Chapter 8
Brendan
Now
Iwait until I hear the front door click closed, then slump down in my office chair, exhaling with a shaky breath.
Slipping my fingers below the collar of my shirt, I feel where the tattoo used to be, where the letters of his name were once inked onto my skin.
It took me multiple sessions to get it removed, yet I can still see his name if I look hard enough, as if he can never truly be erased.
The final removal session had been the day before I’d gathered the courage to speak to Chris for the first time.
I try to steady my heartrate as my mind replays the encounter.
This new version of Kyle, all six-foot-two of him with his fucking pretentious red Porsche, is confusing as hell.
He’s a force, imposing on my space, yet he’s also still that fragile teenage boy with nervous energy and soul-searching eyes.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but being around Kyle ignites something inside me.
Something that sparks at the sheer closeness of our bodies.
Now that I’m older, I can easily recognise the chemical reaction I have to him.
It’s sexually charged and magnetic, but I know it doesn’t bring me happiness.
It’s embarrassing to admit, but part of me was turned on by what just happened.
That threat of a physical fight between us sent blood straight to my dick.
Exhausted and disappointed in myself, I let my head fall forward.
Honestly, being around again Kyle scares the shit out of me.
He remains a temptation no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise.
It’s a problem—I know that—and for the first time in a decade I’m afraid of who I am under this middle-class suburban facade I put on every day.
Kyle knows me in a way Chris never will.
But who is Kyle now? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him marrying this prick James or that he has a daughter.
Is she biologically his or James’s, or is she adopted?
I’m not sure why it’s important, but it is, and I’ve become hung up on it, wanting to know if she’s Kyle’s flesh and blood.
And fifteen years old! Kyle must’ve been with James for a bloody long time.
Why does that make me feel like I’ve got a knife lodged in my back?
Ethan crosses my mind, a memory of Kyle holding him in his arms, smiling down at him and then up at me. “He’s so beautiful, Bren. Just like you,” Ky had said.
I blink away tears, needing the memory to stop.
Grabbing my bag, I head out of the office, a growing concern weighing heavily on me: Kyle doesn’t seem stable. All this extreme emotion might be the start of a manic phase, or does he truly feel this deeply about me after all these years? Both options leave me anxious and unsettled.
Stepping outside into the cool night air, I freeze at the sight of Kyle’s Porsche still parked on the lot.
“Do you love him?”
Turning towards his voice, I see the orange glow of a cigarette first, before Kyle steps out of the shadows.
He takes a drag, pretty cupid bow lips wrapping around the filter, his eyes red-rimmed and regretful.
Part of me wants nothing more than to relent and share that smoke with him like we did when we were boys.
It would be familiar, comforting…like home.
I turn back around and lock the door, so he can’t see my face when I answer. “I married him, didn’t I? Course I love him.” Slipping the keys into my pocket, I begin walking towards my car, Kyle barely a breath behind me.
“But are you in love with him?”
There are fragments of both desperation and hope in his voice, and it twists painfully in my side, prodding at an old, unhealed wound. “Fuck off,” I say. But there’s no fight left in me, and it comes out too soft. Too affectionate.
Kyle’s hand lands on my shoulder, and I allow myself to be turned around.
Staring into his eyes is like looking in a portal to my past. I can see the good and the bad, the love and the hate, the pain and the pleasure.
Kyle’s hand remains firmly on my shoulder, and I become hyper-focused on how it feels to be touched by him after so many years.
“It’s not the same though, is it Bren? Nothing can ever feel like what we had. You can deny it all you want, but I know what you felt for me.”
Forcing myself to shrug Kyle’s hand off my shoulder, I continue towards my car—but walking away is so much harder than I’d like it to be. Thankfully, this time he doesn’t follow.
“You don’t know shit, Davies,” I say, opening the door of my Ute.
This time, I’m the one to drive out of the parking lot, leaving Kyle behind. This can’t keep happening; he can’t keep showing up here and turning my life upside down.
I watch him through the rear-view mirror, where he stands eerily still with his shoulders slumped forward and his chin lowered to his chest. I’d have to be dead not to feel anything.
The following morning, after a restless night, I tell Chris I need to pop down to the showroom for a few hours.
It’s a Saturday, and I only work weekends if I absolutely must, normally leaving Kate to hold down the fort.
But after what happened with Kyle yesterday, I need time to think, and faking a trip to the office is the best way to get some time alone.
When I arrive, I let Kate know I’m not to be disturbed and lock the office door behind me.
Too nervous to sit, I pace the room, stressing about Chris.
He isn’t stupid—he’s already asked if something is wrong.
I hate lying to him, it makes me feel like a piece of shit.
Even more so, I hate that Kyle still has enough power over me to stop me from thinking clearly.
Truth be told, one of the reasons I chose not to tell Chris about Kyle is because it would mean I’d have to end this immediately.
It’s a shameful admission that makes my face burn.
Still agitated, I walk over to the window and wrangle it open. My hands are shaking so much that my fingers fumble as I try to get a cigarette out of the packet. Lighting up, I inhale deeply, the nicotine instantly calming.
I’d lain awake most of the night, unable to switch my brain off.
When I’d finally fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning, I’d had a nightmare.
It was the same recurring one I’d had all throughout my prison years, filled with disturbing images of Bruce.
His face covered in blood, butcher’s knife in hand, hunting me like an animal through the woods.
I’d awoken with a gasp in sweat-soaked pyjamas, my heart jackhammering so fast I feared a full-blown panic attack.
It’s been years since the last one. I don’t know how I would cope if they became a nightly occurrence all over again.
Kyle’s return is to blame—his mere presence pulls on the thread of my closely-guarded pain. Perhaps I do need closure and that’s what Kyle’s been asking for all along. I could’ve sworn I’d worked through all this, but maybe I haven’t.
I sigh, realising I might need to do this, for both Kyle and me. Surely, we can do this without destroying each other’s lives. And yet, I still make no move.
To distract myself, I open my laptop and look at inventory, place some orders, then check through my emails. Random memories of me and Ky keep popping into my head, and, before I know it, I’m an hour deep into research on bipolar disorder.
There seems to be a lot more information and understanding than there was twenty years ago, and it helps me reframe some of the past hurt. I always knew Kyle didn’t have a lot of control during that first manic phase when he wasn’t medicated, but some of the things he did felt unforgivable.
By the time he was admitted to the Frankston hospital psychiatric ward after he'd been missing for a week, I’d just been relieved he wasn’t dead. He’d looked so lost and broken in that bed.
I rub my hands over my face, old feelings of regret rolling in once again. I hadn’t seen it coming. I hadn’t protected him. What if he’s off his meds again now?
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I find Kyle’s number in my missed calls and tap out a message.
Me: I think you’re right. We should talk. Let’s have that beer. Monday 6pm at The Boathouse. But after that, no more contact – I need you to respect my decision on this.
Less than thirty seconds later, I receive a reply.
Kyle: You have my word. See you Monday.
I’m not one hundred percent sure I’m doing the right thing, but what I do know is that Kyle will keep turning up if I don’t take the lead on this. It gives me some sense of control, and I can check up on him too.
Pulling up Chris’s number, I tap call.
He answers on the fourth ring. “What’s up, sweetheart?”
“Hey hubby, I’m calling cos I feel bad I gotta work today. Can I take you out to dinner tonight to make up for it?”
Chris hums appreciatively. “I’d like that, Dan. You know, you haven’t been yourself this week. It would be nice to spend some quality time together.”
This is Chris’s gentle way of encouraging me to open up about what’s going on.
It’s not unusual for me to pull away when I’m dealing with something, but never before has it been something that poses a threat to our relationship.
Never before have I lied to him or kept secrets.
This is unchartered territory for us, and it doesn’t sit well with me.
“Yeah, I’d like that too. I’ll be okay, it’s just work pressure. It’s all good.”
“Okay sweetheart, what time will you be home?”
“Maybe another hour or so. Chris, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Saturday night with Chris had been so good that we hadn’t made it out of bed until noon on Sunday.
By the time Monday rolls around I feel in control and ready to face my past with Kyle.
Being sexually attracted to the man doesn’t really mean shit since I haven’t had any feelings for him in years.
Besides, I’m no longer a teenager who’s easily led by my dick. I’m a happily married man.
Yes, it's wrong to lie to Chris about what I’m doing tonight, but this will be the last time I see Kyle, and the outcome will be worth it.
Closure. Chris believes I’m having a long overdue boys’ night with some of my old school mates—sharing a few beers and playing pool.
But I haven’t told any of my mates what I’m really up to, so I hope I don’t get caught.
After locking the showroom, I jump into my Ute, my stomach flip-flopping with nerves. I really need to stay calm and keep it together. No letting Davies push my buttons. No angry outbursts and no sentimentality. I can do this.