“Only thing I ever wanted to be, I already was,” he whispered, shaken at the reminder of how true that was, feeling lost all over again.
They sat in silence for awhile, and Abe thought Bart might leave it at that. But suddenly, Bart began relating his own story.
“I wanted to be a painter, once,” Bart snorted. “Loved to paint—landscapes, portraits—” he drifted off. “So when they told me I was going blind, I painted as much as I could, for as long as I could—sold as many as I could find buyers for and turned myself into a painter. It was all I’d ever wanted, so I made sure to become it—I was around 14, and my works were probably fucking rubbish, but—” he snorted. “Tell you what—the paintings of a kid going blind sell like hot cakes!”
Aberlour had to laugh at Bart’s self-deprecating humor.
“And then I went blind, and I couldn’t be a painter anymore—and I just remember thinking—what now? And every time I asked myself that question, I couldn’t see anything there.”
Bart couldn’t keep a straight face and Abe didn’t miss the smirk at his pun.
“Fucker,” Abe muttered because he knew how much Bart relished his ability to annoy Aberlour with his ridiculous puns.
“But you know what I realised?”
“What?”
“I’d loved painting, but I loved art more. So, I sat down at the piano and taught myself to play, and I found art again.”
“I failed arts and crafts in high school,” Aberlour muttered, skirting the question. Bart was not fooled by this deflection, nor was he to be deterred from finding out what he wanted to know.
“Whatwereyou, before?”
It felt—terrifying, to be asked so directly to put himself and his life on display. He nearly pulled away so he could get to his feet and insist it was time to go, but he forced himself to stay. For once, he had to find it within himself not to balk at the idea of being known by someone other than Oli.
“A Marine—a squad leader,” he began. He thought of the stories. Of his life. Of the memories he’d laid there on the hot sand for Bart to hear. “A son. A brother. A perfect shot—” hedidn’t dare say the last one, but it hung in the air, and he was fairly certain Bart heard it.
“Sounds to me like you were looking to belong, and willing to do anything to make that happen,” Bart said with a smile. “Maybenowyou should find someone else to belong to—someone deserving of you.”
“And how does that answer thewhat?” Abe asked, more than a little confused and reeling from Bart’s advice.
He sighed and there was genuine emotion there, like he wished Aberlour had figured it out by himself.
“Because next time you’re at the beach, and someone asks youwhatyou are—I hope you’ll say you’re happy. That’s what youwere, once. With your men, with your—Darling.Find someone else to care for. Learn to be happy again.”
Epilogue
June 2020
Aberlour wasn’t sure what he was doing here. It had been a spur of the moment decision. One made after too much bourbon, and too many tears. If he had a lick of common sense left, he’d turn around and walk right out of this bar.
He didn’t.
Even as he’d dialed the phone, Aberlour hadn’t known what he would say. He’d also known it was a stupid idea. He hadn’t even expected the other man to agree. After all, it had been years since he’d gotten that scribbled phone number. But he had picked up, and Aberlour had been so rattled that he’d automatically blurted out the name of his usual watering hole. Now as he walked over to his favorite spot near the dart board, he was rethinking his choice. Why had he invited him here? It was a horrid place, full of horrible memories, and even worse men.
But it was too late. He was waiting for Abe, his gaze fixed on him, as if daring him to meet it and run the other way.
Aberlour was not intimidated.
He looked the same—outwardly, anyway. The same sharp blue eyes, the same broken nose. His smile lines had deepened even further—perhaps even blurred. He looked softer now, even with the scars covering almost half of his face. Clearly, the world had been beating on him—Abe supposed it had done the same to them all.
“Jarhead,” Shawn O’Reilly greeted him, a smile never quite reaching his eyes. He didn’t attempt to get up. Aberlour was grateful. He took a seat across from him at the table.
“Frogman,” Abe replied in the same tone.
They stared at each other for a long time in silence—and Abe knew this silence well. It was a busy one—filled with topics too dangerous to touch. Covered in landmines that might send them spiralling if they dared to touch them.
But Aberlour had always been an idiot—and he trampled all over them first.
