What He Left Behind (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

“So how did it go?”

Across the booth at our usual restaurant, Michael doesn’t answer. He’s not looking me in the eye, and he’s not touching the food that showed up a couple of minutes ago.

My pulse ratchets up—it’s a struggle not to prod him, and at the same time, I’m afraid to hear the truth. With everything Michael’s been through, I hope to God it was only a disappointing first date. Maybe Dr. Klein was less attractive without the stethoscope around his neck, or he had some heinous political views, or he turned out to be estranged from his toothbrush. Maybe he ordered veal at dinner—that would be a one-way ticket to Nopeville in Michael’s book.

I nibble on a fry, mostly because I need to do something besides sit here and stare him down. He seems uncomfortable enough without my scrutiny.

Then, releasing a breath, Michael pushes his untouched plate away. “Well, the date went fine. I had a pretty good time, and I think he did too.” A smile tries to work its way onto his lips. “Ben’s an awesome guy.”

“You don’t sound happy, though.” My chest tightens—
please, please, don’t let him say it went
that
kind of wrong
.

Michael’s eyes lose focus. “It seemed like it was going okay. We had dinner, and then we went to a comedy club. After that, he took me back to my car.” He releases a long breath. “And he kissed me.”

I can’t breathe.
Klein, if you did anything to fuck with him
… “What happened?”

Michael rests his elbow on the table and rubs his forehead. “God, it actually started even before that. The thing is, the whole night, I felt like something was missing. I wasn’t bored, but I wasn’t as into it as I thought I’d be. Like I couldn’t get into it even though I wanted to.” He drops his hand on the table and exhales. “I was on a date with Ben Klein, for God’s sake!”

I stare at him, completely at a loss for words.

Michael leans back against the cushion. “And then as soon as he kissed me, I got it. I figured out what was missing.”

“And that was…”

His eyes meet mine. “You and Ian.”

My heart stops. My mouth has gone dry, but I manage to choke out, “What?”

He flinches, looking out at something across the restaurant instead of at me. His voice is so soft, it’s almost timid as he murmurs, “As soon as he kissed me, all I could think of was the two of you.”

“But you’ve been wanting him for—”

“I know. And when I finally had a shot with him…” He laughs humorlessly. “All I could think of was how much I wanted to be with you and Ian. Because I—” His voice cracks.

I can’t even fit all this in my brain, never mind put my finger on what it means. All I know is the way I felt last night, and how I feel now looking at him. There are some pieces in my head threatening to come together, and I keep trying to push them apart because I have a feeling the big picture isn’t one that’ll help this situation. Even while I’m hurting for him because I know how much he wanted his date to work out, why is there…relief? Guilt? Shame? What the fuck?

“So, yeah.” Michael groans. “I fucking blew it. Because I…” He buries his face in both hands. “This must sound incredibly stupid.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Michael lowers his hands and searches my eyes. “Meaning?”

“Meaning…”
I love you.

The thought hits me like a fist to the gut.

Oh shit. Oh. Shit.

I can’t. But I do.

Oh God. I do.

Staring at Michael, holding his gaze from across the table while he waits for me to tell him why his feelings aren’t as stupid as he thinks they are, everything I felt last night suddenly makes way too much sense.

Fuck.

I rub the back of my neck. “Maybe things got more complicated than we thought they would. For all of us.”

His eyebrow slowly rises.

So does my pulse.

I scramble to collect my thoughts and explain myself, but there’s no easy way to say it. Knowing he’s got feelings like this too, that doesn’t help the situation, because I don’t know how to tell him I love him in the same breath I need to tell him I’m terrified for my marriage. There are two men in this world who I’d step in front of a bullet for, and I’m scared out of my mind that there’s no way we’re all getting through this without one of them—all of us—getting hurt.

Before I can find the words, Michael puts up his hands. “Look, I think we can both agree this got really complicated, but I need to cut to the chase. Whatever’s going on, I need to put on the brakes. On all of this.”

A weird mix of disappointment and relief and hurt twist in my stomach. Like I’ve been issued a pardon and a kick in the balls at the same time. “Oh.”

He puts his elbows on the table again and steeples his fingers in front of his lips. “I’m sorry.” He closes his eyes and releases a long breath. “The thing is, over the course of five years, Steve convinced me I was trash. And since we started this whole thing, you and Ian haven’t just made me feel like I can have an actual sex life again.” He opens his eyes. “You’ve made me feel like I’m worth loving again.”

I swallow the lump in my throat.
Why do you think I’ve been in love with you for twenty years?
But I can’t say that. It’ll only complicate this conversation, and I’m not so sure I can get the words out anyway. It’s hard enough to convince my mouth to form, “Michael, you
are
worth loving.”

“Maybe I am. But it’s been a long, long time since I’ve been able to feel anything for anyone. And I’m not sure I trust those feelings.”

I tilt my head. “Trust them? What do you mean?”

He chews his lip for a moment, staring at the table between us. Without lifting his gaze, he says, “Dr. Hamilton told me early on that she’s had problems with patients who’ve fallen in love with her. One of her colleagues has had the same thing happen. They’re not really in love with
her
, they’re…”

My heart sinks as I realize where he’s going with this. “They’re in love with the person who helped them.”

Michael nods. “She said it’s kind of like the Florence Nightingale effect, but in reverse. The patient falling for the caregiver.”

“Transference?”

“Yeah. That.”

And the sinking feeling gets even worse. Is that what’s happened to me? And Ian, for that matter? Is that all this is?

No. That’s not possible. Not when I’ve had feelings for Michael since we were kids.

Except they’ve never been as intense as they are now. As they’ve been since that first night I joined Michael in his bed.

I’m still collecting my thoughts, but Michael continues. “Listen, I can’t thank you and Ian enough for everything you’ve done for me.” He holds my gaze, though he struggles. “I’m in a much, much better place now because of you guys.”

“I’m glad we could help,” I say numbly.

“Me too. But I think I need to spend some time on my own. So I can, you know, sort out what I feel and…” He sighs. “I don’t even know. But I don’t want to fuck up your marriage, and I don’t want to fuck up our friendship.” His eyes flick up again, meeting mine through his lashes. “So this isn’t forever. I just need to figure a few things out.”

Now it’s definitely feeling more like a kick in the balls than a pardon, and I fight the urge to reach for his arm. How weird—he’s so much more comfortable with physical contact than before, and everything that made him more comfortable with it adds up to why I can’t make myself touch him now. We got too close. We let this get too deep. And I will not be the one who makes him second guess his decision—not after I’ve seen just how hard it is for him to walk away from someone he shouldn’t have been with in the first place.

“When you’re ready,” I say, willing my voice to remain even, “you know where to find us. The door’s always open.”

He nods but doesn’t look at me. “I know. And that means a lot. But I need…”

“Some time?”

“Yeah.”

What can I say to that? “Anything you need.”

Michael searches my eyes for a moment. Then he looks down at his plate, and his nose wrinkles a bit as if he’s wondering why the hell he ordered anything in the first place. “Listen …”

My stomach twists as he reaches for his wallet.

“I’m gonna go.” He fishes out a twenty and sets it beside his untouched meal. “I’ll be in touch, though. I promise.”

When?

I just nod. “Okay. Take care of yourself, all right?”

“I will.” He slides out of the booth and glances at me, but doesn’t let the eye contact linger. “Give Ian my best?”

“Absolutely.”

Our eyes meet again. I don’t know what to say, and he doesn’t offer anything. After several long, uncomfortable seconds, he turns to go, and it takes every bit of restraint I have not to jump up and run after him. As he walks down the narrow row between tables, hands in his pockets and head down, my chest physically aches.

This doesn’t hurt as bad as all the times I watched him go back to Steve.

But damn, it’s a close second.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Lying by omission and a quick subject change get me out of an uncomfortable conversation with Ian.

“How did Michael’s date go?”

“Sounds like it went fine, but there probably won’t be a second date.”

“Damn. That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, it is. Have you eaten yet?”

Then it’s dinner I can’t taste, TV shows I can’t focus on and wine that doesn’t do me a damned bit of good.

And now we’re in bed. Ian’s sound asleep even though Rosie has almost pushed him off his pillow. Between us, the dog is snoring.

I haven’t even started drifting off yet. I’ve been listening to my husband and pets breathe while the conversation with Michael replays over and over and over inside my head. The guilt and shame keep burrowing deeper. I want to wake Ian, tell him everything and beg forgiveness. I want to call Michael and do the same.

I check my phone for the thousandth time. 2:28 a.m. Two minutes since the last time I checked. This night is either going to last forever, or it’s going to eat me alive before dawn.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. My conscience can’t handle being this close to my husband while I’m pining after someone else. Because whether I want to admit it or not, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I miss Michael.

I move as carefully and quietly as I can, put on a pair of sweats and slip out of the bedroom. By the grace of God, I don’t wake the dog, because she would’ve woken Ian.

While everyone else sleeps, I make my way down to the kitchen, fully intending to pour myself a drink. But by the time I get there, I can’t do it—I have to work in a few hours. I’m going to be a waste of space, but I don’t want a DUI during my morning commute. And if I start drinking now, it’ll be enough to get me a DUI in six hours.

I rest my hands on the counter’s cool edge and stare out into the darkness of the backyard. What little moonlight there is hints at the outline of the gazebo and hot tub, and my mind’s eye fills in the rest. Relaxing with Ian and Michael. Fooling around with Ian. Watching them kiss for the first time. Fooling around with both of them.

I shiver.

There’s got to be a solution to this situation. Feelings are what they are. I’m not obligated to act on them, and neither is Michael. Once he collects his thoughts and reestablishes contact, we can talk it out and agree that we don’t have to cross more lines than we already have.

But can I look Ian in the eye and tell him that things didn’t go too far? And can I look Michael in the eye and not hurt because I can’t touch him?

How the fuck do I make this work?

A chill works its way through me. My heart’s racing and my stomach’s definitely glad I didn’t have that drink after all. It’s like I’m watching a train wreck in slow motion—it’s happening, the wheels are in motion, and there’s nothing I can do except hold my breath and wait for the inevitable.

I’m not panicking yet, but it’s coming. I’ve felt Ian slipping away before. I’ve felt Michael slipping away before. Never both at the same time. The thought of losing either of them is devastating—both? Oh fuck.

My heart pounds even harder. I’m overreacting. Right? This is bigger in my head than it is in reality. It doesn’t have to play out badly. It doesn’t have to play out at all. Michael will respect that I want to be faithful to my husband. I’ll respect that he wants to maintain our friendship. It’s that simple. Isn’t it?

Soft footsteps raise the hairs on the back of my neck.

No, no, no. Go back to bed, Ian. Please, go back to bed.

“Josh?”

I cringe. I can’t even look at him, and my throat’s so tight, I can barely breathe, never mind speak.

He stops behind me. “It’s almost three in the morning.”

“I know.” I still don’t turn around. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Never mind that. What are
you
doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You okay?”

I can’t even produce an automatic
Yeah, I’m fine
, and every second of silence gives the answer I didn’t want to—no, I’m not okay.

“Josh?” He steps closer. “Is this about Michael?”

The sound of Ian saying Michael’s name snaps whatever tenuous thread has been holding me together.

“Fuck.” I whisper, and I lose it.

“Whoa, hey.” Ian wraps his arms around me. “Easy.” He gently turns me around and holds me close, tenderly stroking my hair and completely oblivious to what he’s doing to my conscience. “Take it easy.”

There’s no reining this back in and pretending nothing’s wrong. Ian’s only seen me cry a handful of times, so he knows damn well my tears aren’t on a hair trigger. Which means we’re talking about this. We’re talking about it tonight. And he won’t take
it’s nothing
or
I’m really okay
and let it go.

“This really has been hard on you, hasn’t it?” he whispers, and goddammit, I can’t do it.

I pull in a deep breath, clear my throat and try to collect my composure. “Yeah, it’s about Michael. Ever since he went out with Dr. Klein, I…”

“I understand.”

No, you don’t. Trust me.

But he goes on. “You’ve seen firsthand the damage someone did to him. It’s okay to have a hard time with him going to someone else who could hurt him again.”

There’s that, yes. But there’s… But I…

How am I supposed to tell Ian there’s so much more to it than that? That I’m not just scared of Michael getting hurt again? That it hurts like hell to watch him go, especially now that he’s admitted to feeling things that I feel too, things that Ian would divorce me over if he knew?

Except I can’t lie to him. If I do, he’ll see right through me and drag out the truth anyway. But what will he do when the truth comes out? How the fuck do I tell my husband I love someone else and convince him I still love him too?

Because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? I love Michael. No two ways about it. But my feelings for Ian haven’t changed. If anything, I’ve fallen even more in love with him recently. His compassion for Michael, the way he’s so patiently and gently helped me guide Michael back to a place where he can be intimate with men again—how could I not?

“I need…” I step back, safely out of his embrace, and wipe my eyes. “I need to be honest about something.”

Ian’s eyebrows jump above the frames of his glasses. “Okay?”

Where do I even start? “Everything we’ve done with him, I…”

Ian tenses, as if he’s on the verge of folding his arms across his chest, but he doesn’t. And he doesn’t speak.

I clear my throat again. “I am so sorry, Ian. I thought I could do this without feelings getting involved, but—”

“Feelings?” His voice is quiet and completely neutral.

“Yeah.” I slump back against the counter and let my head rest against the cupboard. “I don’t know if it’s…” My conversation with Michael flashes through my mind again. I close my eyes. “Maybe it’s the whole Florence Nightingale thing. I don’t know.”

“You’re in love with him.” It’s not a hard-edged accusation—more like a resigned statement of fact.

A fact I can’t deny.

Swallowing hard, I meet his gaze. “Yeah.”

“I see.”

“This doesn’t change how I feel about you.” Why does it sound so fucking pathetic when I say it?

He studies me. I can’t tell if he’s angry, hurt, skeptical, or if nothing’s quite settled in his brain yet. Then, without speaking, he pulls out a chair and sits at the kitchen table, gesturing for me to do the same. I hesitate but finally join him.

If I’d manned up and broached this subject last night, we both could’ve had a drink, but at this hour, Ian has to be up soon for work. He’ll probably be showing up at school with red eyes as it is; no sense adding a hangover to the mix. It’s both too early and too late for coffee, so there’s nothing to do except face each other across the table.

Ian takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “So what happens now?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to make sense of everything. Guess I hadn’t gotten that far yet.” My stomach is threatening to climb up my throat, and I try my damnedest not to get sick. “The last thing I want to do is leave, though.”

He lowers his hand, puts his glasses back on and meets my gaze.

The sick feeling gets even worse.
I don’t want
you
to leave either
.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, as if that might somehow magically fix anything.

Ian’s face still betrays nothing, and neither does his voice. “There’s something I’m curious about.” He thumbs the edge of the table, watching that instead of looking at me. “Even though I’m not really sure I want to know the answer.”

I gulp. “Okay.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Every passing second makes me itch—it’s never good when Ian isn’t sure what to say. Finally, he lowers his hand into his lap, and he looks me in the eye. “If you and I had never met, do you think—”

“Ian.” I shake my head. “Don’t go there. Please.”

“No, I think we need to go there.” He holds my gaze. “How do you think things would have turned out with him?”

He never would have met Steve.

I banish that thought as quickly as it materializes, and I stare at the table between us. In ten years, I’ve never struggled this hard to look my husband in the eye, but it’s a challenge tonight. “I don’t know, to be honest. I really don’t.” I run a hand through my hair, and with some more effort, meet his gaze. “It wasn’t in the cards. And it’s impossible to say what would’ve happened if I’d never met you, because I
did
meet you, and my whole life’s been different since then.”

His lips are taut, but he doesn’t speak.

“I love you, Ian,” I say softly. “Yeah, Michael and I have a long past, and yeah, there was a time when I thought we’d have a long future. But that was before I met you.”

“So this isn’t new. How you feel about him.”

I blink. “I—what? Look, you know he and I dated in the past, and yeah, I’ve always felt something for him.”

“But not like this.”

That stops me in my tracks. No, not like this. Not even close.

Abruptly, though, Ian scoots his chair back from the table. “It’s three in the morning. We both need to get some sleep.”

“But what about—”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” There’s still no anger or hostility in his voice. It’s still that same quiet resignation that cuts right to the bone.

He stands. So do I.

Sleep is a lost cause, but I follow him upstairs anyway. Maybe we’ll have one of those miraculous “I’m too upset to talk, but let’s fuck anyway” moments, and then we can talk a little more before we try to go to sleep. Somehow it’s always easier to see eye to eye when we’re both covered in the same sweat.

But Ian doesn’t even look at me. Neither of us speaks as we rearrange the animals and climb back into bed. I’m used to sleeping with fifty pounds of boxer in the middle. Now, we might as well have an entire team of sled dogs between us.

“Ian.”

“Hmm?”

I try to make out his features in the darkness. “I meant what I said. This doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“I know.” I pause, my heart speeding up again. “I love you.”

For the first time, I’m not sure if he believes me.

And deep down, I’m not sure if I blame him.