I dragged my ass out of bed around five the next morning, skipped the gym, and got ready for work. I was bleary-eyed and exhausted and still sore as fuck. But the memory was worth it—I hadn’t changed my mind about that.
My anger from the night before had mellowed somewhat, but the despair remained. I figured I’d throw myself into work and try not to think about him leaving my house for the last time. Try not to remember all the things he’d said last night. Try not to see his point of view. But it was impossible.
You’re still intent on a wife and kids.
I don’t want to be your temporary toy.
I don’t want to live two lives.
I’m not going backward.
I’ve never felt like I was good enough for you. I know that I’m not. This feels like you’re agreeing with me. And that hurts.
Sitting at my desk behind my closed office door, I closed my eyes and slouched in my chair. Fuck. I’d hurt him. It wasn’t true, what he’d said, but I knew it looked that way. Of course he was good enough—more than good enough. Too good. He deserved someone who could accept him, who could share one life with him, who could love him the way I wanted to, but couldn’t. Openly, fully, unconditionally.
It killed me to think of him with someone else. Those hands on someone else’s skin. That laugh in someone else’s ear. That endless enthusiasm for life brightening someone else’s day.
I kept looking at my phone, hoping he’d text me something, anything. A question about his new place. A request for help. Even if he just needed a ride somewhere, I’d have run out to pick him up.
But he didn’t reach out.
What do you expect? You insulted him. It’s better this way.
Still, when I got home later that night and saw his note, my chest tightened painfully. Before I could help it, I was wandering into his room. It smelled like him. He’d stripped the bed, or I’d probably have gotten in it and wrapped myself up in the sheets he’d slept in last night. I missed him already. His clothes were gone from the closet and dresser—I checked all the drawers—and his phone wasn’t on the nightstand. I sat on the bed and opened the drawer.
My heart kicked up. He’d left his notebook.
Don’t do it.
But I did it. Of course I did. It was the one piece of him I had access to, the one thing that might ease some of this loneliness.
I opened to a random page, glad to see it was in English, then started flipping through, as if skimming it would make it less of an invasion of privacy. Phrases jumped out at me.
So unexpected…this thing between us…wants to deny it…a truth about him no one else knows…never wanted someone like this…love his arms around me while we sleep…can’t stop thinking about him…wish I could be what he wants…it’s so good…a turning point for us…know what I want…include me in his life…never imagined myself with children, but…I’m in love with him…
In love with him?
My eyes scanned every word on the last page before I could stop them, my insides churning. He must have penned them last night.
He asked me not to move out tomorrow, but not because he wants to be with me for real. I’d hoped that after this weekend, he might think I was worth taking a risk for, worth coming out for, but he doesn’t. He still wants to hide. It would be so easy to give in, to stay and be with him on any terms. But I can’t. I want more. I want to share my life. I want him to be proud of me. I want to make him happy, and I think I could if he’d let me. But not in secret.
I’m done hiding. I’m in love with him, and walking away tonight was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I did it for him as well as for me. He’ll never be happy if he doesn’t face the truth.
I clapped the notebook shut and dropped it onto the bed as if it had bitten me. I shouldn’t have read it. Now I had his words in my head. I’m in love with him. Was he? Did he feel that way? Why hadn’t he ever said it?
Same reason you didn’t, asshole. He’s scared.
Groaning, I flopped back on the bed and threw an arm over my eyes. I was a selfish prick. I wanted to hear him say it. I needed to hear him say it. I was sick and that was the cure. If I could just hear him admit he felt the way I did, then I wasn’t alone.
I took my phone from my pocket.
Stop it, you self-serving fuck.
I didn’t. I texted him. I miss you already. Call me?
Five minutes went by. Then ten. Then twenty.
I frowned. But he was at work, right? Maybe he hadn’t seen my message yet.
I went downstairs and ate leftovers for dinner without tasting anything. I loosened my tie. I poured some whiskey.
An hour passed. Then another.
He had to have seen it by then! Was he ignoring me? How could he! If he loved me, he’d at least respond to my text.
Maybe he didn’t have his phone. That had to be it. He didn’t have his phone and he was as miserable as I was, thinking I didn’t care about him. I had to fix it.
I left my glass of whiskey half-finished on the counter, raced upstairs to grab the notebook, and jumped into my car.
I parked in the garage down the street and rushed down the sidewalk to the bar, then burst through the door like an angry cowboy in an old western. I must have looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care.
Ellen saw me right away and came over, her face concerned. “Hey. You okay?”
“Where’s Maxim? I need to see him.”
“I think he’s in the basement pulling some liquor. You know where it is?”
“I’ll find it.” I took off, leaving her blinking after me and probably totally confused, but I didn’t stop. Through the kitchen. Down the stairs. Around the corner.
He was alone among the shelves, squinting at a list in the dim light.
I went at him hard, backing him against the brick wall, crushing my mouth against his, wanting to say what I came here to say but terrified to end the kiss, because what if it was the last one I ever got?
Finally he pushed me away. “Derek, what the hell? You can’t do this.”
“I have to. I’m in love with you.”
“What?”
“I’m in love with you. And you’re in love with me.” I held up the notebook.
His eyes went wide. “You read my notebook?”
Fuck. “Just the last page,” I said, squirming. “And I’m sorry, okay? I know it was wrong, and I’m sorry, but—I had to know how you felt.”
He grabbed the notebook from me. “You knew how I felt. I told you last night.”
“You didn’t tell me you loved me.” My heart was racing so hard. “Do you?”
“Would it have made a difference?”
“Yes!” I yelled, although I wasn’t at all sure I meant it.
“Oh, really? What difference? Are you ready to love each other for real? Or do you want to keep it hidden?”
“I’m—I’m protecting it! If we put it out there in the open, it will be ruined, Maxim. Right now it’s something beautiful and extraordinary and special. It belongs to us. If other people know, they’ll fucking vilify it. They’ll make it ugly. They’ll say it’s crazy and wrong. If we keep it for ourselves, it stays safe.”
He shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. You’re the one making it ugly, Derek. Not anyone else. And I won’t be part of it.”
“But—”