Page 11 of For the Rest of Forever

Allen

The sun shone brightlyoverhead by the time Allen and Greg left home at around a quarter to nine. It was a short walk—they only lived about half a mile from the library, and the weather was pleasant and warm, typical of a late August morning. The neighborhood was quiet, as it usually was, but to Allen, the silence felt unsettling in some way, almost as though something was lurking in the bushes, about to jump out at them.

He slipped his hand into Greg’s and was rewarded with a comforting squeeze.

“Where’s your delivery today? Is it local-ish?” Allen asked, hoping to distract himself.

“Renton. So, yeah, not too far. I should be back by noon if—”

“And those photos that you took yesterday—when will they be ready? In case anyone calls to ask?” Allen cut in, stopping what he assumed was going to be Greg’s attempt to offer to meet him for lunch or something.

Burden. Don’t make him do anything extra. It’s disruptive. You’re being too much.

It was bad today. Much worse than Friday. Much worse than he remembered it being in a long time, in fact. His internal monologue seemed to be running rampant, anxious and on edge. He was fighting it at every chance, trying to tell himself he should go about his day, not be scared, not feel unsafe and unsure and all the things. But his brain continued to drown him with intrusive thoughts, telling him everything he was doing wrong, everything that would annoy and burden his husband.

Like having to take time out of his day to check in on Allen.

“I-I’m sorry,” Allen said quietly, when Greg didn’t immediately respond to his question. “I didn’t want you to feel...”

Greg’s hand released his, and his arm looped around Allen’s waist as they rounded a corner and the library came into view.

“I don’t feel that way,” Greg assured him. “I wouldn’t. I never have. I love you, and I would love to meet you for lunch today, if you’ll have a break.” Greg paused for a moment and sighed—not a frustrated or upset sigh, but more of a sad sigh. Or maybe a worried sigh. He continued in a quiet voice. “Yes, it’s partly because I do want to check on you midday. But I... I was also affected by yesterday, Allen.”

Greg slowed and stopped, his arm tightening around Allen.

“Of course you were. I-I’m sorry, I—”

With a quick shake of his head, Greg cut Allen off again.

“No. No apologies, please darling. But I know what you’re thinking, and I want you to understand. I need to see you later today—for me. For me, so I can know you’re okay. Because I’m scared to be away from you right now,notbecause I think you’re not capable of being on your own. Please, would you be okay if I stopped by around noon?”

The effect was immediate. Guilt and nausea hitting him in an unpleasant rush. “Yes, of course. I’m—”Sorry. I’m sorry again. No, no, don’t say it. He doesn’t want you to say it. But, god...Allen screwed his eyes shut, his train of thought unable to stop him from apologizing again. It was a damn compulsion that he couldn’t control, and he hated it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Yes, I’d love to see you at lunch.”

Greg directed them to start walking again, though he was silent, and that just made Allen’s anxiety tick up another notch. He shouldn’t worry. But knowing he shouldn’t worry didn’t stop the worry from happening. And the closer they got to the library, the more everything just seemed to compound.

He stared straight ahead, but his heart began to thud in his chest, and when they got within view of the parking lot, little bits of leftover glass from the shattered windows of his car shimmered as they caught the bright sunlight. The car wasn’t there; it had been towed to a repair shop in Issaquah. Yet a rush of emotions still hit him.

“I-I need—I need a minute,” he said, forcing the words out as his feet rooted to the ground.

He saw it, even though it wasn’t there—his broken car, with its slashed tires and shattered windows. Pain erupted in his chest, and he clung tightly to Greg, gasping for breath.

“I just need a minute. Just a minute. Just a—just a minute,” he repeated, closing his eyes as Greg stepped in front of him. His husband’s familiar embrace surrounded him, and he let out a soft sob as he buried his head in Greg’s shoulder.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Greg soothed, his hands rubbing up and down Allen’s back. “Take all the time you need. You’re—you’re okay. You’re okay.”

The sound of Greg’s voice cracking made everything hurt even more.

This time, however, Allen managed to not apologize, and that was partly because he couldn’t speak anyway. They just stood there, holding each other, for what had to be several minutes. And when the aching in Allen’s chest finally subsided, he took a deep breath and managed to straighten up. He hadn’t actually cried, and he was grateful for it, though the tears were right there, ready to spill. It was already bad enough that he wasn’t quite as presentable as he’d usually be, having opted to wear jeans and a simple black sweater rather than his typical slacks and dress shirt. Adding puffy red eyes to the mix would just make things worse.

He felt a light kiss press to his forehead, and he was still shaking, even as he nodded to Greg and cleared his throat.

“I-I’m ready now. I think.”

Without a word, Greg took his hand, and they started walking again. Allen’s eyes darted from the parking lot to the building. Plywood had been rigged up to block the broken window, and the sight made his stomach turn.

“It really happened,” he rasped, without meaning to.

“Yeah,” Greg said quietly, and they stopped again, this time right at the bottom of the steps. Greg’s hand still held his tightly. “You can still decide to stay home today if you want. No one will fault you for it.”

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