For the second time this morning, I slip out of bed. This time Henley doesn’t move a muscle.

Dressing quickly, I dig around for her keys but come up short. Remembering the way she hung jacket on the hook by the back door the last time we were here, I take the stairs as quietly as possible to rifle through her pockets. Finally finding her keys, I leave her a quick note, telling her I’ll be back in an hour before leaving through the back door.

Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling up in front of her building, out of my car, and tossing the valet my keys before he even steps off the sidewalk.

It’s Gerald at the front desk again, making me wonder if he has a life outside of this place. He eyes me as I walk through the lobby, but he doesn’t stop me this time.

I call that progress.

Taking the elevator to Henley’s floor, I let myself in with her keys before tossing them on the counter. The kitchen’s a mess. Dirty dishes in the sink. Counters in need of a wipe down. Stove splattered with food.

Bypassing the mess, I make my way across the living room, toward Henley’s room. Throwing the door open, I flip on the light on my way to her closet.

Even though she’s not here, even though she’s in my bed, practically comatose from all the orgasms I gave her over the course of several hours, seeing Bradford in Henley’s bed makes me want to drag him from it by his hair and beat the shit out of him.

Because gay or not, she’s wearing his ring.

Because he gets to do the things I can’t. Hold her hand while they’re walking down the street. Lean across the table at a restaurant and kiss her. Brush her hair out of her face while they’re standing in line for a movie.

Because it’s him or me and despite the fact that she told me she loved me, and I believe her, I don’t like my odds.

Finally roused by the bright over-head light and the racket I’m making in the closet, Bradford lets out a frustrated groan. “Where’ve you been?” he says, his muffled by the pillow he’s burrowed under. “I tried texting you—Gregg and I had it out after you left.”

“Who’s Gregg?” I say, pulling a pair of dark wash jeans off their hanger before tossing them over my shoulder. The sound of my voice induces a mad scramble across the bed behind me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he shouts, “Where’s Henley?”

“My place.” I toss him a look over my shoulder before pulling a peach-colored sweater and adding it to my pile. “Who’s Gregg?” Leaving the closet, I toss the clothes on the bed. He’s sitting on the edge of it with his head in his hands, wearing a pair of what I’m pretty sure are cashmere sleep pants.

Finally, he looks up at me with a wary frown. “Gregg is my boyfriend.” He doesn’t want to say it. Not to me. He stares at me, jaw set, probably waiting for me to call him a fag or fairy, or whatever the repressed masses are calling gay people these days. When all I do is turn away from him to open Henley’s underwear drawer, he sighs. “We’ve been together for three years. He’s a resident at Manhattan General.”

His admission tightens the back of my neck. The fact that he’s gay is irrelevant. It’s the fact that he’s practically kept Henley in a fucking jar for the past eight years while he’s been free to do as he pleases that bothers me. “Bit unfair, don’t you think?” I say without bothering to turn around. If I look at it him right now, there’s a good chance I’ll end up choking him.

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

Yes he does. He’s an asshole, not stupid. “The fact that you’re allowed to be happy—have a life—and she’s not.” I find a matching bra and panty set. Pale blue silk and soft ivory lace. Together, they probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

When I turn to add them and a pair of thick socks to my collection of Henley’s clothes, he’s still frowning.

“That’s why I suggested she come here,” he says it like he didn’t just suggest it. He says it like he allowed it. Like I’m supposed to be surprised and grateful to him for such an altruist gesture. “Because I want her to be happy. I wanted her to—”

“You suggested she come here because you heard that I’ll stick my dick in just about anything and figured I was a safe bet.” His expression tells me I hit the nail, right on the head. “You figured I’d fuck her until the novelty wore off and then me and my dick would move on and she’d come crawling home, broken and ready to marry you. Sound about right?”

Hearing me say it all out loud, he has the good grace to look ashamed. “You wouldn’t understand.”

I laugh a little, swiping a rough hand over my face. “Try me—my capacity for comprehension might surprise you.”

He sighs. “When I met her she was so… different from anyone else that I knew,” he says, reaching for the pair of panties on top of the pile. “There was no pretention. No judgment. I knew I could tell her the truth about me and she’d accept me, as is. That it wouldn’t matter to her.” He folds the scrap of silk and lace into a neat little square. Setting it aside, he reaches for the bra. “I’d dated girls before but to be honest, it was tiresome, pretending to be interested. Pretending to want them. Sex was a nightmare.” Bra folded, he sets it aside, shaking his head while reaching for the sweater. “I need Henley. Being with her, I don’t have to pretend. I can be who I am. Who I really am.”

“Believe it or not, I get it...” The last thing I want to do is empathize with this douche but I do. “You asked me yesterday if I love her.” I lean my hips against dresser, crossing my arms over my chest. “I do. I love her so goddamned much that if I thought marrying you was what she really wanted, I’d let her go. Even though I need her every bit as much as you do, I’d let her go.” I watch him fold the sweater and set it aside before reaching for the jeans. “Do you love her that much? Do you love Henley more than you need her?”

When he doesn’t answer me, I push myself off the dresser to close the space between us. “She’s a person. Not your beard. Not her mother’s doll. She’s a person. I think she’s forgotten that. I think you and her mother have treated her like a chess piece for so fucking long, she’s forgotten that she has an actual say in what happens to her. That her happiness matter.” Picking up the stack of neatly folded clothes, I stop long enough to glare down at him. “If you really loved her, it would matter to you.”

“I do love Henley,” Bradford insists, and I believe him—but he doesn’t love her more than he loves himself. That much is obvious. “I want her to be happy. That’s why we reached a compromise.”