Chapter 31
Thirty one
Asher
He looks fucking horrified. He looks like someone’s just told him his dog died, or his wife. Yeah, this is probably what he looked like when they told him his wife would never wake up again. I feel sick with guilt. But I don’t want to take it back
“Asher…” he says, and that, too, sounds like a fucking apology.
Amata told me not to tell him, said it would only make me feel more like shit if he didn’t say it back, and well, she was right.
She usually is, to be fair. But I knew he wasn’t going to say it back.
It was never about hearing it back; I wanted it out of me.
It was eating me up, projecting shit onto my imagination every time we were together, and if this is as far as we go, which it looks like it is, then he can take it with him. I don’t want it anymore.
“Sucks to be me, huh?” And it does. More than it ever has.
More than being alone in the world with nothing and no one.
Being in love with Christian Darling, next Prime Minister to the UK, sucks far, far worse.
I move to stand because I can’t sit here seeing all these weird looks cross his face as thoughts about how best to extricate himself from this flit through his head.
I pour myself a glass of water—my mouth has completely dried up and I’m extremely hungover, too, which just makes everything that much worse—and drink the entire thing.
He’s still sitting in the same place, staring at the spot I’d been sat in a minute ago.
“How long?” he says, finally turning to look at me.
I frown. “How long what?”
“How long have you felt this way?”
I’m not sure what difference it makes, but he seems to be very interested in the answer. Eyes narrowed to sharp, focussed points. “Not sure. But definitely since Jersey City.”
“Christ,” he says and stands.
I snort at that. “He’s never helped me out much before, so I wouldn’t count on him showing up for this.
” Christian ignores my joke and wanders over to the balcony, deep in thought.
I wonder if this is what he’s like in important political meetings, when he’s just been presented with a tricky world problem he needs to solve.
He turns and gives me a considering look.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Um, because what would that have done? I knew you’d react like you’re doing right now.
” He’d have ended it there and then, and I hadn’t wanted it to end.
“You told me from the start that this thing between us was never gonna be about that, and I was fine with it. I mean, until I wasn’t.
” There’s an almost accusatory look on his face now, which makes me defensive.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen, I wish it hadn’t. ”
Actually, I don’t wish that at all, and ain’t that just the kicker.
“What is it that you want, Asher?” he asks, turning on me. “We’ve never discussed it, and I didn’t know you were unhappy with this arrangement, with what we had, with what I could give you. If I’d known that—”
“You’d have done what, exactly? Quit your job and run off into the sunset with me?
” I laugh at this, but there’s nothing funny about it.
“Your life would be ruined if people knew who I was to you. And that’s in this job now, which you keep telling me isn’t even that big of a deal.
Now you’re going back to England to run the fucking country—and I’m happy for you, I am—but it means this is over, right?
There’s no point in kidding ourselves. And, like, maybe you didn’t want it to be over, and that’s why you never told me, but I can’t live my life seeing the guy I love once a week or once a month in fucking secret.
There’s no scenario that exists where we both get what we want.
None.” My heart feels like it’s breaking in my chest, and I’ve no fucking clue how I’m holding it together.
“It doesn’t have to be over, Asher. We can… make it work. An arrangement which suits us both...” He looks tormented.
“I don’t want to be your fucking arrangement!
” I shout, something snapping inside. “I want to be in a relationship, Christian. A real one. I want a future with you. I want one day to move in together, get a pet, get engaged, get fucking married. I want a home and a family and someone who loves me back. I don’t want… to be anyone’s arrangement.”
He blinks, looking dumbstruck. He’s dumbstruck by the idea that I want these things? My heart sinks further.
“Asher…” he whispers. “You know I can’t…” I do know, but it still fucking hurts to hear him confirm it, like having a needle pushed slowly into my chest.
“Yeah, I know.” I straighten. My throat closes around my next words, which come out biting and bitter.
“Which is why I need to end this thing and get the fuck over it—find someone who can give it to me.” I’m terrified I’m about to cry again, and I think he is too, because he comes toward me into the kitchen, arms out like he means to pull me into them. “No, don’t, don’t. I can’t do that.”
He stops. “Asher, if I could give you those things, you know I would.”
“No, I don’t. You could easily give them to me, you’re just choosing not to, and that’s what fucking hurts.”
“Darling, it’s not as simple as that, you know that.”
“Stop telling me I know things! I don’t know anything! I don’t know anything except that you aren’t interested in trying to have a life with me. I don’t know anything except that I make you happy, and it’s still not enough. I know that you don’t want me.”
“I want you,” Christian says, stepping closer again, pleading. “Christ, Asher, I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”
“Yeah, to fuck,” I snap. “A lot of guys wanna fuck me, Christian. I’ve built a pretty solid fucking career on it. Problem is, none of them wanna love me.” Hurt explodes across his face, and I know I’ve hit my mark. It makes me feel even more like shit.
“I’m not worthy of this love, Asher, not the man I am today.”
“Oh, that’s bullshit, and you know it. You’re scared. Scared of fucking trying. Scared it’ll mean you don’t love her anymore.”
It’s the wrong thing to say, I know it is, I have no right to bring his dead wife into it, fucking none. But his expression doesn’t change, it’s still this soft, sad thing.
“Yes, I’m scared,” he admits. “I’m terrified.
I’ve been terrified for years, Asher. Of forgetting her laugh or the sound of her voice.
Now? I’m terrified of never seeing you again, of promising you a future I can’t give you, of what it would mean for my son if I say yes to everything you’re offering me.
My life is politics and work, and you’re right, I cannot have you and it.
I, of all people, know the world doesn’t work like that.
But I’m also terrified of who I am without those things.
I’m terrified of our age difference and what it will mean in ten years, twenty.
I’m terrified that you’re far too young to be so sure about someone—about me—and that if I say yes to this, in a year, you’ll realise the very same thing and I’ll lose you, too.
” I’m about to argue with him about everything, but he shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and goes on.
“A man can’t live with this much fear and not be consumed by it, I know that, to not have it eat away at everything good and warm and happy in his life.
You deserve someone who isn’t so fucking afraid, Asher.
Someone who isn’t so bloody broken.” He looks at me and smiles, and I have to bite back the sob that threatens to break out of my chest. “I’ve loved being in your light, darling—it’s been like having the sun on my face after so long in the cold—but I have none of my own to give you, and that’s not fair.
I feel like a bloody ghost haunting my own life.
” He reaches out and takes my head in both his hands, holding it like it’s made of glass.
“I need to find my own light again before I make promises I can’t keep.
I need to fix myself and my son, and my heart, before I burden you with it.
I need to stop lying to myself and those around me.
But mostly, I need to stop living in the past. You deserve someone who can give you everything you want without reservation, sweetheart.
You deserve far better than I can give you right now. ”
“But it’s you that I want,” I say through a mass of tears. “I don’t want anyone else.”
With a watery smile, he leans in to kiss me, his mouth lingering soft and trembling against my lips for a long time.
“My beautiful, perfect boy. You’re so very special,” he says against my lips.
“Please don’t settle.” When he kisses me again, it’s firmer, more determined, more like goodbye.
I want to grab hold of it and never let go.
Pulling back, he kisses both cheeks, my nose, then my forehead before taking a step back.
He draws his eyes over me, like he’s cataloguing me for the last time, and then he’s turning on his heel and moving for the door.
Alarm shudders through my body like an earthquake. Go after him. Don’t let him leave. You love him. You love him.
“Christian,” I call out, stumbling after him.
He’s almost at the front door when he turns back.
My head is so fucking noisy and loud, so chaotic that I can barely organise a single thought.
I’m not sure what I want my last words to him to be, and these feel like they might be my last. Deep down, I want them to be something that will make him change his mind about everything and stay. And love me. And be with me.
“Try not to start any wars,” is what I say. Yeah, fucking inspired, I know.
There’s a little quirk of his mouth. “I’ll try,” he says. “Goodbye, Asher.”
When the door closes behind him, I back myself against the wall and slide to the floor, body numb from loss and grief. What the fuck did I just do?
??
Amata returns sometime later, coming into the apartment like she’s entering the site of a natural disaster; careful, soft steps.
I’d managed to lift myself from the floor, so she finds me on the couch still wrapped in the blanket, unwashed and miserable.
She sets a takeout coffee and a brown bag down and sits next to me, moving to angle herself so I can lie with my head on her lap.
“Do you want to talk about it?” She begins sifting her fingers through my hair, and I close my eyes to focus on the comfort of it.
I shrug.
“Am I adding him to the list?” She means the castration list.
I shake my head as tears gather behind my eyelids again.
“You did the right thing, baby,” she says sagely. “One-sided love isn’t it.”
“But it didn’t feel like that,” I say as I wipe at the tears. “He’s scared. He got his heart broken when his wife died, and I think… he’s just scared it’ll happen again. He’s good, Am. And decent. And I could have been good and decent for him.”
“Gael said he’s a good guy, one of the best.”
“It’s true. Which just makes everything that much worse.” I sniff and sit up. “You wanna talk about Gael? What happened?”
She shrugs, but there’s light in her eyes. “He was a perfect gentleman. Got me a cab and kissed me good night—on the cheek. We’re gonna go for a drink and see what happens.”
From somewhere, I pull up a smile. “He gave you his number?”
“I gave him mine, and he texted about an hour ago.”
“I love this for you.”
“Me too. And he knows. I told him while we waited on the cab, so I don’t have that to stress about.”
“His reaction was okay?”
She nods. “Yeah, I was like: ‘By the way, I’m trans, so if that’s gonna be a problem for you, then let me know now.
’ He said: ‘Doesn’t change anything for me, but thanks for the heads up.
’ And then gave me this fucking smile, Ash.
I swear to god, I almost buckled. Guy has the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen. ”
“God, your one weakness.”
“Outside of chocolate-covered pistachios, yes. I’m ruined.” I even manage a laugh at this.
“I’m happy for you, babe. You deserve this. Theo will be devastated though…”
“Eh, it’s a drink, chill. Anyway, back to you. What now?”
I settle back down on her lap and let her go back to stroking my hair. “I wish I knew. Maybe I need to get out of DC for a bit.”
“Where would you go?” Her voice has gone a little tight around the idea.
“Maybe LA. Leah’s going on tour, so I’d have the place to myself. She’s been desperate to get me there.” As soon as I say it aloud, I know I’m going to do it. The thought of sun, sea, sand, sex—of the work variety—gives me a burst of hope that maybe I’m not broken. “I could just paint and fuck.”
“Sounds heavenly,” says Amata.
Later, after Am has gone home, after she’d made sure I wasn’t a danger to myself or others, I pull up my bank and check my savings.
Cover off this month’s rent and total up the next couple months’ income.
I’m doing alright, and the Cole video is going to do well when it drops next week, so that’s also a cushion.
I’d sold a couple pieces of art this month, too, private sales through my Instagram.
I glance over at the new, unfinished one hanging on the wall, the one we’d started on my birthday.
There was absolutely nothing that could identify him as the subject.
It was fragmented, geometric planes, layered textures, and bold colour juxtaposition—I know it’s about to undertake a transformation.
I’m seeing reds, yellows and oranges, a story of desire, lust, heartbreak and hope.
It might be my most favourite piece by the time I’m done.
Resolved, I pick up my phone and dial my sister’s number.