“How so?”
“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.”