40. Silas
40
SILAS
I make my way to the door to answer the endless knocking.
When I open it to find an older man in a gray, pin-striped suit with a cranberry red tie, my hand goes immediately to cover the front of my boxer briefs. “Can I help you?”
“Silas?”
My spine straightens. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Paul Lawther. Graham’s father. May I come in?”
Jesus. What the fuck happened yesterday?
“Uh…sure. Let me go put some clothes on. I apologize, I thought you were…” Shut the fuck up, Silas.
“Take your time.”
I call Graham once I’m in the bedroom. When he doesn’t answer, I text him. I pull on some jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. For good measure, I put on socks and shoes while I wait for a response. Eventually, I can’t put it off any longer, and I return to the living room. Mr. Lawther has taken a seat at the head of the dining table. I offer him something to drink, but he politely declines .
I go into the kitchen to make coffee for myself. We have a Keurig, so it’s not an elaborate routine.
He waits in silence, checking out the windows, the view. His eyes seem to roam every inch of the apartment before they settle on me. He does the barest assessment of my body and then focuses on my face.
I bring my coffee to the table and sit, asking the question that’s been screaming inside me as the coffee dripped. “Is Graham okay?”
“He’s fine. He spent the night with us. He was still asleep when I left to come here.”
Knowing he’s physically all right makes me relax slightly. I take a sip of coffee. I don’t know much about Graham’s dad because Graham doesn’t seem to either. He’s a businessman—a millionaire or billionaire—he’s got his hands in politics, media, and the Catholic church. I’ve never gathered he was abusive—stern, maybe. A true patriarch. Conservative.
He knows about me, though, and that’s unnerving. Did Graham come out? Is that why he was such a mess on the phone last night? Not knowing is making me even more nervous. Why in the world he would feel compelled to do it is beyond me. Something’s wrong.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“There’s been an unpleasant development in Graham’s divorce. I gathered he told you about his meeting with Gibson Hayes?”
Gibson Hayes? Christian’s boss? I shake my head, not knowing what the fuck is happening and pissed off that I’m in the dark. I do not like this feeling. My abs tighten like they’re trying to brace my insides for a rough impact.
“No? Hm.” Mr. Lawther scrutinizes me again. “Your name came up, that’s why I mentioned it.”
I school my features into remaining blank. I don’t speak, waiting for him to go on .
“Somehow or another, Avery and The Hayes’s have obtained information about your affair with my son. They’re using it to blackmail him for a better divorce settlement.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. I set the coffee down and rest a hand on the table, trying not to dig my nails in. “What kind of information?”
“I’d rather not say, but it’s a problem. Or it could be if we don’t handle this wisely.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“The problem, Silas, is that someone is following you, which means someone is following my son. I’m guessing a private investigator. Have you noticed anything?”
Horror-stricken, I shake my head.
The old man sighs like he can’t believe he’s having to stoop to deal with something so obviously beneath him. Something so dirty and salacious and gay .
“I hope I don’t have to explain the kind of problem this presents to my family. Specifically, my son’s career in politics.”
It occurs to me, almost as an afterthought, that Christian texted me yesterday afternoon as I was waking up one of the many times I do after a night shift. We haven’t been exactly close since I moved out last year. He reaches out from time to time, and depending on my mood, I usually ignore his texts. But this time, I didn’t, and I made plans with him tonight. Tapas. He’d been more direct about wanting to get together with me, and I’d felt guilty for dodging him.
But the timing feels oddly convenient. His insistence on seeing me is out of character. Does Chris know something about this? He works in Gibson’s building, and I think his father was friends with the billionaire.
I shift in my seat and put my hand on the mug of coffee, trying to make it warm again. The last thing I want to do is antagonize a man like this—the fact that he’s Graham’s father is another reason to want to make a decent impression. But I’m nervous, and I’m feeling oddly similar to the way I felt when Ben told me he got the job in London. I haven’t felt this way in a long time, but it’s not like I can forget the sensation of a rug being tugged out from under me.
I press my mouth shut so I don’t snap at the man, determined to stay measured and calm, not give too much away, although I’m the one in the dark.
“I think it’s best,” he says, “if you look for another place to live.”
Graham has his father’s eyes—large and green—but the older man’s are lighter. Faded. I hold his gaze as my world falls down in chunks around me. “I thought this was Graham’s apartment.”
“It is, but it’s compromised. As are you. Silas, you’ve become a liability. And we can’t have that.”
I can’t breathe. I try to inhale, but the air gets caught in my throat, my chest too tight to let it in. “I need to see him,” I whisper. It’s the most sound I can make.
“I imagine you will, once he wakes up. But he’ll be moving in with us for the time being. We’ll keep an eye on him if you’re concerned.”
This isn’t happening. Graham’s not moving out. I’m not leaving. It’s ridiculous. So he’s gay. So we live together. So fucking what? It’s the twenty-first century, and we’re allowed to love who we love. We’re allowed to get divorced and live with whomever the fuck we want. I know deep in my soul Graham needs me as much as I need him. There’s no way he’d let his father come between us. He’s a U.S. senator for fuck’s sake. He can do whatever he wants. He’s not up for re-election for another three or four years.
Gay Republicans exist. I’ve never quite understood it, but they do. Honestly it’d probably only make him more likely to be re-elected in New York.
I don’t expect this old man to understand that, though, so I nod along like I’m agreeing. I’ll work this out with my partner, thanks. I’m ready for Paul Lawther to leave.
If I have to spam Graham’s phone to make him wake up and get his ass back here, I will, and I want to start now.
Mr. Lawther sighs. “If you need money?—”
“I don’t.”
He goes on as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’m prepared to be generous.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
He produces a business card from his inner breast pocket and sets it on the table. “If you change your mind.”
I stare at the card as he stands and straightens his suit. “I wish I could have met you under different circumstances. I love my sons. While I’m not rejoicing at the news of my eldest’s sexual orientation, that doesn’t change the fact that I’ll go to my grave trying to protect him. Feel free to blame me for any hardship this may cause you. I’ll be going now.”
I don’t walk him out, not trusting my legs to hold me up. The shock of what’s happened hits me in waves. One second the water is calm, the next it’s knocking me over.
Once I’m alone, I start calling Graham. I get his voicemail seven times before he picks up.
“Get home,” I tell him. “Now.”
I’m waiting on the couch when Graham comes in. He looks like shit, but even when he’s rumpled and pale, he’s beautiful. When he sees me, his face loses even more color. He empties his pockets on the kitchen island, stalling. Then, he walks into the kitchen, pours himself some water and guzzles it.
My tension mounts incrementally the longer it takes him to get to me. He’s avoiding it. He mutters something I can’t understand and disappears into the bedroom. I hear the shower come on.
I shut my eyes and try to breathe. I’ve had an hour since his father left to think. I’ve mostly been focused on the night before last when he made me dinner and refused to meet my mother. He said he had a shitty day. The business lunch. With Gibson Hayes. But he came home after that. He didn’t run to daddy. He came home to me .
He told me he needed me. I’m hanging onto those words so tight as the bomb in the corner ticks away.
What was it I told him so long ago? That if we were over, I’d see it coming? Like I’m incapable of being blindsided. But even now, it doesn’t feel over. I can’t picture either of us leaving this place. But even if I could, the idea of not being with him is impossible to imagine. He’s part of me. We’re part of each other. Ben was my boyfriend, and we were together longer than this, but that relationship took so much more effort. Graham and I fit in a way I never did with Ben. We’re supposed to be together. The universe demanded it. And when we finally started listening, there’s been nothing we couldn’t get through when we did it hand in hand.
This won’t be different. It can’t be. He doesn’t need me any less today than he did two nights ago, not if the circumstances haven’t changed. He came out to his dad for Christ’s sake. That’s huge. That means something. It has to mean he’s not willing to lose me.
If we have to separate for a time—live elsewhere—whatever. We can figure that out.
Unable to wait for him any longer, I barge into the bathroom only to hear him crying in the shower. Through the fogged glass, I see him with his hands on the wall and his head hung between his shoulders. His body shakes with each wrenching sob.
Kicking off my shoes, and unable to stand seeing him like this a second longer, I get in with him. The moment I touch his back, he turns, wraps his arms around me, and weeps against my neck.
I grip his wet, naked body and press kisses to the side of his head. Eventually he speaks—two words like a chant. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
It reminds me of the day in the hospital room at Lenox Hill. This was how broken he was. When he’d lost something precious and dear.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting back my own tears. I won’t lose him. I won’t. I can’t.
If he can’t fight, I will.
He’s not going anywhere .
When his crying settles, I try to kiss him, but he turns his head.
Trying not to let that get to me, I reach around him, turn off the water, and tell him to get out.
He dries off, and I strip off my wet clothes, not letting him leave my sight this time. I grab another towel and wrap it around my waist, leading him with a hand on his lower back into the bedroom to the dresser. I hand him underwear, joggers, and a t-shirt. I dress similarly.
I catch him watching me as I pull my underwear up, and I notice the way his hands are balled into fists, like he’s dying to touch me but won’t let himself. I swallow hard and continue putting on my clothes, eyeing him warily.
“I need to talk to you,” he finally says.
No shit.