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Chapter Twenty-Seven

Austen

I wake up on the dot at six, like usual, and reach for my phone.

One text from Savannah sits unread, but it’s only one word.

Landed.

At least she made it to Italy okay. I’d call, or check in with her, but she hates that sort of thing.

I thought most women loved attentive boyfriends and husbands, but I learned after that first year, it’s not my attention she craves. It’s everyone else’s.

When I show any sort of interest, I’m controlling.

As if wanting to have an actual relationship with your spouse beyond one word texts and public appearances is something crazy.

I swipe across the screen, dismissing the notification, and ignore the impulse to text her back. She won’t leave Italy until Wednesday night, getting into New York on Thursday. I’ll text her then, that way she has no clue, and I can work on surprising her at Sechea headquarters after I look at my properties on Saturday. She’s always mentioned wanting to go see Cirque De Soleil, and with her birthday being Sunday, I made a last minute decision and bought us tickets. But honestly, I think I did it to make myself go to New York more than anything. Knowing I’d be less likely to back out of going and seeing the properties if I had an obligation.

Surprising your wife for her birthday is not an obligation, I tell myself. It’s what a good husband would do.

I turn off the screen and I focus on my morning routine. I hop in the shower, but instead of hurrying through as I normally do, I take my time.

I let myself get lost under the hot spray and enjoy the feel of the warmth on my skin, the sweet and spicy cinnamony-cedar scent of my body wash perfuming the air. When my hand wraps around my cock, I don’t rush my orgasm. I take my time, edge myself just a little bit. I’ve never done that before, but I’ve read about it.

Watched a couple videos to get the feel for how to do it, even though I usually talked myself out of it.

But today feels like a good day to just… let go a little bit. I slept well, probably better than I have in a long time. I’ve got the house to myself, and I am a one-man show when it comes to my job, so really, I don’t have to answer to anyone.

Anyone but myself, and for once that feels strangely freeing.

Unfortunately, after the second buildup, I can’t hold off and I come hard and fast.

I’ll have to try that again in the future. Fuck, that felt good.

When I get out of the shower, I dry off. I don’t bother wrapping a towel around myself, like I normally would if my wife were home.

Instead, I take my time at the sink, running all the products through my hair and lathering up my face and body with moisturizer.

I stop for a moment, my reflection staring back at me. Sometimes it's hard to rationalize that the man in the mirror is me. I’ve always been in shape, thanks to a long life spent in sports, but I’ve always felt strangely self-conscious about my body, which isn’t typical of most men who look like me. I knew it then, in high school, I knew it in college. Which is probably why I spent so much extra time at the gym. Still, it wasn’t like any of my girlfriends or even Savannah said anything negative. But they didn’t say anything, period. I’m not stupid, I know they wouldn’t have messed around with me if they thought I wasn’t attractive, I know how attraction works.

My hands slide over my defined pectorals, rubbing the lotion along my abs and hips, fingers tracing the outline of my definition. I’m no body builder by any means, but I’ve put on some pounds and the muscle to go along with it.

Savannah doesn’t blink an eye anymore, completely desensitized to my walking around shirtless, or dripping in sweat from an intense workout. She’ll roll her eyes and make some quip about how I need to cover up what I’ve worked so hard for.

God, Austen, put a shirt on. This isn’t the locker room.

But for some reason, today, it feels like I’m finally seeing myself, and I don’t hate what I see.

I smirk, heading for my dresser to pull out a fresh pair of underwear. The thought runs through me that, technically, I don’t need to get dressed. I don’t have any calls scheduled today, and most of my workload is administrative.

But lounging about in my underwear all day feels a little too dangerous for me, so I decide to at least throw on a pair of grey sweatpants and grab my phone, slipping it into my pocket as I head into the kitchen to make breakfast. When I finally sit down with my freshly cooked egg-white omelet and coffee, I hear the chime of a text.

Flight sucked. Turbulence was a bitch.

Before I can tap out a response, another text comes in.

Plus there was a kid kicking my seat the whole way home.

I smirk, imagining an irritated Cam trying not to lose his cool.

At least you made it in one piece.

The little dots start and stop a couple times, before he responds.

I’m not so sure.

The smile that spreads across my face is irrefutable.

He’d told me he’d text me in a few days, so the last thing I expected was to get a text from him the next morning.

But I’m happy I did.

My instinct is to keep the conversation going, but I don’t want to push my luck.

I send him a gif of a skeleton falling off a chair and he responds with an eye-rolling emoji almost immediately.

Warmth spreads within my chest, because I’ve missed this so much.

I’ve missed him so fucking much. My best friend.

We might not get back to best friend status ever again, but just having the opportunity to be in his life… it’s enough.

My heart slows at that thought, because I know it’s a lie. Just being in his life won’t be enough, but it will have to be.

Because I can’t ask for more than what Cam is willing to give me.

I don’t deserve it. Hell knows I don’t deserve a lick of forgiveness for the way I treated him. But I want it. I want his forgiveness, his friendship. I want…

My cock twitches, clearly because it has a mind of its own. I absentmindedly adjust myself, irritated because I just came in the damn shower, and last night…

I don’t think I’ve masturbated this much in the span of twenty-four hours since I was in high school. Good lord.

“Yeah, I know what you want, but you aren’t getting it,” I say to myself, knowing no one can hear me.

I take a glance at the clock, noting I need to get a move on if I want to get a head start on work and planning out my itinerary for the trip. Plus, I still need to pack.

I don’t want to end this conversation either, but I can’t sit here and text Cam all day, even if I want to.

Heading into work. Talk later?

I watch as the bubbles appear and disappear at least three times.

Sure.

I grin as I finish my omelet and coffee and bring my dishes to the sink, giving them a quick wash before I enter my office.

Falling back into my chair, I can’t seem to wipe the smile off my face.

I nearly collapse on my bed the moment I arrive at my hotel room.

The flight to New York felt like an eternity even though it was only two hours. By the time I got in, got my Uber, suffered through city traffic, and actually reached my hotel, outside the city limits, it might have well been an actual eternity.

The soft sheets meet me and I groan in relief. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I don’t have to look to know who it is.

We’ve been texting for a few days now. Though our exchanges are mostly in short spurts and they consist more of gifs, memes, and sarcasm, I can’t deny that they bring a smile to my face.

Because this is exactly what I missed. The familiarity. The comfort of knowing he’s there. Even if he’s not physically with me.

I’ve debated for days whether or not to tell him about my trip. I know he lives in the city, but I’m not sure he knows that I know he lives in the city, and the last thing I want to do is upset the delicate balance because we just got back to being friendly, and I don’t want him to think I’m some obsessed stalker or something.

I’m not obsessed, I swear. Even if we didn’t fall apart, I would have kept tabs on his career, and his life if he’d moved…

I still haven’t told him, though I keep writing and rewriting my text, chickening out at the last minute.

What am I so afraid of?

You know exactly what you’re afraid of.

I pull out my phone, staring at his text.

Hey.

It’s just three letters, but every time I see them, my stomach does somersaults.

Which is exactly why I haven’t told him I’m here, in New York.

If just a text can make my stomach flip, what is going to happen when I see him again?

Last time, our face to face didn’t go so well.

Conversing through texts has been a lot easier. At least, for me.

I can be honest and not have to see the look on his face.

There’s also less of a chance I’ll disassociate and start staring at him.

Yeah, that’s totally not-stalker material.

I type out my hey in response, expecting something back, but there’s nothing. Which is weird, but I don’t think too much of it. Maybe he got distracted or had to do something.

Either way, I take the reprieve and force myself out of bed and into the shower.

After a long, hot shower and a good edge, I’m dressed and feeling a second wind.

I don’t have to meet with the realtor until tomorrow morning, so I have the whole afternoon and night to sight see.

Usually when I travel, I stick to my hotel room because I’m always beat after traveling, and in between work stuff, all I want to do is chill and watch some movies. Order room service. Pleasure myself and go to sleep.

But something about this place just feels like it would be an absolute waste to stay cooped up in my hotel room. There’s so much to see in New York City, and I know I won’t see everything , but there is one place I’d like to see on my trip.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I google the website on my phone to see if it’s open, since most museums have crazy hours and they close early.

But sure enough, the museum is open until nine on Fridays, so I don’t think twice about buying a ticket.

The ride there isn’t terribly far, and I take the small respite of time in the car to check my text messages. My heart sinks a little when I see I have no new messages from Cam, but I have a few texts from the realtor, so I answer those, knowing we need to confirm our details for the first round of properties we’ll be visiting tomorrow.

The car stops, and I look out my window, my eyes widening at the sight of the grand museum. I pay my driver, exiting the car quickly and just marvel at the sight of the place.

It’s much bigger in person than I expected it to be.

But I guess it would have to be big if they have full pyramid installations and historical buildings housed in it, like they say they do on their website.

I take the steps, one by one, thankful that I make it to the top without running out of breath. I slip past the crowds easily, taking my time as I wander through the halls, taking in the absolute beauty of the high ceilings, the ornate stairwells, and for a minute I forget I’m in New York at all.

I wander through the curatorial collections in absolute awe. I don’t know much about art, not in the way I probably should. But I bet Cam would know every painting in this place, or at least know what era or whatever it was from. I can still remember studying and reviewing his modern art flashcards with him for his exams.

I stop, my hands still resting in my pockets as I take in the paintings on the wall. One in particular stands out to me, out of my peripheral vision, so I turn to get a good look at it. I swallow hard when I see it is a nude painting of a man gazing out at the viewer in a way I can only describe as seductive. The painting is magnificent, the shadows and colors, the definition of the form. I can’t turn away even though it makes me uncomfortable.

And then I do something without thinking. I take my hand out, making a fist and extending my pointer finger. I trace the shape of his outline in the air, trying to capture the shape for my own memory.

“Austen?” The familiar voice that calls my name makes my throat tight and my heart skip a beat. I’d know that voice anywhere and a part of me wonders if I’m imagining it. If standing in front of this painting, this— Gustave Courbet painting—is making me have some sort of psychotic break.

When I turn around and meet familiar steely grey eyes, I have to remember how to speak.

Because the sight of him brings back a hundred memories, incites a hundred thoughts, and renders me nearly speechless. Of all the places in New York, what are the odds?

“Hey,” I say, my voice slightly raspy and choked.

Cameron smirks. “Hey.”