The phone rang again. He felt it in his back pocket, vibrating, jumping, demanding that Aberlour accept the call. He couldn’t. Not here, not yet.
Hier encore, j'avais vingt ans, je gaspillais le temps
En croyant l'arrêter
He could have cried then. Just like his mother, or perhaps because of her, or evenforher. The ache was so sudden, so real. His mother. How he missed his mother. How he craved her support and understanding.
What he wouldn’t give to be able to speak to her right then. He wondered what she would have told him. Wondered how she’d have settled the pain in his chest.
Car mes amours sont mortes avant que d'exister
Mes amis sont partis et ne reviendront pas
Par ma faute j'ai fait le vide autour de moi
He rarely thought of her these days. He had too many ghosts sitting behind his eyelids. Too many worries occupying his thoughts. Years ago, he’d had none. Before he’d understoodthe lyrics and was still in his 20s—feeling unstoppable and eternally optimistic.
Du meilleur et du pire en jetant le meilleur
J'ai figé mes sourires et j'ai glacé mes pleurs
Où sont-ils à présent?
À présent
Mes vingt ans
The song ended just as he shifted into park and cut the engine. Aberlour sat back as the song finished and his phone began ringing again. Louder than before, somehow. He dug it out of his pocket and dropped it in the passenger seat. It landed on the seat and slid all the way back, until it hit a little gargoyle with grey eyes and a grimace on its face. Aberlour had forgotten about dropping it there after Sabine had given it to him, and he’d intentionally left it there so he wouldn’t be reminded of it.
It was impossible to ignore now. The ugly figurine was only a few inches tall, made out of concrete in a factory somewhere in China. Despite its hideous appearance, Aberlour held onto it. As the cellphone rang next to it, all he could do was swallow back his rising sob.
He picked the gargoyle up, and oddly, the phone fell silent.
He held it in his hand and stared down into its dead eyes. Then he closed his fist around it and clenched, as hard as he could.
It wouldn’t break. He knew because he’d already tried, but its coarse edges dug sharply into Aberlour’s hand. As he unclenched his fist, his hand began bleeding from a small crack in his palm. His skin was dry, unloved, too easily pierced. The gargoyle sat in the middle of his palm, with blood running down the length of it.
He felt—something.
The phone began to ring again.
Chapter 7
December 2012
They woke still lovers in the early morning sunlight streaming through the cheap hotel room curtains. Aberlour held his breath, fully expecting an expression of regret to wash away the contentment in Oli’s expression, but it never came. They said nothing. Nothing that wasn’t whispered directly into the other’s flesh and lost to the world nearly instantly. Perhaps too afraid words would break the enchantment, or simply because words were unnecessary. They stretched in the double bed, and pawed at each other, their gazes soft and sparkling with humour. Aberlour felt absolutely giddy with it. The ghost of Oliver’s hands still lingering on his skin sent goosebumps running across his body.
They dressed in companionable silence, Oliver hummingLa vie en Roseas he picked their discarded clothing from the floor. Slowly, as slumber faded from their eyes, they came back to themselves, sharing soft touches—almost shy ones, and speaking in low voices about missed texts and horrid hangovers. It still hovered between them, though. Not tension but want—an ache for the other that their kisses had breathed to life and that would no longer be ignored. It never left. Not as they left the room, nor as they drove back to base. Neither of them spoke of what they’d done together the night before. But Oli’s hand had rested in Aberlour’s all the way back to the base. Until they finally parted—unspoken and necessary time and space to turn themselves back into who they had to be—Marines.
Aberlour had dropped Oliver off at the house with a whispered promise to come by a little later. Oliver had looked worried for a second, but he'd nodded. Aberlour needed fresh clothes, and a shower, and, well, maybe, a little bit of space.Oliver had known as much of course. He’d smiled, that tender beautiful smile that Aberlour liked to think of as his, and jumped out of Aberlour’s truck without another word. He didn’t need to say anything.
So, Abe had showered. He’d changed. He’d eaten a protein bar and had spent four hours staring at his four walls, trying to figure out what to do next.
It wasn’t his style—not at all. He didn’t ponder, regret, or reconsider—he aimed and took his shot, trusting his aim to set him free. Yet Oliver seemed to be the exception. Here he was, bow drawn, tension cast, waiting to launch his next arrow, unable to steady his aim. What did Oliver want? What was there between them? It was impossible to hit the target—even for an infallible aim—if he ignored what he was aiming at.
In the end, though, his instincts told him to pick up his truck keys and drive to Oliver’s house. And it was only once he’d arrived that Aberlour had realized he hadn’t planned what he’d say, or what he’d do.
“Did you lose your key?” Oliver asked with a chuckle as he came up behind Aberlour.
