Pete clenches the cloth in his hand, jaw tightening. Chris’s name was going to come out eventually, sure, but not like that. Not tonight. Not with Tom sitting there, wide-eyed, taking it all in like a court stenographer.
What must Tom think now? That Pete is still hung up on Chris? That this house is one big mausoleum for failed love stories?
Maybe that’s better than him considering what really happened to Chris.
Pete finishes clearing the plates and takes a long breath before walking back to the living room.
James hasn’t moved. He’s staring at the blank television, jaw set, eyes glassy from wine and anger.
“Sam,” Pete says, not looking at him, “why did you bring up Chris?”
Sam exhales a cloud of vapour that curls lazily into the night air before dissipating. “Because it’s true,” he says with a shrug, leaning on the doorframe. “He would have loved that wine.”
“You know what that does to James,” Pete snaps, his voice low, careful not to ignite James further.
Sam smirks. “James can handle it. Can’t you, babe?”
James doesn’t answer.
Pete steps closer, crouching beside the sofa. “James,” he says softly, “thank you for tonight. You knew this was going to be hard. But it was important.”
James turns his head slowly, the look in his eyes enough to still Pete’s breath.
“Important for who?” James asks, his voice deceptively calm.
“For us,” Pete says.
James laughs—short, sharp, joyless—and sits forward suddenly. “For us. Right.”
Pete swallows, tries to steady his tone. “This is what we decided, right? What would be good for us.”
Pete takes a step closer, lowers his voice. “I’m trying to make this work, James. I’m trying to build something good here.” He places his hand on James’s shoulder. Soft, intimate.
Then James shoves him.
Pete stumbles, catches himself on the edge of the sofa, but James is already stepping forward, crowding him.
“James—”
The kick takes him by surprise, catching him in the stomach, knocking the air out of him. He doubles over, the floor rushing up to meet him.
Somewhere above him, Sam chuckles, a low, amused sound, and walks away, the back door sliding shut behind him.
Pete lies there, cheek pressed to the rug, the taste of blood in his mouth.
This is what love looks like, he tells himself.
This is what it costs.
When the house finally falls silent, he pushes himself up slowly, painfully, and sits back on his heels.
Tomorrow, he’ll message Tom.
Tomorrow, he’ll smile, make a joke, keep the illusion alive.
Because Tom believes in him. And that belief — fragile, dangerous — is the one thing Pete can’t afford to lose.
Chapter 16
