by Witt, L. A.
My eyes stung, and I swiped at them.
She squeezed my shoulders again. “You want the rest of the day off?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m good. If I go home, I’ll just wallow in it.” I tapped my knuckle against one of the boxes. “This will keep me focused on something besides him.”
“Okay. But if you need some time, even if it’s just a long break, all you have to do is ask.”
At that, I managed a smile. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
She smiled back and gave my shoulders another squeeze. Then she went back to the sales floor, leaving me to boxes and my thoughts.
And, boy, were my thoughts swarming. Not surprising after two guys in rapid succession had acted like I was Typhoid Jesse. Maybe I needed a break from dating and hookups for a while. At least until the sting had faded.
Shaking my head, I went back to work, focusing on shipments and displays and inventories and whatever else could hold my attention.
When the alarm on my phone went off, I automatically reached for the little plastic case I kept in my back pocket and popped it open. I went through this same motion every day at the same time, but today, I paused. I stared at the pill between my fingers.
HIV was part of my life. Had been for a long time. When the diagnosis had hit, I’d been terrified of dying a slow, painful death, but thanks to medical advances, it hadn’t been like that at all. I took the drugs, got the checkups, had my viral load tested regularly. It had altered my life about as dramatically as my dad’s diabetes had—there were changes and risks and drugs, but I was still me and my day-to-day life wasn’t much different than it would be if I were negative. Most days, no one would ever know I was positive if not for the daily pill regimen. Days when no one—myself included—noticed.
And then there were days like today when I couldn’t forget.
I swore under my breath and tossed back the pill.
I’d be okay. I deserved better than someone like Charlie or Garrett, and there were definitely better guys out there.
But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt right now.
Chapter 12
Garrett
Jesse wouldn’t return my texts. I suspected I was blocked already, and I didn’t blame him.
Shit. How the fuck did I undo something like this? Even if I could reach him, was there anything I could say that would reach past all his anger? Because God knew he had every right to be that pissed.
In the moment, I’d been too off guard to understand his reaction. Reeling from an unexpected rush of emotions and memories. By the time I’d realized he was pissed, he’d been on his way out, and he hadn’t stopped.
Sitting in my truck, I stared at my phone. It had been two days, and I’d been losing my mind ever since. I felt like an utter jackass. Even if he wasn’t willing to see me again, I at least wanted to apologize. I wasn’t about to stalk him, but . . . damn, there had to be some way to reach him.
And even if there was—then what? I didn’t know if I could have explained myself that night, and I still wasn’t sure I could explain myself now. I knew why I’d choked. The moment he’d said he was positive, I’d gone someplace else. To an office where I’d been surrounded by books and medical degrees, sitting in a hard chair in front of a gigantic desk and grasping a sweaty hand, staring into a pair of round glasses while “very little we can do” and “six months at most” and “we’ll have to think about palliative care” echoed in my ears.
In the forty-eight hours or so since Jesse had stormed out of Il Trovatore, I’d been kicking myself and my wounded psyche. It didn’t matter that I was well aware that the virus wasn’t a grisly death sentence anymore, or that there was little to no risk involved in sex with someone whose HIV was properly managed. The words had snagged a cascade of deep-seated trip wires. The scared teenager who’d grown up gay in the 1980s and early 1990s had collided with the grieving widower who’d watched a different disease slowly consume his husband, and the possibility of going through something like that again had paralyzed me.
I gnawed my lip and gazed up the street at the sign above End o’ Earth. I was out of options. Either I walked in there to talk to him, or I let this go. Chances were good we’d eventually cross paths in this small town, but if I wanted more than a cold shoulder when that happened, I needed to fix this today.
After a lengthy internal pep talk, I got out of the truck and headed up the sidewalk, but I balked outside the comic book shop. It was one thing to show up here when things were good. If I were pissed at him and he came strolling into the Alehouse, I would be furious. But how else was I supposed to get in contact with him?
Might be a good time to take the hint that he doesn’t want contact from you.
I gnawed the inside of my cheek. It was worth a try. One try. If he turned me away, then that was the end of it.
So, whispering a prayer that he’d listen to me, I pulled open the door and stepped inside.
“Hello.” The woman behind the counter smiled at me. “Is there something I can help you find?”
“Um. Yeah.” I cautiously approached. “Is, uh . . . is Jesse here?”
In an instant, her expression hardened. “Who’s asking?” Icicles hung off every word.
I swallowed. “Garrett.”
Her eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened. “Yeah, I figured as much. He doesn’t want to see you.”
“I know. And I get it. But . . . what happened, it’s not what he thinks. I just—”
The derisive snort told me Jesse had definitely filled her in on how things had gone down. There was no way she thought I was anything less than the world’s biggest asshole.
I cleared my throat. “Look, can I just leave him a message? It’s totally up to him if he wants to hear me out. If he doesn’t, I’ll let it go.” I showed my palms. “I’ll leave him alone.”
She studied me, still cold but not throwing me out. “So if he doesn’t want to hear it, or he decides not to accept your apology”—she spat the word like it was poison—“I won’t see your face in my shop again?”
Oh shit. This was his boss.
I nodded. “No, ma’am. You won’t see me again.”
She watched me, eyes boring holes in my skull. I thought she might send me packing, but after a moment, she pushed out a breath through her nose, grabbed a piece of paper from beside the register, and slapped it down on the counter.
Wordlessly, I took a Deadpool pen from a Spiderman cup and started writing. Trying to, anyway. With her scrutiny and my nerves, there was no telling if I’d manage to come up with something coherent—never mind convincing—but after a few fits and starts, I had the most basic explanation. Short and to the point and hopefully enough, because it was the best I could do now.
Once I was done, I didn’t bother reading it over. I’d only drive myself insane. Instead, I folded the note in half and handed it to her. “Thank you.”
She glared at me, but she took the note.
I waited, not sure what I expected her to say. When she offered nothing, I took a step back from the counter and muttered again, “Thanks.”
I was halfway to the door when her voice stopped me in my tracks: “You know you’re not the first, right?”
Slowly, I turned around. “Sorry?”
She eyed me coldly, my note still in her hand. “He’s been treated like shit for this for the same reason by plenty of guys. So whatever excuse you have?” She gestured with the note and tightened her jaw. “Don’t hold your breath.”
My heart sank even deeper. Lowering my gaze, I nodded. “I’m not. I just want him to know the truth. The rest . . .” I shrugged. “That’s up to him.”
Her expression didn’t change, and she didn’t offer any other commentary, so I continued toward the door. I didn’t look back as I headed outside and started up the street to the Alehouse. The ball was in his court now.
Please, Jesse. Just listen.
Chapter 13
Jesse
As soon
as the door to End o’ Earth closed, I pushed out a breath and sagged against the wall dividing the back room from the shop floor.
“You okay?” Simon asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be.” He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “If you need a minute, you—”
“No, I’m good. I need to get back to work.” I pushed off the wall, rolled my shoulders, and stretched some tension out of my neck as I repeated, “I’m good.”
He eyed me uncertainly but didn’t try to stop me from finishing my task so I could return to the floor. I appreciated the concern, just like I appreciated Lydia handling Garrett. For all we busted each other’s chops, there were few people I could count on like Simon and Lydia.
I probably shouldn’t have been surprised Garrett had come here. Thank God I hadn’t seen him. I’d been happily putting together a box of comics so I could display them out front, when I’d heard that voice, and that had been enough. I’d frozen. Nearly panicked. Nearly cried. What the hell?
Fortunately, Lydia had handled the situation. She hadn’t come back to grab me and have me deal with him. Thank God, because I didn’t think I could face him right now. Not without going to jail or breaking down, and I wasn’t sure which of those options was worse.
“Hey.” Lydia appeared in the doorway.
“Hey. Thanks for . . .” I motioned toward the sales floor.
“Don’t mention it.” She showed me a folded piece of paper. “He said to give this to you.” She held it up but didn’t hand it over. “You want it? Or do you want me to just get rid of it?”
My first instinct was to tell her to nuke it from orbit. Failing that, put it through the shredder. Then nuke it from orbit. I had a feeling I knew what it was—an explanation. Some sort of excuse that would make it my fault or tell me how I’d overreacted. I’d heard it all before and wasn’t interested in hearing it again.
But I was also a goddamned masochist, so I held my hand out for the note.
Lydia hesitated. She probably knew exactly what was going on in my head and was already bracing for impact. Still, she handed me the note.
Before I read it, I offered the closest thing I could muster to a smile. “Thanks again for standing up for me.”
Her smile was also subtle, not to mention a bit sheepish. “Probably wasn’t my place, but it was either that or bludgeon him with something.”
That actually pulled a laugh out of me. “As long as you’d called me out from the back first so I could watch.”
She gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze, but said nothing else. She walked away, leaving me to my note.
I stared down at it for a long moment, thumbing the crease. It was tempting to toss it or burn it or turn it into confetti. I’d already met my monthly quota for ignorant idiots justifying why they wouldn’t touch me without a biohazard suit on. Why subject myself to another round of it?
My heart was in my throat, and I was afraid to read it. I wanted to hear him say it in person. Look me in the eye and fucking say it where he couldn’t hide from how much he was hurting me and how pathetic his stupid excuse was. But then I’d actually hear his stupid excuse, and I couldn’t crumple that up, toss it in a trash can, and set it on fire like I could with this note.
And why the hell wasn’t I crumpling it up and burning it? I couldn’t think of a single reason that didn’t involve torturing myself with the ridiculous hope that he could somehow justify the other night. No, I knew better. I hadn’t misunderstood shit. Maybe he thought he could smooth something like that over, but this wasn’t my first rodeo. There was no way he’d written anything here that would make him any different than the men who’d come—and gone—before him.
So . . . fuck him.
I crunched up the note in my hand and tossed it. It bounced off the wall and into the trash can with a satisfying thunk.
Then I went back to work and didn’t give the note another look.
* * *
I clocked out at the end of my shift and headed home. Even after a couple of reassuring pep talks from Simon and murderous comments about Garrett from Lydia, I didn’t feel any better. My guts were still in knots and I was still grinding my teeth, but hey, at least I could go do that at home now. And there was alcohol there.
There’s also alcohol at—
At the Alehouse.
My feet stopped. I was halfway to my car, but I turned around and glared at the Alehouse sign.
All damned day, I’d been thinking about the note I’d left crumpled in the trash can. I hadn’t been able to make myself read it. Then Dexy had taken out the trash and the point had been moot, but the note was still on my brain. As much as I really didn’t want to hear yet another explanation about why my status was so horrifying, this thing with Garrett didn’t feel . . . done. It wasn’t that I needed closure—it just felt like something else needed to happen. I groaned. Fine. Fine. I’d go hear what he had to say, and then I could hate him for real once he’d confirmed everything I already knew, which basically amounted to him being an ignorant asshole. At least then I wouldn’t have to wonder or make it even worse in my head. Because I would absolutely do that.
With a string of profanity that would have horrified my mother, I shoved my hands into my pockets and headed back up the sidewalk toward the Alehouse.
I stepped into the neon-lit bar, and by the time my eyes adjusted, Garrett had already zeroed in on me. His expression offered nothing. Only that he saw me.
Well, no turning back.
My stomach roiled as I went up to the bar. Even more when he stood in front of me. Somehow I unstuck my tongue from the roof of my mouth and croaked, “Hey.”
“Hey.” He shifted nervously. “You got my note?” He sounded hopeful, but nervous.
“Yeah, I . . .” I chewed my lip and stared at a couple of drops of water on the bar between us. “I got it, but I, uh, didn’t read it.”
Garrett blinked. “You didn’t?”
“No.” I narrowed my eyes. “Whatever it is, you’re going to have to say it to my face.”
He flinched like I’d slapped him. I’d expected him to be annoyed that he’d have to repeat everything he’d written, but that flinch caught me off guard.
Without meeting my gaze, he nodded. “Okay. That’s fair. Let’s not do this in here, though.” He motioned toward the potbellied bald guy at the cash register. “Give me a second to tell my boss I’m stepping out for a minute.”
I nodded, gritting my teeth against the anger and dread. What was I doing?
But I didn’t stop him. When he returned, he led me out the back door of the bar and into an alleyway. It wasn’t one of those creepy piss-scented alleys like you’d find in New York or Seattle—just a narrow gap between the buildings with some cracked concrete, a closed dumpster, and a couple of lawn chairs next to a coffee can full of cigarette butts. And for that matter, it reminded me a bit too much of the talk I’d had with Charlie behind End o’ Earth. Déjà vu all over again. Yay.
And you were expecting . . .?
I should’ve read the stupid note and been done with it. Why did I do this to myself? I shifted uncomfortably, glancing down the alley and wondering how quickly I could get to the end of it and be home free. A few feet away from me, Garrett folded his arms tightly across his chest. Not defensively—more like he was warding off a chill even though the night was kind of warm.
I folded my arms too and did nothing to temper the hostility in my posture. “Okay.” I jutted out my chin and squared my shoulders. “Talk.” And make it quick before I decide I don’t want to hear it.
Garrett took a deep breath.
Before he could speak and before I could stop myself, I snapped, “You want to know why I was alone the night I met you?”
He blinked. “Uh . . . okay?”
“Because the guy I was meeting freaked out after he found out I’m positive.” An ache in my throat warned that my composure wasn’t as solid as I’d hoped. “He was totally in
to me right up until—” My voice cracked, and I clenched my teeth.
“Jesus,” Garrett breathed. “So this was already a raw nerve.”
“You think?” I growled. “And even if it wasn’t, I mean, what did you think—”
“Jesse.” He pressed the air with both hands. “Please. Let me explain myself. Even if it’s not enough, I just need you to know why I freaked out. I promise, it’s not what you think.”
Well, I had said I would, so I gritted my teeth and tightened my arms across my chest. “Fine. Make it quick.”
He swallowed. Then he pulled in another deep breath, hesitated like he thought I might jump in again, and finally spoke. “Before I moved to Bluewater Bay, I was married. To a younger man.” His lips pulled tight for a second, and when he went on, his voice was unsteady. “He was . . . The thing is, I had fifteen years on him, and I just assumed—took for granted, really—that he’d outlive me.”
Something cold somersaulted behind my ribs. I held my breath. This was not the direction I’d anticipated the conversation going, and I had no idea what to say.
Garrett moistened his lips. “We’d both pretty much expected that, you know? We’d planned for it. Made peace with it. We knew anything was possible, but chances were . . .” He made a do the math gesture.
My mouth had gone dry, but I somehow managed to whisper, “What happened to him?”
“Cancer.” The word came out as a barely audible whisper. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he released a long breath. “He was so ridiculously healthy, we all joked at work that he should auction off his sick time for the rest of us to use. Then he . . .” His eyes lost focus. After a long silence, he shook his head. “Anyway. We knew the day he was diagnosed that it was a matter of when, not if. The doctors gave him six months at most, and they made it clear they were being generous.”
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
“He ended up holding on for eighteen.” Garrett’s sad laugh was almost as heartbreaking as what he was telling me. “Stubborn son of a bitch.”
