by Anna Zabo
“Si, I know.” Her smile didn’t diminish when she took another sip of coffee. “I’m so happy for you.”
“I think . . . I think we need to talk about long-term.” Me and Ian. Her and me. All of us.
This time, she set the mug down slowly, but there was no shock on her face. “Figured we’d get here soon, too.”
Sometimes Lydia knew me better than I knew myself. “When?”
“When he came to dinner the other day. The way you looked at each other.” She stretched out her hand across the table, and I took it. “You looked at Ian the same way you look at me when you’re under the impression I’m not noticing you.”
Oh. I guess that would give it away.
She squeezed my hand, and her smile was open and real. “We’ll make it work, Si. I love you and want to see you happy.” Those were an echo of the words I’d spoken to her when we’d first talked about her and Dexy’s dad, Vince.
“I love you so much.” She was my compass and my star. And so was Ian. “Let’s find some time when we can invite him over for dinner.”
“We can do that.” She slipped her fingers from mine. “After you shower.”
I laughed and pushed back from the table. “Hint taken.”
“Wasn’t a hint, Simon Derry.” Humor there and love. So much love.
I was the luckiest man alive.
After my shower, I discovered Lydia had unpacked Ian’s dragon from its box and had set it on the marble countertop. Now she was pulling dishes from the dishwasher. “Isn’t that amazing?” I gestured at the sculpture.
“It really is. One of Ian’s?”
I nodded and grabbed a banana out of the basket on the island. “He wants me to paint it. Sort of a symbol of . . . us.” Saying those words left me giddy. Us. Ian.
“I’m guessing you haven’t a clue what color to use yet.”
I started in on the banana and contemplated the piece. “I’m not sure I can do it justice.”
A dish towel hit my chest. “You spent a week working on a Wolf’s Landing prop. You’re a pro now.”
Maybe. That art director’s card was still on my nightstand upstairs. Lydia had urged me to call when I’d told her about it. See if they had any part-time gigs. Or weekends. Something.
But it would be weird working with Ian for real—not as a favor. Especially if he agreed to become a permanent part of our life.
Lydia crossed the kitchen. “Si . . .” She rubbed my arm.
“I got used to thinking of myself as a hobbyist. It’s a bit of a shock to find out I’ve got talent.”
“Talent and hobby aren’t opposites, you know.” She took the dish towel back. “Do I have less talent when I do fan art?”
“No!” I blew out a breath. “God, I know I’m being an idiot.”
“Good.” That was followed by a kiss. “Then stop it.”
I wrapped my arms around her and murmured against her lips. “You win.”
“I always do.”
Pretty much, but that was fine by me.
Two days later, I moved the dragon from the kitchen island to my workstation in the basement, where I wouldn’t see it every time I walked through the house.
Ian hadn’t called me back. Or replied to my texts.
I couldn’t catch a breath for the constriction in my chest. Had I been wrong about Ian wanting more? Had I done something? No way of knowing, short of showing up at his place—and I had long ago vowed never to be the clingy ex who did shit like that. Especially since I’d once had to fend off a fling who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Wasn’t about to do that to anyone else.
But Ian wasn’t a fling. Unless . . . unless I’d been the fling. “Fuck.” I stomped back up the stairs from the basement and slammed the door.
Lydia jumped at the stove and Purrbody’s claws scraped against the tile as he took off for the stairs.
“Sorry.”
Lydia tapped her spoon against the pot and set it aside. Lines of worry ringed her eyes. “Give him some time. People can get spooked when relationships move fast. I don’t think he’d just . . . drop you.”
I had my doubts, and from the depth in Lydia’s voice, I knew she had hers too. “Yeah well, maybe I’m the wrong guy for him.” The married guy, good only for a few fucks, but nothing else. Moisture prickled at the back of my eyes. “It’s fine. I’ll live.”
Her fingers entwined between mine. “I know what I saw between you two. I’m sure he’ll call.”
God, I hoped she was right.
Another week went by without any sign of Ian and my heart was in pieces. Why had I been so foolish? Hot, horny guy walks in, and I’m the dupe who falls all over himself, for what? A taste of cock? I should stick to hookups on Grindr. Except I hated hooking up.
Ian hadn’t been a hookup. We’d talked. Hell, we’d fucked in front of Lydia. That last night at his place had been astounding. I’d trusted him. Let him tie me up. Gag me. Take me.
The figurine I’d been trying to paint for the last hour tumbled out of my fingers, smearing what little work I had done. I bit back a curse. Not good to swear up a storm in front of customers. Painting wasn’t helping my mood at all, so I set the brush down and packed up my bottles and figures. I’d be able to salvage the warlord I’d dropped, but that would wait for another day.
I burned with sadness, anger, and humiliation. Every day the rock in my stomach grew. I tried to hide it, but Jesse had his worried face on when he watched me. Dexy brought me chocolate and Lydia—
God, I didn’t deserve that woman. Here I was married to her and pining over a guy I’d known a week. Slap asshole on my forehead and be done with it.
Lydia held me when I cried. She listened when I’d ranted and made love to me when I’d needed someone to remind me I was worth loving. But I knew what a strain it was for her to see me like this.
Once the paints and figures were packed up, I headed in back to clean my brushes.
I didn’t know how to get over Ian. Mostly because I didn’t understand why I was getting over Ian. We should have had dinner, talked about how we were going to do a long-term poly arrangement. Or broken up properly if long-term turned out not to be what he wanted.
But this? Being dumped without warning, without a fucking word? I shaped the ends of the brushes and set them out to dry. I couldn’t handle this.
I deserved better than that. Lydia deserved to have a husband and a business partner who wasn’t being eaten alive by the pain of what could have been.
“Hey, boss?” Jesse called from the front. “There’s . . . someone to see you.”
I froze and my heart pounded in my chest. Oh fuck, please let it be Ian. Please.
When I emerged from the back room, my heart sank, but my brain did a double-take. It wasn’t Ian—it was Carter Samuels. Pretty much everyone in the shop was watching him, even if they were pretending not to.
“Oh, hey,” I said. “You came!”
His smile was rueful rather than Hollywood. “I said I would.”
At least someone kept their promises. I leaned over the counter. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but my wife will kill me if I don’t tell her you’re here.”
He chuckled. “No, it’s fine.” He shooed me away and I headed in back.
Today, Lydia wasn’t working on her art, but on inventorying our back issues to put up online. “Um, honey?”
“Yeah?” She cocked her head, frowning, and I wondered about my expression.
“Carter Samuels is here to buy comics.”
She slapped a hand over her mouth, but nothing kept the giggles from spilling out. “Really?”
“Really. Come meet him.”
I thought she’d hide in the back, but she didn’t. Maybe it was the shock of him being here in our world. She kept her cool through the introductions and the handshake. Additional people had wandered in—probably from Howling Moon given their Wolf’s Landing T-shirts, but Marlina couldn’t lay claim to Carter as property of her store, though I bet she wa
nted to.
I had a small pile for him, based on our earlier conversation, but over the next half hour, Carter rattled off more titles he’d liked back before he’d become famous and we pulled newer comics we thought he’d love. In the end, he had a nice stack of diverse books. Not a single one was Wolf’s Landing, though he did eye the graphic novel of the first book, with a comic version of him on the cover. “It’s still so weird. You’d think I’d be used to it.” He shook his head and focused on the stack in front of him. “Thank you for this.”
When Carter handed me his credit card, I waved it away. “On the house.”
He drew himself up a little taller. “Nope.”
We haggled for a bit, but Carter won in the end. “Dude, I have the money. Save the kindness for someone who doesn’t.”
Heat rose to my face, but I nodded. “I will, promise.” Because I kept my word.
The rest of the day was intense. Suddenly, everyone wanted to know what Carter Samuels had bought and what he read. We sold out of a couple of issues and some of the graphic novels we’d recommended, and people were combing through the older comics to find titles Carter had mentioned.
“Welcome to fandom.” I bumped Lydia with my hip.
She snorted. “We’re already in fandom.”
I laughed and the ache in my chest loosened, but it didn’t go away. Unlike Ian, it looked like my heartache would stick around.
The only problem with avoiding town so I didn’t run into Simon was that outside Bluewater Bay, there wasn’t very much at all. I could drive all the way to Port Angeles, but that felt too much like I was hiding.
Even though I was.
I made trips after midnight to the few twenty-four-hour places nearby, so I ate okay and had some supplies, but damn I missed good coffee. I’d run out of decent ground at home and the swill the studio provided was a poor substitute, especially since it was weak as fuck.
The day after I’d been pulled into helping on a particularly late-night set-building spree, I decided to chance a trip into town to visit Stomping Grounds, both for ground coffee and a nice hot cup of joe. Since it was about three in the afternoon, Simon would probably be working, so there’d be little chance of running into him.
I parked my car far away from End o’ Earth, and headed into the coffee shop. The same barista that had served me those mornings three weeks ago was behind the counter, along with another barista. I didn’t recognize anyone else in the shop, thank goodness.
The morning barista eyed me. “Well, hello, stranger.”
My laugh was hollow. “I guess it’s been a while.”
She nodded. “I suppose you won’t be ordering for the Derrys.”
The other barista ran the coffee grinder and I had to wait to answer—everything else was drowned out by the racket. When it died down, I spoke. “No, only a simple large cappuccino for me.”
She jotted something down on the cup and handed it to the barista behind the machine before ringing me up.
“Actually, I’ll pay for Ian’s coffee.” Lydia’s voice sounded behind me. “And a small cinnamon latte, please.”
My heart dropped straight to the floor. Shit. Shit. She should have been at the shop too. But no, she slid up next to me and I was caught.
“It’s the least I can do,” she said. Clipped speech, and when I hazarded a glance, her eyes bored straight through me as she handed the barista her card.
“Thanks.” I pushed the word out through a dry throat.
Her smile didn’t reach anywhere near her eyes. Hell, it barely touched her lips. “Got a minute to chat, Ian?”
After a night like last night, I didn’t have to be back on the lot at any particular time. I didn’t want to sit with Lydia, but at this point, I couldn’t exactly run away. The barista handed us our drinks and gave me a long look that included quite the frown.
“I— Yeah. I have time.” Maybe coffee hadn’t been the best plan. My hands were shaking already.
Lydia pointed at a table set back away from everyone else, and I was grateful for that. I slinked after her and took a seat. She sat after I did and placed her coffee down in front of her and watched me. Her stare went on forever.
I squirmed. “Lydia—”
“No.” She lifted her chin and there was fire in her eyes. “I don’t care about your reasons, or about how sorry you are, or any of that shit. I care about Simon.”
My cheeks heated while everything else grew cold. “I care about him, too.”
She barked a laugh. “Really? Because you have a horrible way of showing it.”
“I—” All the logic in my head churned and whirled and collapsed.
“No.” She held up her hand this time. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m not the one who should be hearing it.”
I chewed on my tongue. She had a point there. A fucking good one. Shame clamped onto me and pierced my skin.
“I watched Simon go from floating on cloud nine to dragging around a cinderblock of agony that has your name written all over it. I’m done with seeing him being unable to breathe or think because you don’t have the balls to break up with him properly. So, you’re going to talk to him like a goddamned adult and tell him all the shit that’s ready to spill out of your caring mouth.”
Lydia’s voice hadn’t risen one bit, but it cut through me like high-velocity shards of glass. The coffee shop had gone very, very quiet.
“Well?”
Her tone brooked no argument and required an answer. I nodded because my throat was too tight to speak.
“You free this evening?”
I wanted to say no, wanted to run, but the creeping icy tingling all over my skin told me I couldn’t. This town was small. I was pretty sure everyone in Stomping Grounds had a good idea of what was going down and I was on track to become the town pariah. That would follow me to work too, and justifiably. “I—can be.” I had to put in a few hours today, but no one would blink if I left at my normal time.
“Then be at our house at seven.” She rose, picked up her coffee, and walked away.
It took me a moment to remember to breathe, and when I did, it was shaky and full of pain. In my throat, in my head, and behind my eyes. Oh man, I’d totally fucked up. I could ignore what I’d done when I thought—or didn’t think—about Simon. I could lie to myself. Believe I’d backed away because it was the best thing for Simon. Being face-to-face with Lydia was another matter entirely.
Worse, I understood her anger so much. If our roles had been reversed and she’d been the one to hurt Simon? I’d have been livid and . . . probably a lot less level-headed.
Seeing her anger and hearing her describe Simon’s misery had shaken me to the bone. Doubt crept over me, clawing deeper than the shame of my cowardice.
A man who didn’t want more than a fuck buddy wouldn’t be brokenhearted, nor would his wife ream me a new one for breaking his heart.
I didn’t like the conclusion bearing down on me like a freight train, because it said something pretty awful about the person I was. Not knowing what to do, I sat there until my coffee went cold and my hands weren’t shaking so much. After that, I drank my tepid cappuccino, stood, and made my way out to my car, pausing to toss the cup into the composting bin.
Apropos, that, since I felt like dirt.
The rest of the day flew by. I tried to bury myself in work, but painting model cars reminded me too much of Simon. Every second was one closer to facing the music. Around five-thirty, I gave up and headed home to shower and change. Jeans. A nice shirt. I had a bit of scruff, but I left that. This wasn’t a date.
But it was dinner. I had no idea if I was supposed to bring something. What do you take to a “grow a pair and talk to your boyfriend” meal? Ex-boyfriend? Technically, we hadn’t broken up, but I’d pretty much killed the relationship.
I hadn’t wanted to, but I also hadn’t seen any other way not to have my life crack apart. That hadn’t worked so well.
In the end, I swung by the grocery store and fo
und a nice bottle of wine—pricier than I usually went for, but I owed Simon an apology. Or at least an explanation. I also wanted to thank Lydia for pulling my head out of my ass. She’d been right about me needing to talk to Simon, though the idea filled me with dread.
A few minutes before seven, I stood on the Derrys’ stoop and rang their doorbell.
Lydia answered. “Hello, Ian.” Her eyes were a little wide.
“Hi.” Walking in felt tender and sharp, as if I were both welcome and unwelcome. I handed her the bottle of wine. “Did you think I wouldn’t show?”
Lydia studied the label, then appraised me the same way. “You told Simon you’d call.”
I winced. Yeah, I’d earned that. I followed her into the kitchen. Whatever she’d been cooking smelled fantastic—beef and something with garlic and the delightful odor of caramelized onions. My stomach would have been growling if it hadn’t been tied up in knots.
Simon wasn’t there. Lydia nodded at a partially open door on the other side of the kitchen. “He’s in the basement.”
Oh. I fidgeted for a moment, but I couldn’t put this off any longer, so I went. The stairs were plain wood, and the basement wasn’t finished—there were concrete floors and rafters of under flooring and supports. The gentle sound of running water filled the space. Simon stood at a utility sink by the washer and dryer, cleaning a brush. His shoulders were tight, and when I set foot on the floor of the basement, he glanced over, frowned, and went back to work.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I came a little closer and watched him. Black—he’d been painting with black, given the rinse water and the stains on his fingers. Simon took his time, until the paint was gone and the water ran clear. He set the brush down, cleaned his hands, then shut the water off.
The basement fell into silence. Simon shaped the end of the brush, then put it down on a paper towel on top of the drier. Finally, he turned to me and crossed his arms.
He didn’t say a word. Not one. Anger. Contempt. Sadness. I recognized all those emotions in his body and in the downward pull of his lips.
