CHAPTER 6. COMPANY #3
I push myself up from the bed, and a fresh wave of pain crashes through my skull. Wincing, I make my way to the wardrobe and reach for a clean sweater and some lounging pants.
I pause, back still to Xavier.
“By the way,” I say, keeping it casual, “where are my clothes?”
“Hm?”
“My clothes,” I repeat, glancing over my shoulder. “The ones I was wearing outside. When I woke up, I wasn’t…in them.”
“In the bathroom,” Xavier says.
“Okay.” I nod, shoving the thought aside before my brain can go places it shouldn’t.
“You seriously need to check yourself for a concussion.”
I chuckle, trying to shake off the weird tension curling in my stomach, then pull on the sweater and pants. “I completely forgot about Monica. I should go check on her.”
As I head for the door, I glance back—Xavier’s still sitting on my bed, completely still.
“You’re not coming?”
“No. Let me know when everyone’s gone.”
“It’s just Monica now. Everyone else already left.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Alright.”
I head downstairs, dragging my feet. I don’t want to talk to Monica—what I do want is to shut myself in a dark room, like Xavier, and block everything out: the article, the gossip, the questions. But I don’t get that luxury.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Monica says from her seat at the table, giving me a look. “I’ve got to head out soon.”
“Yeah, well. You picked a hell of a day to visit,” I say, slumping into the chair beside her.
She nods, sympathetic. For the next ten minutes, we talk about nothing—weather, Christmas plans, whatever filler we can come up with. But we saw each other yesterday, so there’s not much left to cover. Just one thing hanging in the air—the one topic I really don’t want to touch.
“So,” Monica says eventually, breaking the silence. “You and Xavier—worked things out?”
I glance at her. “Me and Xavier?”
She nods. It takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about. Last night, I told her about the fight. Not in detail—but enough.
“Sort of,” I say.
There’s another pause.
“He’s not what I expected,” she says, fidgeting with her empty cup. “Quieter. More guarded.”
“Yeah.” I don’t know why, but today, I don’t feel like talking about Xavier with her. Usually, I wouldn’t mind. “How’s work?”
Monica shoots me a look. “Don’t change the subject, Newt. If you don’t want to talk about him—or the article—fine. But I’m dying to know.”
“Not much to die over, trust me,” I say dryly, a chill creeping up my spine. “You know damn well it’s all crap.”
“Sure,” she says, way too casually—but I can tell she’s not planning to let it go. “Still, this mess opened a whole can of worms. You’re trending almost as much as Minister Craig and his boy toy. Honestly—you’re giving them a run for their money.”
She catches my deadpan look and pats my shoulder. “I’m kidding. Lighten up, will you?”
“Fresh out of light today,” I mutter.
“Come on, it’s not the end of the world. People will talk for a bit, then move on to the next scandal.” She pauses, then adds more gently, “How’s he dealing with all this?”
I notice how she doesn’t say Xavier’s name.
“Taking it?” I echo, stalling.
“Yeah. Is he pissed? Upset? What’s his deal?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug, hoping she doesn’t catch the sudden edge in my voice. “He’s not reacting at all. It’s Xavier. That’s just how he is.”
Monica frowns, studying me a second too long. Then: “Well, getting into a fight is reacting.”
I snort. “Yeah, I guess. But you should’ve seen that guy—he could piss off a saint.” And for some reason, I add, “He said he’d fuck me or something, and Xavier got mad.”
The moment the words are out, I realize I’ve overshared. Great. Maybe I really do have a concussion. My face goes hot as Monica raises an eyebrow.
“Hold up.” Her expression shifts—and before I can brace myself, she asks, “Are you actually in love with him?”
The words hit like a truck.
“What?” I blink too fast, let out a snort that sounds anything but casual. “No.” Yeah. Any acting school would expel me for that performance.
“Yeah, you are.” Her voice is laced with something uncomfortably close to sympathy, which somehow makes it worse. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, Newt.”
“I… No. I’m not gay.”
Even as I say it, I hear how pathetic it sounds.
“I know,” she says—and I can’t tell if she really does, until she adds, “You’re bi, right?”
I don’t answer. I just sit there, frozen—because hearing it out loud, realizing it in real time, hits harder than I ever thought it would.
Monica gives my shoulder a light squeeze, her smile slipping.
“Look, I know this isn’t easy. And maybe I’m way off—but from the little I’ve seen, he just doesn’t seem like someone who knows how to care about people.
I don’t know what his deal is, or how he feels about you, but I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who does relationships. Not real ones.”
“I’m not interested in a relationship,” I lie, way too defensive, heat crawling up my face and tears pricking at my eyes. “It’s not like that.”
Monica sighs and rubs my back in that overly sympathetic way that makes me want to crawl into bed and die.
“Well, if it’s just a hookup you’re after, I’ve got plenty of gay friends.
Maybe not as hot as your man here, but at least they’re actually gay—and not a walking pile of mixed signals. That’s got to count for something.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I say, my pulse hammering in my throat. I push back my chair and get to my feet. “I should turn in early. Can we catch up some other time?”
“Alright,” Monica says, standing too. She watches me for a moment, then steps forward and pulls me into a hug. “I wasn’t trying to upset you. I just don’t want to see you get hurt, Newt.”
I nod, trying hard not to cry, because I don’t think I can take another humiliation today. We stand there for a moment in silence, then I pull back, avoiding her gaze. She’ll read everything on my face, and I can’t afford that right now.
I walk her to the door and stand by while she puts her shoes on, then help her with her coat.
“I’m worried about you,” Monica says quietly as I open the door.
“There’s really no need,” I say, forcing a lightness I don’t feel. “Text me when you get home, okay?”
“I will.”
I hold the fake smile until the door closes behind her. Only when I hear the door downstairs click shut do I finally let myself exhale.
For a few seconds, I just stand there, my heart pounding in sync with the dull ache in my skull. A sting creeps into my eyes again, and I swipe at them, annoyed. I don’t have time for this.
A hot shower. That’s what I need.
In the bathroom, I find my mud-caked clothes dumped in a heap on the washing machine—and without meaning to, my thoughts drift to Xavier.
The second I read that damn article, I knew I’d lost it—whatever illusion I had of keeping this to myself.
Like someone cracked open my chest and dragged it into the light.
I can’t hide behind jokes or denial anymore.
Not even from myself. But I can’t do anything about the way I feel either, because I know exactly where this road leads.
Monica’s right. Xavier doesn’t love me—he never will. Not the way I want him to.
***
By the time I get out of the shower, it’s just past eight. As I head upstairs, it hits me—I was supposed to let Xavier know when everyone left. Totally slipped my mind.
I push open my bedroom door. The dark shape on the bed isn’t sitting anymore—it’s lying down.
“Xavier?” I ask softly, peering into the dim light.
No answer.
I stand there a second, listening to the slow, even sound of his breathing. Then I step back and quietly pull the door shut behind me.
I head downstairs—through the living room, the kitchen, down the short hallway—and into the room with Somerset Maugham’s portrait on the wall.
I pull back the covers, slide into bed, and press my face into the pillow.
His scent hits me right away—familiar, soothing—and I breathe it in slowly.
There’s a flicker of guilt, knowing I’m taking something from Xavier without him realizing, like I’m crossing a line.
But the calm settles in anyway, and my thoughts start to drift, loosening at the edges as sleep pulls me under.
And he’s the last thing on my mind.