What He Left Behind(29)

He wasn’t silly or giggly that night. I’m not even sure how much he’d had by that point, but he was still steady on his feet.

His aunt, however, couldn’t hold her liquor or walk in high heels. While Michael and Steve stood with Ian and me, she went tottering past, stumbled and crashed into Ian. He and Michael instinctively tried to stop her from falling, and they succeeded, but Michael’s wineglass went tumbling out of his hand, bounced off Steve’s arm and splashed across his shirt.

And Michael went white.

Ian helped the drunk aunt to her feet, but Michael’s gaze stayed fixed on Steve, and something in the pit of my stomach had turned to ice as Steve’s narrow eyes slid toward Michael.

I’d seen Michael scared before. I’d seen him nervous before plays, terrified before he came out to his parents, shaking as he waited to find out if a knee injury had ended his baseball career. The way he was looking at Steve, shrinking back and pale—I’d never seen him like that before.

Oh God, I remember thinking. What the hell is going on?

For the rest of the night, I’d tried to get Michael alone for a minute or two, but Steve was on him like the wine on his shirt. Then I turned around and they were gone, and Michael’s mother said they’d taken off because Steve wasn’t feeling well. It was two days before I heard from Michael again, and he insisted everything was fine.

“You don’t have to answer this,” I say cautiously, “But what happened that night? After you guys left?”

Michael rubs his hand over his face, and I can’t remember when he started trembling. “After we left, he managed to make me feel two inches tall because of a spilled glass of wine, and…” He squirms uncomfortably. “Remember when I said I encouraged him to drink because drunk and violent was better than the alternative?”

A sick feeling coils in my stomach, and I nod.

“He was designated driver that night. It was the first time he ever got violent with me without the booze.” Michael closes his eyes and shudders. “And of course, after he’d calmed down, he was still sober enough for makeup sex.”

The sick feeling lurches upward, and I force it back down. “Was that make-up sex consensual?”

Michael swallows, and when he speaks, he’s barely whispering: “Not with three cracked ribs, it wasn’t.”

My jaw falls open. “Holy shit.”

He shakes himself and clears his throat. “I mean, technically I consented, but only because in that kind of pain, giving in hurt less—physically—than trying to fight him off.”

“My God. No wonder this has all been such a battle for you.”

He nods. Then he turns his head toward me. “To tell you the truth, all of this is why I got hooked on hanging out in the hot tub with you and Ian. It was just nice to relax and talk, and be as close as I could get to anyone since Steve.”

I cringe inwardly. I can’t imagine five years of never getting closer to a man than sharing the same hot tub. “We’ll fix this,” I whisper. “Even if it takes another five years.”

“I know.” He lifts his head and kisses me lightly. “And I know it’s not like that with every guy. Or even most guys. I know it was a fluke. I won the horrible abusive boyfriend lottery, and that lightning probably won’t strike twice.” He gulps, meeting my eyes. “But no matter how much I tell myself that, when my brain inexplicably decides it’s going to happen again…” He shakes his head.

“I understand.” I stroke his cheek. “And I can definitely understand why it’s taken you so long to even look this thing in the eye.” I pause, then cautiously ask, “When did you know?”

“That’s a complicated question.” He blows out a breath. “Sometimes, looking back on what I thought about things back then, it’s like I’m looking into someone else’s thoughts. I would never have accepted the shit he did, and I never would have made excuses for his bullshit. It was like it was me, but someone else was steering.”

“Someone else was steering, Michael.” I kiss him softly.

“Yeah, he was.” Michael holds me closer. “He’s gone now, but he left a lot behind. It’s going to take a while to work through it all.”

“I know it will. But we’ll take all the time you need. I promise.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, and finds my lips again. He makes no effort to break the kiss, so I don’t either. I clasp his hand between our chests, and we just lie there for a while, kissing lazily and holding onto each other, and it reminds me so much of those afternoons when we were teenagers. When we had nowhere go and nothing to do, and we could tangle up together and kiss like we had all the time in the world. In high school, we were always at least partially dressed, but this time, even completely naked—even with my wedding band sitting on the nightstand behind me—it feels just as innocent as it did back then. We’re both in our thirties, and yet it feels like we’re two cautious teenagers all over again—exploring, experimenting, gradually working up the courage to go further.

Maybe that’s how it should be. Michael’s confidence was high when we started tonight, but maybe we should’ve held back anyway. Crawl before we walk and all of that.

I will if you will.

Then the lightbulb comes on.