Page 21 of Light Me Up

With our pants down around our feet, his father bent over the kitchen table, and my cock buried in his ass.

CHAPTER 11

HENRY

The look on my son's face when he catches us will forever live rent free in my head.

Michael freezes, like he might have walked into the wrong house. But then realization quickly catches up to him and he looks horrified. Possibly a little green, which I can relate to. There's also a slight edge of exasperation that I don't understand, but I'll certainly never have the balls to ask about.

Because they've officially crawled into my stomach to live with the guilt and self-hatred that are warring within me.

I wonder how quickly I can get him into therapy. Not quick enough, probably.

With a flurry of curses, Ian and I scramble to pull up our pants and get as far apart from each other as possible. As if we could pretend that Michael didn't just see his best friend fucking his dad.

Michael's wide eyes move from me to Ian, never quite meeting our eyes, before taking in the discarded food in the kitchen, and the half-empty jar of coconut oil laying on its side on the floor.

"Michael—"

He holds a hand up to cut me off, still not looking at me, before backing out of the room. Both Ian and I take a step forward, but Michael stops us.

"Don't." His hands run through his hair and he grabs his duffle bag from next to the door where he must have dropped in when he came in. "I just need a minute. Or maybe many minutes, I don't know yet. But just… Don't."

Relieved that he isn't running out the door, I watch him retreat up the stairs. My heart lurches, and both Ian and I flinch when his bedroom door slams.

We don't look at each other, or try to talk to each other. We don't get within touching distance, as if the space between us could fix what we've done.

On autopilot, I start cleaning up the kitchen. The sandwich and all the leftover ingredients get dumped right in the trash, and I scrub the pan so furiously I'm pretty sure I ruin the non-stick surface. When I turn back around, the table has been cleaned. The jar of coconut oil is sitting in the trashcan, and there's the distinctive smell of disinfectant cleaner lingering in the air.

I want to go upstairs and scrub myself clean, but I pull on my shirt and sit at the end of the couch instead. My eyes squeeze shut, trying to rid myself of every flash of memory of all the kisses and touches that have happened on this couch, on the stairs, in the laundry room. Nearly every room of this house is tainted by my shame, and I want to crumble with the weight of it.

I'm not ashamed because I fell in love with a man, or even that I had sex with him wherever I wanted to in my own damn house. I'm not ashamed of Ian himself, even.

I'm ashamed that I didn't have a stronger resolve, that I succumbed to weakness. That I turned out to be a pathetic, weak, pervy old guy that preyed on someone half my age. That I snuck around and lied to my son. I'm ashamed that I turned my attention on an inappropriate partner. I’ve probably ruined the special bond he had with the closest friend he’s ever had.

And I'm especially ashamed that I will probably pine for Ian Parrish for the rest of my life.

I don't notice that he's sitting on the other side of the room until his phone chimes. His facial expression is guarded as he types out a text, and then tucks the phone in his pocket. He glances over at me, and I'm struck by the pain and anguish in his blue eyes. A tear tracks over his cheek, and I have to look away. Because I'm weak.

Michael hovers halfway down the staircase, looking like he'd rather walk into a pit of vipers than be in the same room with us. With me.

My eyes sting, and my heart beats too hard. I feel like I can't catch my breath. I might be sick if I don't get away from the smell of the disinfectant and get some fresh air, but I also can't get the words out to say where I'm going or what I'm doing. I stumble as I stand and make a beeline for the closest door, not making eye contact with Michael as I pass the stairs.

Hand on the doorknob, I freeze when Ian blurts out, "I meant it." I’m assuming he’s referring to whatever text exchange happened a minute ago. Maybe an apology.

Not meeting anyone's eyes, I look back over my shoulder. Michael sighs exasperatedly.My hand turns the knob, not wanting to stick around to hear all the reasons this is fucked up.

"Dude. I know you've had the hots for my dad since?—"

"No, Mike. I'min lovewith him. I'm in love with Henry."

Wait.

"Really?" The disbelieving but hopeful word slips from me before I can suppress it. I'm afraid to open myself up to the possibility that he could mean it, or that maybe he’s just being impulsive. But what if he felt what I've been feeling? What if this weekend changed his entire world the way it did mine? My entire brain chemistry changed. And as fucked up as it is, as impossible as it seems that this could go on—I'm not ready to let this go.

Because I love him. And I've never felt complete the way I have since he came barging into my life.

"Yes, really.” He scoffs. “You know, for someone asexperienced with lifeas you are, you'd think you'd have figured that out sooner."

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