What He Left Behind(69)

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 f*ck.

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 f*ck 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 f*cking 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.