Page 171 of Hush

He flicked through the photos: his and Tom’s duffels, their messy bed, their clothes strewn everywhere. Two pairs of men’s underwear on the floor. Lube on the nightstand. Obviously, a bedroom where two men had made love, over and over again.

The room where he’d told Tom he loved him, and where Tom had said the words back. He replayed that memory a thousand times a day, listening to Tom’s breathless whisper, watching the sparkle of his eyes as he gazed up at Mike, in the darkness behind his eyelids. Tom loved him. That would still be true, still be there, after all of this, right? He’d said he wasn’t going to go back to the closet, no matter what. That they were going to be together, hopefully forever.

The room where he’d bared his soul to Tom looked drab and lifeless in the harsh light of the evidence photos. There was a chill to his memories now, a pall that felt like death.

Would Tom cling to that conviction, now that everything was out in the open? It was easy to love in secret.

It was much, much harder to live in the sunlight and be known. Make the world your own.

“You should know…” Winters peered at him. “I call him every day with an update on your status.”

Mike closed his eyes.Tom… I miss you so damn much. I love you.

“What should I tell him when I call today?”

Mike swallowed hard. Everything that had happened, everything that was still happening, was Tom’s worst nightmare. A public outing, the spotlight of the media, the world’s gaze turned on him and his secret, painting him in shades of shame and self-hate. What would happen to them? What would they be after this? Would Tom’s fear seize him again? He said he wouldn’t, said that he wanted this, them, together. But that was before their worlds had imploded.

Was he enough? Was he, Mike, enough for Tom to change his entire life? The course of his existence?

Was their love enough to survive this?

Historywasa cruel mistress.

Tom had run from his first love. Would he do so again?

He shook his head, blinking fast as he fought through his clenched throat. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I can’t… I can’t pressure him. He needs to decide if he wants this. Us.” Mike swallowed hard. He didn’t want to lose it in front of his boss, Goddamnit. “I won’t push. I’ll wait for him. Wait for him to make his choice.”

His nurse bustled in, smiling. “There’s another visitor here to see you.”

Behind her, Kris appeared, his duffel slung over his shoulder, dark circles marring the skin under his eyes, and his delicate lower lip split and scabbed. He grinned. “I came straight from the airport, you big bruise.”

Winters left as Mike held out his hand for Kris, his expression cracking, the anxiety, the misery, the heartache all cresting and wrenching apart his heart. His tears started to fall as Kris sat on the edge of his bed, and he folded into Kris’s arms, letting it all out into his shoulder as Kris stroked his hair.

Chapter 43

August 12th

Tom was a nervous wreck, pacing up and down the long length of the Roosevelt Room in the White House. What was he doing there? Why had the president wanted to see him? How was Mike? Was he getting better? Was he hurting? When would they be able to see each other again?

The separation ground on his nerves, filled his brain with too many thoughts, too many neurons firing off in every direction. His anchor was gone, and he was rocking on the waves of his anxieties, lost at sea. Fears crept in, slipping in through his nightmares and his hesitations.

And, damn it, his cast still itched and his shoulder ached.

The door opened, creaking softly, and Tom whipped around.

Chief Judge Clarence Fink shuffled inside. He smiled sadly as he spotted Tom.

Tom’s mouth went dry. He tried to speak, tried to find his voice, but only managed to croak out a tiny hello.

Fink sighed. “Strange times we live in these days.”

Tom could only nod. Fink made his way to the table, pulling out one of the heavy leather chairs and sitting down slowly. He seemed older than the last time Tom had seen him, aged somehow beyond the three months it had been. The last time they had interacted, Fink and he had shouted at each other, and Fink had disparaged his judicial abilities. He’d bucked Fink’s authority, refusing to bow to his command at the court.

Fink stared at the wall, at a painting of Teddy Roosevelt. “Tom?” He didn’t look Tom’s way. “Is it true? What they’re saying at the courthouse? You and that marshal…”