She’d removed her makeup, and her hair was up in a messy bun. He’d never seen her like this. Abby was always well put together. Always polished—respectable.
“I’m just putting out the fire and I’ll be on my way.” He completed the task of dousing the fire and then straightened up to face her.
Strangely enough, this was the first time they’d ever been alone together. Oliver had always been present, acting as both a buffer and a moderator.
He didn’t know how to interact directly with her. Didn’t know where to stand or what to say.
“Don’t bother,” she said, shaking her head. Her shoulders were slumped, sounding tired but resolute. “He’s in the room downstairs. I put some of his old clothes in the bathroom. They should fit you.”
“Why?” Aberlour asked, more than a little confused.
She cocked her head to the side and bit her bottom lip, then she looked away as though unable to stand the sight of him.
“I know you think this—” she gestured to the house and the backyard. “Was just a façade, but it wasn’t. He loves me, and his kids, and his life, and—” she swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I love him. And I had him,” she added with a shrug that didn’t come across as casual at all. “And although he loves me, he always loved you more, and he deserves—he deserves to love like I did. He’s a great husband, and an even better dad, and he deserves this.”
He could barely stand the sight of her, but he forced himself to continue to face her.
There was an emotional strength to her that was remarkable, all things considered. She had an air of resolve and determination that she carried with her now that Aberlour reluctantly admired.
Aberlour could never have acted this way. He’d have burnt the world down before he’d given Oliver up. It wouldn’t have mattered what Oliver would have deserved. He’d have been incapable of what she’d just done. Too selfish to have extended this level of consideration on Oliver’s behalf. Maybe that did not speak well of him to be that way, but that’s just the way he was.
“I hate you, Gavin Aberlour. I hated you the moment I laid eyes on you.”
Her eyes glittered with a kind of hatred that Aberlour has previously reserved for enemy combatant situations. But, in this instance, he understood and accepted it for what it was.
“Thank you,” he said, because—she deserved it.
Without another word, she turned and walked back into the house, head held high, back straight, ready to face the war all by herself.
He waited for a few minutes before going in to change and then find his Oliver.
The last time Abe had slept next to Oliver, they’d been hours away from the funerals of their best friends. As he crawled into bed, moving carefully so as not to disturb Oli, he couldn’t help wondering how many hours he had left before he had to bury Oli.
“I’m cold, Abe,” the other man muttered, reaching back for Aberlour’s arm.
Aberlour wrapped his right arm around Oliver’s torso, inwardly cursing at the diminished size of his love.
Like holding a corpse.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“I always knew it was you.”
Oli—heartbreaking and beautiful, now just a soul hanging onto life by a slender thread.
He squeezed Oliver closer, very gently pressing himself against Oliver’s back to share his warmth. Maybe if he pressed him close enough, he’d warm him back to life. Maybe they’d wake in the morning to find the Oliver who Aberlour remembered so fondly.
“Abby lent me your old clothes from basic training,” Aberlour remarked as he snuggled closer to Oliver.
“She deserved better,” Oliver commented pensively.
Better? Better than a dying husband? Better than a husband who’d loved someone else? Better than a family with two beautiful children and a seemingly happy marriage?
“Do you love her?”
“Yes,” Oliver replied without hesitation. “I love her as much as I can.”
And he believed him. Aberlour hummed. This at least, was a relief. Their whole story—Abby and Oli—it had caused him a great deal of suffering and soul searching, but at least now he knew it hadn’t all been in vain.
