Chapter 15 #2
“A little, but you got it together,” Delia said. “That’s actually the root of my relief. For so long I worried that it was Tom you hated, that you resented, and that’s why you never wanted to come home.”
“No—”
But Delia didn’t let him get the rest of it out.
“I know that now, and honestly I knew that then, too. I only had to spend a little time around the two of you to realize it wasn’t him.
But then I couldn’t figure out what it was.
I kept hoping . . .” She trailed off, looking a little melancholy, and Lane realized, too, that even though he’d found his courage to be honest now, that didn’t erase what had happened.
He had a lot of work to do to completely repair the relationships that he’d inadvertently damaged.
Her chin came back up. “I just kept hoping that you’d be honest with me someday, honey, and you were, and I’m so happy about that. Sorry, too, that you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”
“It wasn’t you—it was me,” Lane said, guilt swamping him. “I should have, I wanted to . . . and then I thought, oh, it’ll go away, and then it never did, and then he came here.”
“Of course it didn’t go away; you love him.”
Lane couldn’t argue with her, but he could say, “I haven’t . . . I haven’t told him that yet. So yeah, don’t mention it to him, okay?”
“Honey, no offense, but do you think he doesn’t know?”
Lane swallowed hard. “I don’t know if he does or not, but I want to tell him. I’m just trying to find the right time, you know? The perfect time.”
“Honestly, there never is a perfect time,” she said. “And whatever time you do pick is going to be perfect. I promise. Because I think he loves you, too.”
Lane hoped so, but he wasn’t ever quite sure.
Yes, Trevor had been the one to push and prod him along the road to their loved-up relationship state.
The one to come to his bed, the one to make it official, the one to take care of Lane’s normally shit eating habits.
But Lane was determined that when it came down to it, he was going to be the one to tell Trevor he loved him first. To show him that he was all-in on this, that Trevor would never have to worry about him going away, not ever again.
But to do that, he needed to do that.
“That’s good advice,” Lane said, but still was thinking, God, need it to be perfect.
They were going out tonight—Lane had made reservations at a rooftop bar that was largely considered one of the most romantic views of Toronto—and if he could get his words unstuck, he fully intended to do it there.
He just hoped that when the moment came, he could make it happen.
He’d made the touchdown happen, hadn’t he? Gotten them both—and the rest of the team—to the AFC Championship.
Now he just needed to close the deal.
Trevor had been surprised when he’d asked Lane where they were going, and he’d admitted, a slight flush on his cheeks, that it was a nice place, a fancy place. A rooftop bar known for being fussy and expensive, which wasn’t Lane’s normal MO at all.
He rarely wore anything other than sweats and, at best, jeans.
And now he was taking them to a place that had a dress code posted on their website? Trevor wasn’t sure what to expect.
He certainly didn’t expect any of this: Lane shifting uncomfortably on one of those spindly chairs that didn’t seem like it was going to hold his weight and then keep holding it, or him asking to see the wine list and then the sommelier.
“I didn’t think you even knew what a sommelier was,” Trevor whispered under his breath.
Lane shot him a dirty look. “I’m trying to—well, you know.”
Trevor was beginning to think he did know.
He’d been about to order a cocktail, something simple and straightforward, not any of these weird smoked salt or bizarre savory combinations that the bar offered on its gold-embossed menu.
Vault could be a little high end, but not in a way that had ever made him uncomfortable.
Maybe they made as much money as everyone in here, or more, actually, but Trevor didn’t think that Lane had ever acted like it, not since he’d first come to Toronto this past summer.
But now he was consulting with the sommelier, thinking about dropping four figures on a bottle of wine that, at its base, was just fucking grape juice.
“You didn’t have to order that,” Trevor told him when the sommelier left with his order. “I’d have been fine with whatever.”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to be ‘fine with whatever,’” Lane said earnestly, leaning in. “And the view’s awesome, isn’t it?”
“It’s gorgeous,” Trevor said, even though he wasn’t sure what the view had to do with the way-too-expensive bottle of wine Lane had just ordered, but he did nod, because the view was incredible. Toronto spread out beneath them, like a carpet of bright lights.
The sommelier, having apparently done some quick googling in the back and recognizing both of them, returned with the wine and made a big deal out of presenting it to Lane.
“This is good,” Lane said, after taking an experimental sip.
Trevor was not going to point out that the guy had the palate of a twenty-one-year-old still. That he rarely drank anything but beer and tequila.
“It is,” Trevor agreed, then paused, uncomfortably. “Wait. You’re not gonna like . . . propose, are you?”
They’d already witnessed two very elegant, very subtle proposals, rings sparkling in the subdued candlelight.
“No,” Lane squawked, but he looked nervous, like maybe he was actually going to.
“Good, ’cause we’ve only been dating for what, a few weeks? A month?”
“Not even,” Lane protested. But there was no question he looked suddenly very pale. Freaked out, for sure.
Like it had never occurred to him that they’d only really been doing this for a month. And that was just the sex, never mind any of the deeper, stronger commitments they’d made to each other.
Trevor was okay with it, because in so many ways, it felt like they’d been building towards this for a lot longer than that.
Every time they’d circled closer to each other, testing their distance and then closing it a little more, they were taking a step towards this.
Maybe Trevor hadn’t known what this was, but he did now.
“Seriously, you gotta tell me what’s up with all this,” Trevor said, leaning in over the tiny table and dropping his voice.
“Why can’t I do something nice and romantic?” Lane wondered.
Naturally, Lane would be the kind of guy who would assume that only getting dressed up and paying too much for a view and a bottle of wine would be considered romantic.
“What we do isn’t romantic?”
Lane looked more than freaked out, now. He looked like he was straight-up panicking. “It is?”
“Well, yeah. I like what we do. You making fun of me for my puzzles, but still helping me with them anyway. You ordering takeout or me cooking dinner. Cuddling on the couch?” Trevor fluttered his eyelashes. “Or more, even. Ignoring Ramsey’s hockey game on TV—”
“Wait, you’d have rather done that instead of this?”