Page 27 of Infinite

“And yet you still chose him,” he fires back, every syllable clipped.

“No,” I say.

The word is too simple to carry the weight I feel behind it.

My mind flashes back to that night.

My cousins on top of Hale.

The crunch of fists colliding against bone.

The grunts.

The cries of pain.

And my father’s large hand striking me down.

God, if I hadn’t gone to Trin, if her parents hadn’t helped support me, I would have lost my position with the Carolina Cougars and been living in squalor.

And still I would have done it.

“I chose me,” I say, my voice quivering as I remember how hard Daddy hit me. How much he wanted to hurt me. How much that sadistic bastard enjoyed watching me bleed.

With Hale so close to me and all those memories striking me as hard as my father had, it becomes too much. I start to leave, but instead of walking out of the penthouse and once more out of his life, I head in the direction of the window.

A million-dollar view. That’s what the architecture magazines would call the landscape of cement and metal I see. Where Hale and I are from, there’s lots of money, but in the outskirts of Kiawah, we see poverty that’s existed for generations. That will continue long after I’m dead and buried. Throughout my life, my friends and I have done our best to lift up such communities. Yet, despite our best efforts, the majority won’t ever leave the area. Some by choice, but most because it’s not an option.

They dream of having better, sure, many likely willing to kill to spend one night looking out to a city that promises the success Hale found. I don’t have such dreams. I’ve never liked New York. It’s too loud. Dirty. Angry. But for them and all the blessings I have, I take it all in, because I can.

Beyond the landscape of tall buildings, the sun has begun to set, casting rays of red and amber to paint the sky. It’s beautiful, temporarily drawing the eye away from the chaos below. There’s a reason New York is known as the City of Lost Souls. Compared to where I’m from, the wealthy here are a different class of people. So are the poor. And so is anyone lured deep into its throes. Some make it. The majority don’t, barely scraping enough to survive.

I know why Hale is here, and why he stayed for so long. What happened between us and with his folks made it easy for him to bury himself beneath the grit and grime, the bedlam, and maybe even its glory.

I want the Hale I know back. But to have him and the way we once were, I have to give him a bit of my soul and my pain in return.

“My father beat me up that night. Right after you left.”

Hale’s head jerks up. This time, I’m the one who laughs. It’s not funny. The damage was so extensive, it took two surgeries before I could properly breathe through my nose again. A little bump remains near the center, despite the surgeon’s best efforts to smooth it. Every time I slide my finger down the length, I feel it. I used to hate it. Now, I see it as a well-earned war wound and a stern reminder of all the misery I left behind.

“Hebeatyou up?” Hale says.

“That he did,” I reply almost robotically. “He broke my nose and gave me a concussion—”

Hale is suddenly there, cupping my face with his large hands. I don’t expect this response or for his touch to be so gentle. My heart stalls, resuming its pace in painful thuds as I melt away in his gaze.

Carefully, Hale tilts my face, examining it closely. It’s been years. I don’t know what he expects to find. Yet, I feel every touch and every delicate stroke.

The door is thrown open and Sean is there. “Food’s here,” he says. He cocks his head, barely acknowledging the lack of space and intimacy between us. “Y’all want to eat? Neesa ordered a lot.”

“Give us a moment. Will you, Sean?”

Sean shrugs and leaves. It’s not until the door closes again that Hale lowers his hands.

I feel as if we were caught naked or doing something we shouldn’t. I adjust the collar of my suit for all the good it does me. I’m not certain what happened just now. Whatever it was, it left me feeling vulnerable, yet craving more. I’ve been lonely for years.

I wasn’t lonely just then.

“Hale . . .” I’m not sure what’s racing through his thoughts. What I don’t want is for him to dismiss our conversation and pretend it didn’t happened.

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