What He Left Behind (3 page)

Chapter Three

It’s almost six o’clock in the evening, and I still haven’t contacted Michael. I tell myself it’s because I’ve been wrapped up in paperwork and PowerPoint, and that I don’t want to bother him at work, but that’s bullshit.

Sitting in my cubicle beneath the fluorescent lights, playing with my phone, I want to text him, but I don’t. I can’t. Fact is, I can’t figure out what I want to say to him, or how to say it, or if I really should follow through with Ian’s suggestion. What would that even mean, anyway? Friends with therapeutic benefits?

And regardless of what we call it, I’m worried sick that this could get complicated. Sex was never complicated for us, but there was never so much riding on it. During those times when we’d fooled around, neither of us had ever been otherwise attached, never mind married to one or traumatized by another. Over the years, we’d wandered in and out of each other’s beds in between relationships, but it was never a good time for us to pursue something more than sex together. One of us was coming off a breakup, or the other was too tied up with real life to even think of anything more serious.

When life calmed down and we were mature enough to know which way was up, Michael was already happily in a relationship. By the time he’d rebounded from that breakup, I met someone new. We leap-frogged like that all the way through college, until I started working and Michael was in vet school, and then came Ian, and Michael had known before I did that I’d met the man I’d marry. He was the one who told me I was being a dumbass when Ian and I broke up over something stupid, and he was the one who helped us get back together, and damn if he didn’t earn his spot as best man at our wedding.

Sometimes I catch myself fantasizing about the sex we used to have, but I never think of him as the one that got away. Just very fond, very hot memories. My relationships with both Ian and Michael turned out exactly the way they should have—I wouldn’t trade my husband for anything, and I have the best friend any man could ask for. The best friend who gave me all the confidence I have in the bedroom.

The best friend who’s lost all that confidence because of the asshole he started dating six months after I got married.

The best friend who might be able to regain that confidence with my help, if I’m willing to slip off my wedding ring, get into his bed for the first time in over a decade, and…

And no, this can’t possibly get complicated.

Cursing under my breath, I rest my elbows on my desk and rub my eyes. This is worse than the helpless feeling I had when there was nothing I could do for Michael. Doing nothing beats the hell out of doing something to fuck him up even more.

Finally, I send a text, but it’s not to Michael.

Are you absolutely sure about this?

Ian’s definitely home by now, likely grading papers. Hopefully he’s in his office or at the kitchen table—if he’s kicked back on the couch like he sometimes is, then he’s probably got either the cat or all fifty pounds of Ariel in his lap, and his phone might be out of reach.

Within thirty seconds, though, the response comes through:
100% sure
.

And right after that one:
I trust you
.

And he needs me
, my brain adds, because it’s so fucking helpful.

I’m not nearly as confident about this as my husband, but there is one thing I’m unshakably sure about—how much I want to do something for Michael.

I glance at the clock, and it’s five minutes till six. If I want to see him tonight, we need to make a decision soon, because traffic going in his direction will be hellish if I don’t get on the road in the next twenty minutes.

So, with the clock inching toward quitting time, I text him:
You busy tonight?

I hit send and pray for a response of
sorry, got a date with Dr. Klein
.

As I log off the computer, gather my jacket and keys and wait for the minute hand to hit the twelve, I keep an eye on my phone. At six, I leave my desk, and I’m halfway to the parking garage when the phone vibrates.

Already home. Want to come by?

Already home? But it’s—

Oh, right. He sometimes has Friday afternoons off after his therapy appointments.

Perfect. This isn’t a conversation we need to have out in public.

I text back,
I’ll be there as soon as I can.

And I hope to God the drive gives me enough time to figure out what to say.

I park in the space beside Michael’s car and take the stairs up to his apartment. My heart’s going like crazy, and I’ve finally worked out exactly how to broach this subject. It’ll still be awkward and might make him balk, but at least I can get enough words out for him to consider the idea without making either of us feel like an ass if he declines.

When I reach his door, I pause with my hand on the knob, take a deep breath and go inside—he doesn’t like when people knock if he knows they’re coming because it pisses off his dog.

“In the kitchen,” he calls out.

Cody comes loping down the hallway, so I crouch and open my arms. He jumps up, tail wagging so hard it’s shaking his whole body, and I keep my chin up just enough to prevent him from licking my face. That doesn’t stop him from trying, of course.

“Cody,” Michael says, chuckling. “Get a grip. You just saw him the other day.”

“Hey. Hey. He adores me. Don’t stand in his way.”

Michael just laughs, and when I look up at him, he’s standing at the end of the hall with that bright smile on his face, and…

And my mind goes blank.

Absolutely. One hundred percent. Blank.

I came here to talk to him, and I remember why, but the words, they’re all gone. Someone straight up unplugged the server, and now I’m staring at Michael like an idiot.

He’s staring back at me, his green eyes doing nothing to help me reboot my brain.

Smile fading, he cocks his head. “What?”

Of course he can read me like a book, even when there’s nothing on the pages. I gently nudge Cody back, pet him a little and stand up.

Michael’s gaze is fixed on me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I absently brush a few strands of dog hair off my shirt. “I kind of wanted to talk about some things.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Okay.” He glances over his shoulder, then looks at me again. “Coffee?”

“Sure. Yeah. Thanks.” Maybe that’ll give me time to remember
how
to talk to him.

With Cody hot on my heels, I follow Michael into his kitchen.

While Michael pours coffee, I’m trying hard not to wring my hands, so I play with my wedding ring instead. Somewhere inside my skull are the words I rehearsed in the car, and I rack my brain, searching frantically, but…nothing.

And then there we are, standing on opposite sides of the narrow kitchen, coffee cups in hand. Cody sits between us, tail wagging as he looks at him, then me, then him again. Apparently we’re boring, though, because he finally gets up and trots out of the room, tags jingling and nails clicking on the linoleum.

Alone, Michael and I drink in silence. I know the coffee hasn’t made it into my system yet, but I’m jittery anyway. Placebo effect, nerves—who the fuck knows. My mental script is irretrievably gone, though, so apparently, if I’m going to give this performance, I get to wing it.

I set my coffee cup on the counter and face him. “So, I’ve been thinking about what we talked about yesterday. A lot.”

His cheeks darken and his gaze drops. “I’m sorry.” He plays with the handle on his coffee cup. “I was afraid it might upset you. I shouldn’t have unloaded it all on you like that.”

“No, no. It’s okay.” I gulp. “To get right to the point, I think maybe I can help.”

Michael’s eyes flick up. “Help? How?”

“Um…”

And now we all remember why Josh didn’t last very long in drama classes once they got to the improv part…

Michael sets his coffee down and faces me again. “What do you have in mind?”

I rest my hands on the counter’s edge, resisting the urge to drum my fingers.

“Josh?” Michael tilts his head.

The pressure’s on, and my heart pounds as my stomach threatens to crawl up my throat. The counter is getting damp from my sweaty palms.
Come on, come on…

Finally, I blurt out, “Do you trust me?” The question startles me, and Michael stares wide-eyed at me.

“What?”

“Do—” I clear my throat. “Do you trust me?”

“With my life,” he whispers. “You know that.”

“I do. Yeah. I just…”
Well, Josh?
I scrub a clammy hand over my face and exhale. “I was asking because…”
Because I’m an inarticulate idiot at the moment
.

“Josh.” He inclines his head. “Whatever’s on your mind, just say it.” There’s a note of uncertainty in his voice, the faintest hint of fear, and I realize he probably has zero idea what I’m trying to say or how it relates to what we talked about yesterday. This must be unnerving him something fierce, and knowing that turns my stomach even harder.

I hesitate, then push myself away from the counter and step a little bit closer. Not quite enough to make him draw back, but enough I can
almost
reach him if I try. “You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

His gaze still locked on me, Michael nods.

“Then maybe…” The words refuse to come easily. “Maybe I can…” Staring into his eyes like this, certain he’ll duck away from me at any moment, I don’t know how to say this.

Abruptly, Michael’s spine straightens and his lips part. He raises his eyebrows. “Is this conversation going where I think it’s going?”

“That depends. Where do you think it’s going?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “You first.”

Damn it.

I clear my throat again, this time to get the air moving. Not that it helps.

“Just say it,” he says. “Be blunt. You know I can handle it.”

Not this time, I don’t.

But I inhale slowly, hold his gaze and manage to say, “What if I can help you get more comfortable in bed with a man?”

There. It’s out. And I don’t think his eyes can possibly get any wider.

I hold my breath, wondering where the hell this conversation is going to go now that it’s back in his court.

Michael folds his arms. Not tightly, not defensively and not quite enough to mask the shiver that goes through him. I can’t tell if he’s repulsed, uncomfortable or…something else.

His voice is soft when he says, “Am I right in assuming you’re volunteering to be that man?”

There’s no point in backpedaling or sugarcoating, so I just nod.

He breaks eye contact and stares at the floor between us. Michael’s not easy to read, and right now, I have zero clue what he’s thinking. The creases between his eyebrows, the tension in his jaw and his shoulders—they tell me he’s deep in thought, but I can’t begin to guess what those thoughts are.

He lifts his gaze again. “So you want to sleep together until I can handle it again?”

“If you don’t want to, that’s—”

“I haven’t even gotten that far yet.” He waves a hand. “I’m still trying to figure out what you’re suggesting.”

“Fair enough.” I shift under his scrutiny. “The thing is, we’ve been together before. I’m not an unknown to you.”

He studies me but doesn’t speak.

I start playing with my ring again. “You know for a fact you can trust me in bed. Maybe that’ll get you past those walls that keep tripping you up with guys you
haven’t
been with.”

“But…what about…” He gestures at my hands. “What about Ian?”

My fingers stop with my ring just above my second knuckle. “This was actually his idea.”

Michael’s eyes are huge. “Seriously?”

I push the ring all the way on, then hook my thumbs in my pockets and hope that’s enough to keep me from being so goddamned fidgety. “His thought was that it might give you a chance to get your bearings before you find yourself considering getting into bed with someone new.”

This time, Michael makes no attempt to hide the shudder. “You guys want me to use you? For, what, therapy?”

I shrug. “If you want to look at it like that.”

“I don’t want pity sex.”

“It’s not pity any more than it was pity when you slept with me the first time.”

Michael chews his lip again. “That was different.”

“How? Because we were young and inexperienced?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Shaking his head, he says, “Look, I don’t know about this.”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

Michael’s eyes flick toward me. Then toward the floor. “No. I don’t. And don’t get me wrong—I appreciate that you’re willing to do this. I really do.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I just don’t know. I have no idea what to think.”

“Do you think it could help?”

He seems to mull it over for a long moment, and then half shrugs. “Maybe?” He meets my eyes, and his are filled with equal parts confusion and pain. “Part of me wants to take you to bed right now because I know that for me, you’re the safest man on the planet. If I can’t handle sex with you, then I might as well stay celibate.”

My heart speeds up. “And the other part?”

He swallows hard, and he’s staring at the floor again. “That part is scared to death of breaking that illusion.”

It takes me a second to comprehend what he’s saying, and when I do, my stomach drops into my feet. “You’re afraid I’ll do something to make you feel unsafe?”

“It’s not rational. I know it’s not.” When he looks at me this time, his eyes plead with me to understand. “But that’s the half that can’t let go of the fact that I trusted Steve too.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I know you’d never hurt me, Josh. I
know
that. But there was also a time when I
knew
I didn’t really have Stockholm Syndrome, and that Steve really did mean well. It’s kind of like being on a strong hallucinogen. Once you start seeing shit, you can’t trust anything to be real.”

Steve, you bastard.

“How can I prove it to you?” I ask softly.

Michael shakes his head and doesn’t look at me. “If I knew…”