by Josh Lanyon
He said abruptly, “I know exactly four things about you, Mark. You like Dickens, Guinness, dogs, and French toast.”
I raised my brows.
He said, “Make that five. You broke Stevie’s heart. What else should I know?”
I could tell you but I’d have to kill you.
Why would Stephen want to be with someone like this? I said, “I like classical music and I took a first in oriental studies at Cambridge. What else do you think you need to know?”
“How long did you plan on staying?” he asked bluntly.
“That’s up to Stephen. I’d like to stay permanently. Why?”
Apparently the man-to-man thing wasn’t supposed to be quite that frank. “S-s-stay?” he stuttered. “You can’t stay!”
“Why?”
“Why? Because…because it’s over between you. It’s ended. Finished.”
I shrugged. “Things change.”
“Those things don’t change. And you know why? Very honestly? Because your being here makes Stevie unhappy.”
Stevie.
My lip curled. “Unhappier than when I’m away?”
“Yes! These days, yes.”
I smiled, deliberately provoking. “I shall have to work on that.”
“You arrogant shit!”
I raised an eyebrow. I wanted him to come after me. Try to hit me with the Civil War relic or take a swing at me. Something. I hadn’t quite decided what I would do if he did. The best thing would be to let him knock me down. That would put him squarely in the wrong with Stevie. But I wasn’t sure I had the discipline to do it. I so dearly wanted to smash his face in.
But either his self-control was better than mine or I didn’t look nearly as unthreatening as I believed. He didn’t make a move my way—choosing instead to keep flapping his mouth.
“Do you care about Stephen at all? Or are you just using him again?”
I consciously forced my hands to unknot, relax. It didn’t matter what this prick thought. I didn’t need to justify myself to him. Stephen’s opinion was the only one that mattered. Stephen didn’t think I had used him. He couldn’t think that. Stephen knew I had loved him. This was all Brent. I said coolly, “What do you care?”
Brent’s mouth worked. I thought he might even cry. He said, “Because I love him. Because he’s starting to love me back. Because we could have something good together if you don’t destroy it—just because you can.”
In two steps I could be out of that chair and across the floor. In two steps—approximately four seconds—I could snap his neck. It would be easy. A pleasure. But I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t harm even one of the remaining hairs on his head.
Because without meaning to he’d told me what I most wanted to hear.
* * * * *
But of course, proof of how little I understand the way these things work: I won the battle but lost the war.
Stephen arrived home early as I was e-mailing off requests for information and school brochures. My smile faded as I saw his face. Back to square one, it seemed. He had looked more pleased to see me the day I arrived bloodstained and dazed at the airport a very long time ago.
He said furiously, “What the hell did you say to Bryce?”
I admit I hadn’t thought Bryce would run straight to him. Not only did it indicate a level of trust and understanding between them that I hadn’t been counting on, it was embarrassing to be caught squabbling over him like a pair of adolescent queens.
I said slowly, confusedly absorbing just how angry he was, “But Brent attacked me.”
“Bryce,” he shot back. “And what in God’s name can possibly be going on in that scrambled brain of yours? He attacked you? How the hell did he attack you? Do you know what an attack is? Do you understand the concept of disagreeing with someone without having to destroy them? Jesus Christ, Mark. You don’t…you don’t use nuclear weapons on white mice.”
I had never seen him like this. He looked like he hated me. I tried to think back to the scene with Brent—Bryce. Surely he was the aggressor there? I had gone for his weak spot, yes, but…he had gone for mine, hadn’t he? And wasn’t the deck already stacked in his favor?
With a sick pang I realized what Stephen was saying. He loved Bryce. When I hurt Bryce I hurt Stephen because…Bryce was the one Stephen wanted. Not me.
I blinked, trying to comprehend this as Stephen went on in that deep, ferocious voice. “I didn’t want you here. I let you come against my better judgment. I specifically told you that you had no rights here. That there was no longer anything between us.” That was a little harsh even for Stephen. He must have heard it—or perhaps read it in my face. He qualified tersely, “Other than friendship. And this is not the way friends behave. You’ve deeply hurt someone I care about.”
Well that was plain enough, even for me. I tried to keep all emotion out of my voice. “He wanted to know when I was leaving—as I seem to be getting in his way.”
His eyes narrowed. “And what did you tell him?”
“That it wasn’t any of his business.”
He paused, possibly to consider his words, and then he said quietly, no room for misunderstanding, “And when exactly are you leaving, Mark?”
I considered the possibility that he was asking because he was actually afraid of my going, but reluctantly let the idea go. It was clear from his expression that he wasn’t anything but impatient to see the last of me.
It took a second to face it, but then I was all right again. I hadn’t really believed this was going to work out, had I? Surely I wasn’t that naïve? That…romantic? That goddamned, bloody stupid? I pressed “cancel” on the email I had been about to send.
I said, “It seems I’m leaving tonight.”
And it made perfect sense. Better for me, really. And not least because I might have one or two representatives from the psychopath community hunting me—not to mention the embarrassing possibility of the Old Man arranging a courtesy call from the Cousins on my behalf. Wouldn’t Stephen love that? The CIA showing up on his front porch?
“Would you like me to talk to Bryce?” I offered. “I could…” I could what? Explain that I wasn’t quite sane when it came to Stephen? Maybe not quite sane period.
“You must be joking. You’ve said plenty already.”
I nodded.
Stephen’s anger seemed to fade away. He said more calmly, “I’m not saying you need to leave tonight. Or even tomorrow. So long as we’re clear —”
“Crystal,” I assured him. I dredged up what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “And don’t worry. I didn’t say anything to Bre…Bryce about last night. This morning, rather.”
He winced. “Mark, this morning was —”
I couldn’t bear hearing him say it was a mistake. “No, I realize that. I’m not such a fool that I think it was anything but what it was. Sex. Lovely sex at that.”
He didn’t return my smile. He looked like he was in pain. Well, that would be his oversensitive conscience. He’d have to work that one out on his own. I nodded at the computer and said, “I should have asked first. Is it all right if I use this to look up flights?”
“Of course.” He said a little irritably, “But I’ve already told you you don’t need to worry about it for a day or two.”
“No worries.” I turned back to the screen and clicking automatically. British Airways came up filling the screen.
I could feel him hesitating. I wished he would go away. What did he want from me? I kept tapping the keyboard and at last he turned and left me to it.
Once his footsteps had died away down the hall, I let my hands fall to my lap and I closed my eyes. I was so…tired…
“I love you.” His green eyes were soft and serious.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“Too soon?” And he was actually smiling—smiling—as though he understood completely. And of course he didn’t. How could he?
My eyes stung. I blinked hard and said gruffly, “God no.” I put my arm
s around him so he couldn’t see what a fool I was. I said against his ear, “I love you too. I always will.”
Lena’s voice said crisply, shattering my numb solitude, “Personally? I don’t care if you go drown yourself in that big old Atlantic Ocean. I think Mr. St—Dr. Thorpe could do a lot better than you. I think he deserves a lot better than someone like you.”
I opened my eyes and looked at her. “Are you just saying this to cheer me up?”
Her mouth tightened, but she went on anyway. “But for two years that man hung on—two years—waiting for you to pull your head out of —”
She caught herself. I said politely, “The clouds?”
“And when it ended—when you told him whatever it was you told him—I thought he would die of grief.”
“People don’t die of grief.”
“Honey, when you’ve been around as long as me, you can tell me what people do and don’t do.” She studied me. “I’ve known Dr. Thorpe since he was a boy, and he’s always known who he was and what he wanted. When the Senator tried to pressure him to go into politics, he stuck to his guns. And that took some doing. And when his mother, bless her heart, wanted him to marry and give her a grandchild, he was just as gentle as he could be, but he told her the truth.”
I said, “Yes, he’s very good at saying no. No room for misunderstanding.”
She made a noise…it sounded something like Tchaw! “You feel mighty sorry for yourself, don’t you?”
I thought it over. “Not yet. It’s not real to me yet. Mostly I feel blank.”
She blinked. Her next words were brisk, but there was something different in her tone. “I’ve known that man his entire adult life, and the happiest he ever was, was with you. It’s not over for him. I heard some of what he said, and I guess he wishes it were true, but he still —” She took a deep breath. “He still loves you. And I don’t think, whatever he says, that he really wants you to leave.”
There wasn’t much to pack. There never was. I traveled light. Always. He travels fastest who travels alone—and I preferred traveling alone, really. It was much safer that way. Safer for everyone. I stuffed my copy of Little Dorrit into my bag and thought about Barry Shelton. We’d entered Afghanistan four months ago traveling mostly on foot from the Pakistani border city of Quetta across the straight and rigid white mountains that lined the frontier and, sticking to tracks too rough and remote for anything but mountains goats and bandits, journeying far into the rugged hills of the central Oruzgan province—and from there to Khandahar.
I’d liked Barry. I hadn’t loved him. We were partners. Mates. It had nothing to do with the way I felt about Stephen. I’d never felt for anyone the way I felt for Stephen. But we’d made a good team, Barry and I. And there had been a few nights that we’d offered each other affection and comfort, and it had been good. It had kept us strong. Kept us sane.
It hadn’t felt like a betrayal, because…at that point there was nothing left to betray. Stephen had broken it off with me. Although, if I was honest with myself, I never believed for an instant that I couldn’t mend that bridge. Needed to believe it. Because Stephen was my talisman, and his love for me was the dreamcatcher—the shining bit of improbability that kept away the darkest moments. When the job was over I planned to find him, apologize, explain, woo and win him back. I had it all planned. That was all right with Barry. Not that we talked about it. But he had a girl waiting for him. Chloe Scratchett. I didn’t think I would ever forget her name. It sounded so Dickensian. Or perhaps like a porn star. He used to ramble on about her all the time.
I packed my bag and sat on the edge of the bed in Stephen’s guestroom, and a wave of tiredness hit me. I wanted to lie down and close my eyes, close everything out. But now I knew what it was. Nervous exhaustion. And what was that except being afraid to face facts?
So I forced myself off the bed and went downstairs.
I found him in the kitchen staring out the window over the sink. I made sure he heard me coming, stepped on the third floorboard from the doorframe, the board that always squeaked, but he didn’t move, didn’t turn.
I said, wanting to make this easy for him, “My flight from Dulles is scheduled for tomorrow at fourteen hundred which means I had to book a flight from Norfolk for nine —” His expression, as he turned from staring out the kitchen window, gave me pause. I said, “If you’d like me to get a taxi —”
Stephen said, “I don’t want you to get a taxi. I’ll take you to the airport.”
“You don’t have to. It means getting up at the crack of dawn. I’d just as soon —”
“I said I would take you.” He stared back out the window.
“All right. Thank you.”
Nothing.
I studied the tense line of his back, and then I thought…may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. I moved behind him, slipped my arms around his waist. He stiffened instantly. I rested my head against the back of his. His hair was silk against my face.
For a moment he let me stay like that. I felt the fast, steady thump of his heart next to mine. Excited. Not angry, not alarmed. He liked this too. But he didn’t want to, and that made all the difference.
“I love you,” I said quietly.
He shook his head.
I kept talking. What did I have to lose now? Nothing. And I owed him this much. Owed him for those two years when he had hung on, holding the door open for me, offering me safe passage if I’d just been able to see it. “I know you don’t want to hear it. I know it’s too late.”
“It is too late.” There was regret in his tone, but certainty.
“The mistakes I made—they didn’t have to do with anything but being afraid. I did love you. I do love you.”
“Don’t.” He pulled away. Not roughly. Without haste—or reluctance. “There’s no point to this now.” His eyes were very green—brilliant—but the tears were for the waste of it.
“Can I just say it anyway? For the record?”
“What’s the use?”
“I don’t know. Confession is good for the soul? And mine needs all the help it can get?”
His expression turned sardonic. “So it’s really about you.”
“This part is.”
He waited.
I said, “It’s the oldest story in the world. I got scared. You offered me everything I ever wanted—just like that. Mine for the taking. And it frightened the hell out of me. I didn’t see how it could be…true.”
“You should have stayed long enough to find out.”
“I should have. Yes. I always meant to come back, but—this is the part that’s hard to explain, the part you won’t understand—after a time the dream of it, the promise of it became too important to…test.”
Zero comprehension on his face.
I took a deep breath. I was so very bad at this kind of thing, but if I was ever going to explain myself properly, now was the time. “These last few days have given me time to think it through. My life, personally, professionally…it’s about lies and deceit and betrayal and treachery. Since I was nineteen. It’s my job to persuade people to trust me, and then I use them. Sometimes I betray them. Even if I don’t personally betray them, I know that they will be betrayed. I lie to people. I trick them. I get them to turn on each other, sell each other out. I’ve always believed it was for a good cause, but mostly…it’s my job.” At his expression, I said, “I’m not excusing it, just trying to explain. So you’ll understand that it wasn’t…you.”
“I know damn well it wasn’t me.”
“Right. Well.” I shrugged. “It sounds feeble, I realize. I don’t have…a great opinion of human nature.”
“Are you trying to say you didn’t trust me?” Stephen inquired.
“I’m trying to say I was too afraid to find out. That having the dream of you and this place was better—seemed safer, anyway—than finding out that it wasn’t true.”
He shook his head. “That’s sad. I don’t know what else to tell you. It’s one o
f the saddest things I ever heard. Because it was all here for you. All you ever had to do was reach for it.”
“I know.” And I knew I could never make him understand how terrifying it was to be offered your dream.
Stephen said, “I waited two years for you to make up your mind. There was always one last job, one last crisis, one final commitment, and you kept drifting further and further away. The last time we talked—before you went to Afghanistan—I was talking to a stranger.”
I thought of all the times he had needed me, wanted me: his father’s death, his fiftieth birthday, changing jobs—and all the long days and lonely nights in between.
I said, “Maybe it seemed that way, but I was coming back. I knew after we talked the last time, after you broke it off, that I’d made a mistake. That I couldn’t lose you. I told Barry —”
“Barry?” he interjected politely.
I hesitated. I didn’t want secrets between us, but now was not the time to try and explain about Barry. “A fellow agent—a friend. I told him, right before things went…wrong…that I’d worked out what I wanted.”
“How nice for you.”
Once again I’d managed to say the wrong thing. I stared at Stephen’s impassive face, saw the coolness in his eyes, and knew that I’d managed to confirm his decision that I was not someone he wanted or needed in his life.
I said, “I realize that it’s over for you. That for you it’s been over for some time. All I wanted to say was that I did love you. Still do love you. Can’t imagine ever not loving you. And I’m sorry. Truly sorry. And I hope you’ll forgive me for wasting two years of your life.”
A muscle moved in his jaw. I could see him weighing it, deciding whether he would accept it at face value or not. He said finally, “Thank you. I know that wasn’t easy for you.”
And that was it. What had I expected? It was over.
Chapter Seven
“I’ll be gone for about an hour, but I’ll be home for supper,” Stephen said from the porch.
