Page 39 of Sunrises & Salvation

ADAM

EIGHT YEARS LATER

T he overhead door alarm rings, the light tinkling, filling the dimly lit space pleasantly.

If my business partner, and sometimes friend, Trent, had it his way, we would have a fire alarm in its place.

That’s mostly because he likes to pretend he’s hard of hearing.

Most of the time, I think it’s him trying to see how far he can push my buttons.

In walks the man himself, with his sleeve of tattoos and dark hair tucked behind his ears. He looks like the epitome of a “bad boy.” Instead, he’s more of a marshmallow. Soft on the outside and on the inside.

If someone had told me three years ago I would be hiring someone to help with my fencing business, and he would turn into my closest friend, I wouldn’t have believed them. But that’s what Trent is, no matter how much he tries to piss me off.

Too bad I’m not attracted to Trent, because he would have been prime boyfriend material.

Even though he cheated on his ex. That’s his story to tell, though, not mine.

How can I judge when I’ve done the same shit in the past?

But sadly, even after all these years, there’s still only one person who makes my blood run hot and my mind feel at ease.

“Do you want to walk to the café for lunch?”

“It’s 8:30 in the morning,” I say, staring at the QuickBooks report pulled up on my computer.

I’m currently working up a huge estimate for the renovation of a house a couple blocks from downtown.

It doesn’t fall under my typical umbrella of jobs, but it’s one that I was specially requested for by a friend of Cheryl and Daniel’s, and I’m not going to let them down.

I look at the clock and then swing my head around to meet his gaze as he sits at his computer across the office from me. We really need to put a wall between us. Mostly for when he’s trying to get under my skin.

“It’s 8:30 in the morning,” I reiterate. “And it’s also going to be hotter than Satan’s asshole outside. Absolutely not.”

“You used to love walking there.” I’m glad he’s not acknowledging the fact that it should be criminal to be talking about lunch before my breakfast has even settled. But does he care? Absolutely not. The asshole.

“And then global warming became more prevalent,” I deadpan.

“Oh fuck off, grumps.” He snorts and begins typing on his computer, doing whatever it is that he does all day.

Okay, that’s not fair. I know what he does all day, because he considers me his “boss” instead of his business partner, and he writes it every day on the whiteboard that we share to keep each other, and our employees, in the loop for important details.

I like Trent, though. He’s a hard worker, very dedicated and detail-oriented.

When he first started working for me, building fences, it was just a side hobby for me.

Something to do to help my days pass by faster.

I didn’t need the money, so I paid him way more than I should.

He never took it for granted, though. He showed up early every day and didn’t leave until the job was done.

When he and his boyfriend broke up, he threw himself into working even harder. By then, we had so many projects, we had to hire more crew.

Business has been lucrative, so we’ve been expanding and buying property to build affordable housing on. Typically I hire an outside crew for renovations, but here we are.

I fill out the form and get the final numbers for the cost of labor. Double-checking over the columns, I feel satisfied with my work. I save it and lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes and trying to get them to refocus on my surroundings.

Trent is still typing away, and he looks too focused for me to try to interrupt him. No matter how tempting the thought is.

My phone dings with a message, and I open the app to read it.

Cheryl: dinner tonight? Daniel is cooking lasagna.

Hell yeah. I love Daniel’s lasagna. And they only make it on special occasions which leads me to…

Adam: What’s the occasion?

The texting bubble pops up, then promptly disappears.

I stare at the messages, the previous ones from just the other day when she was texting to check in on me.

I wonder what Hunter thinks about me staying in contact with his parents?

It’s not my fault, not really. When I showed up at his house after he vanished off the face of the earth, they let me in and explained everything.

But by then, it was too late to catch him.

They said he accepted a job position as an intern at a tech company four hours away.

It was so quick that I just sat on their couch in shock.

How could he leave me so easily, without letting me explain what he heard?

I can’t even believe that he overheard it.

Ever since that day, his parents have tried to invite me over at least once every two weeks for dinner.

We never talk about Hunter. They never bring him up, and I don’t ask.

I can at least respect those boundaries.

That didn’t stop me from looking him up and following every move he makes, but that’s mostly with the help of social media and the fact that I own stock in the company he works for.

Just semantics, though.

Cheryl: Hunter’s moving home.

What? WHAT? How did I not know this?

I quickly pull up the incognito tab on my computer and type in Hunter Collins Graphic Design, McIntire Corp.

Article after article pops up, showcasing his many achievements for the eight years he’s been working for McIntire Corp.

, starting from the intern position and working his way up to head designer.

This wasn’t exactly how I pictured him creating art, but looking at their campaigns and the different projects they’ve done over the years, Hunter has really made a name for himself.

The one that catches my eye is the most recently posted one, shared three hours ago. The headline reads Mcintire Prodigy Hunter Collins Leaves Company.

I skim the article, and in all its vagueness, it says what I already gathered from the headline. He’s leaving the company. But where is he going? His résumé hasn’t been uploaded anywhere, and his Social Security number hasn’t been run for any job applications.

Adam: Why? How?

This is the most I’ve allowed myself to talk about Hunter in eight years. Mostly because the conversations in my mind don’t count toward actually talking about it. That’s just my inner ramblings.

Cheryl: He said he needed a change of pace, and he has enough saved up that he wants to move closer to home and buy a house here.

No point in him buying a house, even after all these years, if I have it my way, he’ll be moving into my house right outside of town. He doesn’t need to know that yet, though, and even if he did, I have no clue how he would react to the news.

My therapist told me, in nicer words, that my obsession with Hunter is psychotic and unhealthy. She doesn’t understand, and I don’t even understand at times. But I know down to my soul, Hunter is the person I’m supposed to be with.

Adam: Is he going to be at dinner?

Cheryl: No, me and Daniel figured it would be best if you two were not in the same place until you had talked.

Touché.

Adam: Obviously I’ll come over for dinner, but can you let me know when Hunter’s back so I can talk to him?

Cheryl: Of course, sweetheart.

“What’s up?” Trent asks, and I set my phone on my desk, my mind racing with all the implications.

Hunter coming home, us talking, me begging and pleading for forgiveness, maybe us getting a cat or two.

There are so many things he’s missed, and I can’t wait to talk to him face-to-face.

To see the scar on his upper lip in person, instead of through a phone or computer screen.

“My ex-boyfriend is moving back,” I say in a daze. Trent slams his laptop closed and walks over, slapping me on the back.

“Hell yeah, dude.” He knows a little bit about me and Hunter, but I never told him a name or exactly what happened between us. Just that I was an idiot, and Trent has watched me pine over him since we became friends.

I know right? I want to say.

Instead, I sit there and try to tamp down my excitement.

Hunter is coming home, finally.