Bobby
“This is the dumbest goddamn thing I’ve ever heard of.” Tom scowled at the yellow notepad in his hand, tapping the tip of his pen against it.
“I like it,” said, unsurprised by Tom’s response. Of all the things he ever thought he could get Tom to do, therapy wasn’t one of them.
“Of course you like it,” Tom muttered from beside him. “This is the kind of shit you dream about.”
couldn’t help his grin, but he tried to hide it behind his hand. “I wouldn’t say dream, but it’s kind of nice.”
Tom simply rolled his eyes in response as the therapist came back in and settled in her chair across from them.
“Did you get your answers down?” she asked, her tone hovering around the edges of amusement and annoyance—not uncommon for anyone who’d just met Tommy O’Shea.
“Yes,” said simply.
Tom only offered a curt nod, his entire body tense, irritation radiating off him.
Over the years, Tom had gotten better about talking about his feelings, didn’t need for them to be forced out because they were in crisis or on the precipice of a disaster anymore, but it still wasn’t easy for him. It was still something had to coax out of him through tenderness and patience and usually a blowjob. Lights low, the two of them huddled together afterward, after their heartbeats slowed, after languid kisses and strong arms wrapped around each other. As if he needed the shadows and shelter of ’s body to let hear anything real.
“Tommy,” the therapist said, “why don’t you start?”
Tom looked like he wanted to protest, but he didn’t. Instead, he swallowed hard and lifted his notepad. “Five things I love about and five things I don’t,” he said, as if reading a school report, his body language awkward and his tone quietly annoyed. He paused and glanced at the therapist. “I started with stuff I don’t like because that’s harder, so I wanted to get it out of the way.”
And because you’re hoping I’ll forget that list by the end, thought, amused.
Tom cleared his throat and said, “I don’t like his job. It sucks, and he could hurt again or whatever, and I hate it.”
had figured that one would be at the top.
“I don’t like how much he worries.”
He didn’t mean for the snort of incredulous laughter to slip out, but couldn’t help it. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“Did you want me to lie?” Tom asked, snapping his gaze to catch ’s.
“No, sorry,” said, glancing away to the therapist. “And I won’t interrupt again.”
Tom didn’t respond. Instead, he took a deep breath and continued. “I don’t like that he’s right all the damn time. Not always, but mostly. Or that he leaves his socks all over and forgets to put the toilet paper back on the roll and eats in bed and leaves crumbs.”
had been counting, and he was slightly irritated that Tom had just rattled off more than five things—one of which wasn’t even true! He always replaced the toilet paper. He wanted to say something, tell Tom his list was too long and to just wait until it was his turn, but Tom’s expression turned pinched, pained, and it clawed inside , right behind his ribs, nearly to his throat, and all of a sudden all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around Tom and pull him close and safe and promise to quit his job and be wrong all the time and pick up his socks and never do anything Tom didn’t like again.
But he’d promised not to interrupt, so he sat still and quiet and watched Tom chew the inside of his cheek, watched him swallow hard, watched his eyes shine a glassy green as he said, “Sometimes I hate how much the kids love you and come to you for answers because I’m supposed to be their only person. But it seems like sometimes I could disappear and it wouldn’t matter at all because they’ve got you and your mom and they’d be fine without me—hell, maybe even better. And I know it’s stupid and I know it’s selfish because they deserve you and they should have you, should have more than just me, and I want that for them, and I know you love them and I want that for you, but sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself anymore or, like, I don’t know who I am if I’m not their person and their answer and their survival.”
Tom’s words had rushed out of him so quickly, almost a whisper at the end, that he was breathless. Almost as breathless as . All the air in the room had absorbed into that confession, and had to squeeze his eyes shut against the blur of tears. He nearly had to sit on his hands to keep from reaching for Tom. He shifted closer, though, letting his leg rest against Tom’s, hoping to offer some support and comfort for both of them. He’d known Tom would jump through this hoop in their efforts to adopt the twins, but he hadn’t known Tom would lay himself bare, flay himself in front of a stranger for it. Tom didn’t know shit because, obviously, was wrong all the damn time. Of course Tommy would gut himself for the kids. He should’ve known better.
“Before you go on with your list,” the therapist said, her tone suddenly kind, filled with compassion and understanding, “is there anything you’d like to say to that, ?”
nodded frantically, not even sure if he could find words but desperate to try. He gave up resisting and wrapped his arm around Tom’s shoulder, pressed his forehead to the side of Tom’s face so he could whisper in Tom’s ear, “They might love me and they might respect my advice or like a second opinion, but I could never replace you. If anything ever happened to you, none of us would ever be whole again. They’re fighters. They’d carry on. But they’d never be the same.” He paused and let out a shaky breath before adding, “None of us would.” Because, really, didn’t know if he’d have any fight left in him if he ever lost Tom.
Tom pressed his lips together in a straight line and only offered another terse nod in response, but he sniffled and swiped angrily at his eyes, just once.
“The shit I love about ,” Tom said, focusing pointedly on the notepad. “The kids love him, and he loves them.” He laughed wetly and shrugged, glancing at as he finally pulled back. “He’s kind. He’s so goddamned kind, but he’s tough, too, and doesn’t take any of my shit. And he’s solid.”
Tom seemed like he was about to go on, but the therapist interrupted and asked, “Could you expand on that? What do you mean when you say is solid?”
He let out an exasperated huff. “I don’t know,” Tom said, clearly frustrated. “He’s… there. He’s strong. He’s the one good goddamn thing I know without a doubt that I can always count on. I know he’ll be there, home, always. No matter what life throws at me—at us—he’ll be there. I don’t know what the fuck I did to deserve him, and I don’t know why he puts up with me, but I never have to wonder if he will. Doesn’t matter what stupid fights we get into or what day-to-day bullshit we have to deal with or one fucking disaster after another. At the end of the day, he’ll be there. With me.”
He wasn’t wrong. knew that for certain. They’d had some close calls, no doubt, and probably would again, but sitting on that couch in the shrink’s office, didn’t have to wonder either. He’d even stopped thinking Tom might just walk out one day and never come back. Getting married, making it official, had helped. But time—years—had proven it more than anything else.
Then Tom squared his shoulders and looked the therapist dead in the eye and said, “He’s also an incredible fuck.”
wanted to smack him on the back of the head and start apologizing, but the therapist laughed and nodded. “That’s good,” she said. “We should all be so lucky.”
Tom almost laughed too, could tell, but instead, he offered one quirked lip. “Your turn, copper.”
After all that, really didn’t want to read his list. He wanted to tear it up and start over, give Tom more of himself, more than the first things that came to mind. He wanted to tell Tom that nothing they said in there meant anything because all that really mattered was that they belonged to each other and always would and that would walk through hell for him—for their family—and make sure they all came out the other side. H wanted to tell Tom that he was wrong because knew he was the one who was lucky.
Instead, he looked at his note and said, “I hate how stubborn you are, but I love how strong you are. I hate that you’re an asshole sometimes, but I love that you always tell me the truth. I hate everything you’ve been through, but I love that you can still find it in yourself to trust me. I hate that you hate my job, but I love that you care. And I hate that you act like you don’t need anything, but I love when you tell me you need me.”
Tom looked at him hard for a beat or two, then shifted his hand closer to and laced their fingers together. “I do. Need you, I mean,” he whispered, voice rough. “Every goddamn minute.”
It was ’s turn to nod in answer because there was no way he could speak in that moment. He knew Tom. Maybe too well. Because for Tom to say the things he’d said, admit the things he’d admitted, meant he was desperate and scared and unable to find another way. He could handle drunks and junkies, had even disarmed a robber down at the bar. Tom’s entire life—until recently—was all about scary and ugly things. But words? Words like those? That was the only kind of danger Tom would run from, given the choice. Because showing anyone his whole heart was risky business, and Tom didn’t like to risk anything.
J.H. Knight has been writing love stories since the second grade. When she’s not catering to the whims of her imaginary friends (whom she sometimes refers to as “characters”), she’s usually found in the kitchen setting dinner on fire or in the garden trying not to kill a rose bush.
A Pacific Northwest native, she loves the outdoors in every season whether she’s in the city, the mountains, or watching the sunset from her back porch. She gets through most days with a lot of laughter, a little snark, too much coffee, and a commitment to not taking life too seriously.
You can find her at her website, authorjhknight.com where you can sign up for her news letter, follow her on Facebook and Instagram, or drop her an email. She loves hearing from readers!
Ben then he’d feel like a perv and a shitty friend, and then he’d fall asleep too. In the morning, he’d make some coffee and run down to the diner around the corner to pick up some breakfast for them just to make sure Gavin got some food in him. Ben wasn’t sure, but he had the feeling Gavin didn’t eat nearly often enough. He pictured the kid living on ramen noodles and stale chips from vending machines. He hoped he was wrong, but the few times he’d seen Gavin with his shirt off, Ben had been able to count his ribs.
When Gavin tightened his arms and tensed behind him, Ben realized how fast he was going and eased off the throttle. He’d been so lost in his own head he nearly missed the turn for his apartment and pulled up with a slightly reckless skid in front of the building. Gavin didn’t let go when he cut the engine, but that might’ve been because he was terrified.
“You should definitely invest in a second helmet.”
Laughing, Ben gently moved Gavin’s hands and untangled himself from him. “I have another helmet, remember? I just didn’t expect company tonight.” His laughter died when he saw Gavin’s eyes. He looked like a deer staring down the barrel of a shotgun. “You’re shaking.”
“Yeah, well, near-death experiences will do that to me.”
Ben reached his hand to unbuckle the strap on the helmet and tugged it off for him. “You were nowhere near death, I promise.”
Gavin moved stiffly as he got to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on Ben’s shoulder as he awkwardly climbed off the bike. “Tell that to my bladder. I nearly pissed myself on that last turn.”
With another bark of laughter, unintentional but unstoppable, Ben took Gavin’s hand and led him to the stairs.
Gavin
The first time Gavin had been in Ben’s apartment, he’d been surprised. He’d expected to see beer bottles and pizza boxes all over the living room, milk crates for end tables, a ratty sofa. He didn’t know why he thought Ben would live like a poor frat boy, but he did. Instead, he found a tidy, comfortable home. A leather couch and overstuffed chair took up most of the living room, and framed photos hung on the wall and sat on shelves with all kinds of different books. Art books, history books, high fantasy novels. Ben was one of the only people he knew who still had real paper books. Not to mention the hundreds of digital copies he kept on his phone. Gavin’s favorite, though, was the leather-bound portfolio of all of Ben’s work.
Without any further invitation, Gavin set the catalog and his birthday present down, picked up the portfolio, and started flipping through the pages.
“There’s nothing new in there,” Ben told him as he put on some music, something quiet and slow, relaxing. “Haven’t added anything in a couple months. The book down at the shop has a few, though.”
Gavin had never been to Ben’s shop. He felt enough like a puppy following him around; he didn’t need to show up at Ben’s job uninvited. “I still like to look.”
Ducking his head around the corner from the kitchen, Ben said, “Suit yourself. You hungry?”
“Nah, Tony took me to dinner, and Steph bought me lunch.” After looking at his favorites in the portfolio, Gavin set it back down on the coffee table. “Birthdays are great for free food,” he added before going over to the fireplace to look at the pictures on the mantel. He’d seen them all before, but one stood out this time. He wasn’t sure if he’d never noticed it or if it was new. Two men, wrapped around each other, smiled happily under the glass. “Hey, who are these guys?” he asked.
Ben came up behind him, not quite touching but close enough to radiate heat. Ben’s breath tickled his skin as he leaned over Gavin’s shoulder and looked at the photograph. “My ex and his husband.”
“You guys are still friends?”
“Yeah. Hell, he’s one of my best friends.”
“Why’d you two break up?”
“He wanted… more,” Ben said with a shrug, adding, “I wanted a good time.”
“Can’t you have both?”
“You can, but I didn’t know that at the time. I was young when we got together.”
“How young?”
Ben snorted a laugh. “Twenty-two.”
“That’s not that young.”
“Not when you’re eighteen, but now… it’s young.”
Gavin turned and was surprised when Ben didn’t pull back. He looked long and hard at Ben’s face, the laugh lines around his eyes, the few gray hairs in his stubble and shaggy brown hair. “How old are you, anyway?”
Ben leaned closer and dipped his head. Almost close enough to kiss Gavin, but he didn’t. He whispered, “You’ve never asked me that before.”
“I’m asking now.”
Ben’s smile turned predatory, playful. “More than twice your age. I’ve got regrets older than you. Does that bother you?”
“I wouldn’t say that, no. How much more than half?”
“I’m thirty-seven. You do the math.” Ben laughed again and finally pulled away.
“That’s not that bad.”
In response, Ben chuckled and lifted a brow.
“I mean… when I’m thirty, you won’t even be fifty.”
When Ben let out another loud laugh, Gavin’s skin heated with embarrassment. He could get nearly any guy he so much as looked at, but Ben? Ben made him feel like a stupid kid without even meaning to. Well, he assumed Ben didn’t mean to.
“I’ll be close enough, kiddo.”
Gavin huffed in annoyance and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m an adult now, Ben.”
He could tell Ben was trying not to laugh again. His brown eyes softened, and he stepped closer, putting his big hands on Gavin’s shoulders. “No adult feels the need to point that out.” He’d said the words gently, but Gavin still bristled.
“You’re an asshole, ya know that?”
Ben pulled him close and wrapped an arm around his waist. He reached his other hand higher, tangling his fingers in Gavin’s hair. “I’m glad you finally figured that out. I’ve been trying to tell you as much for months.”
All of a sudden, there was far less air in the room than there had been moments earlier. Ben held him tight, their bodies pressed together, as the music in the background seemed to surround them. Ben was dancing with him. Not the way they danced at clubs and parties when the hard rhythm pushed them faster, sent them into the space of others around them. This was different. Tender, slow. Gavin felt like he was in the middle of his own movie scene. But not the wild porn he’d hoped this night would turn into. Instead, he was in the middle of a chick-flick-gone-gay.
When Ben said, “You really are beautiful, ya know?” Gavin couldn’t help laughing. Not because he didn’t like hearing it from Ben, but when he pictured himself giving Tony the play-by-play of the night, he knew how cheesy it would sound.
“You have the weirdest seduction routine. I’m just sayin’.”