16. Chapter 16
Henrik
“W hat is it this time?” I ask.
Alma makes a soft, affronted sound. “Can’t I call my brother without motive?”
“You can,” I say, not believing for one minute my sister called without reason. “So what is it you wanted to chat about?”
Alma is silent for a moment, and I laugh.
“Fine,” she says. “Mom has ringed me twice because you still haven’t returned her call.”
I sigh, sitting down on the edge of the couch. “It slipped my mind.”
“Really? The more likely explanation is that you’re simply giving her and Dad the slip.”
Not an unreasonable guess.
“It truly did slip my mind this time,” I tell her.
She hums. “Why’s that? Extra busy at work?”
When I don’t immediately answer, my mind snagged on the real reason I’m so preoccupied—mainly a certain young man with coconut hair and a vibrant laugh—Alma pounces.
“If it’s not work, what is it? Are you seeing someone, brother dearest?” she teases, although real curiosity is evident in her tone.
I’m about to tell her it’s nothing like that—because it’s not , and there’s no reason to feed her nosiness—but at that moment, the elevator softly dings, and the door whooshes open. I turn my face that way on instinct.
“It’s not, uh…” I falter.
Mal pads across the foyer, pausing for a moment before heading into the kitchen, likely having seen the phone propped against my ear and deciding to give me privacy. I listen to him moving about. There’s a crinkling, like that of a plastic bag, and then he opens and closes the refrigerator door.
Alma gasps lightly. “Are they there with you right now?” She sounds equal parts incredulous and excited.
I turn my head. “Alma, I have to go.”
“No, no, no,” she says, but I end the call anyway. She’ll forgive me.
“Mal?” I call out.
“No,” he says in a voice not quite his own. “I’m here to steal all your things.”
I raise an eyebrow, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “If Delroy let a burglar up, I’ll have to have words with the man.”
Mal chuckles. “Please don’t sack Delroy. He’s incredibly nice.”
“Is he?” I ask as I step around the island, even though I know that, yes, Delroy is perfectly well-mannered. I reach for where Mal’s shirt should be, but instead of fabric, something cold and wet is shoved at my hand. I nearly drop it in my surprise. “What is this?”
“A green smoothie,” Mal replies.
I frown, taking a sniff of the drink. Is that what Mal was out doing on his walk? Buying smoothies?
“It’s healthy,” he says. “It has a bunch of fruits and spinach and antioxidants, I think?”
“You think,” I repeat.
“Well, that’s what the girl at the shop said,” he replies, pushing the drink a little closer to my chest. The outside is dripping in condensation, and I exchange hands to wipe the moisture off onto my pants.
“Are you hinting, Mal?” I ask flatly.
“Hinting?” he asks in confusion.
“That I need to be on a diet?”
He barks a laugh. “God no, Henrik. Your body is fine . More than fine.”
My lips twitch up at that, chest singing in smug satisfaction.
Despite my wariness, I try a sip of the smoothie.
It’s not that I’m an unadventurous eater, or that I avoid healthy foods—quite the opposite, in fact—but this smells…
well, it smells like grass. And, as expected, when the thick concoction coats my tongue, it’s bitter and bland, but I do my best not to showcase my displeasure.
Mal woke in a great mood this morning, practically bouncing around the penthouse. I think it was the first time I’d witnessed him so animated. So…innocent, almost. Even though it’s an unusually chilly day in early March, he wanted to go out and get some fresh air.
Far be it from me to discourage him from doing anything that puts that sort of lightness in his step.
It’s not that Mal is an outwardly depressing person, but he does carry a wariness about him, as if there’s a rain cloud above his head, and he’s expecting it to unleash at any moment and soak him to the bone.
So to hear the excitement in his tone as he rambled on about going out for a walk and exploring the neighborhood was a welcome change. I might even have joined him if it weren’t for the pressing call from a board member I received.
But now he’s back, gifting me a smoothie, and I’ll happily swallow down a little grass-like unpleasantness if it means I get to hear more of that joy in Mal’s voice. At least the tacos yesterday were delicious.
When the straw leaves my mouth, I hum, trying to sound appreciative.
“Good?” he asks. I can hear him taking a sip of his own smoothie, and then he coughs. “Oh. Yeah, no. That’s bad.”
My lips twitch again, and I have to hold back my laughter as Mal snatches the drink from my hand.
“Hold up, I’ll make something better.” He tosses the drinks in the trash and opens the refrigerator.
“Mal, you don’t need to—”
“I want to,” he says, cutting me off. “You still had a headache most of yesterday. Don’t tell me that you didn’t. And I thought a fresh drink might be nice, but, well, that was crap. I’ll try again. You have lots of berries in here.”
“Mal, you don’t need to doctor me. I’m fine,” I say gently, sitting down. “You realize I’ve been an adult for a very long time, yes?”
“Well, so?” he counters. “Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve someone to take care of you sometimes.”
My chest clenches, and I try to brush off the sensation, not liking how Mal makes me feel such… hope . It’s dangerous, that feeling. Wanting more .
I clear my throat. “Are you petitioning for role of Daddy?”
Mal barks out a laugh.
God, I love that sound .
Fuck.
“No, that role is already filled,” he says.
“I’m not your—”
“I’m kidding , yeesh,” he cuts in, closing the fridge door and stepping close. “Take it easy, Dad.”
I growl, making a grab for Mal, but he skirts back a step, laughing loudly.
“Henrik, I know you’re not my daddy. I do. But honestly, I don’t know…”
He stops talking, and I frown. “You don’t know what?”
Mal steps close again, his leg brushing my knee. I reach up and find the hem of his shirt, tugging him a little closer and then slipping my fingers up until I find skin. Smooth, inviting.
“What is it?” I ask again.
He blows out a breath. “You’re paying me an exorbitant amount to be here, but I don’t feel like I’m doing enough to earn my keep. We’ve only had sex twice. You don’t seem to want me to cook or clean for you—”
“You’re not my maid .”
“—and you work long days at your office doing whatever non-banker things you do. When you are here, I want to make sure I’m doing what I can for you. I want to make sure you’re happy. With me.”
My heart hammers, and I breathe evenly through the ache, reminding myself of the intent behind Mal’s words. He wants me to be happy because this is his job . And he doesn’t want to lose it.
That’s it. Nothing more.
Despite the honesty in his tone.
“You’re doing everything I’ve asked of you, Mal,” I say steadily.
“Okay.” The one word sounds tentative, and Mal inhales like he’s about to say more, but then his phone rings, distracting him away from the conversation. He makes a quiet sound of discomfort before stepping back, and my fingers slip from his skin.
“Excuse me,” he says, walking away.
I frown in the direction of his departure, curious, despite myself, when he closes the door to his room. Whatever the call is about seems to require privacy.
I force myself to give Mal his time alone and focus on other things, namely scrolling through and listening to a few business emails before the work week starts up again in the morning.
Anything to get my mind off the man in the guest room.
But when I hear a sharp “ Fuck ,” I’m on my feet and heading down the hall without a moment’s hesitation.
“Mal?” I call out, knocking on his door lightly. He doesn’t answer, and my worry ramps. I knock again.
“Yeah,” he says, voice muffled and a little croaky. “Come in.”
I ease open the door, and the first thing I hear is the harshness of Mal’s breaths.
“ Damn it . Are you okay?” I ask in alarm, stepping slowly forward. I assume Mal is on the bed and nearly slump in relief when I find him there as expected, my fingers connecting with a forearm.
“Yeah,” he says, following it up quickly with, “no.”
He grabs my hand and pulls it upwards, placing it against his neck and holding it there with both palms as his breath shudders in and out.
“Are you having a panic attack?” I ask, climbing onto my knees atop the bed so I can get closer. Mal is sitting against the headboard, but he seems to be splayed out somewhat diagonally across the bed, as if he landed there and just stayed put.
“No,” he says softly, voice slightly hitched, as he shakes his head. “I’m just… I think I broke my phone.”
“What?” I ask, confused about the non sequitur.
“I threw my phone, and I think the screen cracked.”
“Okay,” I hedge. “That’s not a problem. We can get you a new one.”
Mal hiccups. “I don’t care about the phone, not really.”
I hum in somewhat confused acknowledgement, settling in next to him. I don’t remove my hand from his neck where he’s holding it, but I sit down fully, pulling my legs up in front of me. Mal’s pulse threads rapid fire under my fingers. “What was the call about, Mal?”
“My mom.”
“Your mom?” I ask. He hasn’t mentioned her before. “Is she okay?”
“No,” he says almost harshly. “She’s not. She has dementia.”
My throat catches. “I’m sorry, Mal.”
He shakes his head rapidly. “She’s not a good person, Henrik. She’s not.”
“What…what do you mean?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I start to wonder whether or not he’s going to answer me.
“Mal?” I prompt gently.
“She thought being gay was a choice,” he finally spits. “And she made me pay for it. She made me pay for that choice, and then she held it over my head like a cleaver.”
What?
“Mal, I—”
“I can’t talk about it, Henrik,” he rushes out, as if he’s reached his limit. As if whatever dam temporarily burst, hurling those words forth like a necessary pressure release, locked back up tight. “I can’t.”
The visceral emotion is those two words chafes at me, body and soul, but I nod, doing my best to soothe him, running my thumb over his neck and whispering, “Okay, okay.” But then a drop of moisture hits my wrist, and another, and when I register it’s Mal’s tears I’m feeling against my skin, I lose my own battle to stay strong. “Oh, Mal,” I croak.
I tug him in, and he doesn’t put up a fight.
He falls against my chest, crying silently as I hold him in my arms. As something inside me cracks wide open, gaping and raw.
I’ve never in my life heard someone make so little noise while they wept—as if they’re accustomed to hiding their pain—and if it weren’t for the wet spot dampening my shirt, I might not have believed it.
It absolutely breaks my heart.
All of it. I don’t even know what’s wrong, but whatever isn’t right , whatever this is, it tears at me viciously.
“What can I do?” I ask, my fingers drifting shakily through Mal’s hair, one palm rubbing circles across his back. I can’t stop touching. Comforting.
Clinging.
“You already do too much,” he says against my chest, his voice a whisper.
I squeeze him tighter, swallowing roughly against the ball of ragged glass lodged deep in my throat.
“You asked what would make me happy,” I say, the words rasping on the way out. “Allowing me to help would make me happy, Mal. You being honest with me would make me happy. So please, let me ask again. What can I do?”
Mal inhales deeply before blowing out a slow breath, the air cooling my damp shirt. He shifts away from me, and although I’m remiss to let him go, I drop my hands as he resituates on the bed.
“Would you do the crossword with me?” he asks, a complete 180 from what I thought he might say.
“The crossword?” I say tentatively.
“Yeah,” he replies, shuffling around on the sheets, his voice hoarse. “I like to do it on my phone sometimes. It clears my head.” He pauses. “Crap, my phone…”
“Here,” I say, pulling mine out of my pocket and handing it over.
Mal’s fingers brush mine as he takes the device. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I say. “Yeah, let’s do the crossword.”
Anything that will help. Anything to take away Mal’s pain, at least for a little while.
Mal taps lightly away on my phone, not commenting as I feel out his position.
He’s leaning against the headboard again, and his legs are spread out straight in front of him.
I sit at the top of the bed next to him, planting myself shoulder to shoulder.
But as soon as I’m settled, Mal shifts downward, laying his head on my lap with a sigh.
“This okay?” he asks softly.
I smile a little tremulously, that wide-open space inside of me pulsing with something uncertain and warm. “Of course.”
Mal hums lightly when I run my fingers over his hair, and suddenly, I think I understand why he likes cats so much. It’s such an errant thought I almost laugh. But sitting here with the man, petting him almost, is just as comforting to me as I expect it is to him.
I never want to stop.
“Ready?” Mal asks.
I clear the notion of felines from my head as I run my thumb over Mal’s brow, glad that the tension there is smoothed away. A little moisture lingers beside his eye, however, so I wipe it away, chest tight. “As I’ll ever be.”
He hums almost contentedly, shifting slightly before resettling. “Before you leap. Four letters.”
My motions still, and I huff out a breath, shaking my head at the timely clue. “Look.”
It’s advice I should heed— look before you leap —despite the literal interpretation being something I’m incapable of. Because I am capable of weighing costs. It’s something I do every day for my job.
And the cost of allowing myself to inch closer to this man, to take comfort in the way Mal is resting in my lap like it’s the safest place to be, like he trusts me, is high.
Whatever this is—whatever shaky, baby-fawn emotion is trying to gain legs inside my chest—can’t last. This isn’t real . Mal isn’t mine to keep. He’s not mine to soothe and tend to. Not mine to love.
I know that. I’m well aware I can’t allow myself to fall into the fantasy with Mal because without the paycheck tethering him here, the illusion would slip apart with the snap of a finger.
And yet, I can’t bring myself to regret a single thing as Mal leans against my legs, one of his hands tracing my calf as my fingers thread through his hair. I can’t bring myself to call a halt as he reads clue after clue aloud, his voice gaining strength with each word.
I can’t distance myself. I can’t stop, even though I know I should.
I don’t want to stop.
And that crack inside me tears a little wider.