What He Left Behind(68)

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 f*ck up your marriage, and I don’t want to f*ck 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 f*ck do I make this work?