by E M Lindsey
Wyatt fought back a sigh and straightened his posture. He had his short cane with him, folded between his hands, and he thumbed the rubber grip as a way of keeping himself occupied. The dips caused by years of wear were comforting in a way he hadn’t expected it to be.
The room was silent a while after that, and he had to assume they were either reading, or watching him for some sort of reaction which proved he was guilty. It was hard not to fidget—he was far past the age of restless youth, but it was difficult when he was the center of attention. He’d spent so long trying not to be that, and now his choice was taken from him.
“You’re aware of the accusations against you?” the man asked.
“I was told this wasn’t a formal hearing,” Wyatt said stiffly. “I have no representation.”
“The incident is still under investigation,” a new person said. His French was accented with something—similar to Ioan, if Wyatt was hearing it right. Not American, something else. “We’re only here to get your side of the story.”
Wyatt fought back a frustrated groan. “I have no side of the story. I understand what my—what M. Evans has told you,” he said, not quite able to choke out the word husband, especially since for the first time ever, his marriage to Ioan made him look worse, “but I was not involved with this incident.”
“Yet, you’re aware of the details,” someone asked. A fifth person, and Wyatt was starting to feel very uncomfortable.
“I was made aware the morning that Ioan was asked to leave the campus,” Wyatt said. It was true. Wyatt was left to his morning classes, only having heard that Ioan had been escorted from the premises after his first block. Then, just before lunch, the same request was made of Wyatt—but he was given no details. He would later learn that it was just minutes after Ioan had confessed to having the affair with the eighteen-year-old that he accused Wyatt of being the mastermind behind it.
They hadn’t spoken since. In fact, Wyatt wasn’t entirely sure where Ioan was, or what his plans were after this was all over. Surely there was no hope for Ioan to salvage his reputation—but Wyatt wouldn’t put it past the man to try something underhanded. Of the two, he’d always been more charming, more sociable, and more liked.
His stomach twisted, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach at the thought of losing everything while Ioan went back to work as though he hadn’t committed such a grievous sin.
“What contact did you have with the student in question?” the man with the accent asked. He had an air of authority about him, like maybe he was head of this committee.
“I haven’t yet been made aware of which student this involves,” Wyatt answered.
There was a scoff, then someone said, “How many students are you in contact with?”
Wyatt’s brows furrowed, and he clenched his hands into fists around his cane. “Ninety, total, as I am a teacher and it’s my job to interact with them. If you’re asking me how many I’ve formed an inappropriate, personal relationship with, then I can safely say none.”
“And you have evidence to corroborate your story?” the accented man asked.
Wyatt closed his eyes, his nose wrinkling. “My email, my phone, my personal computer—all of these things have been confiscated for the investigation, and I can assure you that you’ll find nothing on there.”
“And you’re willing to testify that you had no contact using M. Evans electronics?” one of them pressed.
“That would be impossible,” Wyatt said dryly. “He doesn’t use accessible software.”
“Is that so?” the accented man asked. “Isn’t that a little strange?”
Wyatt’s eyes opened, and he leaned forward, trying to focus his rolling gaze on the man who was as close to in front of him as anyone else at the table. “Maybe I’m a fool for it, but I never thought it was strange. Granted, when we were first married, we had little technology available for me to use. It’s expensive, and in the end, he suggested we save money by keeping it to my devices alone. I suppose it works in my favor this time,” Wyatt finished, sitting back and relaxing his hands. “And perhaps a moment in which my blindness is to my benefit.”
There was a tense, awkward silence, and he knew no one could argue with it. Of course, they would need to gather proof that Wyatt was telling the truth—that there was nothing on his computer or phone, that Ioan never did install the software even when Wyatt said it might be a good idea in case anything happened to him.
He understood why now, in a sick, twisted way. His husband was keeping him locked out to continue affairs with students—and God only knew who else he’d been with in the past. Crisse, how had he not known? He and Ioan had been married ten years—and perhaps yes, he had been willfully ignorant. Ioan was younger, more beautiful, more charismatic, and Wyatt had once felt lucky that the man had wanted him. But now…
He realized what a fool he’d been. He had always loved Ioan for never taking advantage of his blindness—but now it was clear. He had been doing it all along. In a far worse way than anyone had ever done.
The bitterness of it choked him, and all he wanted was to get out of that room. “Are there any more questions?” he managed to ask.
There was the sound of people shifting, a quiet murmur, then the accented man said, “Not at this time. But please don’t leave the city until this matter is resolved.”
As though it was already decided. As though when it was over, regardless of the outcome, Wyatt would need to go. He swallowed thickly and bowed his head, then stood and lengthened his cane. He gave it a few sweeps in front of him, finding the empty chair to his left which helped him orient himself toward the door.
“Do you need assistance?” someone offered, almost as an afterthought.
He didn’t turn back around. “I’ll find my way, thank you.” Because he always did. His brother was waiting for him on the other side of the door, and although the last place he wanted to be was forced home to his tiny little village with nothing for him but his childhood bedroom, he was grateful to have at least that.
Wyatt closed his eyes, Pomme asleep next to him, and listened to the faint murmur of Val Kilmer and Kurt Russell, the pops of gunfire, the nickering of horses. He’d never seen the movie—but he knew every scene by heart. Every footstep, every line, every death. It was the only thing in that moment that brought him comfort—grasping at a moment of his childhood where his father had given a shit about him rather than now, where his father had written him off for fear that Wyatt actually had committed the same sin as his husband. His ex-husband. Or well, soon to be.
“What are you going to do?” Darin asked him in English. Darin was the eldest of the brothers—thirteen years on Wyatt and had always acted a bit like a parent. “Because you look like actual shit.”
Wyatt felt strangely like a scolded child at the moment, not something he was overly fond of considering he was pushing mid-forties and Darin was pushing retirement. Darin lived in Toronto, had a wife, children, grandchildren, a good job, and a nice house. Apart from the children, Wyatt had had all those things not less than a week ago, and now…
He heard Darin pick up the remote and turn the TV off. “Wyatt,” he pushed.
“I don’t know,” Wyatt said. He fell back against the uncomfortably hard hotel bedframe not far from the airport where Darin had flown in. Wyatt could have gone home, but the last place he wanted to be was in the home where his husband had been sleeping with someone else. “I have to wait until the investigation’s over. Ioan’s going back in for questioning tomorrow, and then I’ll be brought in after that.”
“And if they don’t clear your name?” Darin pushed.
Wyatt pulled a face. “I don’t see how they couldn’t. I didn’t know this was happening. Crisse, I don’t…”
“You really had no idea. No hints?” Darin pushed.
Wyatt bristled, and he slipped into French—the language he didn’t have to think so hard in. “No. Do you think I would have stayed married to a man who was fucking his students?
If he’s done this now, there’s no telling how many times he’s done it before. Years…probably years…” He put a hand over his face and shuddered. What he wanted more than anything was to leave—to flee this room, this country, this suffocating weight on him—because anyone who saw him would know now. His husband was a dirty old man and he had stood alongside him for every one of those years. How could people believe he hadn’t known?
Montréal was big, but it was small enough for people to have connections to tiny villages like his. People would know what was happening—they knew Ioan, they knew Wyatt. Word would spread like a wildfire, and he’d never get peace. No one would trust him again.
“I believe you,” Darin said after a minute. “I just…I’m frustrated. If I ever see that little weasel again, he won’t walk straight for a month.”
Wyatt let out a tired chuckle and shook his head. “Not worth it.” He felt Pomme shift against his leg, letting out a sleepy huff. Normally it would have been cute, but now it only served to remind him that his constant companion was on borrowed time. The results from her testing hadn’t come out in her favor. His vet suggested she had weeks left, if that, and all he could really do was make her comfortable. It felt like everything was falling to pieces, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to put them together again.
When he lost Pomme—if he lost his job, and his husband, and his guide all at the same time—he wasn’t sure he’d make it. Swallowing thickly, Wyatt turned on his side and let his fingers push through her soft fur, taking comfort in something he wouldn’t have much longer.
“I’m staying until the investigation’s over,” Darin told him after a long moment of silence. “Emilie’s with Marin and the grandkids in Nova Scotia for the next few weeks, so you won’t be alone.”
Wyatt managed a smile, even if it was just for show. He’d never be completely alone, but part of him wondered if maybe that wasn’t the problem. He’d never been truly independent, even when he wanted to be. There was always someone willing to catch him when he fell. Even when his marriage was over—because there was no coming back from this—he had brothers, he had parents to cushion him. And maybe he didn’t want that. Maybe he wanted to hit the ground, to feel the impact, be forced to claw his way to the surface without being handed a ladder.
Maybe he couldn’t do it, but he supposed he’d never know unless he tried.
Chapter Four
“Wyatt, this isn’t fucking funny,” his brother, Arthur, said. His voice called from the earpiece so loud, Wyatt was pretty sure his seat neighbor on the train could hear it. “Where are you?” Arthur was only a year and a half older than Wyatt, and had been the closest to him until this. Until Arthur realized he had to make a choice between his brother and his best friend. Before Wyatt, Arthur and Ioan had been inseparable, and Wyatt’s eventual marriage had been a blessing, until that turned into the blackest curse.
“I’m…going away for a bit,” Wyatt said softly. He thought about the job he’d been offered—the visa waiting for him. A spur of the moment decision working for a little online publication doing editing. The job paid a third less than his old salary, but the perks were that he could work from home, and escape his oppressive family who wouldn’t stop trying to smother him when his life had gone to shit.
His heart hurt, and he was letting himself feel the full impact of his choice. Pomme was six weeks gone, his marriage five days over, his job a distant memory. Darin had tried to talk his wife into moving back, and it had nearly caused their own separation when she refused.
It took Wyatt stepping in and telling his brother he didn’t need someone uprooting their life for him to stop the man from torching everything he’d built just because they didn’t believe Wyatt could handle pain. That was the crux of it, really. The wound created from people who loved him and wanted him to feel normal, but would never let him believe it.
Had this happened to anyone else—any of his brothers—he’d get a pat on the back and a night out to get drunk, and then he’d be expected to fix his own life. Wyatt wanted that, more desperately than he could find words for. He deserved it—and what a stupid thing to think, really. That he deserved to feel pain, to feel heartbreak, but he was like a man born numb, finally able to feel.
“I’m coming to get you,” Arthur told him. “You have a room here, and give it a few weeks, okay? People’s marriages come back from this sort of thing all the time.”
Wyatt snorted, pinching his eyes shut with his thumb and forefinger, fighting off the urge to rub them. “People come back from their husbands fucking a student, then trying to blame their spouse for it? Tell me, Arthur, how do I forgive him for that? How do I take his hand and tell him that I forgive him for trying to implicate me in a sex scandal that cost me my job and my reputation? I know you two are close friends but…” He trailed off with an aching sigh.
“Your name was cleared,” Arthur said weakly.
Wyatt’s smile was as faint as the soft laugh he let out. “That means nothing. Not really. I was publicly convicted long before they proved that Ioan was just using me as a cover-up. I’m tired, and I can’t…I can’t sit at home and wallow and let you and maman try to live my life for me. I need to do this.”
“You can’t hide forever,” Arthur warned, a bit like a threat.
Wyatt sighed again. “I can certainly try. I’ll call when I can.” With that, he turned his phone to silent and slipped it in his bag. Had he been sighted, he might have thrown it out the damn train window and picked up something new once he got to the States, but he needed it. It was the only guide he had left, and that was another moment of frustration at his forced reliance. But at least it was something of his own. He didn’t need his brother’s arm, or his mother’s interference, or Ioan’s poor choices to dictate who he was and what he was capable of doing.
He might fail at this, it might turn into a spectacular disaster which left him crying and calling for help, but at least then he could say he tried. At least then, he could say he didn’t give up.
The worst thing Wyatt could have possibly done was get drunk in a strange bar, in a small town he’d never heard of. But the bartender had been so nice—a rough, scratchy voice he could have listened to all night, and it was one of the first times on the road he’d felt like someone was genuinely interested in him as a person.
“…so this girl just rips her top off and shoves her tits in his face, and I swear I never seen a man so confused with what to do with a pair of titties in my life.”
Wyatt dropped his head, his stomach aching from how much he was laughing. And yeah, it was likely the alcohol, but it was more than that. This place felt warm, it felt safe, it gave him a sense that he could belong far more than Quatre d’Arbes ever had.
“Oh shit, Jamie,” Ruby said, and Wyatt heard her take a few steps to the right. “You have to meet Wyatt. He came down from uh…what as it again?”
“Québec,” Wyatt offered, which was far easier than explaining that he was from some little shit village no one had ever heard of.
“Jamie’s one of my regulars—he and all the employees at Irons and Works,” Ruby said.
Wyatt frowned as he stuck out his hand in the direction he assumed the man was standing. Ruby’s bar was very dimly lit, which meant he was completely blind there. A soft hand took his a moment later, though, the palm grazed with callouses, but his touch gentle.
“It’s James, actually,” the man said. His words held the ghost of an accent—something southern, but like he was trying to get rid of it. Wyatt was familiar with the idea—many of his classmates had moved to bigger cities, had given up French, had tempered their accents. “Ruby’s the only one here who gets to call me Jamie, and only because I love her.”
“That’s a lie. He does it because he’s scared I’ll cut off his supply,” Ruby said, her voice full of a grin. “Anyway, Wyatt’s sowing his wild oats.”
Wyatt snorted. “Do people really still say that phrase?”
“Why the hell not?”
Ruby defended. “It explains itself.”
“Please don’t learn any English from her,” James said.
Wyatt laughed. “I learned English from birth, in fact. My father was Welsh—spoke English and French at home.”
“Oh yeah?” James asked, and Wyatt heard him take one of the stools next to him. “I barely know my own native shit, but then again I’m from pretty far south, so it’s like a brand-new dialect down there.”
“Yeah, just wait till this asshole gets drunk and starts talking about frozen frogs and pig fuckers or something,” Ruby said.
“I hate you,” James said cheerfully. “I need a new pint, sugar, and whatever my new friend Wyatt’s drinkin’.”
“Your new friend Wyatt needs to be cut off,” Wyatt said for himself, swaying a little. “It’ll be a miracle if I can find somewhere to sleep before I pass out.”
“Actually,” Ruby cut in, and Wyatt immediately panicked because the first thing he’d lamented over was that he had no place to stay, and he was getting tired of traveling. “Wyatt’s looking for a room to rent, and I happened to see yours go up yesterday.”
“Damn, yeah,” James said. “You got any references, Wyatt? A job or anything?”
Wyatt ducked his head. “I have a job, but I…lived most of my life with my family, and my ex-husband and I owned a house before…” He trailed off, trying to get his beer-loosened tongue to stop oversharing. “But it’s not necessary. I’m a stranger, it doesn’t make sense to…”
