I would've taken those crumbs and convinced myself they constituted a feast.
When it was dark and late, and I was accompanied by little more than routines and my precise portions of fish and vegetables, I wasn't convinced I was the older, wiser man I imagined myself to be. My expectations of Wes felt needlessly complex and my response to him petty and small. Even through the rosiest of lenses, we were ages away from any conversation of marriage. It was in those moments I craved the crumbs most, even knowing they'd hurt me all over again.
For all of my work and boundaries and self-awareness, I was still angry and hurt. I'd allowed myself to believe in Wes, believe in us. My bitterness was a wizened old goblin who escorted me everywhere, scowling and sneering at everything in his path. The sun shined too bright, the laughter of children was too loud, humanity was too kind. He gorged himself on resentment and rejected pleasure like it was the next plague. He wanted nothing to do with trivia nights or any other meetup my friends organized. He was content only when occupied with spreadsheets, sweating at the gym, or grousing over my sister's social media. Nowhere did my bitterness grow more acrid than seated at the round table in the attic of the Walsh Associates offices.
The happy, coupled-up love radiating from each point on the circumference had my goblin jumping on the table, kicking over coffee cups and slamming laptops. The simple fact these people all shared their lives with loved ones who could talk about the future and didn't require them to hide any portion of themselves tasted like burnt popcorn. At the mention of Andy and Patrick's wedding, my goblin flopped down onto the tabletop with a pathetic, pained snarl.
"If you'll excuse me," I said, swiping my things from the table. "I have to be across town in ten minutes."
Patrick called after me about signing off on a purchase and sale agreement as I jogged down the stairs but I didn't respond. Even if my world was composed of paper cuts and lemon juice, I'd get it done.
I always did.
22
Wes
There wasno fucking way I was apologizing.
Not a fucking one.
That was my final decision and I wasn't going back on it. It didn't matter how Tom played it. I wasn't in the wrong here. Not at all. And I didn't care if he thought he was avoiding me by staying away from Will's house. I was the one avoiding him.
I could be at his front door in forty-five minutes.
I drummed my fingers on the table. My pregnant sister and her husband were talking about something and I was putting on a decent show of paying attention but the last thing I cared about was the house they were building ahead of the arrival of their first child. Or restoring, or something. I didn't care. I didn't care about anything right now.
Why would I? Tom was out of the picture. The CIA was done with me, along with the rest of the intelligence community. Even Will and Shannon needed a reprieve from my moping, as evidenced by them shipping me off to my sister Lauren's loft for the night.
I didn't need any of them. Not a single one. They could all go fuck themselves for all I cared. And they were wrong. About everything. Tom and the CIA and the whole damn world. They were all really fucking wrong. Except for Abby. That kid was cool. She always let me have the good green crayon when we colored while watchingDaniel Tiger's Neighborhood, she served me the best socks when she grilled them, and she flung her little body at me and halfway choked me to death like she knew what I was going through.
Maybe she did. Kids were perceptive like that, even if they didn't understand the total fucking disaster that was adult relationships. Good for them.
I could be there sooner if I hailed a taxi.
I didn't say anything to Will or Shannon but even without a formal announcement, it was obvious both knew the thing with Tom was finished. I appreciated them giving me a wide berth in that area, even though Will deposited me at the commuter rail station this morning with orders to visit Lauren—or anyone else I needed to see in Boston.
I didn't have much experience with heartbreak but it was obvious mine came with anonymity. My heartbreak wasn't a fit twenty-nine-year-old with sky-high expectations, he was a nameless, faceless theory of a person. He wasin Boston.For all of my brother's fixing, he wasn't going to fix this fuckup. He would've done it by now. He wouldn't have watched while I rage-shoveled a blizzard's worth of snow from his driveway—twice—and then dulled all my aches with Daniel Tiger if he'd meant to step in and put my heart back together.
Everyone had a line. Tom, Will, my father. They all had them.
What would he say if I knocked at his door tonight? What wouldIsay?
Except for me. If I had a line, I hadn't found it yet. I was too busy hopscotching over everyone else's.
After I'd forced a satisfactory quantity of cake into my mouth and praised it as if I possessed the capacity to enjoy anything, I refused Matt and Lauren's repeated offers to drive me back to Will's house. They only agreed to allow me out the door unescorted when I mentioned meeting up with a friend for drinks.
My brother-in-law allotted an obscene amount of time to providing me with directions to a bar I had no intention of visiting but I nodded along while he spoke. There was no need to ruin his night by telling him I'd be able to find my way around this city with a hood over my head and my hands bound. I managed a wink in my sister's direction as she ate the remains of that cake straight off the platter.
Once I reached the ground floor of their building and made my way to the street, I started walking. The night was young as far as city nights went and it didn't take long for me to fold into crowds. I'd always been able to blend in, pick up the local accents, assimilate. I'd always been able to shed myself and become anyone else—and I'd believed that made me stronger.Better. Of course I'd believed it. Hell, my pedigree read like a master class of multiple personalities. It was myjobto be someone else.
The truth was a riddle translated across too many languages to make sense. It didn't mean what I thought it'd meant anymore because somewhere in that original translation, Tom had it right. I'd spent all this time reconfiguring myself to stay safe and now I couldn't distinguish the make-believe from reality. I didn't know which pieces were byproducts of the job, which grew out of fear of my father's disapproval, and which belonged to me. I knew this but I wasn't ready to dismantle the make-believe because what would I do when I discovered nothing belonged to me?
I stopped on the sidewalk across from Tom's blue brownstone, my hands shoved in my pockets. His lights were on but the curtains were drawn and I couldn't see inside. Maybe he was curled up on the sofa, watching serial killer documentaries without me. Maybe he'd moved on with his life and was busy hosting game night. He'd do that, he'd move on. He had no reason to mourn our relationship. He wasn't sprawled on any nursery floors, wishing Daniel Tiger could throw together an episode about coping with breakups. Tom was better than all that.
I stood there for an hour before turning in the direction of the train station.
23
