38. Lance #2
I say nothing, just hold the anger, the loss, and the frustration inside me without letting any of it spill over.
We hang up after a while. I stare at the scuffed linoleum floor for a long moment, the distant beep of monitors and low chatter of the nurses’ station filtering in. The apartment is the last place I want to be in right now—too empty, too full of packed boxes and memories I’m not ready to face.
I push off the wall, grab my keys from my locker, and head out to the parking lot. The late afternoon sun hits me as I step outside. I get in the car without a second thought and drive up to the ridge, our spot for the last eight years.
George used to call it the best thinking spot in the county. I’m not here to think. I’m here because I need a place where the hurt can actually get to me instead of bouncing off all the denial I’ve been stacking up.
I park the car and step out, then lean back against the hood.
The sky hangs low and gray, heavy with rain that hasn’t started yet.
Wind rolls up from the valley and cuts straight through my jacket.
I should’ve grabbed something warmer, but I didn’t think that far ahead.
I cross my arms tight over my chest and let the cold bite.
I look out over the city and let my brain wander wherever it wants. San Diego stretches below me, lights scattered across the hills and the bay, endless and indifferent. Traffic hums somewhere below, mixed with the distant clatter from the harbor.
I think about Mom, and the guilt creeps back in.
Maybe if I’d been there more, things wouldn’t have gotten this far before someone noticed.
Maybe I could’ve done something sooner, like with Aunt Matilda.
The thought turns my stomach. I’m supposed to be there with her, not sitting up here realizing all of this too fucking late.
Then George arrives in my head, uninvited and completely at home there, the way he always does.
I think about all the times he cooked in my kitchen, or the nights I hung around his place while he worked in his own.
I would lean against the counter and watch him chop vegetables or slice through meat with that apron tied around his waist. He moved with that effortless focus and talked nonstop the whole time.
I remember thinking I could do this forever. That should’ve scared me more than it did. It should’ve told me everything I needed to know.
I’m smiling before I realize it, but then I remember why it hurts.
I have complicated feelings about Carter.
It’s not really anger. I could respect whatever they had, but I felt like that journey was for both me and George.
Probably because we’ve spent so many fucking years together that I forgot he is his own person.
I never once thought he’d be into men, aside from the time when Adrian walked into the wrong door at Trevor’s bachelor party in Azure Tides.
Even then, I thought he was just humoring us, going along with it, letting himself be as free as I was trying to be in those same moments.
What I can’t fucking get past is that Carter got there first, emotionally. I’m barely holding my shit together knowing feelings actually got involved. Thought he was just some old Navy buddy, nothing more than a piece of George’s past that would never overlap with my present with him.
For some reason, I want every single fucking part of my best friend. I want all of it, the pieces that existed long before I ever showed up, the history I have no claim on and no right to want. I want to be every man George has ever turned to in the dark.
I know how insane that sounds. It makes no sense, and it changes nothing. It’s just that someone got there first, and I hate that it feels stolen from me when it never belonged to me in the first place.
All this self-awareness is doing jack shit to help. Yet here I am, twisted up over the thought of George giving pieces of himself to someone who isn’t me, or even part of our tight circle.
The thought fucking burns.
The chill digs in. I feel like I should go. I’ve probably stayed here long enough.
I straighten my shoulders, push off the hood, and slide back into the car. I turn the key, willing myself to shake the thoughts loose to clear my head, even if only for a moment.
The engine coughs once and dies. I try again, but the dashboard dims. I know before a third attempt that it’s useless. I think about George standing next to my car more than a month ago, telling me to book the alternator thing in within the month.
I never got to it.
I step out into the rising wind and decide against calling a tow for now. I need someone I know, someone I can actually reach, because right now I don’t trust myself to handle anything alone.
I call Trevor. He picks up on the third ring with a corporate event audible behind him, voices and a microphone somewhere. He’s in Temecula and already moving toward a door before I finish the sentence. I think of Becca at home, and the hour it would take him to get here.
“Actually, I’ll just call a tow. I’ll be fine. Sorry to bother you.”
“You’re on a mountain road, Lance,” he protests.
“I’m in a lit pullout on a state highway. I just…figured I could use a friend right now.” My voice comes out rougher than I meant.
Trevor takes a breath, his voice softening. “Don’t worry, mate. I’ve got you. I’ll call a tow and make sure we get you home.”
He hangs up, and I get back into the car as the rain begins, the first few drops starting to hit the roof, cold and committed to ruin my evening. I watch the windshield blur and allow myself to feel what seems like grief, one I’ve been holding at bay all day.
Fifteen minutes pass before headlights cut through the wet dark. They pull into the turnout and the shape of the truck becomes clear through the rain-streaked glass.
It’s a Ford truck, the exact fucking one I’ve been in too many times before, pulled up in the turnoff on the ridge. I recognize the silhouette before the plates even come into view.
George steps out into the rain. I see him through the windshield as his focus shifts to the car. He’s already pulling the work lamp from the truck bed before I’ve even opened my door.
I’m furious at Trevor for calling him, at George for showing up, and at myself for letting a part of me think this changes anything. But the anger keeps me upright instead of sinking into the gut-punching ache of wanting him and knowing it’s fucking pointless.
I step out of the car.
We stand on opposite sides of the rain, the dark valley stretching out below us. We look at each other without saying a single word. We’re not past any of it. This is not the time or place for anything, yet here we both are, standing in the middle of it.