Kenneth was still snoring on the couch, so Seb left him there and let himself into the spare bedroom. He slipped into clean briefs and lay down, even though he knew sleep would escape him.
On his night stand, the phone flashed with a text message from Oliver.
Call me.
He stared at it, chewing his lip, then finally flipped through screens until he got to his voicemail.
“You havethree new messages,” the automated greeting said.
“Seb?” Martin’s voice was breathless, and the flutter of wind over the receiver said he was outside. He might have left this message minutes after Seb had walked away from him. “Seb, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have talked to Oliver. But you wouldn’t talk to me. Please come back.”
Seb deleted the voicemail. The next one played.
“Hi, it’s Martin again. It’s morning, and you’re not—Oliver is still coming today. I know he wants to talk to you. We could meet you at the diner if you—I don’t know. Call me if you can.”
Seb stared at the ceiling as he listened to Martin’s sad voice, and regret pricked at his skin. Martin didn’t deserve this; he only wanted to help. It was better that Seb had left before Martin was consumed by the disaster Seb left in his wake.
The third message was from Oliver and came in while Seb was out with Kenneth.
“Hey, it’s Ollie. I came to see you, and you weren’t there. I saw Martin, though. You were an ass to him, I hope you know that. I also know you’re hiding out at Kenneth’s. If that’s what you have to do, that’s fine, but call Martin and tell him where you are. He’s worried, and for whatever reason, he cares about your dramatic ass. You can give me the silent treatment, but he deserves more than that. I’ll come down there to drag you back to Seacroft if I have to, and then—”
Seb deleted the rest of it.
He thumbed back to his texts and hit reply to Oliver’s last message.
I’m fine. Don’t call me again.
He flipped through a few more contacts until he found Martin’s and hesitated. He wanted to send the same message, but he owed Martin more. Or less. If he said nothing, Martin would get on with his life.
He’s worried, and for whatever reason, he cares about your dramatic ass.
No one had cared in a long time. The realization hurt. Oliver might, but overcoming decades of sibling squabbling and family baggage was hard. Kenneth cared, but only when and how it suited him.
Martin, though...Seb could still feel the warm press of Martin’s leg against his thigh, trying to warn him off as he launched himself toward making a spectacle over a family dinner. He could see Martin’s eyes reaching for him across a crowd as Martin stammered his way through a welcome speech meant for the community and delivered entirely to Seb, like he was some kind of lifeline.
Martin cared, but he’d settled his hope on the wrong person.
I’m not who you think I am.
He sent the message before he could second guess himself.
