Page 44 of Carry On

His deep laugh melted through me, bringing a wave of comfort with it. While admittedly, my relationship with Dean blurred the lines of what was socially acceptable for platonic male relationships, it was forged out of companionship and probably some intense trauma bonding. We kept each other sane, and we managed to do it without ever learning each other’s last names.

“You crack me up, Lincoln,” he said, “But you’d make a terrible paramedic.”

“I don’t like needles, and blood makes me queasy, so yeah, I’d make a crappy paramedic,” I replied. “Are you okay after… going through that?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Dean assured me. “I mean… I’m not fine, but I get through just fine. And everyone survived. No matter how much blood I see, it’s a good day when everyone makes it out alive.”

I recognized his need to rationalize the bad shit.

“It’s okay to feel something,” I reminded him softly.

“I could say the same to you.”

“You could,” I sighed, “but then I’d have to lie and say I’m okay.”

“And then I’d have to lie and say I believe you,” he agreed.

“We’re really fucked up, aren’t we?”

“Only on days that end in y,” Dean answered.

That was the thing about us: we never really solved anything when we talked. But that wasn’t what we needed. He had a therapist, and I had… well, I had my system. We both needed someone to stop the spiral when it reared its ugly face.

That was more valuable than getting answers. Sometimes, I just needed to know I wasn’t the only one going through this shit. Dean always gave that to me.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

“As I’ll ever be,” I promised.

“That’s all we can do.”

“Have you ever thought about dating again?” I continued before I could filter that thought out. Where my situation sucked, Dean’s had been horrific. He had the physical and emotional scars to prove it.

“You couldn’t pay me all the money in the world to date again,” he admitted honestly. “I’m good with just me and my right hand. Sometimes my left hand even likes to join the tango.”

Or sex workers. Maybe it wasn’t savory to some, but honestly, it staved off a little bit of the loneliness that came with avoiding attachments.

“In all seriousness, Lincoln,” Dean began, “I don’t think I could ever trust anyone to get that close again. It’s too hard. I don’t think I could ever look at someone and trust them with… well, me. I’d rather be alone than risk that hell again.”

I nodded slowly, as if he could see me. He made sense. Hell, most days I felt the same way. That version of me thought I was nuts for what I was suggesting Nash and I do. I wasn’t just cracking open the door slightly to let someone in. I was obliterating the door and inviting him to waltz all over my chaos. Trample on it. Immerse himself in it. Judge me for it.

Fuck.

I wanted nothing more than to believe that this wouldn’t blow up in my face—that Nash wouldn’t be like that. But getting my whole brain on board with that was hard.

Not hard.

No, it was damn near impossible.

CHAPTER 33

NASH

Iwasn’tsurewhattodo with myself, but Lincoln’s admission had me reeling. What kind of fucking asshole would dare to treat him that way? I didn’t know a lot about Lincoln, but I knew enough to know that he was one of the good ones. Better than most.

To think that someone could do something that horrific to him—could treat him like that. I could only imagine what the aftermath looked like for Lincoln.

Maybe I could do a little more than imagine, considering how he’d left me sitting at his table as if we hadn’t been in the middle of something. He couldn’t get out of here fast enough.