by Jerry Cole
Marc cut him off before he could say anything else, apparently not content to hear what Brent had to say, and he looked furious. “You used one of my photos in a public place! You deliberately mislead me.”
“You said I could use it however I wanted,” Brent said, feeling his own stomach swoop with the lie. Perhaps not an outright lie, but a lie of omission. “I just wanted people to see.”
“Well now they have,” Marc snarled, dropping his arms to his side. They clenched into fists and Brent sucked in a breath. He didn’t think Marc would hit him, but he was angry, and Brent didn’t know how to make it better.
“Marc, please,” he said.
“Those pictures are personal. You know why I took them.” Marc’s voice evened out into something terrible and betrayed. Brent rocked back on his feet, flexing his own fingers, needing something to do with them. Marc’s eyes were on the floor, the wall next to Brent’s ankle, anywhere but at Brent’s face. “I wanted to show them to people in my own time. Do you know how long it took me to show them to you?”
“Yes,” Brent said, because he did. “I didn’t mean—”
“But you did.” Marc scrubbed at his face, lips twisting, like he didn’t know whether to frown or get angry. Brent desperately wished to make it better, but he didn’t think he could.
“Marc, I know you’re mad at me, but I didn’t do it to hurt you.”
Marc snorted. Angry, then. “I trusted you with my photos. I trusted you with me.”
Brent opened his mouth once, twice. “You still can trust me.”
“No,” Marc said, anger draining from his body, and Brent could see the sadness he’d been hiding behind the fury. “I can’t.”
It felt like a line being drawn, and Brent was desperate to make it stop, to keep Marc from ending things between them. “Marc, I know you’re hurt, but I want to make it up to you.”
“I don’t think you can,” Marc said, his voice wavering on the words.
Brent’s chest tightened painfully, and he shuddered, “I can’t lose you, Marc. I love you.”
Marc closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath. “You should have thought about that before you used the photo.”
There was a horrible silence, Brent desperate to say something, anything, that would keep Marc in place. He couldn’t make his mouth work, and with a pained breath, Marc turned on his heel and disappeared into his apartment. Brent immediately slumped against the wall, door swinging shut as he slid against it, burying his hands in his hair.
Juliette padded across the carpet toward him, whining as she tried to shove her head under his arm. Brent relaxed the grip on his hair and looped his arm around Juliette’s neck, burying his face in her fur. She nuzzled closer, and Brent sobbed, tears he couldn’t keep at bay rolling down his face.
“Fuck, fuck,” he muttered. “God. What do I do?”
Juliette couldn’t answer, but she did a good job of making him feel better, or at least soaking up the tears he couldn’t seem to stop. By the time he stumbled into the bedroom, exhausted and eyes red and sore, he almost didn’t want to go to sleep if it meant waking up to a world in which he didn’t have Marc.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Brent didn’t realize how much of his life was built around Marc until he wasn’t there anymore. The number of clients hadn’t gone down, and though he didn’t want to lose anybody, there was no way he could handle all of the dogs alone.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he said, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling while Juliette was flopped over his stomach. She, like the days before, had nothing to say on the matter. She did flick out her tongue, licking his neck, and he gave her a scratch behind her ears. “I can’t deal with as many clients as I have.”
Maybe Marc would be the better person and help him out, though Brent couldn’t imagine a world in which that would happen. Though he hadn’t said anything specifically, Marc wanted nothing to do with Brent, that much was obvious. Brent could only assume that included the business. Maybe he could hire someone temporarily, though Brent’s love of the clients and the dogs meant he wasn’t sure he could trust anyone else to treat them the way he—and Marc—did.
He was broken out of his doubt by a knock on the door. It said enough about his state of mind that Juliette didn’t immediately race for the door but stayed to make sure Brent was actually getting out of bed and heading to open the door. Brent’s heart was heavy, eyeing the door like it was going to attack him. What if it was Marc, back for round two?
Brent was surprised to see Brandon through the peep hole and immediately opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Brent,” Brandon said pointedly, and nodded into Brent’s apartment. “All right if I come in?”
“Sure,” Brent said, massaging his forehead and throwing open the door. “Sorry. Hi, Brandon.”
Brandon waved him off and stepped through to the living room, giving a muted Juliette a scratch and a hello. “Marc called me.”
“Fuck.” Brent headed for the kitchen instead, leaning against the counter and breathing out through his nose. “Bet he had some choice words.”
“Actually,” Brandon said, startling Brent by peering around the kitchen door. “He wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Brent highly doubted that, but when he looked at Brandon, there was no hint of deceit, just sympathy and confusion. “Why?”
Brandon snorted and leaned against the doorjamb, folding his arms across his chest. “There’s no way on this planet, even mad at you, that Marc wouldn’t find a way to make sure you’re okay.”
“Right.” Brent rolled his eyes. “Because he was all about making sure I was okay the night before last.”
“Brent.” Brandon’s tone was chastising, but his expression was still sympathetic. Brent was getting tired of sympathy. “You broke his trust in a way he couldn’t forgive. That doesn’t mean he’s stopped loving you.”
Brent grit his teeth against the words he wanted to yell at Brandon. They were uncharitable and nasty, and the person he was mad at wouldn’t be on the receiving end. “Not enough to let me explain.”
Brandon remained silent at that, and Brent refrained from saying I told you so. It wouldn’t do anyone any good. Instead, he reached into the cupboard for the whisky; only one glass, because he could still throw Brandon a fuck you without being nasty.
“You know what I hate the most?” Brent continued, taking a mouthful of the whisky. It didn’t burn as much as it usually did, but then Brent had been drinking more of it over the last few days than he usually did. Not enough to get drunk because he wasn’t an idiot, but enough to take the edge off. God, he was such a mess. “I thought I was helping. I didn’t even name him in the article, did you know that?”
“No,” Brandon said slowly, looking surprised. “Marc didn’t—”
“He wouldn’t, would he?” Brent gestured at Brandon with the whisky glass, mouth twisted up into a mimicry of a smile. “He saw his photo, assumed I was using it against his will for my own fucking gain, and immediately wanted to break up with me.” Brent frowned down into the empty glass. “Fuck, all I wanted to do was show people how amazing he was.”
Brandon had nothing to say to that.
Brent slid his glass across the counter and stared at the opposite wall. There were a few pictures tacked onto the wall, some of them postcards and letters from family, but most of them were of Marc. Even now, Brent couldn’t bring himself to get rid of them. Brandon followed his line of sight and sighed.
“Brent, you need to tell him this.”
“Sure,” Brent said, laughing self-deprecatingly. “He was so eager to listen. He didn’t even read the blog. You know what I wrote?”
“No,” Brandon said, in the manner of someone who assumed Brent should know that.
Brent laughed at himself and then pressed his knuckles to his eyes. “I wanted people to know PTSD didn’t have to be the end of everything, that even when you think your life is ov
er, it doesn’t have to be. Marc’s proof of that. He’s been going out, making friends, has a job, and a boyfriend who loves him,” Brent’s voice broke and he dropped his hands. “Had a boyfriend. I still love him, but God, I just wanted to write about how amazing he is. He saw a fucking blog, Brandon, and I’m suddenly the worst fucking boyfriend in the world.”
“That’s not what he said,” Brandon said. “He said he told you he didn’t want his photographs out in the world, didn’t want his story used as sensationalism. It’s about breaking his trust.”
“Sure,” Brent said with a shrug. “I’m not saying I don’t understand it. I just wish he’d see it wasn’t done with ill intention.”
“If he wasn’t your boyfriend,” Brandon continued, slowly, meeting Brent’s eyes. “Would you have used that picture without permission? Or written that blog?”
Brent wouldn’t have, and they both knew it. Brent didn’t have say yes, or nod, or affirm the statement. He knew Marc was mad, he knew Marc deserved to be mad at him. Maybe that was why he was so upset with himself.
Brent ran a hand over his face, drained of his anger. “Well, I took it down this morning, so I’m sure he doesn’t have to worry anymore.” When the silence between them stretched almost painfully, Brent shrugged. “Now that you’re here, though, can you do something for me?”
Brandon raised his eyebrows but didn’t say yes or no.
“Don’t stop being his friend, okay?”
The frown on Brandon’s face would have been comical if Brent wasn’t currently having a relationship meltdown. “Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know.” Brent sighed, relaxing back against the counter, not sure he could keep himself up on his own steam for much longer. God, he wanted another drink. He wanted to scream and cry and just throw himself onto the couch and never get up. He was being ridiculous, but Marc had worked his way into every area of Brent’s life and he was finding out that there was no easy fix to that. “Just—I know what he’s like when things get bad for him. I don’t want him to be alone.”
“He won’t be.” Brandon paused, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something else, but Brent’s alarm went off.
Brent looked at the clock and cursed. “Sorry, but I have a client. I can’t—I need to get there because I don’t have anyone else.”
Brandon frowned and then his expression cleared. He was the only one of Brent’s clients to know that Marc wouldn’t currently be working. “I can—”
“It’s fine,” Brent pressed, slipping past Brandon and into the living room to grab his things. “I’ll be back in time to look after Saskia.”
“I know.” Brandon frowned. “Are you sure you don’t want me to ask Marc—”
“No.” Brent was adamant, didn’t want Marc to have to work with him just to make it easier on Brent. “I’ll be fine.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brent was not fine.
Two days later, he was exhausted, and his body protested every morning he had to climb out of bed, every walk he had to take. He had done so much in the last two days he wasn’t sure there was a kilometer of Chicago he hadn’t covered. Juliette remained in the apartment throughout the day, also exhausted, and seemed to spend as much time moping in the living room as Brent wished he could.
Staring at his phone only brought more pain; too many phone calls and text messages from friends and family, and that was without looking up the emails from his blog. Collapsed on the couch, the light fading through the window, Brent thumbed through to the email app, deciding he might as well bite the bullet. He didn’t want to answer his sisters’ questions, or his mother’s admonishments right now. He would much prefer to read emails from people who were either going to cuss him out, call him a fake journalist, or praise his writing skills. He wasn’t sure which of those he would prefer. Despite the article only being up for two days, it had apparently been shared by Brent’s friends and family—unaware of Marc’s distress and being kept in the dark—and it had spiraled from there, even though it was no longer there. The problem with the internet, Brent had discovered long before now, was something didn’t truly disappear.
To his surprise, most of the comments were from people who were either suffering from PTSD, knew someone suffering from PTSD, or praising him for his expose on the state of veterans. They made him uncomfortable and a little bit like a fraud. It wasn’t as if he’d used Marc as a case study; he had been honest and candid about his life with Marc and Marc’s experiences both with the war and coming home again. If he had been a true journalist, he would have balanced out Marc’s experiences with others at the VA hospital he and Marc had attended. There shouldn’t never be just one story. Still, that didn’t make the blog as good as some of the comments were making out.
There was an email, pinged from the blog address he’d posted for serious questions, that brought him up short.
Dear Brent Strome,
My name is Eloise Bergeron.
Brent’s eyes widened, and he sat up suddenly interested. He was fairly sure that was Marc’s mom, right?
Although you didn’t mention the person by name, I am more than certain the man in the article is my son. I am not looking for any information on him, nor for you to really give away whether he actually is Marc. I was hoping you could tell me if he is truly happy? His father and I have been looking for him for a long time. You mentioned the incident with his brother—not the only reason I think this is my son, but the main one—and the fact his parents blamed him and contributed to his isolation.
I have many things to say on this, not least that it is not true at all, but I am not looking for absolution from you and not really from Marc. I would like to know that he is happy and living a good life?
I understand if you cannot reply to this with any certainty, but I have been worrying about him. He sends us birthday and Christmas cards and notes, and they are postmarked Chicago, but I have never been able to find him.
Please—if it is my son—let him know we care and we are hoping he is well and happy, and apparently loved.
Thank you.
Brent read the email over three times and felt his throat thicken with emotion. He had already broken Marc’s trust once and he didn’t want to do so again by confirming or denying the email’s questions as valid. He wanted to send it to Marc, however, just so he could see his parents were looking for him.
Brent had spent enough time of his own hating Marc’s parents a little for being distant and hating him for something out of his control. Perhaps this email didn’t explain for real why that assumption was wrong, but his parents were clearly looking for him. Would they bother if truly angry over him?
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Brent hit forward, and brought up Brandon’s email address. He didn’t want to involve somebody else, but it seemed the safest way to get the email to Marc. Marc wouldn’t read anything from Brent—he was clearly ignoring Brent’s texts and calls—so having an intermediary could only help.
Brandon, I don’t want to make things worse with Marc by responding to this. Would you either forward this to him or show him? He won’t read it if it’s from me, and I want him to know his parents are at least looking for him, if not trying to prove they didn’t blame him like he thinks. I want him to have his parents in his life if possible.
To Marc; do whatever you want with this.
Thanks.
Message sent, Brent tossed his phone on the couch and stared at the clock above his television. He had an hour before he really needed to go to bed if he was going to wake up in time for the next day’s clients.
“Come on, babe,” he said, Juliette immediately lifting her head from her paws. “Let’s get to bed.”
He let Juliette out into the small yard attached to his apartment, and she rushed out to do her business before racing back inside. They usually did this on a walk, but he had a lot of sympathy for her as she’d been with him much more than she usually was, and he didn’t think either of them was u
p for a walk right now.
They both headed for the bedroom, Brent remembering to swipe his phone from the couch. He needed an alarm if he was going to wake up, and deliberately stayed away from his notifications. He didn’t want to spend as much time waiting for replies as he did when he and Marc were first starting out.
That was a painfully long time ago, and Brent hated himself for ruining what had fast become the best part of his life.
“Fuck,” he muttered, turning on the en-suite light. “I fucked everything up.”
He stared at himself in the mirror and made a face at the exhausted, sad looking idiot staring back at him.
“Way to go, Strome.”
Chapter Thirty
Amanda was calling.
Brent shouldn’t have been angry at her, but he couldn’t help the shudder of irritation he felt at seeing her name. Perhaps it would have ended up somewhere even without her interference, and she would probably have a good story if he asked, but he didn’t want to.
Everything hurt, his heart and head and body, and he didn’t have the time to do anything except work and go through the motions. There would be a reprieve that weekend; despite all his clients, he managed to carve out a couple of days for himself, and he desperately needed them. He would just sleep the entire time.
It was easy to blame exhaustion for everything; ignoring his friends and family, shutting himself up in his apartment when he wasn’t out walking dogs, and walking straight into someone in the hallway.
Brent didn’t have to ask who it was, spotting the familiar purple leash and harness currently settled on Stanley’s back, and Brent’s stomach tightened painfully.
“Sorry,” Marc started, and then realized just who he had walked into. His eyes widened when he saw Brent’s face, and Brent let out a noise he wasn’t exactly sure was human, and ducked around him, ignoring Marc’s call of his name.
He didn’t want to hear whatever Marc had to say, just wanted to get out and get the clients done before he fell asleep standing up. Thankfully, Marc didn’t follow him—a relief—and Brent pressed against the wall of the apartment building, breathing slowly through his nose. He was obviously tired if a simple sighting of Marc was enough to have him fucking panicking.
