44. Indy #2
Inside, the place gets worse. There’s another… atrium? Hallway? Lobby? A curved staircase winds upward along the wall. Everything in here is glass and steel and gleaming surfaces.
He walks me past the entrance into a living area—hardwood floors, walls of glass, a freaking fireplace, and enough couches to seat the population of a small town—and ends up turning the corner to a kitchen large enough that it would probably fit my San Francisco apartment and still have room left over.
I forget my internal commentary on the surroundings because there’s a man sitting in the kitchen, so I come to an awkward stop.
Nick walks past him to the other side of the counter with familiar ease.
The guy watches me with open curiosity, a tall glass of something green and chunky in front of him.
“The famous Indy,” he says. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Have you?” I say faintly.
The next thought is fast and sickening. And ugly.
This guy. Nick. This apartment. This kitchen. Where Nick seems to be so at home.
Oh.
Oh…
Oh, no.
Fucking fuck!
Am I… am I meeting his boyfriend?
The nausea hits like a freight train. The possibility crashes through me hard enough to make me feel off balance. Suddenly my throat is painfully dry, and my heart is beating sickeningly fast.
And then, when everything really sinks in, it hurts like that first look at his empty room all those years ago.
It hurts like I’m once again standing in that doorway, trying to understand what’s happening, trying to stay in denial.
He just needs a moment. He’s coming back. He has to. He loves me. I love him.
He’s coming back.
That certainty lived inside me for months after he left. It sat stubbornly in my chest and refused to die no matter how much time passed.
I carried it with me like something sacred.
He just needs time.
He’s angry.
He’s hurt.
But he loves me.
People do not love each other the way we love each other and then just disappear without a word for good.
Because how was it possible he didn’t feel it? That aching absence that had taken up residence inside my chest. The emptiness that never disappeared or even eased. The feeling of being hollowed out. Like I was only a shell.
The panic once I realized his room had stopped smelling like him.
The slow, painful realization that every single day I waited for him to come back to me was also a day he chose not to.
And now…
Seems he did come back.
Just not for me.
Six years is a long time, a small, harsh voice tells me. Entire relationships happen in six years. That’s plenty of time to fall in love, move in together, build a life.
It’s enough time to get over somebody. Plenty of time.
My eyes fly between the two of them, mind filling in the blanks and imagining a whole life right here and now.
This is the kitchen where Nick cooks for this dude.
This is their living room. This is the couch where they cuddle together while watching movies.
This is the dining table where they host friends and family.
I’ve imagined him coming back to me countless times over the years, in countless ways.
And yet, somehow, I never considered this. Him coming back to me, only not at all.
Something hot crawls up my throat and prevents me from breathing. I try to shake it off. I try so fucking hard to get over myself.
Jealousy is a deeply embarrassing emotion. It strips you down to nothing. It reminds you that you’re not good enough. It brings forward your worst instincts.
He’s attractive. Of course he is.
A few years older than me, maybe. Golden-brown hair. Hazel eyes. A friendly smile.
I want to run. I want to run far, far away from here.
“India and Bridget talk about you a lot,” the guy says. “I’m Callum.”
He’s met them. Of course he has.
At first those words don’t really even register. I shake my head to try and clear it at least a little bit. All the pieces start to click together embarrassingly slowly. Callum. I was supposed to work for a Callum.
I glare at Nick. “Seriously?” I say. Why the hell did he bring me here? He doesn’t need to parade me in front of this dude to really ram it home that firing me was an excellent choice. He doesn’t need to show me he’s found someone… better.
“We’re going to have dinner,” he says.
“What a fucking terrible idea,” I blurt before glancing at Callum. “No offense.”
“Absolutely none taken. You should definitely stay, though.”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but it’s fine.”
“Sit down,” Nick says.
It would be in my absolute best interest to, for once, not let him get to me, but the moment he says those words there’s only him in this room. Him and a world of hurt and unresolved feelings.
“Fuck off,” I say, as nicely as I can.
“Blue,” he says, and there’s a hint of gentleness in the way he says it. Like he can’t bark it out or bite it out because calling me Blue has too much history behind it for him to say it with any other tone, which means that’s the way he says it, and it’s never supposed to be said another way.
He slides three plates of grilled cheese on the counter. It’s one of the things he used to make me in the middle of the night. The fancy kind with sourdough, gruyère, and onion jam, and it’s so painfully familiar.
It makes me so angry that I still feel this way. It pisses me off that after years of putting in the effort to forget about him, I’m back here and it feels like nothing has changed. Transported back into the past against my will.
I fucked up. I know I did.
But he left without a word.
He left me.
He just… left.
And now he’s calling me Blue, and that’s a dick move. It’s a fucking dick move.
Because now I’m sitting down.
That “Blue” gets my ass in the seat before I can remember that it’s a bad idea and I don’t want to.
I pull the plate in front of me, resigned. Might as well get a midnight snack out of this, I guess.
Silence stretches between us. I sure as hell don’t know what to say to the strangers in front of me. That’s what Nick is by now, isn’t it? A stranger. Might as well be. Six years is a lifetime.
I absently pick up the sandwich and take a bite, then chase the string of cheese with my tongue. When I look up, I find Nick’s eyes on me.