Page 8 of Glass Jawed
Shoes. Phone.
Where’s my fucking phone—
There. On the kitchen island.
I stumble toward it barefoot, blinking back tears that have made their dramatic entrance.
I grab it with shaking hands, refusing to glance at the photos on the shelf.
But I do.
Lucian and Tim. Side by side. Laughing. Pressed together like they belonged.
Lovers. A life. A home.
And I walked straight through the middle of it.
Shoes on. Phone in hand.
I open the door and leave.
My dignity, stripped.
THREE
Lucian
PRESENT DAY
You spend days—weeks, months—trying to scrub an image from your brain.
Your boyfriend. Naked with anotherwoman.
A boyfriend who was a self-proclaimedgayman since his teens.
A bottom, through and through. His words, not mine.
Or so he said.
Tim got what was coming to him.
A year ago, I kicked him out of my apartment while mercilessly breaking my own heart in the process.
I could’ve understood confusion. Curiosity.
Hell, I’m bisexual. Who better to talk to than me?
But he didn’t talk.
Didn’t even try.
Instead, he plotted the most fucked-up night imaginable. Chose it carefully, too—a night heknewI had a networking event. One of those late-night mixers that end with overpriced cocktails and handshakes that reek of ego.
But I skipped the drinks that night.
Because I missed him. My boyfriend of two years. Missed his warmth. His bad jokes. His laugh.
He hadn’t been himself for a few weeks. I had chalked it up to my gruelling work hours. Even taking the blame for the lack of intimacy for those weeks. We had a major software launch happening in our Direct-to-Consumer platform.
