Chapter One
Stephen stole a glance at the microwave clock. Quarter to
seven? And they’d started at, what? Four?
Fucking hell, this had to be the longest breakup in history.
“It’s not something you can just bully me into,” Ethan said.
“You’re asking me to turn my whole life inside out for you.”
“Yeah. Because I wouldn’t have any clue what that feels like.”
Ethan stirred his tea. He’d been stirring that same cup of
tea for at least twenty minutes, its steam long since gone, dissipated along
with Stephen’s will to live. The spoon kept tinkling against the ceramic and he
wanted to…something. Knock it from Ethan’s hand, grab his wrist and force him
to stay still.
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle , like a bell announcing
Stephen’s official arrival at the end of his rope.
“Stephen?”
“Could you stop stirring that fucking tea, please?”
Oh shit, that look. Saint Ethan let the spoon go and crossed
his arms over his chest, eyes wide and hurt.
“How’s telling you I’m fed up and insulted count as
bullying?” Stephen asked.
“It’s the way you say it.”
“Well, fucking forgive me, I’m bloody fed up and insulted.
I’m sick of holding your hand and telling you I don’t mind and I totally
understand the pressure you’re under . I’ve done that for ten months.” He
took a deep breath and rubbed his face. “I moved my entire life to this
shithole city for you. I bloody emigrated for you. Have the fucking
decency to at least introduce me to your mother. Your sister. The bloody
postman—”
“You don’t know how my family is about—”
“Of course I don’t! I’ve never been deemed worthy of meeting
them. Oh, except that cousin of yours. Ryan, was it? The guy who came by with
the chair this spring? And you waved your hand toward me and mumbled, ‘And
that’s my roommate, Stephen.’ You know, you don’t even know how your
family is about you or anyone else being gay, because it’s not like you ever
bloody told them!”
“I just know. I hear how my dad talks about it. We’re not in
London anymore—”
“Fucking wish we were,” Stephen said with a mighty eye roll.
“This is pickup truck country. Southern Baptist country.”
“And this,” Stephen said, waving his arms to encompass the
apartment and the two of them. “This is my life. This is what I moved here for,
to be with you, and see where this was going. And it’s going absolutely nowhere
except in circles. Like this bloody conversation—”
A fresh thump on the wall admonished their volume. Ethan
gestured as if to say, Look what you’ve done.
Stephen smirked. “What’ll you tell the neighbors, if they
ask? You and your roommate just having a row over the utilities?”
“Fuck you.”
The words stung but Stephen covered his hurt. He’d never
driven Ethan to a fuck-you before, but he also hadn’t driven him any
closer to the closet door. He took another deep, ragged breath. “You know what?
Fuck you too. I’m done with this. With you.”
“Fine by me.” Oh, that prissy, put-upon, holy-ass
expression.
Stephen shook his head, willed himself to be cool, to speak
slowly and clearly. Act rationally, no matter how pissed he was. “Waste of my
bloody time and life,” he muttered, walking to the bedroom.
“Where are you going?”
“To get a change of clothes.” He turned in the threshold.
“See how reasonable and accommodating I am, letting you keep the flat?” Was
that what he was doing? Sure, why not? Small price to pay. Good riddance to
these walls and all the memories they held.
“Whatever.”
Stephen sighed, utterly unamused. “‘Whatever.’ That’s just
perfect. Exactly what a bloody teenager would say.” He headed for his dresser.
Ethan framed himself in the doorway, watching Stephen
tossing clothes on the bed. “You’re running away and I’m the teenager?”
“No, I’m escaping. And you’re thirty-one, and still too
chickenshit to tell your mum you’re fucking gay.
Stephen stole a glance at the microwave clock. Quarter to
seven? And they’d started at, what? Four?
Fucking hell, this had to be the longest breakup in history.
“It’s not something you can just bully me into,” Ethan said.
“You’re asking me to turn my whole life inside out for you.”
“Yeah. Because I wouldn’t have any clue what that feels like.”
Ethan stirred his tea. He’d been stirring that same cup of
tea for at least twenty minutes, its steam long since gone, dissipated along
with Stephen’s will to live. The spoon kept tinkling against the ceramic and he
wanted to…something. Knock it from Ethan’s hand, grab his wrist and force him
to stay still.
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle , like a bell announcing
Stephen’s official arrival at the end of his rope.
“Stephen?”
“Could you stop stirring that fucking tea, please?”
Oh shit, that look. Saint Ethan let the spoon go and crossed
his arms over his chest, eyes wide and hurt.
“How’s telling you I’m fed up and insulted count as
bullying?” Stephen asked.
“It’s the way you say it.”
“Well, fucking forgive me, I’m bloody fed up and insulted.
I’m sick of holding your hand and telling you I don’t mind and I totally
understand the pressure you’re under . I’ve done that for ten months.” He
took a deep breath and rubbed his face. “I moved my entire life to this
shithole city for you. I bloody emigrated for you. Have the fucking
decency to at least introduce me to your mother. Your sister. The bloody
postman—”
“You don’t know how my family is about—”
“Of course I don’t! I’ve never been deemed worthy of meeting
them. Oh, except that cousin of yours. Ryan, was it? The guy who came by with
the chair this spring? And you waved your hand toward me and mumbled, ‘And
that’s my roommate, Stephen.’ You know, you don’t even know how your
family is about you or anyone else being gay, because it’s not like you ever
bloody told them!”
“I just know. I hear how my dad talks about it. We’re not in
London anymore—”
“Fucking wish we were,” Stephen said with a mighty eye roll.
“This is pickup truck country. Southern Baptist country.”
“And this,” Stephen said, waving his arms to encompass the
apartment and the two of them. “This is my life. This is what I moved here for,
to be with you, and see where this was going. And it’s going absolutely nowhere
except in circles. Like this bloody conversation—”
A fresh thump on the wall admonished their volume. Ethan
gestured as if to say, Look what you’ve done.
Stephen smirked. “What’ll you tell the neighbors, if they
ask? You and your roommate just having a row over the utilities?”
“Fuck you.”
The words stung but Stephen covered his hurt. He’d never
driven Ethan to a fuck-you before, but he also hadn’t driven him any
closer to the closet door. He took another deep, ragged breath. “You know what?
Fuck you too. I’m done with this. With you.”
“Fine by me.” Oh, that prissy, put-upon, holy-ass
expression.
Stephen shook his head, willed himself to be cool, to speak
slowly and clearly. Act rationally, no matter how pissed he was. “Waste of my
bloody time and life,” he muttered, walking to the bedroom.
“Where are you going?”
“To get a change of clothes.” He turned in the threshold.
“See how reasonable and accommodating I am, letting you keep the flat?” Was
that what he was doing? Sure, why not? Small price to pay. Good riddance to
these walls and all the memories they held.
“Whatever.”
Stephen sighed, utterly unamused. “‘Whatever.’ That’s just
perfect. Exactly what a bloody teenager would say.” He headed for his dresser.
Ethan framed himself in the doorway, watching Stephen
tossing clothes on the bed. “You’re running away and I’m the teenager?”
“No, I’m escaping. And you’re thirty-one, and still too
chickenshit to tell your mum you’re fucking gay.
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