Chapter 48
DREW
It’s late, and we’ve been celebrating. It wasn’t my idea, but Olivier insisted, and he’s extremely hard to say no to.
Actually, that’s not true. He’s easy to say no to—shout it even, but he doesn’t listen, and so he gets his way pretty much all the time, as evidenced by the fact that I’m still living in New York, more than a month after I thought my time here was up, and I’m in a serious, monogamous relationship with a man. Olivier Arnaud gets what he wants.
And yet again, he’s succeeded—I’m officially the new face and body for Primal—a cruelty-free hair, skin, and fragrance line for men.
Keats Kelly capitalized on his connection with his advertising industry buddy, and I got the gig.
A huge one. The three-year contract I signed this morning made me instantly financially solvent again.
I paid that plumber and the bathroom loan off so fucking fast, you’d think I was trying to post bond. It’s a huge weight lifted, and sure, yeah, worthy of celebration.
Olivier and I don’t have a lot of people we associate with these days, though.
Silas is MIA, Chris is still pissed at me for cheating on Jericho—fair—and our world is small.
There’s Mallory, the ghostwriter, who’s become like a big sister to Elodie.
There’s Jeremy, Olivier’s smoking buddy, and often Matthew, who managed to snag my job when I quit and still thinks of Elodie as his muse.
Still, I feel like I just got off a rollercoaster.
Slightly nauseated, and vaguely traumatized.
I have yet to process the last few years or the feelings of rejection and abject failure that came with them.
I’m not happy with myself for hurting Jericho—although she’s forgiven me like all I did was forget to put the toilet seat down and not completely violate her trust in me.
I can’t forgive myself for it, though, and I often ruminate on how karma might make me pay for that betrayal.
Losing Olivier is not only my greatest fear—it’s damn near a phobia.
None of this takes away from how obsessively in love with him I am, but it does mute any joy I might find inside what we have.
I started having panic attacks about two weeks ago, while we were waiting to hear back from Primal. The paralyzing anxiety comes in the middle of the night when Olivier is passed out from whatever I just put him through to cope with my ever-present sense of inadequacy.
I weather the panic in the privacy of the bathroom when the attacks come—the sense of impending doom, the tight chest, the tingling hands, rapid heartbeat, shortness of breath—the need to dial 9-1- on my phone and let my thumb hover over the 1 just in case this is the real deal.
But they pass. And I go back to bed and either sleep or don’t.
With the outlook for the next three years looking a lot brighter, I hope I’ll finally start getting better. Every single circumstance of my life has changed in a good way. Eventually, my brain will catch up, and I can enjoy what I have.
We’re at the stage of the night where Matt and Elodie have disappeared, Mallory and Jeremy are arguing about Shakespeare, and Olivier and I are mentally undressing each other while we shuttle dishes and leftovers from the dining table to the kitchen.
“We should go up to the roof tonight,” he says to me on one of our passes. “It’s warm out.”
I’ve never been to the roof. I nod with interest, picturing things.
He’s so sexy tonight with his hair in his headband and a black t-shirt. His jeans are faded, soft, and worn. He’s casual. Easy. And I love seeing his whole face—his big eyes and superior nose. His pale, aristocratic forehead.
I swear half of what I do when I’m fucking him is pull his hair back so I can see him better. As someone who’s spent a lot of time staring at my own reflection, there’s nothing in the world I enjoy looking at more these days than him, which says a lot about how obsessed I am.
A crash comes from Elodie’s room, and we all turn in that direction, but when no one emerges bleeding, Mallory swallows the dregs of her wine and says, “I guess it’s probably time to head out.”
Olivier shares a look with Jeremy who stands and walks over to me. “Congratulations again. Well deserved.”
I try not to wince. I don’t like thinking about what I deserve. “Thank you.”
He turns and calls to Olivier. “Ollie—walk me home.”
Olivier shakes his head, giving me a look. “I’ll be right back.”
I smile and walk everyone to the door, opening it for them like a compulsion. My phone buzzes in my back pocket with a text. A high-pitched shriek from Elodie’s room makes me want to poke holes in my eardrums. Those two are ridiculous, but at least they’re having fun. I think.
I start the dishwasher, put several containers of leftovers in the fridge, and top off my wine before I head up to the bedroom—mainly to give Elodie and Matthew more privacy—and protect my delicate sensibilities.
My phone vibrates again, this time with a call.
I pull it out of my pocket, but when I see Peggy’s name, I immediately hit reject and toss my phone on the bed. I’ve had a good day. She’s not getting in my ear and ruining it for me. I refuse to let her.
Olivier appears at the top of the stairs, and I ask him, “What’d Jeremy want to talk about?”
My phone rings again just as he’s opening his mouth to answer me. I glare at it—Peggy again—and turn back to Olivier.
“Who is it?” he asks.
“Peggy.”
“Oh. There’s this conversation he’s been pushing me to have with you, and he wanted to ask if I’d had it yet.”
I scowl. “What kind of conversation?” I can’t help it, but the first thought that comes to my head is that he might want to have a threesome, and that will only happen with my cold dead body, so unless he’s into necrophilia—
“Calm down, it’s not like he wants to have a threesome or anything—relax your face, Jack.”
I approach Olivier and put a proprietary hand on his neck. “What does he want you to talk to me about then?”
Once again, as soon as he opens his mouth, my phone rings.
“Fuck.” I let go of him, on edge, and stalk to the bed, pick up the phone, and bark, “What?”
“Drew?”
“Yes, Peggy. This is the third time you’ve called. It’s me. What do you want?”
“Dad’s in the hospital.” She sniffs. “They don’t think he’s gonna make it this time.”
The sense of impending doom?
Guess I wasn’t crazy.
My stomach drops, and I force in some air. “I’m sorry.”
What I mean by that is I’m sorry I yelled at her. I’m sorry for avoiding her calls. But how she takes it is typical.
“So, you’re saying you’re not coming home. When your father is on his deathbed? Too busy in the city trying to look pretty. Nice, Drew. Fucking perfect.”
I blink in shock. Words won’t form. Without thinking too much about it, I pass the phone back to Olivier who takes it and immediately states, “This is Olivier. What’s going on?”
To be clear, Peggy has no idea who the fuck Olivier is. No one in my family does, but things like that don’t matter to him. I don’t hear much of what’s said, but I do get the sense of him strong-arming the information out of my sister before he hangs up on her.
As soon as the phone is back on the bed, he’s got his hands on my face. His palms are cool. I haven’t moved, and I struggle to focus on his deep blue eyes. “Your father’s in the hospital.”
I nod. Yeah, I got that part.
“And it’s not looking good.”
I nod again, my hands fisted somehow in his shirt.
“You need to go home. Say goodbye.”
I try to swallow. Can’t quite manage it.
“Let me help you,” he says.
I’m not close with my father. I’m one of five. We don’t have a bad relationship; we just don’t have much of one. I speak with my mom more often, and that’s not all that much either.
They have their hands full with the girls and grandkids, and I rarely have anything but bad news to offer, so I tend not to call. It’s not like I’ve done much since moving to New York I’m proud of, and I wasn’t planning on coming out to them until Elodie and Olivier get their marriage annulled.
But I had planned to.
I wanted both my parents to meet him. I’d wanted him to meet them, too.
“I can get you on a flight tonight,” he says.
No, No… I don’t want to leave him.
“Tomorrow morning then.”
Am I speaking out loud? Is he reading my thoughts?
“Drew.” He strokes my face and I feel that, but the rest of my body is numb. I’m not equipped to deal with a crisis.
“Say something,” he whispers.
“I’m scared.”
He wraps his arms around me, pressing his chest to mine and his mouth to my neck, warming my frozen skin. “You’re okay. We’ll get you home.”
“Not tonight.”
“Okay,” he says softly. “Do you need a minute?”
I squeeze him tight. “No.”
He runs his hand through my hair. It’s so hypnotic, I manage to synchronize my breathing to it.
But then he kisses my neck. It’s chaste enough, yet my body reacts wildly. A soft moan escapes my lips, and he does it again, slower.
I know without having to think about it that I’ll regret everything that’s about to happen—that I’ll hate myself—that I’ll do the one final thing that will cement me forever as unforgivable, but the need is too profound. I can’t contain it. I’m not strong enough.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you, too,” I say, a hand unfisting and sliding beneath his shirt.
“We’ll get you there,” he says.
I nod, running my hand up and down his back, turning my head slightly as he does the same. Our mouths meet. His tongue in my mouth is like a drug, making me forget. Grounding me in him.
He’s safe.
I’m safe here.
He lets me kiss him a minute or so before he pulls away, his gaze hesitant, reading my thoughts again, but seeing the darkness there, too. I’m so hard it hurts. I want him so badly, I’m shaking. “Baby, I need you.”
His thumb brushes my lower lip, and it sends a throb through me. I shudder. “Please.”
He studies me, his gaze moving from one of my eyes to the other. He licks his lips and gives me the smallest nod. He looks scared, too.
I don’t want him to be scared.