Page 55 of Hush
“You need to stop saying that,” Mike grunted.
“Saying what?”
“That you’re not my type.” Mike swiped his thumb over Tom’s cheek, brushing away the river of tears. “I met this amazing guy, too. He’s…” Mike sighed. “He’s so brave. So, so brave.”
God, the tears were coming back. He didn’t feel brave, he didn’t feel brave at all. “Tell him I said hi, and that he’s a lucky guy.” He tried to smile.
If life were a movie, this would be when they kissed. Mike would smile at him in adoration and lean in, press his lips gently to Tom’s for their first careful kiss. Tom would wilt—or, honestly, maybe faint—and Mike would sweep him into his arms, shielding him from everything. Life, his bruised and battered heart, his fears, the world.
This wasn’t a movie, though. Mike opened his mouth, as if he were about to say something.
The oven beeped, the timer going off.
“That’s dinner.” Tom slipped from Mike’s hold. “I was supposed to make a salad. Um.” He stood at his farmhouse sink, gripping the edge.
“I’ll make the salad.”
They worked in silence, Tom pulling the fish from the oven and the salsa from the fridge as Mike tossed a spinach salad. He ducked into the bathroom for a minute, splashing water on his face and drying his eyes. He looked like hell now, but there was nothing for that.
Strangely, he felt weightless, untethered. His secret was out. Mike was still here, at least for the next minute or so. Whatever happened would happen. Maybe he’d just torn up the best parts of his life, shredded his façade and tanked whatever he’d built with Mike. But he’d stood in the sun last week and he’d said the words tonight.I’m gay.Baby steps.
When he came back, Mike was bringing their plates to the table, fish steaming on top of a bed of rice with a rainbow salsa on top. He’d poured two glasses of wine and brought the sauvignon blanc to the table. The candles Tom had lit an hour ago were still burning, flames flickering low in their silver crescent holders.
“This looks great. What is it?”
“Toasted coconut tilapia with a pomegranate salsa.” Chopped pomegranate, cranberry, tomato, orange, and lime sat on top of the flaky filets.
“Sounds delicious.” Mike pulled out Tom’s chair and smiled.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. The TV was on, streaming music, soft, bluesy jazz. Lonely saxophone notes lingered on and on, and soft bass thrummed. Tom reached for his wine, practically gulping it down.
And then, Mike’s palm covered the back of his hand, squeezing gently. He launched into a story from his early days in the marshals, his post to a Podunk town in the middle of nowhere where every marshal did every job, and he saw it all. Bootleggers, white supremacists, religious revivalists, and felons on the run. Fresh from the Navy and still a bit wide-eyed at the small, inner world of rural America, Mike had been out of his depth in the hinterlands.
Tom laughed, and nearly snorted wine at one point.
Mike held his hand the whole time.
“Then I was transferred to the regional task force for the Whitmore hunt.”
“You were on the Whitmore search?”
Paul Whitmore, leader of a sect of sovereign citizens, suspect in three bombings of federal facilities, and a white supremacist who was practically a god to neo-Nazis across America, had hidden in the Appalachians after his last firebombing of a federal courthouse in North Carolina. U.S. Marshals, FBI, ATF, and DEA agents had scoured the mountains for the man.
He was a ghost.
“I was. That was the task force.”
He squeezed Mike’s thumb, tangling with his own. “You didn’t like it.”
Mike shook his head. “That part of the country… the tension. The pain. The anger. I felt like an alien on my own planet. This is a big, big nation. We have so many different people in it. Sometimes, I’m amazed we’ve managed to stay united this long.” Mike frowned, clearly uncomfortable. “Some divides are deeper than red versus blue. They go deeper than deep. How do West Virginia and New York City belong to the same nation?”
“We’re all American. Somewhere deep inside, that means something. We all believe in the same freedoms.”
“I don’t think everyone wants the same freedoms for everyone else.” Mike’s hand clamped down on Tom’s.
Well. That was true. He turned his hand over, laced their fingers together. “America is a dream, more than anything else. It’s a dream made of hope, for everyone, here and around the world. Hope that one day we will all be equal, and free. The country was founded on hope. On looking at the horizon and thinking, one day, maybe me too. Everyone can relate to that, in some way.”
Mike was quiet. “You are an optimist. Even after…”
