answered all his questions with questions of his own.
He gritted his teeth. He’d fucked up; he’d not imagined that apologizing and forcing Damon to hear it and accept it would be easy, but this was turning out to be far trickier. “I was insensitive and tone-deaf. It’s your restaurant, and you told me straight off how you were planning to run it. It’s not fair that I come tromping in at the last moment and demand you change your mind.”
“You were right; if I want to be commercially viable, I’m going to have to make some changes.”
Xander didn’t want Damon to accept what he’d said as legitimate. He didn’t want him to be quietly, mildly agreeing to his argument; he wanted him to be pissed as hell. As pissed as Xander was at himself.
“You shouldn’t make any changes, not because of what I said,” Xander argued.
“But you just made the case last night,” Damon said, and he sounded perplexed. “It was a good argument.”
“It was not,” Xander retorted. “It was insensitive and insecure and cruel. Not to mention quite a bit selfish. I love you. We are going to make this work no matter what we serve. That much I’m confident about.”
“Okay,” Damon said, but it was absolutely clear that he wasn’t agreeing with anything. Xander’s fingers tightened over his phone, and even though he might be grumpy and tactless sometimes, he didn’t generally have a temper. It was flaring now, and he was struck with a sudden inexplicable desire to demand Damon’s location, storm over to where he was, and express his feelings. Strongly.
The worst part was that he knew he was still attempting to apologize.
“I don’t think you get it,” Xander said, barely hanging onto the reins of his anger, “I fucked up. Badly. I said a lot of shit that I shouldn’t have, and you going and accepting it is not good. It’s not okay. It’s not what I want, at all.”
“It’s what you asked for, Xander,” Damon said quietly. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.”
Later, Xander realized after, he’d said later. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not the day after. Not in the kitchen during the preview or during their triumphant opening. Non-specific, so Xander wouldn’t know if he could depend on him, or wouldn’t know for sure if he turned around one day if he’d see his quiet, steady smile.
The phone left his hand before he could even help himself. It shattered into about a hundred pieces against Damon’s hardwood floors—reclaimed wood, Damon had told him once—and at the time all Xander had wanted was to reclaim him. He still wanted that, he’d have to be dead not to want it, but right now, all he wanted was to burst into tears and imagine that after his crying jag ended, everything was going to be okay.
But he couldn’t help but wonder that nothing was going to be okay again.
* * *
“You broke your phone,” Wyatt said, edge of his mouth quirking up, like he was really trying to tamp down a smile. It wasn’t funny, but maybe in a thousand years, after this restaurant opened successfully, and Damon had forgiven him, Xander thought he might find it amusing too.
But right now, he wanted to punch Wyatt in his perfect face.
“I broke my phone,” Xander muttered back.
“I’m guessing that apology didn’t go so well,” Miles said gently.
Miles never did anything gently, especially when it came to Xander, and that was another blow to his aching heart and his rapidly fading belief that this might all fix itself.
“He wasn’t even mad!” Xander yelled. It was pretty ironic that the only one mad here was him, when Damon deserved to be really pissed over what he’d said.
That was the worst realization of all; Damon wasn’t angry because he believed what Xander had said was the truth. Had probably worried about it for awhile, had carried that concern in the back of his head, and then Xander had gone and given it to him on a silver platter.
Xander resumed pacing back and forth in the living room, ignoring that Miles and Wyatt were exchanging looks of concern.
“Did he say he’d be back for tomorrow?” Wyatt asked. Tomorrow was the preview, and while everything was set, it was something that Damon should be there for. Deserved to be there for. This was his restaurant and had been his dream long before Xander was even involved.
“No,” Xander muttered, stopping in front of the sofa and collapsing on it, the old springs squeaking. “No, he was deliberately vague.”
Xander ignored more concerned looks. He didn’t need them to be worried; he was worried enough for all of them, a constant gnawing at the base of his stomach.
He stared at his hands as the silence dragged out. Wyatt and Miles didn’t even know what to say, because what was there to say? They’d both miraculously ended up with healthy and happy relationships, but of course, that wasn’t in the cards for Xander. Of course he was going to fuck it up. That was inevitable. He should have held onto that bone-deep pessimism he’d cultivated for so long, but instead he’d let it get swept away by Damon’s magnetism and the mind-blowing happiness Xander felt whenever he was around.
A wine glass was set down on the coffee table in front of him with a click. Xander glanced up and saw Miles standing there, a glass of his own, filled with ruby red liquid, in his hand.
“Really?” Xander demanded. “You really think this is the best time to have a drink?”
Miles shrugged. “Have you had a drink since you met him?”
Xander remembered one; the night he’d been wild to kiss Damon, and had come home and had kissed Nate instead, believing that he could convince his mind and his heart and his body that anyone would do.
“See, that’s not really healthy either,” Miles said firmly. “You can’t stop being who you are for him. I know you probably could have been more diplomatic with what you said the other night, that much I will agree with completely, because subtlety has never been your strong suit, but you had a point.”
Reaching out, Xander picked up the glass. Stared at it. It was a beautiful color, clearly one of Nate’s better bottles that Miles had just stolen.
“Booze isn’t a crutch for you,” Wyatt agreed quietly. “You need to be able to enjoy a glass if you want to. You can’t change for him, and he can’t change for you. Yeah, you might be better and stronger together than you are apart, but you still need to be yourselves.”
Xander took a sip. He had been a little carried away by Damon’s dream and his ambition and his entire self; it had been hard not to since so much of those things were reflected in Xander himself. But he had resented a little his self-imposed sobriety. He’d never asked, but then Damon had never clarified either, and back then, when they were still figuring their relationship out, Xander hadn’t wanted to give him any reason to walk away.
The wine was rich and dark on his tong
ue. This was definitely one of Nate’s better bottles. “This is good,” he said. “Nate is going to kill you.”
Miles waved a hand, clearly unconcerned. “That guy is weak. I could take him in my sleep.”
Wyatt chuckled, almost definitely amused because at one time, a very long time ago, Nate had been his boyfriend.
“This is what we’re going to do,” Miles said, and he suddenly sounded like he could take Nate, or just about anyone else for that matter. “We’re going to go get you a new phone. We’re going to get some more wine. We’re going to go over tomorrow’s arrangements. And the preview will kick ass, I promise.”
It was impossible not to voice the secret, dreaded fear that was lodged in the base of his throat and in his stomach, and weighing down all his limbs. “What if he doesn’t show?”
“Then he’s a fucking idiot,” Wyatt said, reaching over to give Xander a reassuring shoulder squeeze. “I know it’s not the same, but we’re going to be there, and we’re going to get through this. I promise.”
* * *
Xander didn’t sleep.
Lying awake, it was impossible not to notice that the cotton of the sheets still smelled like Damon. It had only been a few days, but it felt like an eternity.
His new phone sat on the nightstand charging, its silence damning Xander to another sleepless night, taunting him endlessly. Finally, he picked it up and stared at it. Found the number he’d dug up this afternoon when Miles and Wyatt had left him alone for five minutes and he’d realized that Damon wasn’t going to answer or reply to any of his voicemails or texts.
It was late—after midnight—but Xander hoped she would forgive him for calling, but he didn’t know where else to turn and he just couldn’t take it anymore. The phone rang twice, then three times, and just when he thought she wasn’t going to pick up, a breathless female voice answered.
“Who is this?” she asked, sounding annoyed.
“It’s Xander. Xander Bridges. We met once . . .” He trailed off. Suddenly what had seemed like such a good idea, felt like a terrible mistake. He shouldn’t be calling Rachel. She wasn’t involved with Damon anymore. She didn’t know him anymore; that was why people got divorced, right? They’d lost sight of who the other person in the marriage was.
“We did,” Rachel confirmed, her tone hushed, but no longer angry. “Is everything okay?”
Xander’s throat constricted. He pushed the tears back. “No.”
She was quiet for a long moment.
“I wouldn’t call you,” he finally said, “I wouldn’t do it unless I knew what else to do.”
She laughed, a little wry and a little wet around the edges. Like she was crying too. “He’s not an easy person. He likes to run when he’s afraid.”
“He won’t listen to me,” Xander admitted.
“And you think he’ll listen to me?” Rachel asked.
“It was the last thing I thought I could try,” Xander said. “The preview is tomorrow. Well, today, actually, and I can’t . . . I don’t want to do it alone. I wasn’t supposed to be alone.”
“I can come,” Rachel said. “And I can call him, if you want me to. But it’s not going to make a bit of difference.”
“Can you just . . . tell him, for me? He’s not answering my calls anymore. Won’t talk to me, anymore.”
“Once, he disappeared for a week straight. We’d been married for three months,” Rachel said. “He did come back, but he wasn’t the same. He carries his demons with him, and they’re always trying to get to him. Sometimes they win.” She sounded resigned to it, but Xander wasn’t. He wanted to fight, fight with Damon, if only he would let him. Let him in.
“I’ll call him,” Rachel said finally. “I’ll let you know if I get ahold of him. Try to get some sleep. You’re going to need it for tomorrow.”
Xander didn’t want to tell her that it was going to be impossible, but in the end, he must have finally fallen asleep in the early morning, because the next thing he remembered, he was opening his eyes up and listening to a hushed argument happening right outside his bedroom door.
It was painful dragging himself out of bed, but he did it because the only thing Miles and Wyatt had to argue about was him, and he wasn’t going to let them discuss him when he wasn’t even present.
Sure enough, when he wrenched his bedroom door open, Wyatt and Miles were caught red-handed, their conversation stuttering to an abrupt, awkward halt.
“What’s going on?” Xander demanded.
They both looked at him, both attempting innocence, and neither one pulling it off. Finally Wyatt sighed and said, “For the record, I think this is a bad idea.”
“What’s a bad idea?” Xander really hoped that they hadn’t heard him call Rachel.
“Come on,” Miles said reassuringly, reaching out and taking his hand. “Let’s go have some coffee and I’ll show you.”
In the kitchen, Wyatt poured him a mug of coffee, adding in half a spoon of sugar, just the way he liked. He took a sip. If Wyatt thought coffee was enough to distract him, he was sorely mistaken. “What did you want to show me?”
Miles moved away from the opposite counter, revealing a plain white box tied with white ribbon. “It was sitting on the front porch this morning,” he explained. “There’s a tag. It’s for you. It’s from Damon.”
Xander hesitated, his grip tightening on the mug. The truth was, he wanted to throw that too, but when they’d taken him to get a new phone, Wyatt had pulled him aside and made him promise he’d stop throwing things. “I know you’re pissed, I know you’re confused, and you have every right to be,” he’d said, “but you can’t let that turn you into Bastian. Because I know that’s the last thing you want.”
He didn’t want to end up like Bastian; sad and lonely and isolated, too emotionally scarred and too much of an asshole to even see something good right in front of him. He didn’t want to be a jackass, he didn’t want to make his employees worry that one day he’d snap and toss a plate at their head.
He didn’t want to be that guy or that boss or that friend; he’d always aspired to be better than that. But with the fallout from Damon disappearing, Xander was beginning to realize just how slippery the slope into becoming that man was. A few more doses of distrust and bitterness, Xander knew, and he and Bastian might practically be clones.
He didn’t want that, but he also didn’t know what to do with all this anger boiling away inside him. He kept trying to keep the noxious steam inside him—absorb the fumes and not let it spread to everyone else—but it was tough.
The truth was there was a part of Xander that was dying to act out, to spread it far and wide until everyone was just as poisoned as he was.
“You don’t have to open it,” Wyatt said, reaching over and gripping his elbow. “We can just leave it here, we can put it away in a closet, and you don’t have to face it until you’re ready.”
But Xander shrugged. “I’m not ever going to be ready to face it. And whatever’s in that box, it can’t be worse than going to the restaurant today and not seeing him, knowing he’s not going to show up.”
It should have hurt worse to undo the ribbon, feel the silk slide under his fingertips as he set it aside and opened the lid. Maybe he was just numb; frozen so he didn’t have to feel all the pain slipping through him like water.
Under the lid was tissue paper, which he pulled aside to reveal a pristine white chef’s coat. Above the left breast pocket was the embroidered Barrel House logo, and underneath it, his name, and “Executive Chef.” Xander traced his finger across the blue threads, remembering nights in a room this exact same color.
Was it better or worse that Damon remembered? Xander didn’t know, all he knew anymore was that it hurt and he just wanted the agony to end.
“You’ve worked a long time for that title,” Wyatt said softly.
“I’m sure he ordered this weeks ago,” Xander said, even though that didn’t help at all. “He just wanted to make sure I had it.” That was all h
e could surmise, because there was no note, no last-minute expression of good luck, no promise that he would be there tonight, ready to watch Xander’s triumph.
“It’s going to be okay,” Miles said, and even he didn’t sound convinced that it would be anymore.
You’re not going to cry, Xander told himself sternly, reaching inside and finding that steel that had always seen him through the worst of Bastian’s days back at Terroir. You’re not going to let anyone see, he promised himself, you’re going to walk in proud and head high, and nobody is going to know you’re dying inside.
By the time he was out of the shower and they were getting ready to head into the restaurant, Xander couldn’t decide which was worse: that Damon believed the worst about himself or that he had decided it was okay for this day, which was supposed to be one of the best of Xander’s life, to devolve into an agonizing exercise in emotional containment.
He was a bomb, waiting to go off, and maybe if he just kept going, putting one foot in front of the other, not thinking, not remembering, not wishing, he might not explode. Even for Xander, there were a lot of maybes and mights in that sentence.
* * *
“I knew I would find you here.”
Damon glanced up in surprise. Nobody else knew he liked to come here, way up on the hills of Mount Veeder, only accessible by a dirt road, and never used except for once a year by the land surveyors hired by Hess.
Someday, his father would develop this land. But not now, not until all other options were exhausted, because it was a trek.
And today, Rachel had made the trek up here.
“Xander must have called you,” he said morosely, staring at his feet, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his jeans.
“He did. He didn’t know what else to do, because you just ghosted on him.” There was definitely a reprimand in his ex-wife’s voice. “I thought I told you not to fuck it up.”