by Zoe York
They were strangers now, and that hurt all over again, her saying it that way.
He’d done that. He’d ghosted her.
Impotent rage boiled inside him, at himself, at the situation.
Tell her. Just fucking— He sat down, braced his arms on his knees, squeeze his hands together until his knuckles turned white, and then looked up at her. “I went to see Evan. To talk to him about what you said, that I…checked him out.”
Her eyes flared, and she nodded, a tiny, short confirmation that she knew what they were talking about.
“I confronted him. Demanded to know exactly what he said to you. What right did he have to tell you my secrets, and he…didn’t buy that. It got heated.”
“Oh, Brent,” she sighed.
He shook his head. Yeah, he’d have to tell her about throwing the punch, but first— “I don’t know how to say this. I’ve never said this out loud to anyone. “He’s not wrong about me, Jess. I’m attracted to men. I always have been. You know that now, obviously.”
“I do.”
“I’m sorry you found out that way. I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to tell you myself a long time ago.” He paused, and she didn’t say anything. She was just looking at him, but there was a gentleness to her expression that unlocked something inside him, and the rest of what he wanted to say suddenly spilled out. “It was something I just ignored as a fantasy for a long time. I need you to know, you were never any kind of beard for me. Not really. I loved you. Love you, still to this day. And I—everything we had together, it was real. Everything I said about how I felt about you, and wanted you, that was real. I’m attracted to men, but I’m also attracted to women—maybe not as strongly, I don’t know—and I have always, will always, be attracted to you.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip.
Maybe that had been the wrong direction to go. “Say something. Please.”
Jess didn’t know what to say. She’d been prepared to be angry. She’d been angry. And hurt.
But now, looking at Brent, she just felt a lot of big, squishy feelings. Sadness and empathy. Gratitude that he’d finally opened up, albeit belatedly.
“It’s nice of you to think of my feelings,” she finally said. “This is a big deal for you.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“I’m proud of you. That took a lot of guts.”
“There’s more.”
She braced herself. “Okay.”
Brent took a long, sobering breath. “I told you we got into it a bit. We were both yelling. And then—I don’t know how it happened, exactly, but one minute we were snapping at each other, and the next… He kissed me.”
“Oh!” Her eyes were as wide as saucers, she could feel them, but… oh. It was a bizarre thing to think about. She’d kissed Evan. He’d kissed the hell out of her.
And then he kissed her husband.
She was supposed to be jealous, she was sure of it. So much anger had zinged through her over the past week, at the secrets Brent had kept from her.
But now, hearing this revelation—having him share this secret with her, freely—she wasn’t angry.
Evan kissed Brent. That image stormed through her mind. How big he was, how commanding.
Heat pooled low and hungry in her belly. Was it inappropriate to ask for details on that? On how it felt, and looked like, and how long it lasted. Was there biting involved, and maybe hair pulling …
“That’s all you’ve got to say? He made me drive all the way back to tell you, and you just say … oh?”
She blinked. “Uh… What else do you want me to say?”
He frowned. “I don’t know.”
She pulled herself together, back to the cool, collected ex-wife. The mask she was starting to get comfortable in. “I’m not going to be hurt, if that’s what you are looking for. I don’t have any claim to Evan. He’s kissed a lot of people.”
“That’s not why I told you.” Brent scooted forward on the couch, his right leg bouncing nervously. “He’ll tell you, too. He said that. He said he doesn’t keep secrets, and wouldn’t keep the kiss from you, because he wants to see you again.”
“He does?” Jess had to fight back a grin. She failed miserably when Brent gave her a pained look. “What? He’s hot. And I’ve had a long, long dry spell.”
“You don’t need to rub it in.”
“It was your choice that I had a dry spell,” she reminded him. “Why are you telling me? Are you jealous?”
“Damn straight I am.”
“Well you should know Evan isn’t really a one-person type of man, so if you’re going to be jealous that he wants to date me, know that’s pretty standard for him.”
“I’m not jealous of you, I’m jealous of him,” Brent muttered. He lifted his head and glared at her. “I know it makes me a hypocrite, because I left, but I’m not okay with the thought of you dating.”
“What the actual fuck?” She glared right back. “That’s a bullshit thing to say.”
“I know.”
“What kind of double standard type of patriarchal madness is that?”
“It’s not a double standard,” he said, his voice a heavy rasp in the silence. “I’m a monk, I swear.”
She was genuinely shocked. Blinking, she shook her head. “You haven’t dated anyone?”
“No!” The single word exploded out of him. “God, no. I’m a fucking mess. I’m not fit for basic human conversation, let alone trying to navigate more complicated shit like a relationship.”
Her heart crawled into her throat and took up residence as a nervous lump. “Hook-ups?”
He shook his head sharply. “Not looking for that.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Peace, I think.” He let his head hang down, stretching his neck to the left, then the right, before slowly lifting his gaze to find hers. “And answers. I knew—I know I’m attracted to men. But until I confronted Evan, it didn’t occur to me on any level that I wasn’t gay and lying to myself. When I got all—look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I got kinda possessive over you. Macho bullshit. And he asked me how I felt about you, if I still wanted you. Of course I do. So I’m not gay. I’m bisexual. Brand new information for Brent Doran, idiot, age thirty-five. That’s a fucking head trip, you know? And I don’t want to lie to you ever again, so I don’t want to sit here and say I’ve got the answers when I’m still full of questions.”
She rolled her neck, all of her muscles suddenly achey. “Do you want a cup of tea? I want to keep talking, but I need to stretch my limbs, too.”
“Sure.”
“Follow me into the kitchen.” She made sure to smile as she stood up.
He returned the tentative expression.
So she held out her hand. It wasn’t conscious. It just happened. One minute they were exchanging smiles, the next her fingers were reaching for his.
And when he took them, when he wrapped his hand around hers, her heart relaxed and that lump in her throat eased.
She led him into the kitchen, where she put on the kettle and grabbed two mugs and the teapot. “Black tea?”
“Yes. Please.”
They didn’t talk as they waited for the water to boil. Once the kettle whistled, she brewed the tea and busied herself with grabbing milk and the sugar bowl.
Brent watched her the whole time.
When she poured their cups, he doctored his up the way he liked it, then leaned back against the counter, his hands wrapped around the ceramic.
Hers was too hot to hold, so she set it on the counter.
He gave her a half-crooked smile. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“That kiss with Evan—that was the first time I’d ever kissed a man.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Wow.” She thought about what that meant. “Not even a long time ago? Before we met? At college?”
“Never.”
“So no one-time-at-band-camp
secrets that tore you apart when we were together?” She was joking, and he laughed. That laugh did good things for her soul.
“Nope.” He sobered up and grimaced. “What kind of porn I looked at…that tore me up. I can admit that. But there’s no history of secret kissing with men. I wish there were, because then it maybe wouldn’t have had to be a secret between us.”
“So what now?”
“I don’t know. Evan suggested therapy.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“He actually yelled it at me, after I punched him, so I’m making it sound better than it was. It was a rough conversation.”
“You punched him?” She set the mug she was holding down on the counter with a heavy clatter, and crossed her arms. “You punched him, and you led with the fact that you kissed him instead?”
“One seemed more relevant to the secrets between us.”
“It’s not okay to punch people.”
“Obviously.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“I like how you assume I couldn’t take him.”
“He’s a beast.”
Brent laughed. “Okay, I couldn’t take him. I stand here out of his good graces only. I’ll talk about that in therapy.”
“You’re serious.” A bittersweet pang zapped through her. She’d tried to talk about couples counselling before, but it had never gone anywhere.
He nodded, and the way his gaze raked over her face told her that he knew she was remembering those conversations. “I need to sort my own shit out. When I do that—if I do that—then if you’re interested, we could go together. I might need some help in sharing stuff from the past.”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay. I’ll ask again in the future.”
“This conversation should have happened a year ago,” she reminded him. She was moving on. She didn’t have any room in the moving-on plan for therapy with her ex. “And now—”
“Now, what?”
She glanced around the kitchen they’d painted together. She’d imagined hosting dinner parties in this space, but that had never happened. Her life here had never been what she’d wanted.
It was time to move on.
“I bought a new house yesterday. Saw it at four in the afternoon, put in an offer in at five. It’s conditional on the sale of this place, so I’ll be listing it tomorrow.”
10
“You’re moving.” Brent nodded slowly, processing the news. It made sense. New house, new start.
“We’ll both get some cash out of the sale,” she said.
He didn’t give a fuck about that. “Where did you buy?”
She took a long, slow inhale. “Wardham.”
He shook his head. “Pardon?”
“I’ve been spending a lot of time there, and I’m working—”
“That’s where you were yesterday?”
She frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I came here to see you first. Before I went to talk to Evan. And you were there?”
“I— I’m there a lot, Brent. What’s your point?”
He didn’t have one. Regret seared through his chest. “Nothing. You found a place that quickly, eh?”
“I met a real estate agent who had the perfect place listed. It was half the price I think I can get for this place, so I’ll be able to afford it no problem. And it’s beautiful.” There was something bittersweet the way she said that last bit.
Then it hit him. She’d said exactly the same thing about this place when they first saw it. “It’s beautiful.” And all he’d been able to think at the time was that he didn’t deserve this beautiful woman in this beautiful house.
He’d been right.
“I’ll help you move,” he said gruffly. “Whatever you need.”
“I’ll hire a company.”
“I can—”
“I need to do this on my own.” She smiled tightly. “And no offence, but you haven’t been easy to get ahold of.”
He laughed sadly. “Yeah. Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“I know. You’ve been going through some shit, clearly.”
“I’m trying.”
“You aren’t mad that I’m leaving?”
“How can I be mad? I left first.”
“Good.” Now her smile was softer again.
“Can I give you a hug?”
She nodded wordlessly, and he crossed to her.
Deja vu hit Jess like a ton of bricks as Brent crossed their kitchen—her kitchen, soon to be someone else’s kitchen, but once it had been theirs—with his arms stretched out wide.
She let him fold her in against him, but as his hand smoothed over the middle of her back, she was overcome by feelings far too familiar to be comfortable. This was their first physical contact in fifteen months. He was big, and warm, and solid, and he smelled like home. Some of her bravado and cool slipped away, and she was glad he couldn’t see her face right now as she reeled internally—and externally, too.
“This is nice,” Brent said quietly.
Her heart ached. It was. She swallowed around her sadness and told herself to get past the what-ifs and deal with the this-is-it feelings. This was what she got, and it was better than being ghosted by a thousand percent. She squeezed gently, and he returned the pressure.
He held the hug so long she started to think he might never let go, and that did awful things to her insides. Awful good, awful scary. And when he stepped back, his eyes were wet.
That slayed her more than anything else.
“I miss you,” he said.
Fuck.
“Don’t make me cry,” she whispered. “That’s not cool.”
“Sorry.”
But she missed him, too. “You were my only friend here, in a city of nearly half a million people. I know you’ve got people at the station, but—”
“You are my only friend, Jess. I know that’s fucked up. But the last year has been fucking lonely.”
“You should find some new friends.”
“I will.” He searched his face. “I’m going to a gay club on the weekend.”
She held her hand up for a high-five.
He slapped it lightly and laughed. “Never thought we’d do that.”
“Nope. But I’m glad for you. I am.”
“And I’m glad you’re moving on with a new start in a new town. I really am.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll talk again,” he said quietly. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”
She didn’t actually expect that he would. It was one thing to get up the courage to come clean once. It was another to radically change one’s entire ability to communicate regularly.
But when she woke up the next day—after a restless, tossing and turning kind of night—there were two messages.
Brent: Morning. I can still feel that hug. Do you want to have coffee on the weekend? I’m going to try to convince you to let me help you move, fair warning.
Evan: Did Brent call you? We should talk if he didn’t. And I’d like to talk even if he did.
Well.
She read both messages over multiple times before tossing her phone beside her on the bed and kicking her feet. Maybe she should feel frustrated, but the stupid big grin on her face betrayed that she was anything but.
After a long drought, Jessica Doran had the friendship of her husband again. It wasn’t exactly the attention she wanted from him, but she’d missed him. It was…nice. And, because the universe was feeling kind, she also had the eye of a very sexy vintner. That was even nicer.
These were not the worst problems to have, but they were still problems. Oh man. Oh men. What was she going to do?
Packing and working. That’s all she ended up doing for the next week, except for two short breaks. As promised, Brent took her out for coffee on the weekend and did his best to convince her he could help her move. She dodged the question and poked at him about getting out there to make some gay friends. He dodged that and brought the conversation back
around to moving help.
When she headed home, she was grinning like an idiot.
And then on Monday, Evan texted and said he was driving through on his way to Toronto, and did she want to grab a drink?
Yes, yes she did.
It wasn’t a date. He was a concerned friend, nothing more, but Brent’s outburst—He wants to fuck you—rocketed around in her brain.
Did he? Maybe.
But if he did, he would have to make that clear. Jess wasn’t on the hunt. Not yet. Maybe after she moved, after she was settled in a new home, she would be ready to start dating. Right now she was doing some much belated healing.
So she met him at an upscale restaurant with a bar just off the highway.
Evan was nursing a glass of water when she slid onto the barstool next to him. “Hello again,” she said, brushing her fingers over his shoulder.
He turned and gave her a one-armed hug. “How’s it going?”
“It has been quite the week.” She paused long enough to accept a drinks menu from the bartender. “Are you drinking anything stronger than that?”
“Yeah, sure. What are you thinking of getting?”
“Gin and tonic.”
He nodded at the bartender. “Make that two.” Once they were alone, he cocked his head to the side. “Tell me about your week.”
“Well, I… I told you I talked to Brent.” They’d texted about it a bit, but Evan hadn’t pried.
Evan searched her face, his gaze keen and curious. “And it went well.”
“It did. Of course it’s a shock to find out someone you shared a life with has a different identity than you assumed, but…he is who he is. I love him, you know? So I love him for being true to himself. Bruised heart and all. I can deal. And maybe now we can build a new friendship.”
Evan frowned. “Is that what he said he wanted?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s what I want. It’s time for me to draw some firm boundaries.”
His frown didn’t lessen. “Hmmm.”
“What?”
“I think he’s still hung up on you.”
“No. And I’ll tell you how I know. The other big thing I did this week was buy a new house—in Wardham.”
