Chapter Seven

 

 

Why the fuck should he even be surprised? Just another person pretending one thing while being something else.

Mitchell walked the city streets for miles, until his hair had long since dried, along with the clothes that had clung to his wet body.

When had Jackson realized Mitchell was Wallflower? Did he somehow know from the start? No, Jackson wouldn’t have let it go so long or so far. He was honest—

No, he was a lying bastard. At any point in their online chat the other night, he could’ve identified himself. Mitchell had even asked him for advice. If Doc had only said, “small world, babe. I’m Jackson,” they’d be curled up in bed right now instead of torn apart.

When his feet refused to walk another step, Mitchell thumbed open his Uber app and got a ride home. The apartment was dark and empty. Jackson had blown out all the candles, and a step into the kitchen showed that he’d packed away the butter chicken. A note was propped against his laptop screen.

 

I love you.

I never meant to hurt you.

 

Neither had his parents. They’d just wanted vicarious fame and fortune.

Neither had Barton, really. He’d just wanted to win.

Now Jackson.

What did Jackson want?

What did Jackson want? He’d wanted someone to see him as something other than just a cancer survivor. Mitchell thought about their first dance, the way Jackson had felt in his arms. He’d wanted to help Mitchell learn to trust again. How many times had he encouraged Mitchell to open up, to get the weight of the truth off his shoulders?

He’d wanted Mitchell. In his life, in his bed.

And Mitchell had wanted Jackson. Still did.

He picked up the note and set it beside the laptop, bringing up the Topical site. He searched through the public forums, finding all the times they’d argued and disagreed on general principle. But Doc had also been the first to comment when Wallflower posted about having an identity crisis since his boyfriend had broken up with him and he’d changed careers. Doc had admitted to having to reinvent himself, as well. They’d had their first private message conversation that night, with Doc feeling the need to make sure Wallflower wasn’t in such a funk that he’d do anything drastic.

And he’d kept Wallflower’s secrets even when Mitchell continued arguing with him on every possible thread. He’d never used their private conversations against him, even the night Mitchell met Jackson after shutting down Doc’s invitation.

That, too, was the Jackson he’d come to fall in love with.

And what had he given Jackson in return? He’d had so many opportunities to trust him, to let him in. Hell, he’d told Doc what was going on before he’d told the man he was sleeping with. He hadn’t opened up to Jackson until he felt the man slipping from his grasp. Mitchell had told himself the candles and bath were for Jackson, but they were really for himself, a way of sugarcoating his tale of woe so maybe Jackson wouldn’t find him quite so pathetic.

He looked at that final private message conversation. He read the messages. Reread them…

He’d screwed up.

From Jackson’s perspective it must’ve looked an awful lot like they were breaking up.

 

*  *  *

 

Mitchell posted the first message at seven in the morning.

 

subTopic/Relationships

How do you patch things up when your secrets and lack of trust allowed someone you love to slip from your grasp?

 

The next message went up at eight.

 

subTopic/Defense Mechanisms

Do you think someone can reinvent themselves after they’ve spent the past year hiding behind petty arguments?

 

By nine, he was really reaching.

 

subTopic/Toothpaste

When you’re in a new relationship, at what point do you start stocking your partner’s (far inferior) brand of whitening toothpaste in your bathroom? Not all arguments are petty.

 

At ten, he received a private message.

 

To Wallflower: You’re going to lose all your street cred if you keep this up.

To Doc1984: You’re not here to keep me on the straight and narrow.

To Doc1984: How do I fix that?

To Wallflower: I should’ve told you who I was as soon as you typed Barton’s name.

To Doc1984: I should’ve told you about Barton before you had to read it online.

To Wallflower: Cuppa Joe’s, one hour

 

Mitchell shut down his computer.

Two minutes before eleven, Jackson approached Cuppa Joe’s, leaning heavily on his cane. Mitchell stood to greet him, holding out his hand. “Hi, I’m Wallflower.”

Jackson beamed. “Doc1984. It’s nice to meet you.”

Mitchell used the handshake to pull Jackson into his arms and hold him tight.

“Doc1984, huh? I suppose I need to reread Orwell now.”

Jackson looked confused.

“Your username. You must be a big fan.”

Jackson laughed. “That’s my birth year!”

They were still laughing together as their lips met.