22. Chapter 22
Henrik
I ’ve never in my life been more afraid than when Mal lay curled on the floor, his chest drawn tight as he wheezed, sucking in harsh puffs of air like a fish out of water.
I felt helpless. Utterly clueless as to how to help. Remembering the things Mal told me before seemed useless in the face of him not breathing . No amount of yoga or lemon tea was going to help.
But I also remembered him asking me to stay, so that’s what I did. I held him as best as I could. I told him I was there, hoping he could hear me. I tried to lead him back from wherever he was. Tried to comfort him.
I felt like a failure.
But then, slowly, Mal regained some sense of cognizance. His breathing deepened, as infinitesimal as it was, and his hand flexed against my arm as I kissed his cheek. So I did it again and again, anywhere I could reach.
But that whimper—that whimper —as I told him I wouldn’t let go nearly did me in.
We’re back at the penthouse now, and Mal is fast asleep in his bed.
I haven’t been able to leave him. I haven’t been able to sleep, either.
The two kittens and I have been jockeying for position closest to Mal, and now they’re resting atop his stomach and chest, one on either side of the arm I have thrown across his middle.
I can’t let go .
I wish I understood what happened tonight.
I could sense something was off as soon as Mal led me onstage.
But it was as he stood behind me, barely breathing, that it clicked and I realized he was having a panic attack.
I wish I’d figured it out sooner. I wish I’d been able to lead him somewhere safe.
Instead, I’d wrapped up my speech in a few succinct sentences, and then it was Mal leading us away to safety.
And still, I’d never felt so frightened.
I tighten my hold on the man in front of me, tucking my face against his neck and breathing in the coconut scent I’ve become accustomed to. The scent I thirst for.
Whatever happened to Mal, whatever is still happening to him, I don’t think it’s a problem I can throw money at. But what else can I offer?
“Okay?”
“Mhm.”
“You sure?” I ask.
Mal sighs. “Yes. You can stop hovering.”
“I’m not hovering,” I argue by rote.
“Your leg is literally pinning me to the couch, and your hand is down my shirt. This,” he says, reaching over my stomach to tap the coffee table, “is the third cup of tea you’ve forced down my throat tonight. And the last time I went to the bathroom, you followed me.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“You took a day off work,” he continues, “and then you’ve come home by three every day since. Which is four days in a row now. You’re hovering , Henrik. I’m fine. It’s been nearly a week.”
I rub my hand over Mal’s pec, enjoying the sensation of his skin against my palm. There’s a light dusting of hair there now that Mal has stopped waxing.
“And now you’re petting me so I stop arguing,” he says.
“I’m not—” I sigh. “I’m sorry. I was worried.”
“I know,” he says lightly, laying his head against my shoulder. I’m spread out on my back on the deep couch, and Mal is between me and the cushions, sprawled halfway over me because, admittedly, I pulled him there.
I groan, realizing he’s right. I’m babying him. Mal is a grown man, yet I’m treating him like…
Oh, God. I’m treating him like he’s fragile. Watching his every move like he might trip and break. Just like how my parents treat me.
“You’re having a moment, aren’t you?” Mal observes.
“Yes,” I admit.
I’m realizing when you care about someone—and fuck , yes, I care about this man deeply—it’s hard to let go. It’s hard to stand by and watch as they, theoretically, wade into danger.
“I made an appointment with my psychiatrist,” Mal says quietly, making my heart skip.
When nothing else is forthcoming, I hedge, “That’s good, isn’t it?”
He nods against my chest, and I continue running my fingertips over his skin.
“Getting back on my meds should help,” he says.
“And then what?” I ask.
“And then…” He exhales against me, tucking his arm around my middle. “Paying off my debt should be a stress reliever. It’s a surface problem, but it’s easier than tackling the internal.”
Hearing Mal talk about money, the confirmation of what I am to him, has me tensing.
But I try to force my muscles to relax. I fully plan on having a conversation with Mal about us , and soon.
But I didn’t want to throw it at him on the heels of his major panic attack last week.
Although Mal has been back into his usual routine—yoga here and there, visiting the cat shelter, doing the crossword on his phone with me before bed—he’s been a little more subdued.
As if whatever he experienced is rolling over still, or simply hasn’t sloughed off as Mal has moved forward.
It hurts witnessing him at 80 percent. Mal has been nothing but good and pure, and I wish he didn’t have that cloud hanging over his head.
“You have a lot of debt?” I ask gently.
He nods against me again, his hair brushing my chin. “Accumulated in the last couple years. It drained my savings, so I had to put a bunch of stuff on cards. Important stuff, like food and withdrawing loans for rent. It wasn’t because of frivolous purchases. I wasn’t buying a bunch of crap.”
“Mal,” I say softly, stroking his chest. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t judge you either way.”
He exhales, the tension leaching from his body. “I’m paying for my mom’s care. That’s what started it all. It’s so damn expensive, and I couldn’t keep up.”
“Your mom?” I ask with surprise. “Because of her dementia?”
He makes an “mm” sound.
I haven’t gleaned any additional information about Mal’s mother after that phone call weeks ago, but it was obvious Mal and his mom didn’t have a healthy relationship. So why is he paying for her care?
“I thought—”
“I don’t want to talk about her, Hen,” he says, sadly this time. Not angrily. Just like he’s defeated.
I hate it.
“Do you have any other family?” I ask, continuing to run my fingers over Mal’s chest.
He shakes his head against my shoulder. “No.”
I open my mouth to ask more questions, but the elevator descends, and Mal tilts his head. “Expecting company?” he asks.
I nod idly, my thoughts still stuck on Mal, wondering what happened between him and his mother. He said she made him pay for being gay. How? What did she do?
“Benjamin is stopping by with a new teapot,” I reply at last.
Mal huffs. “Your teapot was fine.”
“The whistle was broken,” I point out.
“Still worked. You didn’t need to have Benji bring a new one by on a Friday evening.”
I shrug, the movement jostling him some. “He’s used to it.”
“You’re spoiled,” Mal says, turning his head and kissing my chin.
I smile. “I won’t deny it.”
Mal chuckles, the start of a word dying on his lips as the elevator dings open and several voices tumble over one another all at once. I freeze, as does Mal, and when the newcomers’ conversation abruptly halts, I realize they’ve caught wind of us.
Mal is already sitting upright, detangling our bodies, when a familiar voice calls out, “Well, isn’t this a surprise?”
“Dove?” I ask in alarm, swinging my legs to the floor. I stand up in a hurry, running my hands down my clothes to make sure everything is in place, as my sister Alma’s gentle laughter washes over me.
“And Mom and Dad,” she says, stepping closer.
“What are you all doing here?” I ask, meeting them halfway. Mal stays near the couch behind me.
“We came for a visit, and Delroy was kind enough to let us up,” my mother replies, stepping forward and touching my arm. I’m unsurprised my doorman recognized my family—the man has a penchant for faces—but a heads up would have been nice. An actual burglar would have been less of a shock.
I give my mom a short hug, our customary greeting, before my father sweeps in.
“Sorry to barge in,” he says quietly, patting my back. “Your mom was on a mission and wouldn’t be dissuaded.”
I huff as he steps back. I’m sure he didn’t try hard to stop her. My parents are, and have always been, determined to stick their nose into my life. Except , I realize with a cringe, I kind of get it now .
“Who’s this?” Alma asks, her voice sugar-sweet and tinged with an edge of mischief. I have no doubt she’s put two and two together, deducing Mal is the one who was distracting me last we spoke.
I reach back, and Mal steps into my touch, coming to stand beside me. He hasn’t said a word since my family barged in. Not that I can blame him. I’m just as surprised as he must be. I’m sure he never expected to meet these people.
“This is Mal. Mal, this is my sister, Alma, my mother, Sigrid, and my father, Diederik.”
“Nice to meet you, Mal,” my mother says warmly, if not with a bit of confusion. “And how do you know Henrik?”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Alma clicks her tongue. “For God’s sake, Mother. We saw them when we walked in.”
“I didn’t want to assume,” my mother replies quietly. “You’re dating?”
There’s another beat of silence in which my mind races, realizing not once did I consider having to explain my escorts to my family. As far as they know, I haven’t dated anyone in a very long time.
“Yeah,” Mal replies, saving the day. “I’m his boyfriend.”
Alma makes a pleased little sound, and my father says, “Huh. I didn’t know you were into men.”
And then there’s that.
“Oh, for gosh sake, Diederik,” my mother hisses, sounding as if she’s slapped her husband’s chest.
“What?” my father replies. “I didn’t.”
Because as far as my family was aware, I was straight.
I hadn’t bothered mentioning my more recent, late-life attraction to the same gender.
It didn’t seem pertinent when I wasn’t dating anyone.
All the escorts I hired have been men, but I wasn’t about to share that particular piece of information with my family.
I don’t care for dishonesty, but there’s no world in which my parents needed to know the truth about the men I’ve paid to keep me company.
For all intents and purposes, the fallacy Mal provided fits the bill just fine.
He’s not truly my boyfriend—despite my own desires—but for the time being, he is with me.
And now’s as good a time as any to come out.
“Yes, I’m attracted to men,” I reply, running my fingers over the small of Mal’s back. “And women. Or whomever.”
“That’s lovely, dear,” my mother replies as Alma covers her laugh.
“Yes, very nice,” my father pitches in.
Alma steps forward, wrapping her arm around me. “I never got my hug,” she says softly. “And congratulations, you wanker. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
I hum, hugging her tightly with one arm. “I suppose we do.” Stepping back, I add to the group, “Well, come in. Not that you needed an invitation.”
Alma laughs, and my parents detour into the kitchen. It smells like they brought dinner.
Mal pulls me off to the side of the room furthest away from everyone, near the fireplace I never use. “Was that okay? Calling you my boyfriend? I didn’t know what to do.”
“Of course,” I tell him, squeezing his arm. “They would’ve realized pretty quickly that you’re living here. It was the smartest thing to say.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, tugging Mal close. He doesn’t protest, leaning against my chest as I sink my face into his hair. “It’ll be fine. If they get too nosy, I’ll redirect them.”
Mal nods. “You came out,” he says softly.
I hum. “I did.”
“I didn’t know you weren’t out with your family. I assumed, after you brought me as your date to the benefit, everyone in your life knew.”
“I hadn’t gotten around to telling them yet,” I admit.
“I hate to say it, but it didn’t feel important at the time.
I wasn’t looking for a relationship, so it simply didn’t come up these past few years.
” I shrug, only belatedly realizing my wording implied my desire to avoid a relationship was past tense.
“They were really cool about it,” Mal says, his voice almost wistful. And a little strained. I understand why. Even though I don’t have the whole story, I know Mal’s mother was not the same.
“I knew they’d be supportive,” I agree gently. “Alma came out when she was in high school.”
“Proud lesbian,” my sister pipes up, having wandered closer. “Although, Mal, you are quite pretty. Love the hair.”
“Really, Alma? Must you compliment my partner?” I grouse.
She only laughs. “My, my. That word looks good on you.”
I open my mouth to retort when the sound of skittering nails comes flying down the hall. The kittens race past us, one meowing loudly—likely Little Gray—as my mother makes an exclamation of joy from the kitchen.
“Oh, my goodness! Look at these two. When did you get kittens , Henrik?” my mother calls out.
“Yes, Henrik,” Alma says sweetly. “Kittens? My, oh my, we do have a lot to talk about, don’t we, brother dearest?”
Looks like I have some explaining to do.