Page 59 of A Minute More

I’m sure I’ll wake when he gets home and then I’ll calmly ask him to explain.

Yeah, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

* * *

But Simon doesn’t come home. I wake up early the next morning and his apartment is empty. Did he stay the night with that drunk guy? John. God, I hate that name. It’s ugly and old. An old person’s name. I wander around his apartment, trying to kill time. Simon has a fancy espresso machine that I fiddle with. I nearly jump when it sputters and whines, dark brown liquid pooling into a glass cup under the spout.

I stare at it and then take a sip, not wincing as much as I thought I would. That’s good stuff. Expensive probably. Did he buy this with the money in his trust? Or did he use the money from the sandwich shop to purchase it? Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t fucking matter one iota.

I drink the rest so he doesn’t get angry at me for wasting it. Not that he’s here to get angry with me. He’s gone. With John.

Knowing I should leave doesn’t make me do it. I linger, poking around his space. If he wanted me to leave, he could have messaged me to tell me to go, but he’s gone radio silent.

So I look in cupboards and spend far too long smelling his cologne. I take note of what kind of dishes and detergent he uses and also how well he vacuums under his bed. I stare too long at a picture sitting behind his computer at his desk, one of him with another man, both of them smiling. Their arms are wrapped around each other, their cheeks pink. They look cozy…far too cozy.

Is this who he needs to be faithful to?

I don’t fucking know. Maybe I’ll never know.

Just as I stand up from his desk chair, the front door opens and Simon walks in, looking wrecked. His eyes are blotchy and red, his hair a tangled mess.

And without even thinking it through, I move toward him and pull him into my arms, holding him tightly against me as the first sobs escape his mouth.

I don’t know why he’s crying so I say nothing, just let him cling to me, his chest heaving, his breath stuttering and uneven.

“Simon,” I say, stroking my hand up his back, trying to be soothing, trying to be what he needs.

“Oh fuck,” he murmurs, his face still turned into my shoulder, my shirt growing wet from his tears. “Oh fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I say and then hold him some more, letting him get it all out. He must be exhausted, must be so fucking tired from it all…whatever he’s dealing with. When he finally settles down, he pulls his head away from me and my thumbs move to his wet cheeks, gingerly swiping those tears away.

His nose is red, his cheeks are splotchy in places, and my heart aches as I watch him. He won’t look at me, but he also won’t look away.

“Will you hold me?” he asks softly and I nod, tugging him over to the couch and lying down, pulling him down with me. He lies there in my arms, his face tucked into my neck, his leg thrown over mine.

We just lie there like that until his even breathing signals that he’s asleep. And I let him.

I let him take shelter with me.

CHAPTER9

WESLEY

Simon comes to groggily and confused, his eyes still swollen, his cheeks imprinted with the lines from my shirt. I like him put-together, but I like him rumpled just as much.

“Hey,” I say with a smile and run my hand up his back. He snuggles into me deeper, inhaling and sighing as he rests his head on my chest. My heart gives an uneven thump beneath my ribcage at how vulnerable he is in this moment. How vulnerable he was.

I’ve never seen a man weep like that. It must have been something incredibly painful to pull those sobs out of him.

“Hi.”

“You slept for a long time.”

“I did. Thank you.”

I shift against him and then add, “I want to hold you more, but fuck, I have to pee. I’m gonna explode if I hold it in a minute longer.”

He jolts upward, and I laugh, watching as he shifts to the side of the couch, looking bashful.

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