Page 62 of Hush
Routine stuff.
Was Mike avoiding him? Avoiding them?
He didn’t say anything about missing Tom, or acknowledged that Tom missed him. Or said anything about seeing him soon. Or tried to make plans for dinner, drinks, a swing-by for a smile and a kiss. Tom would do that, go out of his way just to see Mike’s smile.
Tom turned his screen off and set his phone face-down on his desk. Okay. Mike would text back. He was probably busy. Surrounded by other marshals. He was at headquarters, after all. It would be okay. The weekend had been amazing. That was real. He had to have faith in that.
No texts all afternoon. Silence, from Mike.
He waited around, hanging at the courthouse as long as he could in case Mike swung by, until he had to leave to take care of Etta Mae. His shoulders sagged as he walked to the Metro and he sat slumped on the plastic seats as the subway clanked across the city, holding his phone in a slack grip dangling between his legs.
So… what had happened? Part of him went straight to the worst-case scenario. Was there a traffic accident? Something terrible that had happened in the afternoon, that kept Mike from him? Some giant case or investigation that he was wrapped up in and would emerge from with a breathless apology and a smile, and another kiss.
But, how likely was that, truly?
He should have paid attention to the signals, the weightysomethingthat had felt like a dark premonition hovering just out of sight all weekend. Mike’s unusual reticence on Saturday. He was better on Sunday, but he still had kept Tom at a distance. He hadn’t come inside after their beyond-amazing dinner date.
And, why? Why, with such an amazing day, an amazing dinner date, was this happening now? What had he done? What had he said? What had driven Mike away, had made him change his mind?
Jesus, had he been too forward? Was Mike turned off by how enthusiastic he’d been, how much he wanted Mike? That was ludicrous. But he’d asked to slow down, and the very next day, Tom had bounded up his steps like he was certain Mike was about to drill him through his mattress.
And Mike had refused.
Had Mike just been humoring him through the weekend? Had he ever really said anything about Tom being who he wanted? He’d never actually said that, had he? He’d kissed Tom, yes. But had he ever said he wanted Tom?
He stared at the stained tile of the Metro, the chipped plastic seats. He was pathetic. He couldn’t see what was right in front of his face. Couldn’t see when a man was humoring him, making him feel a little rush, a little excitement, before the inevitable end.
He’dknownit would end like this. He’dknown. He just hadn’t expected the dinner, Rock Creek Park, and the kisses before the end. It would have been better to have never tasted Mike’s kiss, never held his hand.
Swiping his phone on once more, Tom flicked to his gallery. He rocked and rolled, his body loose and swaying over the rumbling tracks, the screech of the subway. Four photos were right on top of the roll, four photos from Rock Creek Park. Him and Etta Mae, him looking happier than he’d been in a long, long time.
Him and Mike, side by side, but with about a foot between their heads. Etta Mae’s nose poked up into the bottom of the frame. She was jealous she wasn’t the center of the photo.
Him and Mike, their cheeks pressed together. His joyous smile, his eyes sliding sideways, gazing beatifically at Mike.
Mike kissing his cheek. The way he looked like his own heart had burst. It had.
Would Mike delete these photos, too, like he’d deleted his ex’s?
What wouldhedo with them?
Welcome back to gay life. Heartbreak, lost boyfriends, and unanswered texts. It used to be unanswered phone calls, but twenty-five years was a millennium to technology. Peter had disappeared like this, vanishing from his life after he sank into his post-professor depression. No more phone calls, no more nights spent together, just sudden, aching silence.
He really should have kept in contact with Doug. Maybe he’d dig out Steven’s business card, try and grab a drink with him. Not at the Tap Room, though. He couldn’t go back there, risk running into Mike.
The thought of trying to find another man was just depressing. More rejection, more kisses that went nowhere. Would he want to hop into bed so quickly with another man? Would he want Steven to take him to bed like he wanted Mike to? Would he burn as brightly for his touch? He suspected not.
Maybe he should just forget this whole thing. Maybe he’d dodged a bullet. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. Maybe he should turn around and close his closet door. He’d done twenty-five years of this already. What was another twenty-five?
The subway screeched and ground over the tracks, and finally reached Foggy Bottom. He trudged to the street and then up the block, heading for home. Etta Mae met him at the door, happy tail wags and wet kisses, leaping up on him as if she could somehow reach him and wrap her short paws around his neck. He always told her not to jump, but today, he needed it.
He dropped to his knees and wrapped her up, and her short, stubby paws draped over his shoulders. Her wet nose pushed against his cheek, his nose, ruffled his hair. She licked his ear, his face, his neck, and her squat body wriggled beneath his hands. Her jumping up was like a bus doing a wheelie, and she pushed most of her not inconsiderable weight against him.
Tom held on, burying his face in her soft fur. “Sorry, Etta Mae. I don’t think Mike’s coming back to see you again.”
The tears started to fall.
He drifted through Tuesday, pouring his focus into his work. He shut his door, retreating from the openness he had fostered over the past two months. There was no need to listen for Mike’s footfalls, or try and catch his smile.
