The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(130)

“Jesus, she was n—”

“Forget it. She’s a cunt. Don’t waste your time.”

He flinched. “Knock it off.”

Kees pointed at him. “See? That tells me you’re willing to dissect the situation. Look, Fish, it sucks when someone cheats on you, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be an unforgivable offense. Certain mitigating circumstances apply here.”

“I know.”

“Do you? What are you holding onto? What can you just not let go of?”

“I don’t know.” He wanted to arm-sweep the bar, send plates and glasses flying out of sheer frustration.

“Do you miss her?”

“Yes.”

“What do you miss?”

“I don’t know, Kees, I just know I can’t find it.”

“Bullshit. This is Daisy. You know damn well what it is.”

Erik pulled his hands along the crown of his head. “I cannot find the peace I had when I was with Daisy. When I was with her, my cells were happy. I miss looking in her eyes and everything else just disappearing. No other woman I’ve met can look at me and make time stop the way Daisy did. No other woman can talk to me without saying a damn word. Daisy was my soul mate and I miss her.”

“What if she were back in your life a little bit? What if she knew where you were and what you were doing and you knew where she was? And you were both just in touch and up to date with each other? Maybe not best friends but friendly.”

“I guess,” he said. A grudging concession.

“Or is it all or nothing, you sulky infant?” Kees said, smiling.

Erik looked at him, then sank his head into his hands. “God, growing up sucks.”

Kees laughed deep in his chest and ruffled Erik’s hair. “Do you want to tell her how badly you were hurt? Have her witness it? You know, like it or not, Fish, she’s made you the man you are. Do you want to tell her?”

Erik lifted his face out of his palms. “I think I do.”

“And when she asks for your forgiveness—and she will—can you give it? Is it forgivable?”

“I don’t kn—”

“Goddammit, stop saying that. Tell me what you know. You turned your back on her, now what the f*ck do you want, man?”

“I want…to turn around.”

Kees’ hand circled in the air, encouraging him. “Turn around, good. Face her. Confront the issue.”

“Yes.”

“Not even confront. Have a conversation about it. You can’t have the screaming match you were entitled to twelve years ago. But you can talk like two adults.”

“Yes.”

“Do it then.” Kees put his hand on Erik’s forearm. “What are you waiting for? You of all people know how tenuous life is. Five memorial plaques are hanging backstage, another one for Marie in the lobby. Any one of them could have Daisy’s name on it. Or how would you have felt listening to the radio show and hearing Daisy had cancer? What if she died, Fish, and never knew you thought about her all these years? How would a bowl of regret taste to you?”

Erik took a deep breath. “You’re right.”

“What’s the worst that could happen? She tells you ‘Hit the road, I couldn’t care less what you think of me or how often. It’s too late and oh, by the way, I’ve become a lesbian? I’m married?’ What, Fish? What would be the worst thing, tell me.”

“Wait. Go back to the lesbian thing?”

Kees balled up his napkin and bounced it off Erik’s head. “You are a child. Grow up, Fish. Call her. Call her or I will f*cking kill you. There’s your motivation. Now finish your damn lunch. Good Lord, when I grab a man’s ass I want to feel something.”

“I swear, nobody makes me blush like you.”

“Shut up and eat.”

Dutifully, Erik started eating again. It was cold.

“Bowl of rejection,” Kees was saying. “Or bowl of regret. That’s what it comes down to, those are your choices. Which will taste worse? You ask me, rejection sucks, but you can choke it down. Regret will give you food poisoning for the rest of your life.”





Pink Granite


Erik returned to New York with a gnawing, insatiable hunger. A grandmother’s delight. He ate all day long, putting on the good kind of weight. Gearing up for a fight.

Miles and Janey Kelly hosted him for Thanksgiving. Not three hours after the feast, he was trawling through the bag of goodies Janey had sent him home with. He was making himself a turkey sandwich, slicing it across when he miscalculated and cut himself.

He hated cutting himself. Even after all these years, the reaction to blood remained a visceral thing. Normally he’d work quickly to staunch and bandage a cut, averting his eyes to just the bare minimum of attention needed, but tonight, for some reason, he didn’t. He stood over the sink, bleeding quietly. And watching. He just let it flow. Thought about what was happening microscopically under his skin. The infantry charge of platelets. The ambulance corps of white blood cells. The endorphins coming in on the flank, so actually, no, it didn’t really hurt.

What was he so afraid of?

Miles’s panting words as they jogged: At some point you just gotta start living the truth of who you are and what you feel.