“I’m not leaving you,” he stated calmly.
“You could—” Tanner began.
“Fuck that noise! No, I’m not leaving you.”
Tanner seemed amused by his certainty and nodded.
“What do you mean you’re okay with it happening again?” Lance asked, trying to get them back on track.
“I lost three years of my life in the sandbox. Three years of my life and a big-assed chunk of my sanity are gone. I’m not wasting any more time. The memories, the panic, all of it, isn’t what fucked me up the most yesterday. It was the shame. I just kept thinking—what a fucking loser I was. Over and over. I just got caught in a nasty little loop of my own misery and shame and I couldn’t break free of it,” he admitted, shaking his head. “And then the little girl’s father came over, and he fucking thanked me—and—I kept thinking of Ahmed.”
That was a name Lance had never heard before. Well—no, that wasn’t exactly true. He’d heard it dozens of times, but onlyduring Tanner’s nightmares, and he’d never dared to ask any questions about him.
“Ahmed?” Lance was concerned about whether Tanner was really ready to talk about this person.
“Ahmed, yeah. He was the kid I was locked up with over there,” Tanner explained, swallowing against a tight knot of emotion that formed whenever he thought of Ahmed. “Well, he was 16 by the time I left, but—he was a kid to me.” He gazed blankly at his hands, lost in memory. “His father got in trouble with the militant group that had imprisoned me, so they kidnapped Ahmed and held him for ransom. The father had no choice but to infiltrate state government—” he shook his head, not wanting to talk about the kid’s father. “Ahmed sat across from me in that fucking cell for three years, but in the end, I left without him.”
Lance could see and feel Tanner’s guilt as he relived those days in the desert. “I’d never told anyone about him, but after last night—” he shook his head. “After the dadthanked me,that was all I could think about—all I coulddreamabout,” he said shakily. “I told Dr. Jones this morning, and she said—she said the best way to get over my guilt was to confess it to someone who matters. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“Why, Tanner Casey, are you saying you care about me?” Lance asked with a teasing smirk that lightened the mood.
Tanner chuckled and looked away. “You’re a fucker,” he muttered accusingly. Lance chuckled in response, placing a hand on the back of Tanner’s neck, gently rubbing the skin behind his ear as he waited for Tanner to look at him again. When he did, Lance met his gaze directly.
“I’m sorry about Ahmed. It wasn’t your fault.”
Tanner shook his head and opened his mouth to argue, but it was now Lance’s turn to silence Tanner with a quick kiss.
“It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.” Lance repeated, sternly. “You weren’t responsible for him. You did what you could in an impossible situation. The guilt you’ve been carrying around doesn’t belong to you. It’s not yours. You don’t need it. You don’t deserve it.” Lance must have said just the right thing, in just the right way, because Tanner finally nodded his agreement.
Wanting to offer comfort and reassurance, Lance wrapped his arms around him, pulled him against his chest, and kissed his ear and neck.
“This got so gay, so quick,” Tanner mumbled against his chest. Lance burst into laughter and dragged Tanner up to their bedroom.
Chapter 20
Lance hadn’t spoken to his mother since the 4th of July after-party shitshow. Six weeks had passed in blissful silence. He’d never bothered to respond to any of her messages, and didn’t feel even remotely guilty about that. He had no desire whatsoever to ruin his newfound freedom by dealing with the Wicked Witch of the Midwest. But today, when her caller ID popped up on his phone, he couldn’t seem to look away.
They had been chilling on the couch watching baseball. Lance didn’t care for the sport too terribly much, and Tanner didn’t know or care what was happening on the screen. But since they were both stuffed to the gills from Sunday dinner and pie—lots and lots of apple pie—at Tanner’s mom’s house, the game was just background noise. Tanner was lying half on top of him, his head cushioned on Lance’s shoulder, feet propped up on the arm of the couch. Lance had his own propped up on the ottoman.
The buzzing phone was setting right there within easy reach.
“You should probably get that,” Tanner said, off-handedly, like he was commenting on the latest call of the umpire.
“I have nothing to say to her.” Lance tried, and failed, to keep the venom out of his voice.
“She was a cunt. You deserve way better, and honestly, I kind of want to push her and her color coordinated outfits into a lake while she’s wearing concrete shoes, but—life’s too short to stay mad at your mother.” Tanner sighed heavily as if despising his own advice.
Lance opened his mouth to respond, but the phone fell silent. They both stared at it. The missed call on the screen was like a finger pointing at him accusingly.
“Not tonight,” he said with cold finality.
Tanner reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze, as he posed the question, “What if she’s coming around and wants to beg for your forgiveness?” Gee whiz—was he ever milking the devil’s advocate plea for everything it was worth or what?
“What if she’s calling to recommend a good priest for our exorcism?” Lance fired back.
Tanner snorted in response as the phone started buzzing again.
“Invite him to come right over—exorcism ought to be more entertaining than this fucking game,” Tanner suggested, nodding towards the TV.
