Page 138 of Pretty Mess

“He didn’t even get you a chair?” I blow out a breath. “Wow. He’sreallymad at you.”

“I rather gathered that twenty seconds into his lecture, but don’t worry. He made me stand through another fifty minutes.”

“He shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Stop,” he says softly. “He was well within his rights to say it. Everything he said made sense.” He stops and takes a breath. “How have you been?”

My eyes suddenly feel hot, and I swallow. “I’ve been okay,” I say huskily.

“I would rather like you to be more than that.” He says this rather fiercely, and he takes another deep breath, as though he regrets not being more chilled on the topic.

“Well, I’m sure I will be.” There’s no conviction in my voice, unfortunately.

“I want you to be sure.” His brow furrows. “I want you to have that shiny confidence you had when I first met you. Before…”

“Before what?” I prompt.

“Before I destroyed it.”

“Oh my god. You never—” I break off as the door opens and a customer appears. He shoots us a startled look, taking in our intent faces, and scuttles off down one of the aisles.

“I missed yousomuch,” Mac says, stunning me into silence for a few seconds.

The yearning in his voice strikes me full in the chest, as if he’s reached in and grabbed my heart. I want to shout in happiness because this is what I always wanted, but something stops me—maybe the resigned look on his face, maybe the stoicism in his words.

“But?” I whisper in dread.

He shrugs, and the jerky movement makes me want to reach over and hug him. It’s so unlike his usual poise and grace. “But this is the way it should be.”

“Is it?” I clear my throat. “I mean, of course.”

“I know why you’re not with me, and it’s okay.”

I narrow my eyes. “Do you?” I ask doubtfully.

He smiles and stands straighter, and I know he’s about to leave. Why does it hurt more now than it did when I left him in that bedroom?

“Mac…”

A flicker of pain twists his face. “I’ve missed you saying that.” He sucks in a breath. “But I swore I wouldn’t do this. Maybe we could talk again at some point?” He holds up his hand. “Not in the way it was before.”

“And how would it be?” I whisper.

“At a distance. Maybe we could be f-friends.”

I stare at him. Can I be friends with him? My instinctive reaction is to shout, yes, that I would doanythingto be near him and to talk to him again. And then I think of being friends with him and seeing him with another man. Of seeing another man have the same arrangement I did. Can I bear that? And my reaction to that is no. It would hurt too much.

My silence has gone on too long, and he steps back. He offers me a sad smile, and nods.

“Be well, Wes. And most of all, behappy.”

He turns away, and I urgently say, “Wait.” When he turns back, I hesitate and then grab a chocolate bar from the shelf. “Free. A gift from me,” I whisper.

He blinks, and then his smile turns sweeter. “Thank you.”

He looks at me for a long few seconds, scanning my features as though he’s memorising them, and then he’s gone, the ding of the door loud in the quiet shop.

I watch him walk across the forecourt, thin and elegant, and then fumble to press the intercom that activates the exterior speakers.