“For your apple pie? Gladly.”
“You’re a very sweet man, Colson. I appreciate it.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Millie needed protecting. She was one of those people who only saw good in others. He followed her directions, and as Millie was a big fan of his writing, he told her of his new book idea while peeling and chopping the apples. She laughed and clapped her hands when he told her he planned to use her in his new book.
“Oh, how exciting. You must let me read it when it’s finished.”
For a moment he felt a twinge of regret making her the victim. “I hope you don’t mind me killing you off.”
She brushed away his concern. “Not in the least. If it wasn’t for me, there would be no book. I’m the star of the show.”
He slid the pie into the oven for her, cleaned up the kitchen table, and loaded the dirty bowls and plates into the dishwasher. He rinsed off the knife and several spoons and put them into the dish drain. “Anything else I can do for you before I leave?” He wanted to get home and type out the chapter to upload to the cloud.
“No, I don’t think so. Make sure you come by later for a piece of pie.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. And I’ll bring vanilla ice cream.”
Her laughter was as infectious as a young child’s. “You know my weakness.” Her eyes dimmed. “I’m so glad to see you happy again. You can’t let a bad relationship keep you from enjoying life.”
His throat closed up. Millie should only know it wasn’t his first. It had all started with his parents, old-money Delacourtsfrom Greenwich, Connecticut, who had no use for a gay son. And except for his grandparents, who’d unfortunately passed away, and Hogan, he’d yet to find anyone in his life who cared enough about him to stay.
“I’m fine. Now that I’m writing again.” At the slight pattering sound, he glanced up at the skylight. “It’s raining. I’d better go, but I’ll check in with you later.”
“I know.” Her laugh was merry. “You don’t want to miss out on your pie.” She walked him out. “And don’t forget the ice cream,” she said cheerfully.
He kissed her cheek. “I won’t. Make sure you lock the door after me.” To be certain, he tested the knob afterward.
The rain had petered out, but a fine mist replaced it, cooling the sultry air, and after stopping at home to drop off his notebook, Colson decided to walk to Brooklyn Bridge Park. The area—usually crowded with throngs of tourists during the summer—was now mostly deserted. The earlier shower, quick as it was, must’ve driven them away, for which Colson was grateful. A few hours in the coffee house and then time with Millie had left him peopled out.
Head down, shoulders hunched, he walked along the path that wound by the river. The benches were too wet to sit, and he didn’t feel like standing at the railing, so he continued on, past the rocky inlet where ducks quacked and swam, and the barbecue grills, and the bobbing boats of Brooklyn Sail. Some parents braved the weather and stayed in the playground with their children, pushing them on swings or reading to them. He smiled at their innocence, wishing he could remember ever being that close to his mother or father.
Doubling back, he walked through to the other side, past the Time Out Market, which he noted was crowded with all the people who’d escaped the earlier rain. He headed over to thebeach area, where he found a rock and sat, staring into the gray waters of the East River sloshing at the shoreline.
The disintegration of his relationship with Evan could be pinpointed to the beginning of his burnout. And Evan, who’d met him during the good times, hadn’t been prepared for his slow slide from celebrated author to morose, introspective hermit. Later on, he’d realized that was when the cheating had started. Colson had been so lost in his own head and wrapped up in his inability to write, he hadn’t even noticed that he and Evan hadn’t had sex in months.
“You’re supposed to stay and support your partner. Isn’t that what being in love means?” He watched as Evan packed his suitcases. “It’ll get better once I start writing again. I know it will.”
Evan zipped up a rolling bag filled with his toiletries. “And if that never happens? What then, Cole? I have a life too.” His black eyes darkened, and Colson searched their depths, but Evan had proved adept at hiding, and Colson was unable to read his intent. “I did support you. For almost two years, I sat and encouraged you, putting my life on hold. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up, and I can’t sit around by myself anymore.”
“And you haven’t been?” He’d suspected Evan of cheating after he’d made excuse after excuse for late-night meetings keeping him at the office. Evan would come in after midnight, sometimes smelling like strange cologne and alcohol. Colson didn’t have the energy to confront him, perhaps because he knew Evan would leave, and he’d be alone.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Evan left him anyway.
Evan shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d care. We’ve been more like roommates than lovers.” He finished the last of his bags and reached out to put a hand on Colson’s cheek, but he jerked away from the touch. “I guess I should’ve told you about the joboffer, but I kept thinking you’d start writing again, and I hoped everything would be fine. Maybe you’d even want a change of scenery and you’d come with me. But it’s not going to work,” he hastened to add, likely to prevent Colson from agreeing. He lowered his gaze and sighed. “It’s only for a year. Maybe we can see if we can work it out.”
“Youguessyou should’ve told me.” Colson pulled his phone from his pocket and found Evan’s Instagram account. The pictures of him and another man hugging, having dinner with large groups of friends, and kissing while visiting famous Paris landmarks—Versailles, the Eiffel Tower, the winding steps of Montmartre—a trip the two of them had planned but never taken—shouldn’t have hit him so hard. It shouldn’t have hurt him to read the caption “Best day ever” because Evan had said that exact same thing to him when Colson had invited him to move into his town house. There had never been any intention to work it out—he hadn’t heard from Evan since he left and didn’t expect to.
With shocked sadness, he scanned Evan’s photos, realizing he’d deleted all the pictures of the two of them. Their vacations, events attended together, anniversary dinners, and sweet sleepy moments of the two of them cuddled in bed.
Years wiped away. As if he’d never existed.
Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe the reason he couldn’t write was simple. Evan left and took with him Colson’s soul and everything that had made life beautiful and worth living.
“Fucking hell.” He pounded his fists on the rocks and brushed the tears off his face. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—live squirreled away any longer while the world marched on. This idea for the new book was nibbling at his brain, the characters and plot points unfolding before his eyes. He itched to write.
“You’re back,” he muttered like a mantra. “You are back. Let’s do this.”
He remembered to pick up the vanilla ice cream from the supermarket, not understanding why the clerk pushed the container toward him without meeting his eyes. Upon his return home, his reflection provided the answer—streaks of blood from his bruised hands covered his cheeks.
