Our eyes meet again. I don’t know what to say, and he doesn’t offer anything. After several long, uncomfortable seconds, he turns to go, and it takes every bit of restraint I have not to jump up and run after him. As he walks down the narrow row between tables, hands in his pockets and head down, my chest physically aches.
This doesn’t hurt as bad as all the times I watched him go back to Steve.
But damn, it’s a close second.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lying by omission and a quick subject change get me out of an uncomfortable conversation with Ian.
“How did Michael’s date go?”
“Sounds like it went fine, but there probably won’t be a second date.”
“Damn. That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, it is. Have you eaten yet?”
Then it’s dinner I can’t taste, TV shows I can’t focus on and wine that doesn’t do me a damned bit of good.
And now we’re in bed. Ian’s sound asleep even though Rosie has almost pushed him off his pillow. Between us, the dog is snoring.
I haven’t even started drifting off yet. I’ve been listening to my husband and pets breathe while the conversation with Michael replays over and over and over inside my head. The guilt and shame keep burrowing deeper. I want to wake Ian, tell him everything and beg forgiveness. I want to call Michael and do the same.
I check my phone for the thousandth time. 2:28 a.m. Two minutes since the last time I checked. This night is either going to last forever, or it’s going to eat me alive before dawn.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. My conscience can’t handle being this close to my husband while I’m pining after someone else. Because whether I want to admit it or not, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I miss Michael.
I move as carefully and quietly as I can, put on a pair of sweats and slip out of the bedroom. By the grace of God, I don’t wake the dog, because she would’ve woken Ian.
While everyone else sleeps, I make my way down to the kitchen, fully intending to pour myself a drink. But by the time I get there, I can’t do it—I have to work in a few hours. I’m going to be a waste of space, but I don’t want a DUI during my morning commute. And if I start drinking now, it’ll be enough to get me a DUI in six hours.
I rest my hands on the counter’s cool edge and stare out into the darkness of the backyard. What little moonlight there is hints at the outline of the gazebo and hot tub, and my mind’s eye fills in the rest. Relaxing with Ian and Michael. Fooling around with Ian. Watching them kiss for the first time. Fooling around with both of them.
I shiver.
There’s got to be a solution to this situation. Feelings are what they are. I’m not obligated to act on them, and neither is Michael. Once he collects his thoughts and reestablishes contact, we can talk it out and agree that we don’t have to cross more lines than we already have.
But can I look Ian in the eye and tell him that things didn’t go too far? And can I look Michael in the eye and not hurt because I can’t touch him?
How the fuck do I make this work?
A chill works its way through me. My heart’s racing and my stomach’s definitely glad I didn’t have that drink after all. It’s like I’m watching a train wreck in slow motion—it’s happening, the wheels are in motion, and there’s nothing I can do except hold my breath and wait for the inevitable.
I’m not panicking yet, but it’s coming. I’ve felt Ian slipping away before. I’ve felt Michael slipping away before. Never both at the same time. The thought of losing either of them is devastating—both? Oh fuck.
My heart pounds even harder. I’m overreacting. Right? This is bigger in my head than it is in reality. It doesn’t have to play out badly. It doesn’t have to play out at all. Michael will respect that I want to be faithful to my husband. I’ll respect that he wants to maintain our friendship. It’s that simple. Isn’t it?
Soft footsteps raise the hairs on the back of my neck.
No, no, no. Go back to bed, Ian. Please, go back to bed.
“Josh?”
I cringe. I can’t even look at him, and my throat’s so tight, I can barely breathe, never mind speak.
He stops behind me. “It’s almost three in the morning.”
“I know.” I still don’t turn around. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“Never mind that. What are you doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“You okay?”
I can’t even produce an automatic Yeah, I’m fine, and every second of silence gives the answer I didn’t want to—no, I’m not okay.
“Josh?” He steps closer. “Is this about Michael?”
The sound of Ian saying Michael’s name snaps whatever tenuous thread has been holding me together.
“Fuck.” I whisper, and I lose it.
“Whoa, hey.” Ian wraps his arms around me. “Easy.” He gently turns me around and holds me close, tenderly stroking my hair and completely oblivious to what he’s doing to my conscience. “Take it easy.”
There’s no reining this back in and pretending nothing’s wrong. Ian’s only seen me cry a handful of times, so he knows damn well my tears aren’t on a hair trigger. Which means we’re talking about this. We’re talking about it tonight. And he won’t take it’s nothing or I’m really okay and let it go.