Page 56 of Pages of My Heart

Thomas’s filthy mouth makes his cock jerk.

They don’t speak like this to each other very often during sex—only on the rarest of occasions, usually when they’re fighting.

And even then, it has always been Charlie on the receiving end.

Grabbing Thomas’s hip with his good hand, he starts to thrust, slow and deep at first, then harder as Thomas relaxes around his girth.

“Tommy, tell me what you want.”

“Harder, Charlie. Faster. Give it to me. Take what you need. I’m yours.”

Charlie pumps his hips fast, grunting as he slams into Thomas, already close to release. “You’re mine, Tommy. Nobody else’s. You waited for me.”

“Yes, Charlie. All yours. Oh god . . . you feel so fucking good. I’d wait for you forever.”

The force of Charlie’s orgasm makes his knees buckle, the sensation of releasing fully sheathed inside such a tight heat making it a struggle to stay upright.

He collapses over Thomas’s back, placing soft kisses on his sweaty skin.

When he gets his breathing under control, he stands up and pulls out slowly.

Thomas is on him instantly, kissing him, arms encasing him, and still hard between their bodies.

Charlie takes a firm hold of Thomas’s length and strokes, and moments later, Thomas is spilling onto their stomachs.

“I love you above all others, Charlie. You remember that, don’t you?” Thomas is still breathless, eyes almost black with urgency.

Charlie nods. He needs to try harder, do better. For Thomas. The words get lost in his throat, but he answers Thomas with an affirming kiss.

Day 10: Thomas

“Charlie, just tell me why.”

“You know why. Just stop.” Charlie’s eyes remain glued to his plate.

Thomas stands and takes his own plate into the kitchen.

They had a good day yesterday—Charlie’s mood was better, and he did his exercises without complaint.

He thought they had turned a corner, but everything about their situation is one step forward and two steps back, and he supposes it’s high time he accepted that.

When he returns to the dining room table, Charlie is still staring at his uneaten breakfast.

“You need to eat. Can I make you something else?”

“No. I’ll eat it. Just—stop with all the talk about buying a house. I don’t wanna look cause there ain’t any point.”

“You were the one who wanted us to buy our own home. Somewhere we could grow old together. Why are you changing your mind now?”

Charlie sighs loudly, and Thomas closes his eyes, trying to stay calm.

“Things are different now. I ain’t got a fuckin’ job, for one. You think I’m gonna be able to contribute to payments on a house from the pennies I’m gettin’ from Uncle Sam?”

“The bank manager has approved me for a loan. I can make the payments until you get a new job. And who says you need a new job, anyway? You might get the use of your arm back if you keep doing your exercises. Or maybe Jimmy can use you for something else around the garage, like the bookkeeping.”

“I don’t want you payin’ for a house while I sit on my ass at home! And Jimmy ain’t gonna rehire me—I’m a fuckin’ cripple, O’Reilly.”

Thomas looks away because that one cuts deep.

It’s not like Charlie doesn’t ever call him O’Reilly anymore.

He does, but only when they’re out in public and pretending to be friends.

Never when they are alone. It’s a loaded weapon.

Thomas returns to the kitchen, leaning on the sink and praying for guidance.

Not a minute passes before Charlie calls out from the dining room, his voice taunting and bitter. “So you finally agree that I’m a fuckin’ cripple?”

And that’s the last straw. “I do not think you’re a fucking cripple,” he yells, storming back into the dining room.

“The only person who thinks that is you!” He pokes Charlie hard in the chest with his finger.

“So why don’t you quit feeling sorry for yourself and go down and see Jimmy?

Maybe he’ll offer you a different job. Maybe the boys would like to see you.

Maybe you should be fucking grateful you’re not six feet under like so many other men! ”

“You don’t know shit, O’Reilly. You weren’t there.”

“Well, you’re not there now either. You’re right here.

” Thomas slams his hand down on the table.

“You and me, in this house. Do you want to be back there, or do you want to be here with me?” Thomas crowds Charlie, leaning over and looking him dead in the eye.

“Because right now it feels like I don’t matter to you anymore.

And that nothing I do is good enough.” He backs away, his anger giving way to hurt.

“I’m going to take a walk before I say something I’ll regret. ”

Thomas walks for half an hour and ends up outside Evie’s house.

He’s ashamed of his behavior and feels wholly unequipped to handle Charlie’s pain.

After hovering at the gate for a few minutes, he decides he shouldn’t air their dirty laundry to Charlie’s sister, no matter how much he needs someone to talk to.

The walk back home almost turns into a run, the unease in his gut increasing with each passing minute he remains away.

When he approaches their house, he sees Charlie sitting on the front step, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

He looks worn out, and Thomas is flooded with feelings of guilt, knowing he added to Charlie’s burden because he lacked restraint.

Because Charlie is right—he doesn’t know shit about what it’s like to fight in a war.

Thomas makes it all the way up the path before Charlie looks at him. He’s about to apologize when Charlie stands, flicks his cigarette aside, and uses his good arm to pull him into a hug.

“Sweetheart, I do want to be here, and you matter more than anyone.”

He holds Charlie tight to his chest, his muscles unknotting with relief. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. I love you.”

Before making their way inside, they scan the street to be certain no one was watching. Then once behind closed doors, Thomas takes a seat in the sitting room.

“I wish I didn’t have to return to work tomorrow. What if you need me?”

Charlie settles in the other armchair. “Isn’t Evie coming ’round to help me with lunch?”

“Yeah, she’ll come by Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to make you lunch and check that you’re doing okay.

It’ll be nice for you to spend time with Jonathan, too.

Lucky you always take a shit first thing in the morning—you wouldn’t want your sister having to help you with your pants.

” Thomas smiles, hoping Charlie will laugh.

“She probably wouldn’t even bat an eye after changing Jonathan’s diapers all day long.”

They both laugh, and Thomas feels some of the tension in the room start to recede. “You know, I’ve changed a few. It’s not for the fainthearted, that’s for sure. But he’s a beautiful baby. You’ll love him once you get to know him a bit.”

“Thank you for . . .” Charlie doesn’t finish his thought, his eyes dropping to his lap.

“For what?”

“For looking after Evie and Jonathan while I was gone.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I think of Evie as my sister and Jonathan as my nephew.”

Charlie massages his bad hand, kneading his thumb into the palm. “She told me she couldn’t have managed without you when Richard first left.”

“Charlie, I was glad to help. But Evie is strong, like you. Now, Tuesdays and Thursdays—did you decide what you want to do?”

“I’ll head around to Ma’s on those days if I need any help. It’s not a long walk. Nothing wrong with my legs.”

Thomas lowers his eyes down to Charlie’s legs. “Nope, definitely nothing wrong with those gorgeous gams.”

Charlie smiles coyly. “It’s not even noon, Tommy.”

“But it’s our last day together before I go back to work. Actually, let’s do your exercises first.”

“Can’t that wait?”

Thomas knows Charlie is avoiding his exercises, but he lets it go. The last thing he wants is a repeat of this morning’s argument.

Day 14: Charlie

It’s eleven o’clock on a Thursday morning when Charlie wrestles the whisky bottle out of the paper bag, wedging it between his legs so he can get it open with one hand.

He takes a long pull straight from the bottle.

Things took a turn on Tuesday, and the alcohol helps him relax, helps him sleep, and, most importantly, helps him forget.

He’d been passing the general store on his way to his mother’s house and had stopped to make way for a lady as she exited.

But then she had halted abruptly, ran her hand up her left arm until it came to rest on her chest, gasped, and crumpled to the pavement like a rag doll.

Fainted maybe. He isn’t sure what became of her after she hit the pavement.

There was a sickening crack, and one of her legs lay twisted at an unnatural angle.

People came running out of the store as he backed away, but he wasn’t fast enough.

The image of the thick crimson seeping out around her perfectly coiffed blonde hair already permanently etched in his mind.

He had staggered away, escaping around the corner as his vision blurred and the air was sucked from his lungs.

It made little sense. He’d seen so much worse.

Or perhaps it made perfect sense . . . His knees gave way then, and he slid down the brick wall, landing harshly on the ground, his heart racing so fast he had to assume death was imminent.

More than that, he wanted to die, as image after image of that day, that moment in time, that mistake that can never be undone, ran through his mind on an endless loop, tormenting him.

When he made it home, he reached for the only liquor they had in the house—an old bottle of brandy—and drank until he passed out.

When he came to, Thomas was crouched over him, fussing, worried, that look of pity back in his eyes.

Always so much pity. Thomas makes him feel like a child with his constant hovering and fussing and questions and demands.