Bombora (38 page)

T
HE
previous owner of Hugh’s house had a thing for ostentatious doorbells, I think; it’s not so much a chime as a chorus of barely musical noise approximating Handel’s
Messiah
. It goes on and on and on, far longer than any doorbell should. Hearing it for the first time nearly changed my opinion of Hugh as a person, so offensive is the sound, and for weeks after he swore up and down it came with the house. Unsurprisingly, Nate is all too eager to mock Hugh about it at every available opportunity, and has been known to hammer on the buzzer whenever Hugh is particularly buried in work or if Nate happens to be cross with him. Childish, yes, but I admit to having been amused by such antics from time to time, since I’ve often thought about sabotaging the damn thing myself.

As I lift my hand to press the button, it occurs to me I’ve rung Hugh’s doorbell more in the past couple of weeks than I have in months. Once upon a time—and it really does feel that way now—I could walk in the front door and help myself to a beer from the fridge. As far as Hugh was concerned, it was less trouble for me to look after myself and treat his home like my own than potentially interrupt him in the middle of writing or, more likely, be ignored outright. While there has been no formal revocation of my no-doorbell privileges, I think it’s fair to assume I no longer occupy such haughty status as to walk into Hugh’s house unannounced. More than that, I’m scared to try, since I don’t know what waits for me on the other side.

It’s been almost a day since I spoke to the Fessendens, except for an ominous text I received from Nate this morning:
Meet me @ Hugh’s 2nite. 8pm. Need 2 talk 2 U guys
. That’s it. When I responded asking for clarification, all I got was
Plz just come.
I took it as a measure of his seriousness that the expected innuendo was never made. Not knowing whether or not Nate has already spoken to Hugh about the series of unfortunate and stupid events that have led us to this point, I can’t be sure whether this meeting is to discuss the matter at hand, or something else. Whatever the case, anticipation sent my stomach plummeting to my knees as soon as I received the message, and there it’s remained all day. I’m early, I know, but I couldn’t bear another minute of sitting around my house doing nothing.

Hugh opens the door still glowering at the doorbell chime, and his expression darkens that little bit more when he sees me standing there. The only one unequivocal in her greeting is Callie, who shoves past him to come sniff around my hands, tail wagging joyously. For a moment Hugh looks at her in betrayal, then says to me, “Nate’s not home yet.”

I try not to scowl. Even if that’s the case, does he expect me to go home and come back again, or maybe wait on the front stoop like a dog? Surely Hugh can’t be that disgusted with me. Besides which, there’s a reason I came a bit earlier than Nate specified in his text. “I wanted to speak to you before Nate lets us in on whatever surprise he’s hiding,” I tell him. “If that’s acceptable.”

Hesitating, Hugh continues to block the doorway with his body until I give up and start to turn away, sighing heavily. He grabs my arm unexpectedly. “Wait.” I glance back at him, and he shuffles his feet like he’s the one who should be embarrassed and uncertain. “I’m sorry. I think it’s probably a good idea if we have a minute to speak alone too. Come in.”

I follow him into the kitchen with Callie in tow and see he’s in the middle of fixing himself a modest dinner of spaghetti and tomato sauce. It’s inadequate and boring, since Nate is the unabashed cook in the family, and it tells me there’s still some distance left between them. The thought floods me with shame. Despite everything, I’m worried what will become of Hugh’s relationship with Nate. Cut off from my own family, I don’t want that for either of them. Nate has made bad choices, yes, and hurt people, but knowing as I do how much he loves his family, especially Hugh and Liam, it’s not a fate I’d wish on him, not even at my most bitter.

As if he senses my assessment of the scene, Hugh courteously asks, “Have you eaten?”

I shake my head. “I haven’t, but I doubt I could keep anything down right now anyway.” He shrugs in sympathy. “Thanks, though.”

“Uh-huh.”

Forever ago, I used to excel in taking control of situations in which I felt like a fish out of water, using my suits and matching ties and expensive haircuts as a shield between myself and my fear of not owning a room enough to meet my father’s standards. Hugh shouldn’t instill me with this same worry, but right now he does. Right now, I know I’m not owning anything.

As if he understands, Hugh goes to the fridge and grabs a beer, popping the top off against the counter before he hands it over. Whether it’s meant to be for liquid courage or a sign all is not lost, I can’t be sure. Hugh grabs one for himself too and downs it considerably faster than I could even attempt. Soon enough, the silence begins to stretch out as long and thick as syrup.

Just as quickly, it becomes too much. “How was I supposed to tell you it was your brother who ruined my life?” I blurt out, and I don’t miss the way Hugh’s fists clench in response. He doesn’t answer, though I can tell he wants to, and I’m so desperate to have out with it all I can’t help but goad him a little. “Well?”

“You should have just…
told me!
” he finally explodes. Such an overly simplistic declaration would normally be enough for an eye roll from me, but I know Hugh knows this isn’t the most eloquent response he could have given either. Likewise, it’s usually the simplest of statements that require the most complex answers.

I try to consider what it might sound like to come out and tell Hugh the whole thing. Of course, it would all be different now than if I’d explained it weeks ago, more different still if I’d done so before I knew he and Nate were related, but before I can think too hard, I find the words falling from my lips. I speak slowly, as though my brain is unsure of the story. Unable to watch Hugh, I focus on my hands instead, pulling and twisting the hem of my plaid shirt—one of Nate’s? I no longer know what I own anymore—between my fingers.

“I met Nate in Columbus over a year ago. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever come across and just… the way he looked at me was so unlike how anyone had ever looked at me before. We fucked. That was supposed to be the end of it.” I pause and look up at Hugh to find him watching me in a fixed way, though his expression is uneasy. “I had no idea he was married, no idea about Liam or anything else, I swear.”

Hugh says, “I know. Nate told me.”

I resist the urge to grab Hugh’s arm and shake him, fighting hard to remain where I am. “I’d never…
been
with someone before like I was with Nate. Never had a boyfriend, never was a part of something longer than one night or maybe a weekend. I didn’t think I was cut out to love someone the way I wanted to love Nate; it scared the shit out of me. But every time he came to me, it was like he knew my mind was just waiting for him to change it, like it was impossible he was the only one who wanted what he thought we could have.”

I swallow at the memory the same as I always do, feeling the weight of that love pressing down on me until I couldn’t tell myself apart from it. The constant anticipation of suffocating to death with it, but finding each breath easier than the last. “You don’t know what that’s like, Hugh, because you’re the type of man who’s always known you could have a family—you probably knew the second you met Nell you would marry her. I grew up thinking I’d never have any of that until I met Nate, and then I started to want it more than I wanted everything else. I was
ready
to throw everything else away for him because of how badly I wanted that dream.”

“And you had it taken away from you,” Hugh finishes, voice tight. “I know how that feels, Phel. You don’t have to tell me what it’s like to have the rug swept out from under you and all your dreams with it.”

“But do you know how it feels to have to look at the person who caused it?” I answer. “What it would have felt like if you came face to face with the person who fired that shot?”

Hugh jerks like I’ve slapped him in the face, but recovers quickly. “But you went back to Nate, Phel. You’ve been saying for months how your life was totally wrecked, and yet I bet almost as soon as he showed up, you went crawling back.”

“
He
was the one who begged me to come back,” I counter, but the minute the words are out, I know how stupid this distinction sounds. “But yes, I was foolish enough to fall for it a second time.”

“Fall for what?” Hugh asks. “You already knew everything, didn’t you? Did Nate surprise you with something new?”

I shift my weight from foot to foot and look back down at my hands. “No. There was nothing new.”

“Then you went back in with your eyes open, man,” Hugh answers. “Whatever decisions you made were all up to you. I’m not saying Nate gets a free pass for what he did, but you coulda walked away this time and didn’t, same as you coulda chosen to tell me the truth, and didn’t.” I knew that was going to come back around in short order.

Trying hard to say exactly what I feel, however difficult, I grimace. “Admitting I’d gone back to him was no less difficult than breaking the news to you about our history,” I say quietly. “Because I knew you’d say exactly this. And I knew you’d be right.”

“Then why the hell
did
you go back?”

Still hesitant, I shrug, since the inadequacy of the gesture is no different than the inadequacy of the English language to describe everything I’ve been feeling these last few weeks, or months, or year. The word “madness” doesn’t quite cut it. “I wanted to rewrite history, I think.”

“That’s not possible,” says Hugh with rigid certainty. “What happened, happened, and trying to do it over with the kind of baggage you’ve been hauling around is hardly going to help. Even I know you aren’t that stupid.”

I flinch. “Well, I
was
. Or just very good at convincing myself while I was at it.” We both let that hang there a while, neither of us willing to touch it, and when I break the silence, it’s not to apologize or to offer more excuses as to why I’ve been such a fucking idiot, in all respects. “We’re not so different, Hugh,” I tell him. “What I said to you on the phone yesterday wasn’t a complete lie—I do value this friendship, and I want to salvage whatever bit of trust might be left. Or better yet, rebuild it. I don’t know how, but that’s what I want.” I can’t bear to say out loud that I probably won’t be around much longer to do it, since I know Nate isn’t going to be the one forced out of Cardiff in this equation, but Hugh probably knows that already too. “I was afraid the truth might do more damage. I didn’t want to lose you either. Not in addition to everything else.”

“Lying to my face isn’t the horse I’d have chosen to bet on,” Hugh deadpans.

“I know,” I answer raggedly. “And you have to know how much I regret it.”

Whatever Hugh might have said is cut off by the front door slamming, a warning, however insufficient, that Nate is home. Any bombshells still in store are about to make themselves known. My stomach tries to launch itself from my knees up to my throat, and I have to turn away from Hugh to hide how nauseated I must look. From his pained expression, I know he catches it anyway, but instead of commenting, he goes to meet Nate.

“So what’s with all the secrecy, dude?” he asks, not bothering with pleasantries as I hear Nate’s footsteps approach the kitchen. I don’t blame the man, who must be thoroughly sick of surprises by now. His tone suggests there’s already been some kind of a discussion between him and Nate, but I’m startled to find he knows as little about the topic of today’s surprise discussion as me.

“No secrecy here,” says Nate, and by the lengthy pause that follows, I know he’s waiting for me to turn around and look at him. Like he needs my permission to continue. I do, very hesitantly, because his gaze itches and burns between my shoulder blades. For several long moments our eyes meet and he doesn’t smile. “I have to talk to both of you,” he explains, more to me than Hugh, it seems. “Together.”

“So talk,” snaps Hugh, clearly antsy.

Nate nods. “Let’s go into the other room,” he suggests and, off the blank look shared between Hugh and me, adds, “It’s just more freaking comfortable, okay?” He then turns and walks away with the clear expectation for us to follow. Exchanging another glance, Hugh and I do just that. I inhale sharply when I feel his hand brush reassuringly across my shoulder. The gesture of support comes out of nowhere and could crumple me where I stand.

In the living room, Nate gestures for us to take the sofa while he himself paces awhile before settling lightly on the edge of the coffee table. His fingers drum an anxious tattoo against the wood. It makes me uncomfortable that Nate sits closer to me than he does Hugh, slotting our legs together in a way that’s loose and perhaps even unintentional, for his thigh barely brushes my knee unless I jostle it around. A little voice suggests he’s trying to be close to me, and I know then that this conversation won’t be good, not if he’s steeling himself like this, reaching for whatever support he can get. Why does he think I’m the one to give it? But still, when I catch his knee bouncing nervously, I want to reach out and still it with my hand. After all this time, it agitates me to see Nate in a state of struggle.

He clears his throat a little. “I know it’s weird to call a meeting like this, considering we all practically live here….”
Or did
, I think. “But I’ve been thinking through some stuff in the last twenty-four hours and made a few decisions I couldn’t sit on any longer. I’m sorry if this seems out of the blue,” he adds.

Oh Christ. Not only is this bombshell going to be bad, but it’s going to be
big
, because Nate doesn’t give these types of wind-up speeches for anything. It’s clear he’s working himself up to it as much as he’s trying to ease us in.

Surely Hugh must know this, too, but he groans and says, “Jesus, Nate, just spit it out,” like the anticipation is killing him too much for the warm-up. He wants it ripped off like a Band-Aid, no preliminaries and no courtesy. I’d understand, except I know that whatever comes out of Nate’s mouth next won’t affect Hugh half so much as it affects me.
This is it. He’s going to ask me to leave
, I realize, and my hands tighten on the sofa cushions as my stomach flips violently.