What He Left Behind(5)

I’ve always agreed with him, and this new revelation about the things that happened in that house makes me wish there were some even deeper and darker pits in hell. Steve deserves nothing less than the worst the devil can offer.

After a while, Ian asks, “Is Michael’s therapist helping? With…um…”

“She’s trying.”

“I guess there’s no easy way to come back from something like that. Sitting and talking to someone probably helps, but only to a point.”

I nod. “Yeah. I can’t imagine what else she can do, though.”

“I can’t imagine what else anyone can do.”

Our eyes meet. Ian sighs and shakes his head. We both continue making a half-assed effort to get through the wonderful meal he cooked. Of course I don’t know what the answer is for Michael—I don’t even know how to salvage what should have been a pleasant dinner.

Eventually, we’ve both eaten enough to tide us over until breakfast—or first coffee, as Ian calls it—and we start cleaning up. All the while, I feel like I’m in a haze, part of my mind still stuck in this afternoon’s conversation as if my foot’s stuck in concrete. Every now and again, as we wash the dishes so we can settle in to watch TV, I manage to forget, but that uncomfortable feeling beneath my rib cage reminds me all isn’t right in the world. When I notice it, I remember, and the thoughts start bombarding my brain all over again. I don’t foresee a lot of sleep happening tonight.

As we often do, Ian and I spend the evening curled up on the couch with the dog and cat. There isn’t much on—mostly reruns and the news—but it’s enough to keep us mildly entertained. Or at least distracted. Ian doesn’t laugh much, even when it’s one of the good sitcoms. I don’t either.

I kind of regret telling him what Michael told me—doesn’t seem fair to ruin his evening too. But he’d have dragged it out of me sooner or later. Unlike Michael, I crack under interrogation, and Ian’s a schoolteacher. He can pry a confession out of the most tight-lipped fourteen-year-old. His own husband? Cake walk.

Still, it bugs me to think of Ian sitting there with the same sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

I want to text Michael and make sure he’s okay. Maybe he’s worked up the courage to call Dr. Klein and say he’s reconsidered, and yes he would like to go out sometime. I’d like to think that’s what he’s doing right now, or that they’re already on an impromptu date somewhere, but I know Michael. If he’s afraid enough of sex to admit he’s afraid, then it’s not something he’s going to shake off with a deep breath and a phone call.

But what will it take? I refuse to believe the damage is permanent. Yeah, maybe Michael had turned out to be more breakable than I’d imagined, but not irreparably so. That’s just not possible.

Around ten thirty, Ian clicks off the TV. The animals jump off the couch, and we follow, though we’re both a little slower. Not that we’re old or anything, but a couple of tired thirty-somethings don’t quite spring to life the way a year-old boxer and a sassy Siamese do. Especially not this late on a Thursday evening.

From there, it’s the same routine as every night. Ian takes the dog out one last time. I top off the cat’s food and water while she tries to kill me with her mind. Then the animals commandeer as much of the bed as they can while we brush our teeth and Ian takes out his contacts. For two guys who hadn’t caught each other’s names until after we’d seen each other’s proverbial O-faces, a decade later we’ve slipped pretty comfortably into the quiet domestic life. And they say you can’t find love in a bathhouse.

Those days are behind us now, though, and after all the drama of our wilder years, we’re both quite content.

We rearrange the animals and climb into bed.

Ian doesn’t kill the light, though. “So, I was thinking.”

I shift onto my side and drape an arm over him. “About?”

“Michael.”

His name sends a jolt through me, jarring my already tense stomach.

Ian wraps his arm around my shoulders. “About his, um, situation.”

“Yeah?”

Ian studies me for a moment. “Maybe you can help him.”

I blink. “How?”

“He trusts you. He’s…” Ian hesitates. “He’s been with you. Maybe you’re what he needs right now.”

I stare at him because I’m not entirely certain I heard him correctly. “Come again?”

Ian takes my hand, lacing our fingers together on his stomach. “We both know you’re still attracted to him.”

Heat rushes into my cheeks. “Well, yeah, but that doesn’t… I’m not trying to… Ian, I’m—”

“Shh.” He squeezes my hand, and a smile plays at his lips. “I’m not making any accusations. You’re attracted to him. I have a crush on my boss.” He shrugs. “It’s life. We’re married, not castrated.”

“True.” I’m still guarded, though. “But we agreed to have a closed relationship.”

“We did. Except that was before either of us knew what happened to Michael.”

I’m still staring at him, struggling to comprehend that we’re even having this conversation.

“Josh, he’s your best friend. No one else in the world is as close to him as you are and has been physically intimate with him.” Ian traces the side of my thumb with his. “Under the circumstances, I’d say what you might be able to do for him trumps any need we have for monogamy.”