“Wait, wait, wait.”I did my best to cut him off.“I really think I should go first, if that’s okay.”
Armand swallowed, a knuckle nervously making its way up to his mouth.
Okay, Barclay, you’re already in too deep—you gotta do it.Even if he breaks up with you.“I’m sorry,” I began, knowing that was the tip of the iceberg.“For a lot.First of all, that it’s four in the morning.But I knew you’d probably be up, and I couldn’t sleep, and I had to get this out.”I took a deep breath.“I’m so sorry for how I’ve acted the last few months.I barged into your life, expecting to immediately be part of it.I wasn’t thinking straight, but that’s not an excuse.”My fingertips were cold and shaky.“And I really regret how I acted when you told me ...what you told me.I lashed out and made your trauma about howIwas feeling—”
“I was lying to you,” Armand interrupted, cheeks coloring prettily.God, I was going to miss that.“I pretended I was being open about my past, about everything, and I knew you weren’t bloody stupid, that you knew I was going to meetings, but I hoped you would ...inferwithout me having to do or say anything—” He stopped for breath, his knuckle returning to his mouth.“You said you wanted to go first, sorry.Shutting up now.”
I wanted to smile but my chest still churned.“The point is, I acted horribly the other night.I felt so betrayed, and I made it about me.We’ve both been so swept up in this, we let ourselves get carried away.I think my expectations were completely out of proportion.”
Now for the hard part.Do it, Barclay.You owe it to you both.“My mom’s flying back to California next week,” I whispered, “and I’m going to go back with her.”
Armand crumpled right as the timer went off.
It was bizarre to watch him turn dead-eyed to the oven, pull out two beautiful marbled loaves, and absently set them on the stovetop, keeping his back to me the whole time.I wanted to go to him, to hug him and tell him it was all going to be okay, but that was how we got into this mess in the first place: me taking what I wanted, demanding things I hadn’t earned.
“I’m sorry I lied.”Armand’s voice was low and hoarse.
“You didn’t lie,” I said.“You didn’t tell me everything, and I understand why because that never should’ve happened to you.I just hoped that we could tell each other anything—”
“It’s my go.”Armand’s shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned to face me.I expected tears, but he wasn’t crying.“You have to let me apologize for Jean.For treating the ugly bits of me like they couldn’t hurt you.I didn’t want you to see.”Now Armand looked ill, almost like he had that night in the gallery.“Because some of it is really quite bad, and I ...I can’t even admit to myself that it was ...what it was.”
That was huge, monumentally huge, as Armand stood emotionally vulnerable in front of me, eyes both younger and older than he was.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly.
He laughed bitterly.“It really isn’t, love.”
Hearing him call me that sent a painful spasm up my throat.“I meant it’s okay you didn’t tell me—”
“Itisn’t.”He took off his baking mitts and gripped the counter behind him, knuckles going white.“I put you in danger.I let my ...myneed for delusiontake precedent over your safety.Nothing could be further from okay.And I shouldn’t have called you out the way I did, with, with the ...”
“Eating disorder?”The words felt ridiculous, but I tried to hold on to them.
“Aye.”He ran a hand through his hair, sending up a little cloud of flour.“That.It wasn’t my place, and it certainly wasn’t the time, and I’m sorry.”
My throat had never stopped hurting, and now my eyes prickled.“I'm sorry this happened.That Jean happened.”
“I’m not.”Armand saw my face and amended quickly, “What I mean is, I’m not sorry you got an exhibition, and that Ichika Ito saw how talented you are, and now everyone knows your work is incredible.”
“But that’s not worth—”
“It is.Jean can’t hurt me anymore.Or at least, he shouldn’t be able to.”Armand flexed his hands and stood up straighter.“Don’t let him ruin this; it’s really, truly yours.LikeSurrogate Gooseis really, truly mine.He caused it, aye, but it’s nothing to do with him.It’s mine.AndDead of Summeris yours.”
I was crying.I wanted him to be right.I wantedusto be right.More than anything, I wanted to curl into his arms and pretend none of this had happened.
But it had.
“Thank you.”I sniffled, wiping at my eyes.“It’s a little bit yours too.”
“And the comic’s success is yours.”He gripped a hand in his shirt, somehow leaving another floury handprint.No one could make a mess like this man.I glanced around the kitchen and finally noticed the truly breathtaking number of dishes he’d dirtied.Flour and chocolate was smearedon the walls.How did that even happen?I started laughing through my tears.
“I leave—” I snort-sniffled and indicated the halo of flour, baking chocolate wrappers, and cocoa powder that surrounded him “—foroneday, and you’ve destroyed the place.”
Armand looked around in confusion, then went pink again, and it hurt so much not to hug him.“Aye.Sorry.”Then he swallowed and looked me in the eyes.“Guess I’d better get used to it, again.”
“Or”—I kept his gaze, tears still rolling down my cheeks—“you could clean as you go.”
“Not gonna happen, love.”His breathing had gotten ragged, and he was so beautiful, and I’d had him.I’d had this wonderful man, and I’d ruined it all by being impulsive, and impatient, and greedy.
