Present Day
“Mr. Benjamin?”
Ignoring the situation never made it disappear. He should know that by now. Tom changed course and approached the reception desk with what he hoped was a politely curious expression.
The receptionist clearly wasn’t buying it. She turned the flat-screen monitor to face him and tapped the display with a long, curved fingernail. “Your account is two months overdue, Mr. Benjamin. Plus there’s an extra bill outstanding for the clinic visit, oxygen service, and maintenance fees—”
“Maintenance fees?”
With her other hand, she moused over the maintenance fees and clicked. A bill unfolded across the screen listing a broken toilet.
“What happened to the toilet?” He really didn’t want to know.
“I’d say we had to call a plumber.”
“That’s not covered?”
“Not when it happens more than once in a reasonable period, or when the, er, blockage is deliberate.”
His mother was flushing shit . . . no, something other than shit down the toilet. What the ever loving . . .
“Okay, anything else?”
“There’s a substantial late fee. You could talk to the office about that. They wanted to talk to you about leaving your car in the lot all night as well. We have a strict policy about the guest lot.”
Could his day get any worse?
Tom tapped the top of the desk, then stopped as his fingers began to shake. “I’m going to go visit my mom. I’ll stop back past—”
“We’d prefer if you made arrangements regarding your outstanding account before you visited, Mr. Benjamin.”
“Are you saying I can’t visit my mom?”
The receptionist’s polite expression hardened. “What I’m saying is that if you don’t pay your bill, you might be visiting your mom in the street.”
“You can’t do that. She was sick only three weeks ago.”
“All of our residents require some level of care, and that costs money.”
“Right, right.” Tom sighed and it was as though all the air had left his lungs. Not just the used-up portion. Did he have to do this now? “Is Sandra Chen working today?”
“She is.”
“Can I talk to her? We go back and she knows about, um, stuff. And maybe she can help me make some arrangements.”
The receptionist obviously didn’t believe that one of the nurses could help him arrange anything other than treatment for his mother, but still she paged Sandra, who strode into the lobby a short while later, her fixed smile promising more problems than solutions.
Grabbing his arm, she led him to the far corner of the lounge and through a door he hadn’t noticed before. Immediately, they were in a smaller sitting room, decorated in somber tones. The single window looked out over the fountain set at the top corner of the gardens. Tom glanced between the sofa and two chairs before moving toward a chair.
Sandra pulled him toward the sofa and sat. He sat next to her. “Why do you have another lounge next to the lounge?”
“This is the bereavement room.”
That explained all the tissue boxes. Tom’s heart stopped. “Is Mom—”
Sandra put a hand on his arm. “She’s fine, Tom. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Why?”
“Where are you living?”
Tom spoke to the fingers curling around his forearm. “Up at the lodge.”
“There’s no phone up there and you haven’t been answering your cell. Last week your car was in the lot four nights running.” Sandra’s grip tightened. “You weren’t sleeping in it, were you?”
“Why would I—”
“Goddamn it, Tom. We’re supposed to be friends!”
“We are.”
She let go of his arm and leaned back a little. “Then tell me what’s going on. Is this about Robert? Do you still have your job up there?”
“I . . .” Tom’s throat closed. He didn’t know. Not after today.
Taking a cautious breath, Tom scrubbed a hand across his face before pushing his fingers into his hair. His too-long hair. He looked down at his knees, noting the way the denim thinned across the knees, and then caught a whiff of himself. His throat convulsed again, threatening to cut off his air.
He hadn’t showered yet that morning, but not because he’d had nowhere to go. For the past several nights he’d slept in Frank’s bed and showered in Frank’s shower. It had been nice to be in one place for that many nights and mornings in a row. He’d missed that—had missed his sofa in the office. Realistically, though, he’d known he couldn’t camp there forever. That Robert hadn’t figured out what was going on had been a miracle.
God, he should have just asked Robert for a room. He’d have said yes even if they’d been booking guests. And that would have been a whole lot easier to explain to Frank.
Would have—
Damn his pride for getting in the way of, well, everything.
“Tom?”
Tom winced, then shook his head. “I gave up my place about five months ago. I couldn’t afford that and the fees here. Things have been picking up—it’s wedding season. But I had to renew my software licenses and recertify for the school photography, and I haven’t sold a print in a while and . . .” There was insurance on his car, the medical bills for his mom not covered by Medicare, and payments on the debt consolidation loan his mother had been carrying for fifteen years.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Really?” Tom scoffed. “‘Hey, Sandy, I just lost my house.’”
“You couldn’t arrange something with the bank?”
“I tried. Now that Robert’s gone, I’m self-employed, and not showing enough income to make any payments.”
“You should have called me.”
“Would you? If you were in my position.”
Sandra leaned forward. “Yes! I helped you get your mom into this place, remember?”
“And that’s favor enough.”
She shook her head. “Jesus, Tom. This is exactly why we broke up.”
“We broke up because I didn’t want to get married.”
“Is that what you thought?”
“Ah . . . yeah?”
“Let’s just say we broke up because your head is so far up your own ass it’s a wonder you don’t have a permanent migraine.”
“Maybe I do.” Tom pushed his hands through his too-long hair again and massaged his head.
Sandra didn’t say anything for a minute, and all he could hear was the rasp of his nails against his scalp. It was almost soothing, except for the looming sense of defeat at his back. The feeling he was about to be crushed—by everything.
“Okay.” Sandra spoke softly. “What are we going to do about your account here? Can you pay for even one month?”
Tom dropped his hands. “What good is that going to do? I’d still be a month behind, and I don’t have the money for next month.”
“Why not?”
“Because my job pretty much died with Robert.”
“There isn’t a provision in the estate? Can’t you write yourself a check? I know you were practically running that place.”
Tom hitched his shoulders upward and spread his hands. “Would you write yourself a check from a dead man’s checkbook?”
“Stop asking what I would have done, Tom. Jesus. This isn’t some kind of game. We worked hard to get your mom in here, and you’re about to lose her place because you can’t adult up.”
“I’ve been adulting up for forty-eight goddamned years. I’m fucking tired of adulting up. Which is not a thing people say, by the way. What the fuck?”
Sandra glowered at him. “Your pride is going to be the end of you one day. It’s going to grow so big, so heavy, it will push you into the ground. Smother you. Bury you.”
Today was shaping up to be that day.
Suddenly boneless, Tom slid off the couch and onto the floor. The movement was familiar, the same slip and slide he’d done that day by the creek to escape the claustrophobic complications of having kissed Frank. The duck and cover from the roof thirty years ago. The sinuous way he’d negotiated his finances for the past decade, always staying one step ahead . . . until now.
He’d been running, weaving between obstacles for so long, he didn’t even know how not to do it. How not to slide under something instead of facing it. Now, here he was, sitting on the floor, back pressed into the couch, knees pulled up, head thrust between. And the world hadn’t stopped spinning yet.
“Tom?”
Sandra’s hand was warm on his. He looked up at her and croaked. His throat ached.
“Tom, what happened? Why are you crying?”
He was crying?
“Tom . . .” She was down on the floor next to him now, tucking an arm around his shoulders. “Oh, Tommy. What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“This. Me. My mom.”
“We’ll figure it out. I can talk to the director—”
“It’s not just the money. I . . .” He shook his head.
“What?”
“I found something I really want to do, Sandy. Someone I wanted to do it with. And this—” he swept his arm out “—this is always going to hold me back. I’ve spent my whole life telling myself I was happy here and I believed that I was. But I’m not. Not without . . .”
“Without what?”
His heart hurt so bad, it might collapse in his chest. Fall inward and pull the rest of his soul through the hole into nothingness. “Not a what, a who.”
Sandra’s elegant eyebrows rose. “Who?”
“F-Frank.”
“Who’s Frank?”
“He’s . . .” The one who got away? The one Tom let go? The one he pushed away. The one he’d loved nearly all his life. The one he never forgot. The one he craved with every piece of himself. The one who, for a handful of weeks, helped him dream again.
“He’s everything. Always has been, always will be.”
Sandra’s expression softened. She nodded—once, then a couple of times. “Now I get it.”
“What?”
“Jesus Christ, Tom.”
Could he ask what again?
Sandra got to her feet and then bent to grab his arm. “You need to go get him.”
Tom tugged free. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because of this . . .” He indicated the room.
Sandra set her hands on her hips. “Bull. Shit. Write me a check. I don’t care if it’s for five fucking dollars. I’ll talk to the directors, see what we can arrange. Then go find this Frank. If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you.”
“But what if—”
“What if you have to live forever wondering why not?”
Tom stiffened. His mouth dropped open. Oh God. Wasn’t that exactly what he’d been doing for the past thirty years?
Hadn’t he dwelled beneath a cloud of why not for long enough?
Sandra was grabbing his arm again. “C’mon. Up you get.”
Tom stood. He wrote out a check for five dollars. Then he ran to his car. Sandra was right. More than that, though, Tom was done with letting things go and believing there were things he couldn’t have. It was time to set his life straight. He’d come clean with Frank. Tell him everything. Apologize first—grovel if he had to. For back then, and for now.
Frank was a fair man. Even if they couldn’t work stuff out, he’d pay Tom for the hours he’d put in before and after Robert’s death. Then Tom could figure out his next steps.
What? No. Why was he thinking that way? The whole reason he was in his car right now was to go get what he wanted, wasn’t it? To run toward instead of away.
The sign for Snow Hill Road registered in the periphery of his vision. Tom punched the brakes and yanked at the wheel, making it around the corner to a chorus of squealing tires and horns. He powered up the road with a new determination beating behind his breastbone. This time he wouldn’t give up as easily. He’d convince Frank that what they had was worth . . . everything. It couldn’t be about the money. It had to be about them.
Gravel clinked against the underside of the car as Tom swerved into the bottom of the driveway. The lodge rose up from the ground, bathed in afternoon sunlight, and Tom’s breath hitched as he noted both the empty presence of the building—it always looks like that—and the absence of Frank’s car.
He’s parked in the garage.
Frank’s car wasn’t in the garage.
His bag wasn’t upstairs in room 206.
Even though he knew it wouldn’t be there, Tom checked the office for Frank’s laptop. Gone.
Frank was gone. He’d left. And there was no note.
Would you answer it if he had left one?
Sick and tired in the truest sense, Tom slumped onto the couch and pulled out his phone—but stopped before dialing a single digit. That’s not how you fix this. Putting his phone away, he approached the desk again. There was only one way to do this now: the right way.