Page 25 of Altius
Jacobi shot forward, knocking his knee against the empty wine bottle with a nerve-wrenching clang, exasperated by my continued refusal to treat Wyatt as a serious topic.
“You’ve been obsessed with his pheromones for a decade!”
“Because he’s all I had for comparison. You know that.”
It was an excuse, but I had to maintain some semblance of a defense.
Tenny wriggled loose and dropped to the floor, padding out of the room in search of better company, leaving me feeling cold and exposed despite the blanket on my lap.
“Enough, Jacobi.”
“No, I’m done tiptoeing around this,” he spat. “I’ve watched you myentirelife, fixating on one thing after another, ignoring injury, risking relapse—because youalwayshave to succeed. Always have to be the best version of Morgan. But it’s never enough!”
His hand slashed through the air, driving his points home with excruciating emphasis.
“There’s always something else. It’s relentless, and it’sneverbeen healthy. An extra tenth to a vault score, your perfect GPA, making it to the Olympics, your MCAT score, sports medicine—”
“I’m single-minded, so what?”
“Because you never think about the cost! You lock on to the next target, slap on a fresh pair of blinders, and off you go, dragging your half-dead body behind you.” His dark eyes bored into mine, too honest, too weary. Worn down by my bullshit. “But this time, it’s not your job that’s killing you—it’s goddamnmate waning syndrome. Because you refuse to accept that Wyatt is your scent match.”
Guilt slithered down the back of my throat, sour and unsettling.
Wyatt deserved better. Always had.
Cal, too.
Their thoughtful gestures—from a simple cup of hibiscus tea to an entire winter wardrobe—were wasted on me.
“You—” I shifted in my chair, but comfort was no longer an option. “You’re not playing fair.”
“I know. But Iambeing honest.” He rubbed his face, trying to banish his expression of bittersweet despair. “Is it so wrong to want my best friend to be happy?”
“No.” My voice wavered, pinched too tight by my faltering control. “Because that’s all I want for you, too. That’s why I say fuck Hugo and come home.”
“Fuck Hugo?” Harsh laughter, devoid of any kindness—for either of us—crackled across the connection. “Your heat. It’s in what, three weeks? And you’re not going to include Wyatt, are you? You won’t inviteanyof them because you’re too busy being productive, right?”
His tight, joyless smile grated to the point of pain. My best friend shouldn’t be like this.
Jacobi picked up the wine bottle, poured the last few drops into his mouth, and then raised it above his head, offering me an inglorious salute.
“Here’s to being a pair of miserable fucks.”
***
The lit fireplace performed a mesmerizing shadow play on the library ceiling. I lay nestled on a mound of pillows, wearing mypajamas, watching the flickers frolic and beckon, as ephemeral as my fleeting memories.
When was the last time I’d been this devastated by a conversation with Jacobi? I couldn’t remember.
Maybe it was the night he took me out for sushi. After polishing off two dozen cucumber and avocado rolls, he declared with a near-manic grin that it was the perfect time to embrace vegetarianism again—because he’d accepted an artist’s residency in California.
A residency I didn’t know he’d applied for.
Oh, and his loft was going on the market at the end of the week.
Or was it after the gallery’s opening night party for his last show, when he’d gotten sloppy drunk and wouldn’t stop blathering about Hugo?
Fantastically sexy Hugo, the handsome alpha in the designer suit who was so effortlessly charming, so perfect, it felt like destiny, who was just so sophisticated and successful, so delightful.
