Page 48 of The One Decent Thing

Would Sebastian throw the plants out, if he threw me out? That seemed even sadder than the prospect of him breaking up with me, somehow. Like he might be so angry, so sick of the turmoil that I brought to his life, that he wouldn’t even want to keep something pretty that he enjoyed simply because it’d remind him of me.

Some muffled movements from within the house caught my attention, and I stubbed out my cigarette. It had settled my nerves, a bit, although some part of me was still in fight-or-flight mode, ready to run if the police came back. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and they had no reason to arrest me. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, though, if they felt like they had call to get twitchy. Officers Gutierrez and Kim had seemed like good guys. That didn’t mean their colleagues all were. I’d learned that first-hand.

Back in the house, I looked down the hall. The bathroom door was open, but Sebastian’s bedroom door was closed. I knocked. Nothing.

I knocked again. “I need some space,” Sebastian said. He sounded strained, and sick, and exhausted. Jesus, I wanted to hold him. Apologize again, and beg him to let me in — both into the room, and into whatever the hell he was thinking. A few minutes ago we’d been about to tumble into bed again, and now — now Sebastian needed some space.

“Are you okay?” My voice came out hoarse and scratchy. I cleared my throat. “If you need anything —”

“Just go to work, Aidan,” Sebastian said faintly. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Well, that wasn’t ominous at all. I didn’t need to be at work for nearly three hours, but Sebastian wanted me out of his way, so I headed for the shower. The hot water didn’t do a fucking thing about the cold lump of misery in my stomach.

Before I left, I stood in the hallway listening for a minute. I thought I heard the sound of typing, and the rustle of paper. Was Sebastian doing homework? Great for his GPA, but it fucking hurt that he could focus on that while I couldn’t think about anything but him.

Tomorrow. I’d get on my knees and beg if I had to. In the meantime, there wasn’t anything I could do but hope.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sebastian

Facing down the police at my front door was one of the scariest moments I’d ever lived through. As I lay on my bed, throat raw from throwing up everything I’d eaten for the past twelve hours, I listed them out. Scariest: Aidan being dragged away by a different set of police officers while I screamed at them to stop. Second scariest: picking Aidan up at the prison. The cops showing up that afternoon tied for third with recording my testimony for Aidan’s trial, knowing I was incoherent but desperately trying to look and sound like a reliable adult.

And look how that had turned out. No wonder I’d been so scared.

The vomiting wasn’t completely a reaction to fright, though. So much of it was rage — mostly at my mother, a lot at Brody, and no small bit at Aidan for hiding what Chris had told him from me. Weirdly, the rest was a screwed-up reaction to the rush of pride and triumph I’d had when I said the right things, looked like a reliable adult, and sent the officers on their way.

I’d nearly broken down and lost it right there in the doorway, but I couldn’t. If I had? Aidan might be on his way to jail right now. Too much was at stake. So I’d held it together; I’d stepped up. I still felt like I was flying, fury and worry and upset and the nasty taste in my mouth aside.

Aidan probably thought I was pissed that he’d forgotten something so important, but that wasn’t it. Yeah, it would’ve been nice to know my mom might be out for blood so I could be mentally prepared. But really, that wasn’t it at all.

Aidan didn’t trust me. That was the bottom line. He thought I was too weak to handle worrying about it, and so he hadn’t told me. ‘Forgot,’ my ass. He hadn’t forgotten. A guy who’d been in prison for years and thought the cops might be coming to take him away again would remember something like that.

Protecting me was one thing. Patronizing me was something totally else.

I pressed the button on my phone to check the time: four-thirty. The shower was running, so Aidan was getting ready for work early. I felt a little bad telling him I needed space, but it was true. I’d forgive him — after we had a talk about the fact that I wasn’t a kid who needed to be sheltered. And after he groveled. I liked the idea of a little groveling.

But for now, I was going to take action on my own. Enough was enough. I’d built a new life for myself outside of my parents’ orbit, and I’d thoughtthatwas enough. Turned out it wasn’t. And maybe it shouldn’t be. Yeah, Aidan was out of prison, and I’d detached myself from my mother’s toxic control, from a life where everything was about how she’d poll when she ran for a state office after being the mayor of Carterville. My clothes: how would they look in a newspaper? My schooling: how would the voters view my parents’ choice to keep me in the public school system? My love life: discreet, or else, because gay would play well with younger voters, while heteronormative would play well with the older generation.

I didn’t have to live like that anymore, although — irony alert — I was actually, truly a fairly vanilla and unadventurous guy who got good grades and wanted a monogamous relationship.

But my escape and Aidan’s freedom didn’t change what had happened. What my parents had done to Aidan, and to me. And then my mom thought it was her right, her prerogative, to harass us both? Screw. That.

Remembering how obsessed my parents had always been with good media coverage sparked something in the back of my mind, and I sat up and grabbed my laptop, so glad I’d put it in my room earlier.

I was in the middle of doing a few searches and taking notes when I heard Aidan in the hallway again, the wooden floorboards creaking a little as he shifted his weight. I kept going. I was on a mission, and I was still too angry. I thought I heard a sigh, and I nearly melted and gave in, but then Aidan walked away again without knocking and headed out the front door. It shut with a gentle thump behind him. He even took a minute to lock the deadbolt from the outside.

Protecting me, or patronizing me? I could go either way on that. I’d worry about it later. Right now, I had to ride the wave of self-righteous courage that was still boosting me up after my victory over my emotions earlier. Sure, I’d thrown up right after. And maybe I would again, and have a major panic attack, and then spend three days in bed, after I did what I was planning.

It didn’t matter. I picked up the phone and dialed.

The sun had only been up for an hour when I carefully, quietly eased out the front door, got in my car, and pulled out of the driveway. A meticulously measured quarter of a Xanax and half a pot of coffee sloshed around in my stomach. It wasn’t a great feeling, but the combination was starting to seep into my bloodstream and even me out enough that I could make it to Carterville without causing an accident on the highway.

I hadn’t slept much the night before. I’d heard Aidan come in around three, though I’d caught a couple of hours after that. Maybe on another day I’d have been tossing and turning, sick with anxiety over the situation between us, desperate to make up. Conflict wasn’t my friend.

But last night, I was consumed with so much anxiety over what I meant to do this morning that my fight with Aidan had to take a back seat.

Silver linings, right?

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