She hesitated again for a moment and brightened. “Maybe I’m reading between the lines here incorrectly, but is there a new romance blooming?”
Was there? The pleasant thundering of my pulse said there was. But I couldn’t be sure.
I wondered how Adrian would answer that question. I wasn’t sure on that either. “I don’t know. Too soon to say.”
Angela brightened further. “Well, if so, that’s even better. I always said that if things had been ideal, we would’ve captured you and Will from the very beginning. Not had to have you recreate the proposal and such. The new show could follow your relationship unfolding in real time. The whole world would fall in love with you, as the two of you fall in love with each other.”
A new show with Adrian—the thought made the pleasant racing of my heart sour. That wasn’t what I wanted. Though it was clearly what Angela thought was best. And, who knew, maybe it would be something Adrian would want. “As I said, things are way too new to consider that. Too new to bring it up. I don’t even know if… things will happen a second time.”
“Things, huh?” She giggled, pleasantly blurring that line between mother figure and friend. “Either way, it sounds like you’re right; things are definitely looking up.” She morphed once more, becoming my publicist again. “I’ll give you some time, darling. Let you enjoy the moments with this new man. But not too much time. We don’t want to miss the good stuff, or the reward from the good stuff.”
I started to reiterate that I wasn’t really going to consider it at the moment, but I guess she wasn’t really asking me to. “Okay. Thanks for understanding.”
“Of course, Harrison. You’re my star. I am here to serve you, to make your life as perfect as I can.” After the dance-floor sex tape, while I was still with the Titans, Angela had gotten rid of all her other clients, keeping only me so she could devote all her energy my way. She’d been a lifesaver. I doubted I could’ve made it through everything without her. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you soon.”
I said my goodbye and hung up the phone. For a few seconds, I imagined what a new show with Adrian would be like, then I shoved it aside quickly. It dampened my excitement about him. Instead, I warmed up the bath once more and pulled up Adrian’s contact picture. I’d put it in months ago. It was a stunning photograph of him that I’d uploaded from his Facebook profile.
Yes, I’d concentrate on that, on those happy brown eyes, handsome face, and picture-perfect body. No more thoughts of TV shows, humiliating YouTube clips. No more fog of past-and-present Will or all my downfalls. Just a dream.
Just Adrian.
I’d focus on Adrian.
Ten
Adrian
A few months ago, I was certain about everything. Absolutely everything. I had a great, great family—true, sometimes overbearing and too stringent with their expectations, but a great family. I had good friends. I loved my town.
I loved my life.
Really, I did. And I knew enough people to be aware of just how rare that truly was. Granted, it seemed more common in Lavender Shores, much more so lately, but still… I had an amazing life, and I knew it.
The first chink in that awareness, outside of everybody and their fucking dog falling in love and pairing off, was when Micah began sharing the things he found from my great-uncles in his house.
Micah’s home had belonged to my father’s uncle and his husband. They were the outcasts of the Rivera family. I didn’t know much more about them other than the rest of us didn’t speak their names. So much so, that when they were both gone, it was never a question of their house staying in the family. Though I knew he paid a pretty penny, it went to Micah instead, who’d wanted it forever. When he started to find Alex’s journals and letters and photographs of his life with Alan during renovations, I didn’t understand his growing obsession with them. I didn’t even have an interest in really seeing them. But once I opened them, I couldn’t look away.
The second one was Meghan’s sudden death. And that wasn’t just a chink; that was a severing, a quake that shattered the ground beneath our feet. For Andre and the rest of our family.
Somehow the two things comingled. My twin losing the love of his life and the mementos that told the love story of my uncles. Andre and Meghan’s love had been picture-perfect and ended in tragedy. Alex and Alan’s romance had been far from perfect but had an equally tragic ending.
Part of the reason I’d been okay with my life, even the lack of a love life, had been the avoidance of any chance of tragedy or misery. I had as much sex as often or as little as I wanted. No more, no less. And yet, seeing the agony Andre was going through and reading of the pain that filled much of Alex and Alan’s life, made me want what I didn’t have. Made me want a chance at misery. How fucked-up was that?
The other side of that misery? Passion and highs. Moments of euphoria that I genuinely couldn’t imagine. The rest had never seemed worth it, and proving I truly was insane, now that I had more and more proof of just how much agony love could cause, I wanted it.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since—I didn’t know what I was supposed to call the things Harrison and I had done. We hadn’t fucked, exactly. We most definitely hadn’t made love. Hooked up? Kinda. I decided to go with that. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Harrison and I had hooked up. And there I was at my kitchen table, journaling. Journaling! Like I was Great-Uncle Alex himself. Maybe his ghost had possessed me through the pages of his journals. I’d never had the desire to keep a diary or any other record of my thoughts and emotions.
But I was five pages into my very first journal, and Harrison was on nearly every line.
Insane or not, even as my hand ached from writing, I knew I wasn’t in love with him. Considering such a thought was insanity. I’d written as much on one of those pages, somewhere. I could not be in love with Harrison Getty. Sure, I’d known him quite a while, but not really. I didn’t know the things that made him who he was, at least outside of his relationship with his brother, or what I saw on TV. I knew the way he made my body feel. Knew I’d had to fight that since the moment I met him. But that wasn’t love. It was just my gay libido responding to an Adonis. That was just eyes, skin, and cocks. It had nothing to do with hearts or love.
But what if?
I’d written those two words on the third page of my journal. They’d caused me to drop my pen and stare at the pages.
What if?
That was when I had a brief out-of-body experience. Watching myself from above. Scrawling away, with a stack of my uncle’s journals, photographs, and letters spread across the rest of the table. That was when I realized whatever had been broken in Alex to cause him to choose the life he had, might be hereditary, and might have spiraled its way into my DNA.
Because that what if led to crazy town, and I knew it.
That what if implied I thought there might be a possibility that Harrison could be my one great love. The one to cause my soul to soar, to fly me to heights I’d never imagined. That Harrison possessed the potential to be the one with the power to leave me in shambles.
And that bullshit? Well, that was what pages four and five consisted of.
Even so, I was left with what if?
After those two words, I once more set the pen aside, pulled back my fingers, trying to stretch out the beginning of cramping muscles, and then reached for one of the more recent of Uncle Alex’s journals. The realization that I was playing with fire, stupidly playing with fire, triggered a memory of one of his entries. I flipped through it, scanning his slanted, messy script.
I found it about three-fourths of the way through, written toward the end of Alex’s life. Alan had been gone nearly six years at that point, and Alex seemed no nearer being over his death than the day Alan died. The first time I read the journals, his grief over the loss of his husband proved just how insane Alex was. Their life together had not been easy. Alan had several psychological illnesses. He lived with b
ipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and acute depression. Medication hadn’t consistently relieved any of it. And that didn’t even touch his list of physical ailments. And yet, Alex had seemed lost without him.
My mother said if I attempted to build a life with Alan Green that I would have no life at all. That he would ruin it. Mom was right. Alan did ruin my life. The one that I had before him died the day we met. What she didn’t understand, what she could never understand, was that Alan was my life. Even now, with him gone, Alan is still my life. I know she would scoff if she could hear me say it, but it’s true. Right or wrong, it’s true. He was my world, and I was his. Now my world is gone. Though at times I forget, and as I ramble through this too-large house, I can feel him nearby. Just out of reach. See his shadow move down a hall, feel his touch on the back of my neck. There were moments with him I didn’t think I’d survive. Now, every day that I wake, I wonder why I still do.
Yep. Rereading that passage was further confirmation that I had officially done some sort of irreparable damage to my brain. Who in their right mind would read that and have even the smallest inkling of desire for it? Who would see what my brother went through every day since his wife died and still want anything so powerful?
But maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe the damage wasn’t irreparable.
I didn’t have to find out the what if. I didn’t have to keep asking what if. I could burn the fucking journals and block out Alex’s voice. Anytime Harrison crossed my mind, I could hop on Scruff and go fuck my brains out. I could find a way to rewind, and capture the Adrian I’d been just a few short months ago.
Even as I shoved the journal away from me, I knew that wasn’t what I would do. The only way to burn the memory of Harrison and me in the glasshouse would be to suffer some actual brain trauma.
As it was, the images flashed as clearly as the lightning around us the day before. The feel of his lips on mine. The taste of him on my tongue, down my throat. The smell of soap and man. The hypnotic and tantalizing way he made sexual demands sound so desperate. How he looked at me, like I was his entire world.
What she didn’t understand, what she could never understand, was that Alan was my life.
That wasn’t the same thing. Alex and Alan had a lifetime together. Joy and pain. Passion and fury.
Harrison and I’d had a matter of minutes. But those minutes, though they were nothing more than sex—frenzied animalistic desire, heat, and chemistry—those minutes had shaken me to my core, and I wasn’t sure I could return to the Adrian I’d been before Harrison looked at me in the rain.
I knew it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. No chance.
But what if?
I restacked Alex’s journals and made a pile of his photos beside them. Then reverently, I put my own journal and pen on top.
As I picked up my cell phone, there was a soft touch on the back of my neck. Maybe it was Alex or Alan. Maybe even Meghan.
Or maybe there was a gas leak in my home, I was hallucinating, and I’d be dead in a matter of minutes. God, I hoped.
Whatever, or whoever it was, guided me to find Harrison in my contacts and tap his name.
Whether a gas leak or some spirit getting off on fucking with my psyche was the responsible party, the caress on the back of my neck had morphed into a fist closing around my heart. Or maybe my entire body. At Harrison’s knock, I opened the door and suddenly found myself short of breath, throat constricting, an overabundance of synapses firing.
After all these months, I should have gotten used to the sensation of seeing Harrison Getty, but he never ceased to take my breath away. But discovery of discoveries—it turned out that impact was compounded when he was suddenly in my home.
He smiled, gave a nearly childlike wave, then promptly seemed uncomfortable. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have suggested I come over. That was probably pushy.”
“No!” For crying out loud, the man was in my doorway, and I was standing there like an idiot. Trying to fix the situation, I debated thrusting out my hand for a shake, offering a welcoming hug, or just blowing him where he stood. I settled for stepping aside and gesturing for him to enter. “I’m thrilled you came over.”
I hadn’t expected to talk to Harrison. I’d had no clue what I was going to say if he picked up the phone when I called, or even what I would leave on his voicemail. I most definitely hadn’t envisioned him being close by and wanting to see me. Although, it was Lavender Shores, everything was close by.
Harrison stepped inside. “You’ve been on my mind constantly since yesterday. So when you called, it was almost a relief. I was out picking up a bottle of wine, so it seemed like a good time, but I hope I’m not intruding. I can’t stay for long.”
“Oh.” Even I could hear the disappointment in my voice. Despite my nerves, I’d assumed it wasn’t going to be a five-minute drop in. I hadn’t bothered to run the vacuum, but I had pulled a few condoms from the stash, thinking he must want to remedy what we hadn’t been able to satiate the day before.
Obviously, Harrison wasn’t feeling the things I’d hoped. He didn’t have fucking ridiculous delusions building in the back of his mind. Goddamn journals. It was a quick trip; there was only one reason he wanted to come over. I wished he’d just ripped the bandage off over the phone.
I was suddenly aware Harrison was saying something. Maybe he’d just given the speech I’d anticipated, and I missed it. I really was losing my mind. I refocused on him. “Sorry, what?”
“I was just saying that if Jasper and I didn’t already have plans, I could stay longer.” He swallowed, looking nervous. “Not that you want me to. I just… don’t want to be rude.”
Okay. That wasn’t the speech. “No, I don’t want to take you away from Jasper.”
“Well, it’s more than just Jasper. If it was simply him, I would cancel. He’d understand.” Harrison rushed ahead, sounding flustered. Strange. “Mabel and Sapphire are having Jasper and me over for dinner. He’s been friends with them for years, and they’ve kind of taken me under their wings since I arrived. Not that I’ve had much time to spend with them. They kinda feel like our second moms. And….” He trailed off again; with a shake of his head, he looked away and began to inspect the living room. After a moment he took a few steps around before turning back to me. “I wasn’t expecting this. Not with you being a Rivera.”
I laughed, not needing any explanation. “Yeah, I guess I saved having a large acreage for my farm, not my house.”
Harrison continued to look around. He didn’t seem to be judging, but I couldn’t really read his reaction. “Are you sure you’re a member of a founding family?” I was fairly certain his tone was teasing. At least I hoped that was it.
My house was right next door to the low-income section of Lavender Shores. All that really meant was price controlled. The houses, just like everything else in Lavender Shores, were stunning to the last detail, each one fitting the decreed aesthetic of the town. They just happened to be more like picture-perfect storybook cottages than various versions of mansions. They were set aside for those members of the town in the helping professions, like teachers and such. While it wouldn’t be right for me to have one of those homes, I’d chosen one adjacent and of similar design. “It’s not exactly dripping in gold like the Epsteins’, I know.” As soon as I mentioned the Epsteins, I wanted to kick myself. I had Harrison alone in my house, and I was bringing up his… fiancé. Was that what Will still was?
“Thank God for that.” Harrison laughed again, this time sounding almost at ease as he met my gaze. “I like it. I grew up in a little house in Tennessee. It wasn’t nearly as nice as this one, not even close, but this is better than a mansion. And definitely better than being coated in gold.”
Though I was friends with Jasper, I’d only been privy to a few details of his and Harrison’s childhood. I got the sense there’d been some pain there. I’d never pushed. And maybe selfishly, I had never been too curious. It didn’t matter if you grew up in a mansion or a shack—chi
ldhood was painful in one way or another.
Harrison moved closer, abandoning his inspection. “It suits you. Your house.” He stepped closer yet. Though he still seemed nervous, I didn’t think I was imagining the heat building between us. “It’s simple, clean. Classic, warm, and beautiful. Like you.”
Was he calling me beautiful? “Try to convince my mother of that. Farmer or not, a member of the founding families shouldn’t be living in a hovel.” Dammit all, why did I say that? Always some fucking joke. Should’ve talked about how beautiful he was.
Though we chuckled, it didn’t seem to hinder his intention. “If only all hovels could be this lovely.” He reached a hand up like he was going to touch my face, then paused. His brown eyes grew serious and met mine. “May I touch you?”
Was he kidding? I couldn’t imagine a single person in the entire world who would say no if Harrison Getty asked to touch them. Even so, my voice decided not to help me out. I managed to nod.
The corners of his lips curved, and he placed both hands on either side of my face, like he had in the restroom before the wedding, and sighed. Closing his eyes, he ran both thumbs softly over my cheeks and sighed again. As though he’d been holding his breath.
And like before, he lowered his lips to mine and kissed me.
Eleven
Harrison
It had been all I could do not to call Adrian the night before. And a complete struggle to refrain during the day. For the first time since the wedding, I didn’t feel trapped in the apartment. All day long, thoughts of Adrian swirled. Replaying moments from the glasshouse and then slipping into fantasies of what might be. Different trajectories of how our lives might entangle.
The Glasshouse (Lavender Shores Book 6) Page 10
