Bombora (5 page)

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I whisper under my breath, barely loud enough to be heard. But Nate hears, and for an eternity our gazes collide and hold, the two of us too stunned to waver or look away. “This cannot be happening.”

The words make Nate’s spine straighten a bit more, and those green, green eyes, every bit as dangerous and beautiful as I remember, glint as he steps back to allow me into the house. His expression slides gracefully from surprise into cold challenge.

“Hey,” he says in that old down-home accent of his, and gestures for me to enter. “I’m Hugh’s brother, Nate. Now who might you be?”

Nate

T
HERE
isn’t much that ever makes me want to cry, but if I had to name a few things off the top of my head, the thought of Lucy getting dented is one, or something happening to Hugh or Emilia or Liam, or the Rangers losing the World Series at the bottom of the ninth. Luckily only one of those things has ever happened, and that ball game alone was almost enough to make me break down like a freaking baby on the spot. The other stuff would just destroy me. No two ways about it. Hugh actually insists I cry more than any grown man he knows, but I really fucking beg to differ. I have ragweed issues, but even then I like to think my watery eyes are manly, like Charlton Heston’s would be if he had allergies. Nothing emotional, no sissy stuff.

But all that changes the second I yank open Hugh’s front door and see
him
standing there with that perfect face and those flying-saucer eyes bluer than the fucking sky, looking a bit like he’s not far from crying himself.

Phel. Phelan.

He looks different from the last time I saw him, even though that was only… shit, four months ago now. Not so much physically; he’s lost weight off his already slim frame, gained a bit more definition in his shoulders and upper body, but it’s like the last few months went and scrambled his brains a little or something. Which, maybe. We’ve all been there. I notice something birdlike and vulnerable that wasn’t there when we first met, because the guy I laid eyes on in that Columbus bar was… whoa. That guy was as slick and confident as a modern-day Don Draper, right down to his hair, so self-assured that it could have bordered on arrogance if not for the kindness in his eyes. Phelan possessed a sense of wariness then too, probably from guarding himself for so long, but nothing like this. Of all the words to come to mind when I see his exhausted mouth and ruffled fringe, the first one is “damaged.”

And I know, without a doubt, whose fault that is.

The only one whose world is moderately less rocked by this encounter is Hugh, who, with one hand on Callie’s collar to restrain her, skids to a halt a few feet behind me. He says, “Oh shit, Phel—I forgot!” in his typical oblivious way.

There’ll be time later to figure out how the hell they even know each other—not that my mind isn’t already racing, trying to calculate the likelihood Phel somehow figured out who my brother is and stalked him across the country in an effort to get back at me. Right now I’m a lot more concerned with Phel either trying to shank me or run in the opposite direction. Both responses would give away the game pretty fast. Thankfully, he does neither.

He mutters, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” in an undertone not meant for anyone else. “This cannot be happening.” I can’t help overhear it, and my gaze sharpens at the words.

I want to say,
You and me both, buddy
. I feel myself go stiff and tense at the pure venom in his tone, a stark contrast to the part of me that wants to grab that beautiful face and check that he’s real. Among other things. Instead, I manage to keep it together and put on the expression I wore an awful lot during the year Phelan and I saw each other in secret. It hurts to use it against him now, but there’s a reason they say the best offense is a good defense.

“Hey,” I greet him neutrally, and open the door like it would make my day if he came on in. “I’m Hugh’s brother, Nate. Now who might you be?”

Before Phel can take the invitation to throw the first punch, and I can tell from the look on his face that’s just what he’d like to do, Hugh insinuates a fraction of his huge body between us, a reminder there’s a very thin line to tread here. Phelan’s interest in maintaining Hugh’s ignorance is as yet unknown, but for the moment he appears settled, giving Hugh the opportunity to clap him on the shoulder and say, “Nate, this is my friend Phel. He moved to Cardiff a few months ago and we’ve been doing a lot of surfing together. Phel, this is my brother.” Hugh has that look on his face that reminds me why I sometimes think of him as a big, eager puppy. A puppy I currently want to abandon on the side of the freeway without any food or water.

Speaking of which, he releases his dog as Phel steps inside, and Callie jumps excitedly and licks at Phelan’s fingers like she’s in the throes of ecstasy. This more than anything confirms that Phel spends a lot of time here; Callie’s a sweet dog, but she never shuts up around people she doesn’t know well, and molests those she does.

“Pleased to meet you,” Phel answers stiffly, one hand upon the dog’s head, and fails to offer the handshake that would make this whole fake introduction a tad more believable. Just like old times, Phel has these moments of borderline social retardation that used to endear him to me, but right now the quirk is nothing short of terrifying. While it’s not like we spent the bulk of our time together trading straight-acting tips, sometimes I have no idea how he pretended to be hetero his entire life. “Hugh didn’t mention you would be coming to visit…. Forgive my intrusion.” Crap, he’s doing his God voice again, which is what Phel always does when he has no idea how else to take control of a situation. “I should… go.”

“No,” Hugh interjects, squeezing his shoulder again. “Nate surprised me too—you couldn’t have known. I should have called to say I couldn’t make it out today. Still, now that you’re here, there’s no reason you can’t stick around. Right?”

For fuck’s sake, Hugh. Trying not to sound too desperate, I say, “Phel here looks like he was just on his way to the beach,” gesturing to his wetsuit and towel and the little smear of sunblock at his temple that hasn’t quite managed to be absorbed into the skin. A year ago I would have wiped it off for him or been the one to apply it in the first place. The image of slathering sunblock onto that pale back pops into my head unbidden, and I force it back down with something like desperation. “We should let him get on with his business.”

This earns me an annoyed look from them both. “Don’t be a dick, Nate,” Hugh tells me in a flat voice. “Phel and I surf together every day.” Well then. To Phel he says, “You don’t mind the extra company, do you? Nate’s a lot less annoying once you get to know him.”

Phel looks absolutely stricken, to the point I’d feel sorry for the guy if I weren’t so busy dying on the inside. “I—”

“Awesome. We were just grabbing some snacks in the kitchen. Come on.” Expression mulish, save for the parting glare he sends my way, Hugh grabs Phel by the arm and shuts the front door before striding farther into the house, Phelan trailing behind with a look of dread on his face.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I curse to myself, and for a few seconds I stare at the space they’ve vacated, everything silent except for Hugh talking animatedly on his way to the kitchen and the whirr of the AC in the foyer. I don’t even know what just happened.

Since when does Hugh choose some random guy over uninterrupted face time with his big brother, who just drove across the country to see him? And since when does that random guy also turn out to be my former gay lover? If there’s a God, please oh please don’t let them be fucking. The thought is just too damn depressing. Hugh’s resolute heterosexuality aside, with the run of shit luck I’ve been having lately, such a development wouldn’t surprise me. Someone really wise once said
fuck my life
, and given the current state of things, that about sums it up. Not that I wouldn’t deserve it. There’s a special circle of hell reserved for douchebags like me.

Seeing Hugh and Phelan seated at the kitchen island, and Phel sending furtive glances in my direction, I elect to delay further interaction by slipping upstairs to my bedroom. Attached is a private balcony that faces the ocean. A deep breath of sea air goes a long way to calm my nerves and get me thinking straight—no pun intended—though I’m no closer to having any answers than before.

Phel, here? In California? The only place he used to complain about visiting more bitterly than the South was Los Angeles, adverse as he was to the heat and humidity. A Midwesterner through and through. It makes absolutely no sense for him to be here, even excusing the problematical mindfuck, and the odds of him being best buddies with my freaking
brother
of all people are even worse. I know Hugh better than anyone—he doesn’t do friends, not like before Nell died, and Phel isn’t what you’d call a warm personality. Not unless there’s sex involved.

And, I mean, I would know. I spent the better part of a year getting intimately acquainted with the inside of Phelan’s bedroom, as well as every square inch of his house, his body, and the deep recesses of his mind. More than that, I got a front-row seat to what makes him laugh and shout and smile and cry, all of which I directly accomplished at one point or another during our relationship.

And, hell. Relationship. There’s a concept. Not in just general, though that too, but mostly in reference to Phel. After a year together, I suppose that’s what we had—something we never anticipated or claimed to want, but nevertheless managed to achieve. To me it’s a word that, even after the breakup or divorce or slammed doors and screening of calls has happened, implies some special connection remains, some invisible cord that tethers you to the other person regardless of time or space. Phel is the first person who made me feel there was nothing left to cling to after it ended, so effectively did he disappear. For months and months he was all I could see. Then he was just… gone. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I met Phel on a perfectly average day in June, a Friday, notable only because I was in Columbus on a business trip and, later, for the events it set in motion. For the past few years I’d been working at a contracting firm owned by my wife’s brother-in-law, Craig, and most of my time was spent meeting with clients and potential clients, a lot of them large corporations or institutions such as hospitals and schools. My primary duty was to charm my way into a deal and make sure the client stayed happy by any means necessary.

The work was different than what I’d expected going in. At first I started off as a carpenter, but Craig, who did me no favors on account of my being the guy to knock up his wife’s sister, must have recognized my talents lay elsewhere. I’m the first to admit that, aside from working with my hands, my gift is people. Anyone who knows me knows I can talk my way out of anything about as well as I can talk my way
into
it. Suddenly I was being promoted to project manager, then business manager for the whole company, which was one of the more successful contracting firms in the Greater Columbus area.

As such, I made a lot of trips into the city during the week and on weekends, close enough to Mount Vernon that I could drive home at the end of the day, but far enough away that it wasn’t unheard of to stay a couple of nights when wining and dining prospective accounts. Although I didn’t mind Columbus as a city, it was a lot bigger and noisier than I was used to, having grown up in small-town Alabama and relocated to equally small-town Ohio. Mount Vernon was practically a hamlet by comparison, which suited my family just fine. I’d been living there with Emilia and our son, Liam, for the better part of a decade, but to be honest, I looked forward to my trips to Columbus.

I know how that sounds. If nothing else, I want to say I never set out to hurt anyone. Not Emilia, not Liam. Certainly not Phel. While that doesn’t excuse my behavior or change the fact that people
did
get hurt, none of it was premeditated or malicious—just self-centered and careless. Instead of facing my issues like a man, trying to shoulder the burden myself and minimize the damage to others, I failed to think about the impact of my actions or anything beyond what I wanted in the here and now. No matter what the excuse, cheating ain’t anything but an act of selfishness, because in that moment when you’re supposed to choose between yourself and them, the people you love, you choose yourself.

I chose myself, my wants. I chose what made my dick hard and my heart beat faster. Sure, Phel’s a million times more than that to me now, but if I’d walked away that first night he never would have risen above the station of “hot guy at a bar.” So now my family’s paying for my fuckup, and me, well… I’m paying too, except that I don’t have a right to complain. As far as I’m concerned, I got off easy. But that doesn’t change the fact that I was toiling away in a marriage that no longer made me happy like it once did, or like I thought it did. Going to Columbus was a breather, my uncomplicated means of escape. Until I met Phel, that’s all it was—an escape. I never went there to cheat on my wife.