Page 17 of As the Years Pass

He nods understandingly, and it goes quiet again.

Is there anything we can talk about that is safe?

Why is it like this suddenly? I used to be able to tell Adam everything, and he told me everything. At least, that’s what I thought. Is it because we’re here with all these people? Is it the years between us? The history? Will he ever trust me again?

It’s not that I don’t want to talk to him about my parents, the question just came out of nowhere, and here isn’t the place to do it.

“Oh, so I heard Dominic is going to be reaching out to you.”

Adam chuckles. “Going to be? He already did.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, two days ago.”

Fucking Dominic.

“He’s putting his house up for sale?” I question.

“Yeah, it should go quick. That’s a prime neighborhood.”

“He won’t tell me why he’s selling.”

“I didn’t ask,” Adam adds.

I watch him for a moment, as he sips his drink. He’s so different yet so much the same. Just as I remember him only older, but the differences I see in him aren’t really his looks. It’s the way he acts, the way he presents himself. He seems tired, stressed out, like he could use a month-long vacation. I want to ask him what’s going on, tell him that he can tell me everything. I want to help him and make everything better… but would he let me?

“I’ve got a few things to finish up in the back. Hang around. I’ll be back out soon. Like… twenty minutes?”

“Yeah, sure,” Adam says with a nod.

I head to the back to finish what I was doing and pack up my computer, then I go to the front of the bar and take a seat beside him. I notice he has a fresh drink, so he plans on staying.

“This feels better,” he says with a chuckle.

Of course it does. Because we’re together.

Chapter Six

Adam

I drink too much, trying to douse the pain of my kids choosing to stay with their mother over me for yet another night.

Of course, I know it isn’t about her, it’s about their cousins. They’re kids and they see other kids, they want to spend time with them to play. I get it. Still, it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

But because I’m close to drunk, it’s really freaking difficult to stop thinking about Emmet bent over in front of me. I’m drooling for a glimpse of his ass, wanting to know if it still looks as good as it once did. When he walked into the back room earlier, I was tempted to look, but there are too many people around, and I don’t think I have it in me to be subtle.

Coming here was a bad idea. Getting messed up with Emmet again is a bad idea. Yet I find myself thinking of him every daysince I first found out he was here. I find myself wanting to visit the bar to see if he is around. And hell… I came here last night just to see him.

The guy I ran into outside is here, sitting with the same group of people that come here all the time. They’re very friendly with one another, and the bartender. The one I ran into has already given me a knowing look, and I appreciate his discretion.

The bar is close to closing, and I feel this tightness in my chest when I think of going home to an empty house. Not just that, but leaving Emmet.

We were close when we were teenagers. Best friends that turned into something so much more. I destroyed that, and I’m well aware I’ll never have it back, but if we could just be friends again, I think that would make my life just a little better. Maybe even make all of this bullshit just a little easier to handle.

Emmet always was a good friend, and he was an amazing listener. He helped me through the most difficult time in my life—losing my parents and getting sent to foster care. Emmet was always so calm and mature for his age, and I think that has a lot to do with his upbringing. I never saw him act irrationally until I ended things between us. We’d fought over the years, gone through hard times, and never, not once did he get angry with me. He was always understanding. And it’s not that he got angry with me when I told him we couldn’t be together anymore. It wasn’t anger. It was pain. It was desperation.Because of me.Honestly, it’s too much to think about. It hurts too much. The look on his face, the pleading in his voice—I can’t breathe when I think about it because I know if that’s how I felt… how did he feel? He didn’t deserve the hurt I put him through.

“Need a ride home?” Emmet asks with a smirk as he washed the dirty glasses in the small sink.