Page 43 of Sunrises & Salvation

ADAM

W hen Trent asked me to go on a double date with him, I thought it would be a great idea.

A way for me to bond with his new boyfriend, whom he’s spent the past month fawning over while I lick my wounds in peace at my desk.

He’s been happier than I’ve seen him… well, almost ever.

While I feel like my world is imploding.

Which is dramatic, and I’m man enough to admit that. I’ve been fawning over a man, but I cut myself off cold turkey from him right after that last deep dive I did on Google. I made a promise to myself, and Cheryl and Daniel, that I would not involve myself in anything Hunter-related.

I was waiting for him to reach out to me so I could respect his boundaries.

And fuck did that blow up in my face, horribly.

I never said critical thinking skills were my strong suit, because at one point in my life, they were. I would have put two and two together and been able to explain how the math works behind the scenes.

So, when I stumbled across the bookstore, I would have been smart enough to make the connection, and I could have prevented this whole ordeal.

Instead, I’m sitting across from and staring into the brown eyes of the man I’ve been in love with for over eight years while he sits next to my best friend.

I sit at the table waiting for them to show up, and my world stops as Hunter entered the restaurant. The light gray slacks artfully molding to his legs, showing off the definition he’s gained over the years. His shirt is plain and black, but his beauty outshines anyone in the restaurant.

I stand up, knocking the chair I’m sitting in backwards, and sending it to the floor with a loud thunk. Hunter’s eyes catch mine and immediately narrow into slits, with his dark eyebrows creasing across his forehead.

His name is on my lips until Trent walks in behind him. My eyes dropp down to their intertwined hands. His hand. In Trent’s.

Agony flows over me like a tidal wave, dragging me into the depths of the ocean and drowning me in despair.

Hunter is Trent’s.

Not mine.

I snap out of the horrible flashback as the waiter stops by our table.

And it went downhill from there, the awkward conversation where Trent tried to get me and Hunter to talk to each other. I avoid eye contact, and Hunter answers with one-word sentences. Did I mention that the “date” Trent set up for me canceled at the last minute?

Really, life is going great for me. If I suddenly came down with the black plague, I think I would tell the rat thank you and give him a piece of expensive cheese off the charcuterie platter that is currently decorating our dinner table.

“Hunter likes to read. Maybe you could suggest a book or two to him, Adam. The collection you have on your bookshelves is insane.” The stacks of books in alphabetical order are carefully positioned against the wall beside my TV.

He doesn’t acknowledge that they’re all romances, let alone with two men instead of traditionally straight books.

If he knew that the only reason I have those books is because they’re books that Hunter recommends, I doubt he would be bringing it up.

“I’m okay, Trent. He doesn’t have to—” I clench my fists under the table and relax the muscles in my jaw while I watch him lovingly stroke Trent’s arm, trailing his long, boney fingers across the bare flesh of Trent’s tattoo.

My heart thumps pitifully in my chest, begging me to reach out and take Hunter for myself. To surround him, so all he sees is me.

The rest of the date is painfully silent while Trent eats, and Hunter pushes his food around his plate distractedly, never once looking at me.

My mouth is dry while I eat the overpriced and overly salty chicken breast the waitress set in front of me. When I ordered a water bottle, she brought it out already cracked and poured it into the cup in front of me. It’s still sitting there, untouched.

That’s something my therapist and I have yet to overcome: my aversion to drinks. We’ve tried everything, and no matter what we try to do to convince my mind that I’m safe, even after all these years, I can’t do it.

I cough into my elbow, trying to clear my throat and help soothe the dryness.

It doesn’t work, and by now I just want this day to be over.

I want to go back to my empty house and mope while I watch The Office .

Which sounds pathetic, but it was our thing.

One of the many things I still do to remind me of him.

There are so many things I wish we could have done, could have experienced together.

But that’s not my job now, my job is to cheer for them on the sidelines. And let the two of them be happy, even if it feels like it’s ripping my heart right out of my chest.

Hunter’s hand enters my peripheral, and I keep my eyes focused on the food so I don’t draw his attention to me watching him.

He grabs my water cup and takes a generous swig. I watch his Adam’s apple bob with the movement, the same Adam’s apple that I would press kisses to while we cuddled up together on the couch in my dorm room while he would tell me about his day.

Wait…

I can’t keep my eyes off him as he places my cup closer to my hand now, his fingers barely ghosting across mine and leaving a burning fire in their wake.

He… remembered. He remembered how much I struggled to drink anything that I hadn’t opened myself.

He’s making sure that I know the water is safe to drink.

It’s too much. I can’t sit here, not with them being a happy couple while Hunter still goes out of his way to take care of me. That’s what Hunter does, he’s a nurturer by nature, he takes care of everyone. Even the people he hates, and that’s the category I fall into.

“Excuse me,” I say politely, excusing myself from the table. Breathing deeply and calmly, walking away, even though every atom in my body is yelling at me to run.

“Adam—” Hunter’s voice cuts across the restaurant, but I’m already at the door.

My heart wars with my mind, to glance over my shoulder and get a glance of him.

Just one last glance like I’m an addict, and he’s my drug of choice.

I’m cracking under the pressure for one last hit, one last feeling like I’m floating across the clouds.

But the crash back to the ground is enough to break me, and I won’t survive it.

I don’t turn around; I open the door and step out into the night, letting the black sky engulf me in darkness and swallow me in all its anguish.

Trent is already at the office as soon as I drag myself in.

The dark circles under my swollen eyes are deep enough to be considered craters, and the headache I feel throbbing in the back of my head can be linked to the copious amount of alcohol that I consumed last night when I finally stumbled in my front door.

I left my car at the restaurant, so I’ll have to find time to get it today. But the Uber driver last night sang along to every Britney Spears song on his playlist, listening to that for the twenty-minute drive made me think I deserved at least one drink for applauding him.

See, I can be nice.

“You look like shit, dude,” Trent tells me, lifting his eyes up from his computer to quirk an eyebrow at me. I don’t acknowledge his comment, or the way the water in my stomach roils when I sit down too quickly at my desk.

“So I look like you normally do?”

Trent’s silent, which is weird for him. He loves regaling me with tales, whether they be random thoughts he comes up with during the day or stories from his life.

When he first started working for me, he was always telling stories about his ex-boyfriend, Kian.

I swear to fuck, if he starts telling me stories about Hunter, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

The clock on the wall ticks loudly. Has it always been that loud, or is my headache making it worse?

“Hunter told me,” Trent finally says after I count to 240 ticks, four full minutes of uncomfortable silence.

I don’t say anything, trying to keep my focus on the computer in front of me.

There are invoices to be sent out, bills to be paid, and products to be bought.

I have a lot on my plate today, and with the way my stomach is unsettled right now, I’m thinking that this might not be the best conversation for me and Trent to be having. Because Hunter and I are in the past.

“You’re kind of an asshole, you know that, right?” he says, not rudely but matter-of-factly. There’s nothing I can say to defend myself, because he’s right, as much as I don’t want him to be.

He huffs, an annoyed gust of breath forced out of his lungs.

“How are you such a good guy, but then you also act like that?” Trent’s poking the bear, and I’m sure Hunter told him exactly what he heard. But he didn’t hear all of it.

Talk about the worst form of miscommunication.

“You are a grump, always in a surly mood. But then you make sure every member of the crew gets paid way above average, you made sure I was okay after everything that happened, and you also don’t make enough profit off these jobs to justify what you spend.

So technically, every time we take on a job, you’re losing money.

” It’s just money , I want to tell him, because to me it is.

I have no use for as much money as I have.

I divided up my inheritance and split it between charities to be donated to every month to keep the resources flowing in.

Even a fraction of the money I have could make major differences in people’s lives, and what kind of asshole would I be if I kept it all for myself?

I would become the one thing I never wanted to be, my father.

“You keep everyone at arm’s length, even me. I don’t know what your favorite color is, or that you like hiking on the weekends. I had to figure those things out from my boyfriend, because he confided in me last night about your history.” He inhales harshly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What was there to tell?” I finally break my silence, looking at him.

“I don’t know! Something, anything. I feel like I don’t even know you sometimes, and last night proved that.

” He sounds sad, and I feel bad. Trent is one of my closest friends, so I can offer him a sliver of myself.

The surface level boundaries I’ve kept on my side while he’s spilled every detail about how shitty his childhood and teenager years, leading to his adulthood.

“My favorite color is brown,” I offer, genuinely.

“Of course your favorite color would be shit-brown,” he remarks.

“I’m sure yours isn’t any better.”

“It’s green,” he says quietly, almost a whisper.

The soft moment between us gives me the motivation to maybe, just maybe, let him in.

Not much, because the thought of letting him in scares me, but fuck.

It’s been eight years. In some ways, life passes by quickly; one moment you’re working on fences, and the next, you’re sharing an office and working on building an empire that will outlive you and give him the financial stability that he told you he craved.

“My parents died when I was younger. It kind of fucked me up.”

“You think?” He balls up a piece of paper and throws it at me, completely missing and bouncing off the wall to the right of my head.

“You have shitty aim.”

He laughs, and I join in, the sound rusty coming out of my mouth.

“I have to ask, is it weird that I’m dating your ex?

If it is, I can talk to Hunter…” He trails off, and I would be an asshole of ultimate proportions if I told him it did bother me.

They deserve each other; they both need happiness and love.

They can provide that to each other, and I’ll just make sure that I keep a smile plastered on my face when I see them together, no matter how much my heart is begging for me to put it out of its misery.

“No, don’t worry about it. It’s practically history at this point.” But there’s a famous saying about history always repeating itself.