A madman. Yes, perhaps, most likely for fucking sure. He could see why the cops had thought he was a mental case. That assessment wasn’t terribly far from the truth, now was it?
They sat in silence for a moment, the road stretching out before them, streetlights intermittently lighting the interior of the car.
“I thought Oli was your emergency contact,” Marcus commented sounding concerned about why he’d gotten the call from the cops and not Oli.
“Changed it,” Aberlour replied, not wanting to explain.
“Does he know?”
Aberlour let his silence provide the answer. Marcus sighed, like a mother disappointed by her child’s behavior. He’d heard his mother sigh the same way countless times. The very last time had been when he’d walked out the door to drive to the recruitment office.
He missed her dearly. He wished he could turn back time. He wanted to hold her tight and give her something to smile about instead of making her sigh.
“You’ll tear the team apart if you two keep this shit up,” Marcus cautioned with a frown. “It’s already starting. The guys are asking questions. They’re worried, Abe. You can’t—”
But Aberlour cut him off before he could finish. “You’re fucking off to become a security consultant, so you can shove your patronizing advice where the sun don’t shine,” he snarled, the words bitter and cold. He’d swallowed them down that afternoon while they’d watched the football game. He’d wanted to appear in control—silently grieving, as a man ought to be. It had been nothing but an act, and he’d never been a good liar.
More silence. No longer peaceful but tense. Never one to argue or intentionally harm others, Marcus always stood strong, refusing to apologize for what he wanted. Aberlour was oddly proud of him, even in the current situation.
“I’m retiring. Not fighting my brothers. I’m not talking about the job. I’m talking about the family. If Darling and you don’t figure out your shit, it’s the family you’ll tear apart,” he warned, his tone abruptly becoming stern and cold. “Think you could live with that?”
Aberlour bit back all the nasty words he wanted to say. He clenched his jaw and tightened his fists.
“I haven’t said a fucking thing,” he answered, fighting to contain his anger.
“That’s the fucking problem, Abe. Oli won’t stop talking and you never say a word. You dance circles around each otherand refuse to meet in the middle. The fuck happened to you? You lived in each other’s pockets long before you were anything more. You liked the guy, why can’t you like him now?”
Because Aberlour loved Oli, so he could never like him again. That goddamned ship had sailed, never to return.
Because Aberlour had liked the cover of the man but fallen in love with the story on the pages, and now, the book was on fire, and Abe’s world was in shambles.
Because—because when you’ve loved someone, liking them felt a lot like hate. Resentment was twisted up in there somewhere too.
“Just drive me home and shut the fuck up,” Aberlour said, having had enough of the conversation. Marcus tightened his grip on the steering wheel, and Aberlour wondered, just for a moment, if Marcus would stop the car and beat the shit out of him. It wasn’t really wondering though. It was more like praying.
Marcus drove on in silence.
Leaning his head against the window, Aberlour shut his eyes and tried to shut off his brain. He’d not really drifted off, but he’d been somewhere in the middle. Somewhere peaceful that felt better than the black hole of confusion that had followed him into bed the past three nights.
“Get out, you smell like beer,” Marcus said as soon as he’d stopped the car.
Aberlour turned towards Marcus and opened one eye to stare at his friend. The car was dark except for the glow coming from the lighted instruments on the dashboard, and there weren’t any streetlights nearby. He could barely see the expression on Marcus’ face.
“Tell Sabine I’m sorry,” Aberlour said, sounding truly regretful.
Marcus smiled faintly and nodded.
Aberlour was out of the car before he realized his mistake.
The house at the end of the street was cute and quaint. The lawn was perfectly trimmed, the garden kept, and the door painted red. Oli’s house was cute. It had always been cute. It was less so in the middle of the goddamned night.
Drive me home,Aberlour had told Marcus. The absolute fucker.
He imagined it, if only for a second. He’d knock or ring the ridiculous doorbell—he had a key, but he hadn’t used it in months, and it was back at his apartment anyway—so he’d wait, shifting from foot to foot like an idiot for Oliver to open the door. He would of course, looking perfectly ridiculous, with sleep-tousled hair, squinted eyes, and a confused expression that would make his smile wonky. Then he’d smile for real, if only for a second, before he’d remember it was the middle of the night and that they weren’t talking.
Before he could let Abe in, Aberlour would push right by him, reeking of cheap beer and a filthy jail cell, and he’d walk into the hall, toeing out of his boots, ‘cause he wasn’t a complete animal. The house, as familiar as his own, would be dead quiet in the middle of the night. He’d see the pictures on the wall of the team in some hellhole jungle, and the awards on Oli’s fireplace mantle, and it would be just like he loved it. It would be home. The same as always. Because Abe had spent more time in the house on the end of the street than he had in his own place. It would be the same. The same hall, same furniture, same paint, same smell. The same in every regard, except, there would be pieces of her, too. Here and there. Forgotten, misplaced. Intentionally or otherwise. A shirt, a pair of sandals, a ball cap that was all for show, a pair of hoop earrings on the counter. Each piece would break him. They’d change his familiar homeinto something else. They’d dig holes in his gut and, like the holes in his shoes, he’d start to take on water.
Oli would talk, and talk, and ask, and ask, and Aberlour would sit there, taking on water. At first, bathing in pieces of Oli, and then his own. Pieces of them. Oli’s words, coming in and out like the tide, and then—then pieces of her. Not a tide but a tsunami, and he’d stop bathing and start swimming for his life, and then—then he’d drown. Sitting right there on Oli’s couch, he’d drown. Breathless, speechless, frozen, and frightened. Incapable of answering a single question. Sitting in total silence and shock, drowning on Oli’s leather couch. The same couch where he’d stashed condoms for their quick fucks.
