16. Anders
SIXTEEN
ANDERS
It’s early when my cell starts to ring. Glancing at the screen, I see Danny’s name and question if I should answer or just let it go to voicemail.
I’m sitting on my couch, the coffee table and floor surrounding me littered with the empty beer bottles that are the remnants of the pretty epic pity party I threw myself after Danny, Oz, and I got back from our visit to the garage yesterday afternoon.
“Goodbye, Anders.” The sound of his voice telling me goodbye and the finality of his quietly spoken words have been tormenting me since the moment he uttered them.
It was me that ended things. It was me that lied and said I needed to go out of town.
It was me who told him, without having the balls to actually say out loud that it was over. It was me who ruined things.
But it was his goodbye that heralded the death knell. He made the kill stroke. He did what I wasn’t man enough to do. He said goodbye.
Now hours later, after drinking my own body weight in beer and whiskey, I can’t think of a single reason good enough to keep me away from him.
He’s become like a drug to me, and after less than twenty-four hours without him, I can feel the itching need beneath my skin as my craving for him increases hour after hour.
Henry is mine, and I walked away because I was scared.
But instead of confronting my fear, I’ve run away from it like the fucking pussy that I am.
My cell stops ringing, then immediately starts again, the shrill, cheerful tone that usually makes me smile, sounding too loud, too happy, and too fucking annoying.
Reaching for the cell, I hit Answer, then bring it to my ear.
“Hello,” I say, my voice extra gruff from the alcohol and misery.
“Hey, I thought you should know your man is moving to the apartment above the garage. Parker was supposed to be helping him with his stuff, but me and her have some things to sort out before I go on shift, so there’s an opening for a big, strong moving buddy,” Danny says.
When I stay quiet, the sound of Danny’s disappointment is deafening.
“Brother, I say this with love. Stop being a fucking idiot,” he snarls, then he ends the call, not giving me a chance to speak, to defend myself, or to tell him just how much of a fucking idiot I’ve been in the last few days.
With my cell still in my hand, I find Henry’s number and hover over the call button, but in the end, I can’t do it. I’ve already toyed with his emotions and his body too much, and it’s completely unfair of me to do it again now, just because I miss him.
Instead, I type out a text to Bay and hit send.
Me: Parker was supposed to be helping Henry move to his new place today, she can’t make it anymore. Do you know of anyone in town who could help pack up his stuff and move it to his new place?
His response is almost immediate.
Bay: Penn said Henry was yours. Why aren’t you helping him?
It takes me a moment to decide how to reply; in the end, the best I can come up with is honesty.
Me: Because I’m an asshole.
The three dots appear, then disappear several times, before a reply flashes up on the screen.
Bay: Yeah, you are. We’ve got it from here.
The idea of someone else taking care of my boy makes red-hot anger swirl to life in my gut. Henry is mine, and I should be the one he turns to, but I made sure that wouldn’t happen yesterday. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it, no matter how fucking uncomfortable it is.
The morning drags, made worse by a hangover that’s making me question why I ever thought beer and whiskey could make me feel better. By lunchtime, I’m practically crawling the walls, wondering what my boy is doing, if he’s safe, if he’s smiling.
Then I remember the look on his face when he told me goodbye.
He wasn’t sad, he was resigned, like he never thought we had a chance anyway.
I haven’t asked much about his story. I know he was in the foster system, that he’s been on his own since he was eighteen, but I don’t know the real facts.
Like, who held him when he fell down? Who soothed away his nightmares when he moved to a new family?
Who took pictures of him and applauded him at his high school and college graduation?
I don’t know who his friends are or who he’d turn to in a crisis, and the reason I don’t know any of this is because I’m a selfish asshole who only thinks about himself.
Since the moment I saw Henry sitting opposite Parker at the diner, all I’ve thought about is how I feel, about what I’ll do to him, about how my issues will impact his life.
I’ve never once stopped to ask about him.
I don’t know what his favorite things are.
I don’t know what he hates or what makes him happy.
And now I’ll never know those things, because I walked away and he said goodbye like it was the last time he’ll ever see me, and I have no idea if it should be.
Can I stay away from him, even if it’s for his own good?
Or do I need to leave? Do I need to remove myself from this town and the new life he’s only just starting to make for himself here?
Rattled and confused, I pace the living room, asking myself the same selfish questions over and over again. After an hour, I’m sick of my own company and the self-recriminations that my pacing can’t outrun.
Marching to the door, I open it and step outside, blinking as my eyes adjust to the bright sunlight.
Scanning the curved circle of homes, my gaze lands on Knight’s place.
Of the fourteen newcomers who moved to this remote mountainside community, Knight is the only one of us whose home looks identical to the way it did when he first moved in.
The barrenness of his front yard calls to me, and I stride over to his house and knock on the front door. Knight opens it a moment later, peering around me like he was expecting someone else.
“Anders,” he says, greeting me in his flat, monotone way.
“Hey, Knight, can I come in?”
He thinks about it for a moment, then pushes open the door and steps back.
Entering his house, I exhale at the state of his living room and for the first time wonder what exactly Knight’s story is.
His house reminds me a little of Henry’s apartment, only where Henry’s place is empty because he can’t afford to fill it, Knight’s furniture is clearly good quality, but his house is sparse with no personal touches.
“Are you okay?” Knight asks, tipping his head to the side as he takes in my bedraggled appearance.
“No,” I answer honestly. “No, I’m not okay.”
“Is there something you need my help with?” I can tell from his voice that although he’s offering, he doesn’t really want to get involved with my drama, and as cold as it sounds, I can appreciate that.
Knight is very much no-nonsense. The only times I’ve seen him be even semi-passionate about anything was when Nero and Tori were in the early days of their relationship and Knight threatened Nero.
Knight and Tori have developed an unexpectedly close friendship, and Knight has made it openly known that upsetting her is a mistake.
The other occasion was when he shocked Oz and me by announcing that he’d met his future wife and planned to inform her of her role in his life the next time he saw her. He told us categorically that he intended to devote his life to her and would shape his future around hers.
To my knowledge at the moment, he’s still single, and as I haven’t heard of anyone getting a restraining order against him, I’m assuming he hasn’t been in contact with whoever this woman is yet.
“I’m bi,” I blurt, shocking myself.
Knight nods.
“Do you believe in this stupid Barnett curse, love-at-first-sight thing?” I question.
“Yes,” Knight says simply.
“Is that how you know that this woman you intend to marry is the one?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re confident that she’ll feel the same way?”
“Eventually, yes. I’m actually planning to inform her of our impending nuptials in the next few weeks.”
“Is she here then, in town?” I ask.
“Not yet. I intend to collect her and bring her home.”
Shocked to silence, I stare at him, in awe of both his certainty and single-minded intent.
“Would you still tell her that you intend to marry her if something about you could impact her?” I ask, pushing my own dilemma onto Knight’s situation in the hope that he’ll tell me what I want to hear and confirm that walking away from Henry for both of our sakes was the right thing to do.
“Yes,” he says decisively.
“Even if you could hurt her?”
“I’d never physically hurt a woman.”
“What about emotionally, psychologically?”
“My wife was thrown into my path for a reason. If she wasn’t the person I was intended to be with, then I wouldn’t be so sure. I don’t think there’s anything about me that could hurt her, she wouldn’t be my perfect doll if there was.”
“I’m a dominant,” I blurt, struggling to understand where my filter has gone and why I suddenly can’t stop speaking.
“In a sexual way?” Knight asks, his expression thoughtful.
“Yes. But I’m also someone who enjoys control in all aspects of my life.”
“And you see this as a bad thing?” he questions curiously.
“Wouldn’t you?” I ask.
“I believe control is a requirement for happiness and peacefulness. I require immense amounts of control over my home, work, and environment. I don’t consider that a weakness, rather, I feel it’s a strength.”
“And if your need for control negatively impacted your wife?”
“How would it?” he asks.
“What if you needed to know where she was at all times?” I ask, using one of Gabe’s biggest issues as an example.
“I’d put a tracker on her cell, clothes, car, and person.” His tone is so neutral, so…calm that I find myself blinking at him.
“And you think that’s normal?”
“Once my wife is here, I will be accompanying her at all times. If there is an occasion when I cannot, then I think a tracker is a perfectly reasonable compromise.”
“And if your wife didn’t agree?”