DEREK

I didn’t sleep at all.

All night I lay there, my body still sore, my mind a jumble of anger and frustration and hurt, my heart splintered into bits.

He said no. He was leaving. He didn’t want me enough to stay.

How could he do this to me? How could he make me fall for him this way, turn my life upside down, make me doubt everything I believed in and wanted and worked for, and then walk away?

He was acting like a child, wanting all or nothing. It wasn’t that simple. He didn’t get it. He didn’t know how hard it had been for me to ask him not to go. He didn’t know what it had cost me. I’d had to admit to myself that I wasn’t strong enough to bear the punishment I’d brought on myself, that I was weak weak weak, that I wanted what he made me feel more than I wanted to be straight.

Part of me knew I was being a selfish prick. That asking him to stay was a short-term fix to a long-term problem, a Band-Aid over a gaping wound. It would make me feel good temporarily, but what about the future? What if I never got him out of my system? What if things between us only got better? Or what if I met the right woman, the one who could make me fall for her, the one who could do for me what Maxim could? That was still a possibility, wasn’t it? So I should be glad Maxim had left. He’d saved me the trouble of breaking things off later.

Because all the reasons we couldn’t be together still existed. I didn’t want to be gay. I wasn’t. It was just him. This was simply a roadblock on the way to the right kind of future. A test. I’d always been good at tests, and there was no reason I couldn’t pass this one. I’d had my fun, my fling, my side trip, and now it was done.

But I punched my pillow a few times and buried my face in it, full of rage. I wished I could scream. I wished I could tear myself limb from limb. I wished I could drink myself into a stupor so that I wouldn’t feel this hopelessness, this loss, this fear that I’d never be happy no matter what I did.

It was fucking hell. But I deserved it.

* * *

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—”

“You should go now. You said what you came here to say.”

Frustrated and helpless, I ran a hand through my hair, feeling my eyes go damp. “I don’t know what to fucking do. I’m being torn apart from the inside out. I don’t want to live without you in my life, but I can’t bring myself to change my mind.”

“Then this is goodbye.” His voice shook. “I want nothing more than to be with you, to take care of you and let you take care of me. I’d even begun to imagine a future for us—a family. To me, that’s what’s crazy about this. You’re turning away a chance at your dream because it doesn’t look exactly like you wanted it to. But I can’t make it into anything else.”

He was right. And he was so much smarter and perceptive and stronger than I’d given him credit for.

“Go,” he said firmly. “I have work to do.”

But I couldn’t leave. “Tell me first. I want to hear the words.” I’d never hated myself more than I did at that moment. But I needed him to love me.

“I love you.” His eyes held mine, his voice was calm. “Now go punish yourself for it.”

With a sob caught in the back of my throat, I turned away and stormed up the stairs, back through the kitchen and restaurant and out the door.

He knew me too well. He saw me.

It was painful, like the desert sun on skin already burned and blistered.

I didn’t sleep at all.