What He Left Behind (2 page)

“Because moving slowly is still moving. We’ll still get there.” He chases another piece of tomato around the edge of his plate. “And I’ll be sweating bullets the entire fucking time.” He stabs the tomato and nearly puts his fork right through the ceramic. “Sometimes I think it would be better to just dive into bed with a stranger and get it over with.”

My neck prickles. “That…doesn’t sound like a healthy way to approach it.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Got any better ideas?”

I hold his gaze. He holds mine.

And no, I haven’t got any better ideas.

Chapter Two

By the time I get home from work at ten after seven, I’m starving. If traffic had moved even a little bit slower, I’m pretty sure I would’ve started eyeballing the steering wheel or the passenger seat’s upholstery.

And yet at the same time, the thought of food makes me gag. I’ve been reeling all day from what Michael told me over lunch, and that’s to say nothing of all the things he didn’t tell me. I know just enough about that hellish relationship to be able to fill in the blanks. As I’m getting out of my car, a thought smacks me in the back of the head: What if one of those times I met Michael at the ER, when he was shaken and bloody, it had been after Steve—

No. No. No.

Not going there. Not tonight. Not if I ever want to sleep again.

I force my mind to shift gears as I head inside. The instant I open the door from the garage to the foyer, Ariel, our young boxer, comes thundering in from the kitchen, whipping the walls and her own sides with her long tail.

“Ariel,” Ian says firmly from the kitchen, and she hurries back the way she came. I follow her. In the kitchen, Ariel skids to a halt, sliding a little on the linoleum before dropping onto her haunches. He taps his thigh, and she moves to his side at the stove, where she sits again. “Good girl.” Her tail thumps against the cabinet, and he pets her head. To me, he says, “Hey you. How was your day?” Then he gestures at the stove. “Hungry?”

“Not bad, and very.” I greet him with a kiss before I glance at the pot and the skillet, but as soon as I see the food, my gut tightens. It looks and smells wonderful—Ian cooks like a pro—but I’m not sure I can stomach much of anything tonight. Not even when the last real meal I had was the one he cooked last night.

“Hey.” Ian tugs my belt loop and brings me closer. “You okay?”

There’s that fucking lump in my throat again. No. No, I’m not okay. Because Michael isn’t okay. And I don’t know what to say to him, and I don’t know what to do short of hunting Steve down and strangling him with my bare hands and—

“Josh.” Ian cups my face, drawing me out of my thoughts. “What’s wrong?”

I lower my gaze. Ariel is staring up at me with those huge brown eyes, her tail still beating against the cabinet, so I hold out my hand. She licks my fingers, and her tail slows.

Daddy, what’s wrong?

I sigh and pet her, prompting a little more tail thumping.

Ian kisses my cheek. “Why don’t I dish everything up, and we can talk while we eat?”

Wordlessly, I nod. That’ll at least buy me a moment to collect my thoughts, assuming our dog’s innocent expression doesn’t break me down first. Fuck. I haven’t been this shaken since the first time I met a bruised, stitched-up Michael at the ER. It’s been five years since Steve laid a hand on him, but the wound feels fresh to me because, up until today, I hadn’t known. I hadn’t fucking known.

What did he
do
to you, Michael?

Ian dishes everything up, and we sit down at the kitchen table. Ariel lies down beside Ian, ever hopeful of a tossed table scrap, and Rosie, our aloof Siamese, perches on the windowsill, glaring at me like she always does. She’s definitely Ian’s cat, because she can’t stand me. I decided a long time ago she must blame me for her stupid name. I’ve tried explaining that it was the shelter who named both her and the dog, but to no avail—she hates me.

The thought can’t even make me chuckle tonight, and I just sigh and try to eat.

From across the table, Ian watches me, but he doesn’t say anything.

I shift uncomfortably. “I had lunch with Michael. And he…”

Ian pulls in a sharp breath and sits straighter. He knows me, and he knows what it means when I’m like this after I’ve had lunch with Michael. The details are the only variables.

I hesitate. Michael knows I talk to Ian about these things. In fact, he encourages it.

“You shouldn’t have to internalize it all,”
he said to me a few years back.
“And I trust you both.”

So I take a deep breath, and I tell my husband everything Michael told me over lunch.

When I’m finished, Ian sits back against the chair just like Michael did earlier. “Oh my God.” He shakes his head and starts absently petting Ariel. “I know I’ve said it before, but there is a special place in hell for that fucker.”

“Yeah, there is.”

We exchange glances. That special place in hell has been reserved since long before we found out about this development.

Neither of us says much more. In fact, neither of us says much of anything while we eat. And damn it, I’m still ravenous, but it’s a struggle to eat. Ian seems to be having a tough time too, and pasta is one of his favorite things on the planet. Except the Steve diet works pretty well on him too.

I have to wonder how Steve can sleep at night. Or eat. Or just breathe. He’d been such a charmer in the beginning, but my God, the poison in that man is almost visible to the naked eye after a while. During the five long years he had Michael under his thumb, that asshole committed a lot of unforgivable sins, and people still ask Michael why on earth he stayed for so long if it was really that bad. Of course, anyone who’s ever been in an abusive relationship knows that walking away is easier said than done. The threats, the manipulation—all of it holds on to the victim like a fucking choke chain.

One chain in particular kept Michael firmly within Steve’s grasp—his dog. Any time Michael stepped out of line or so much as hinted about leaving, Steve knew damn well all he had to do was threaten to hurt Cody. Once, after a particularly bad fight, the asshole actually left with the dog and came back without him. He let Michael believe for days that he’d sold him to a dog-fighting ring before finally, after deciding Michael was repentant enough, bringing him home from his brother’s house.

In Ian’s eyes, that alone cemented Steve’s place in the deepest, darkest pits of hell. Ian’s an animal lover just like Michael, and even joking about hurting one makes him see red. Actually threatening to do it? Especially to manipulate someone who once literally jumped into a frozen lake to save a dog? Unforgivable.

I’ve always agreed with him, and this new revelation about the things that happened in that house makes me wish there were some even deeper and darker pits in hell. Steve deserves nothing less than the worst the devil can offer.

After a while, Ian asks, “Is Michael’s therapist helping? With…um…”

“She’s trying.”

“I guess there’s no easy way to come back from something like that. Sitting and talking to someone probably helps, but only to a point.”

I nod. “Yeah. I can’t imagine what else she can do, though.”

“I can’t imagine what else anyone can do.”

Our eyes meet. Ian sighs and shakes his head. We both continue making a half-assed effort to get through the wonderful meal he cooked. Of course I don’t know what the answer is for Michael—I don’t even know how to salvage what should have been a pleasant dinner.

Eventually, we’ve both eaten enough to tide us over until breakfast—or first coffee, as Ian calls it—and we start cleaning up. All the while, I feel like I’m in a haze, part of my mind still stuck in this afternoon’s conversation as if my foot’s stuck in concrete. Every now and again, as we wash the dishes so we can settle in to watch TV, I manage to forget, but that uncomfortable feeling beneath my rib cage reminds me all isn’t right in the world. When I notice it, I remember, and the thoughts start bombarding my brain all over again. I don’t foresee a lot of sleep happening tonight.

As we often do, Ian and I spend the evening curled up on the couch with the dog and cat. There isn’t much on—mostly reruns and the news—but it’s enough to keep us mildly entertained. Or at least distracted. Ian doesn’t laugh much, even when it’s one of the good sitcoms. I don’t either.

I kind of regret telling him what Michael told me—doesn’t seem fair to ruin his evening too. But he’d have dragged it out of me sooner or later. Unlike Michael, I crack under interrogation, and Ian’s a schoolteacher. He can pry a confession out of the most tight-lipped fourteen-year-old. His own husband? Cake walk.

Still, it bugs me to think of Ian sitting there with the same sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

I want to text Michael and make sure he’s okay. Maybe he’s worked up the courage to call Dr. Klein and say he’s reconsidered, and yes he would like to go out sometime. I’d like to think that’s what he’s doing right now, or that they’re already on an impromptu date somewhere, but I know Michael. If he’s afraid enough of sex to admit he’s afraid, then it’s not something he’s going to shake off with a deep breath and a phone call.

But what
will
it take? I refuse to believe the damage is permanent. Yeah, maybe Michael had turned out to be more breakable than I’d imagined, but not irreparably so. That’s just not possible.

Around ten thirty, Ian clicks off the TV. The animals jump off the couch, and we follow, though we’re both a little slower. Not that we’re old or anything, but a couple of tired thirty-somethings don’t quite spring to life the way a year-old boxer and a sassy Siamese do. Especially not this late on a Thursday evening.

From there, it’s the same routine as every night. Ian takes the dog out one last time. I top off the cat’s food and water while she tries to kill me with her mind. Then the animals commandeer as much of the bed as they can while we brush our teeth and Ian takes out his contacts. For two guys who hadn’t caught each other’s names until after we’d seen each other’s proverbial O-faces, a decade later we’ve slipped pretty comfortably into the quiet domestic life. And they say you can’t find love in a bathhouse.

Those days are behind us now, though, and after all the drama of our wilder years, we’re both quite content.

We rearrange the animals and climb into bed.

Ian doesn’t kill the light, though. “So, I was thinking.”

I shift onto my side and drape an arm over him. “About?”

“Michael.”

His name sends a jolt through me, jarring my already tense stomach.

Ian wraps his arm around my shoulders. “About his, um, situation.”

“Yeah?”

Ian studies me for a moment. “Maybe you can help him.”

I blink. “How?”

“He trusts you. He’s…” Ian hesitates. “He’s been with you. Maybe you’re what he needs right now.”

I stare at him because I’m not entirely certain I heard him correctly. “Come again?”

Ian takes my hand, lacing our fingers together on his stomach. “We both know you’re still attracted to him.”

Heat rushes into my cheeks. “Well, yeah, but that doesn’t… I’m not trying to… Ian, I’m—”

“Shh.” He squeezes my hand, and a smile plays at his lips. “I’m not making any accusations. You’re attracted to him. I have a crush on my boss.” He shrugs. “It’s life. We’re married, not castrated.”

“True.” I’m still guarded, though. “But we agreed to have a closed relationship.”

“We did. Except that was before either of us knew what happened to Michael.”

I’m still staring at him, struggling to comprehend that we’re even having this conversation.

“Josh, he’s your best friend. No one else in the world is as close to him as you are
and
has been physically intimate with him.” Ian traces the side of my thumb with his. “Under the circumstances, I’d say what you might be able to do for him trumps any need we have for monogamy.”

“But, I mean, even if you’re right, I don’t want to do some kind of damage to us.”

“You wouldn’t. I’m not suggesting you cheat on me. I know about it, and I’m endorsing it—it’s not cheating.” He brings my hand up and kisses the backs of my fingers. “You’d be helping him get his confidence back and undo some of the damage that motherfucker did to him.”

A shudder runs through me as my mind’s eye tries to show me what might have happened to Michael back then, and I tamp those thoughts down. “I don’t… I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Talk to him.” Ian squeezes my hand again. “See if he’s even on board with the idea, and then play it by ear.”

I hold his gaze. “You’re really sure about this.”

“If it means getting him back to a better place so he can find a better relationship?” Ian nods. “Absolutely.”

I chew the inside of my cheek. “What if I make things worse for him?”

“Josh.” Ian releases my hand and cups my cheek. “You’re the sweetest and most generous man I’ve ever been with. You and I both know you’d never push him further than he wanted to go, and you would
never
hurt him. There is literally nothing I can imagine you doing that would do more damage.”

“Still. He’s already gotten hurt so badly…”

“And I couldn’t imagine him being in better hands.”

I’m not so confident, but Ian is right about one thing—there’s no way in hell I would deliberately do anything to hurt Michael any more than I would do anything to hurt Ian. It’s the inadvertent stuff that worries me.

“Talk to him,” Ian says again. “Who knows? He might not even be interested. But if he is, just set rules and limits, take it slow, and maybe it’ll help.”

Fair enough. That I can do. Though I’m not completely sure how to broach that subject. Carefully, I guess. Still, despite my worries, I do feel better knowing there might be something I can actually do to help Michael get back to a better place.
Might
.

I meet Ian’s gaze and smile. “You’re amazing. You know that?”

He laughs softly and kisses the tip of my nose. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would.” I run my fingers through his hair. “Any rules?”

Ian seems to mull it over for a moment, but then shrugs. “I trust you. And him.” He pauses. “Just, you know, be honest with me about anything that’s going on. Not necessarily details, just…”

“Just be honest.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I will. I promise.”

Ian smiles. He lifts his head and kisses me softly. “We should get some sleep. Let me know how it goes when you talk to him.”

“You’ll be the first to hear.” I kiss him once more and then settle onto my pillow. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”