Chapter 22 Anthony #2
His face darkened further. “You stayed because you could,” he shot back. “I left because I had to.”
“You stayed gone because it was easier,” I said quietly. “Because loving him required effort you weren’t willing to give.”
Something inside him snapped. He slammed his palms down on the counter. “You couldn’t have my wife,” he said suddenly, voice sharp and cruel, “so you settled for my son.”
The words landed with surgical precision.
“You swapped one for the other,” he went on, feeding on the silence.
“You make me sick.” Eyes bright with something ugly.
“I get it now. You wanted what I had. Didn’t you?
You wanted to be me.” He laughed—a broken, hysterical sound.
“So how does it feel?” he demanded. “How does it feel to be me, you sick fuck?”
My chest hurt. Visibly. I felt it there—raw and burning—but my voice held. “I didn’t want to be you,” I said. “I wanted him to survive you.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Elliot appeared—barefoot, hair still damp, wrapped in one of my old T-shirts like it belonged to him. His arms slid around my waist from behind, instinctive, seeking shelter.
My breath hitched. David turned on him immediately. My gut clenched as he started spewing his vitriol at him.
“So this is what you’ve become?” he sneered. “Playing house with my ex best friend?”
Elliot stiffened.
“Don’t,” I warned.
David ignored me. “Is this what you think love looks like?” he said to Elliot. “Clinging to someone else because you don’t know how to stand on your own?”
Elliot’s grip tightened. His breath broke.
“Stop,” I said, turning fully, pulling Elliot into my chest. I pressed a reverent kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, before positioning myself between them. “You don’t get to speak to him like that.”
David’s eyes burned into mine. “You don’t get to decide what he needs,” he spat.
“I didn’t,” I said. “I listened when he told me.”
Elliot’s shoulders shook behind me.
“I can’t be under the same roof as him,” I said then—steady, final. “Not like this.”
“Anthony—” Elliot whispered, panicked.
I cupped his face, thumb brushing away tears as they spilled. My own chest was cracking open.
“My home is always open to you,” I said softly. “Any time. Day or night. You never have to wonder. Never have to ask, okay.”
“Don’t go,” he sobbed. “Please.”
I leaned down and kissed him—slow, certain, undeniable. Not hiding. Not apologizing. “I’m not leaving you,” I whispered against his mouth. “I’m leaving him.”
I grabbed my jacket, turned once more to David.
“I stayed because I loved your son,” I said. “You left because you didn’t know how.”
Then I turned and walked out. I made it halfway to the truck before I heard my name.
“Anthony—wait.”
Footsteps—bare, frantic—hit the porch, then the gravel. I barely had time to turn before Elliot was there, breathless, eyes bright with tears, hair still damp and curling at his temples.
He didn’t say anything at first.
Just grabbed me.
His arms looped around my neck, fingers digging in like he was afraid I’d disappear if he loosened his grip. He kissed me hard—messy, desperate—like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth. Like this might be the last time he was allowed to.
I broke into him with a sound I didn’t recognize, hands coming up to cradle his face, my thumb catching a tear as it slipped free.
“Baby—” I started.
He shook his head, forehead pressed to mine.
“You’re not leaving me,” he said, voice shaking but steady in its conviction. “You’re protecting yourself. And me.”
My chest cracked.
He pulled back just enough to look at me properly, tears streaking his cheeks but he smiled anyway. God, that smile. Soft. Brave. Heartbreaking.
“My home is always open to you,” I repeated, like a vow. “Anytime. Day or night. That doesn’t change.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I love you.” No hesitation. No fear. Just truth spilled from his lips.
I kissed him again. Slower this time, reverent. A promise instead of a plea. “I love you too,” I said. “More than I know how to say.”
He stepped back first. Let me go. That might have been the bravest thing he’d ever done. “Go,” he said gently. “Before I change my mind.”
I got into the truck before I could look at him again. Behind me, I heard Elliot break. The sound of it—raw, unguarded—followed me as I pulled away, chased me down the drive, clung to the back of my skull like a bruise I’d never stop pressing.
The road was too bright. Sunlight glaring. Storefronts lit up. People moving through their lives like nothing had just split open inside me. My hands shook on the wheel. My chest caved in with every mile.
By the time I pulled into my driveway, I couldn’t move. I stayed there, forehead against the steering wheel, breathing like I’d run a marathon I hadn’t trained for.
I grabbed my phone with numb fingers and hit Thomas’s name before I could talk myself out of it. He answered on the second ring.
“Anthony?”
My voice gave out completely. “I fucked this up,” I choked. “I tried to do the right thing and I still—God, I still hurt him.”
There was no judgment. No lecture. Just a quiet, steady, “I’m here.”
I broke then. Full-body, shaking, the kind of crying that feels like it’s coming from somewhere older than memory.
I told him everything—the argument, the things David said, Elliot chasing me to the truck, the way he’d smiled while letting me go.
Thomas listened to all of it without uttering a word.
Just gave me his full attention without hesitation.
When I finally went quiet, he said softly, “You didn’t leave because you don’t love him. You left because you do.”
“I promised him I wouldn’t disappear again,” I whispered.
“And you didn’t,” Thomas said. “You set a boundary. That’s not the same thing.”
There was a pause. One that hung with the weight of expectation.
“Have you thought about talking to someone?” he added, careful. “A therapist. Not because you’re broken. Because you’re carrying too much alone.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face, exhaustion settling deep into my bones. “I’ll think about it,” I said.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
After the call ended, I sat there for a long time before finally getting out of the truck.
I promised him I wouldn’t leave again. And I did anyway. The guilt gutted me. But staying—staying there—would have destroyed him.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered even though he wasn’t here to hear it. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
And for the first time since loving him stopped feeling dangerous. It felt unbearable.