All the feels, p.13
All the Feels, page 13
No wonder she was crying. Absurdly, he was swallowing back tears too.
“It’s hard, Alex.” She knuckled away the wetness beneath her eyes. “It’s really hard.”
He couldn’t imagine. Frankly, he didn’t want to imagine.
“Even inpatient hospitalization . . .” Her hands curled into fists on the stone bench. “There can be ugly power dynamics there. But when you’re trying to keep someone alive, inpatient hospitalization might be the only reasonable solution. Too many times, there are just no good options. None.”
After that, the silence stretched into minutes, and he realized she was done.
“You burned out,” he finally said.
She inclined her head. “I burned out.”
“So you took work from your asshat cousin because you had no job and needed money.”
“Well . . .” As she considered that, her face scrunched adorably. “Yes and no. I have savings from all my overtime, so no matter what, I could have afforded a few weeks of rest before deciding what to do next. But this job buys me more time. And I figured nothing could be farther from the emergency room than a Hollywood production and a Hollywood star’s estate. I needed some distance, and I’m getting it.”
He shifted uncomfortably on the steps, shoulders tight with something that, unfortunately, felt very much like guilt. “But you’re not resting. You’re still working.”
Right now, for instance, she should be sleeping, and she wasn’t. Because of him.
She huffed out a quiet laugh. “This is as much rest as I’ve gotten in over a decade.”
“You need some time off.” He scowled at her. “Actual time to yourself.”
But she was supposed to be watching over him all the time, and Lauren never shirked her responsibilities. Short of vowing to stay inside the bounds of his property for several days in a row—something he didn’t think he could actually do, which she would know all too well—how could he possibly get her some much-needed time off?
“Ron could assign me a substitute minder for a week or two.” However smelly and horrible that Understudy Nanny might be. “We can tell him you’re sick or something.”
Her voice was resolute. “I’m not lying, and I’m not subjecting you to whatever my cousin’s Plan B might be.”
The damn woman wouldn’t even let him do a favor for her.
Lauren Clegg might well be the most frustrating human being on the face of this planet, and coming from him, that was a fucking indictment.
“I could promise to stay inside for a few days.” Desperate times, etc. “Six. Or five? Definitely four.”
She just rolled her eyes at that, which . . . okay. Fair. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Nope.” He drummed his fingers against the steps. “What if I vow on the grave of my imaginary childhood friend, Captain Fluffytail, to immediately crush underfoot every flicker of enjoyment I might exp—”
“Wait,” she interrupted. “We’re scheduled to visit Marcus and his partner in San Francisco next weekend, right?”
His virtual PA had bought the plane tickets and arranged for the hotel and transportation earlier that day, in fact. He nodded.
“Ron considers Marcus a good influence on you.” Her brows were drawn in thought. “If you’re absolutely determined to get me a couple of days off, I’ll ask him whether I can transfer custody of you over to your BFF for the weekend.”
It wasn’t a terrible idea, actually. The physical distance it would impose between them, though . . .
Somehow, even when he’d been envisioning time off for her, he’d assumed he’d still see her. Every day.
He wasn’t ready to say he’d miss her. He just—wouldn’t not miss her. That was all.
“Custody?” He frowned at her. “I’m offended by your word choice. Nay, hurt.”
She chose to ignore that. “I’ll send him an email when we get back home.”
Speaking of home . . .
“Then we’re decided,” he said. “C’mon, Wren. Time for you to stop talking, finally, and let us both get some sleep.”
He got to his feet and held out his hand to help her up. Her grip was firm and warm, the contact a punch of sensation fierce enough to leave him dizzied. Once she was standing, he let go in a hurry.
In silent agreement, they began their slow trek back up the steps, with him leading the way. Because again: no more staring at her ass.
“Why does your imaginary childhood friend have a grave?” she asked after they’d reached the second set of stairs, her voice breathless.
At the sound of it, he slowed even further. “Because vowing over a grave sounds more dramatic than a simple promise.” He aimed an unrepentant grin over his shoulder. “Sue me.”
The corners of her mouth were indented. “So Captain Fluffytail is still alive?”
“Since I made up Captain Fluffytail approximately five minutes ago, yes, I’d say she’s still alive.” After a moment’s contemplation, he added, “Unless a coyote got to her already. She was very fluffy and delicious. Irresistible coyote chow, really.” He shook his head sadly. “Poor Cap. We hardly knew ye.”
That inimitable snorting laugh floated through the night, and he grinned up at the stars.
“You’re the worst,” she declared between fits of giggles. “The worst.”
It shocked him into laughter too, because Jesus. The irony. The irony killed him.
“Rest assured, Wren,” he gasped. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
13
EARLY THAT SATURDAY MORNING, LAUREN ESCORTED ALEX to the airport security check-in, reminded him to behave himself as he rolled his eyes and complained about how her unwarranted lack of trust wounded his very soul, and—after returning his final, oddly tentative wave in her direction—watched him disappear from sight.
Driving back to her duplex was . . . strange.
Their weeks spent almost entirely in each other’s company had connected them somehow. Tethered them together, like it or not. And with each mile she traveled away from him, that tether strained at her chest.
When his plane lifted off an hour later, safely and on time—she checked, because otherwise she’d worry—the tug became an actual ache. Which was ridiculous, obviously.
The ridiculousness of her reaction didn’t make it any less painful.
Upon hearing of Lauren’s imminent visit, Sionna had changed shifts so they could spend most of the weekend together. As soon as Lauren pulled into their detached garage and walked up to the turreted entry, her friend burst through the duplex’s right door with a tackle-hug that almost tumbled them both onto the porch floor.
“Ren!” Sionna shouted. “My favorite hag from another old bag!”
Helplessly laughing, Lauren gave the expected response. “Sionna! My shrewish sister from another mister!”
Then they were staggering into Lauren’s half of the duplex, and Sionna plopped down on the couch and eyed her friend speculatively.
“So . . .” Arranging herself more comfortably, she sat cross-legged. “Tell me how the best-paid babysitting job in the world is going.”
For some reason, that set Lauren’s teeth on edge. Just a little. “Alex is an adult. I’m not babysitting him.”
Damn, it was dusty in here. Also overly warm and stale. Striding to the window, Lauren heaved until it unstuck itself and opened a few inches.
“Okaaaay.” Her pixie cut rumpled and adorable, as always, Sionna tilted her head. “Then tell me how your non-babysitting job—in which you’re paid to accompany a grown man every time he leaves his house in order to ensure he doesn’t get into trouble—is going.”
Okay, it did sound a bit like babysitting, when she put it that way. But—
“I’ve come to the conclusion that Ron overreacted.” Setting her hands on her hips, Lauren turned to face the couch. “If Alex is somehow careening out of control, I haven’t seen any sign of it. And I’ve spent . . . what? Five weeks with him? I probably would have noticed by now.”
Idly, Sionna hugged a throw pillow to her substantial chest. “He’s not drinking to excess?”
Lauren directed a pointed glance at the wine bottle and glasses her friend had miraculously produced since entering the apartment, even though it wasn’t yet noon.
Sionna only laughed.
Grinning, Lauren dropped down onto the couch too. “Anyway, to answer your question, he hasn’t had a single drink since we met.”
Sionna’s brow pinched. “So what the hell happened in Spain?”
“I have no idea.” She angled herself toward her friend. “But I’d bet my savings account he had good reason to take a swing, and it had nothing to do with alcohol.”
“That . . . is not what the tabloids reported.” In the sunlight glaring through the windows, the silver strands threading through Sionna’s deep brown hair glinted like tinsel. “But you’re not a betting person, so I believe you.”
No, Lauren wasn’t a gambler. She trusted her own judgment when it came to evaluating the mental state of others, and Alex was many things—many, many things—but not the spiraling near-addict Ron had described.
As if reading Lauren’s thoughts, Sionna raised a dark brow. “So if he isn’t what Ron and the tabloids told you he was, what is he?”
“Ummmm . . .” How to describe him? “He’s a smartass, through and through. He likes to annoy everyone, but also make them laugh. He’s impulsive, quick-witted, and curious. He can be self-absorbed, but he’s a surprisingly good listener when he tries. He’s generous and loyal and never shuts up, as far as I can tell.” Lauren frowned and considered the issue. “Maybe when he’s sleeping? Not that he sleeps much, honestly.”
Sionna’s brow arched higher. “You know this from firsthand experience?”
“Are you saying—” Lauren stared at her bestie, aghast. “Of course I don’t know! We’re not—he’s not—”
She cut herself off, unsure how to finish her own sentence, cheeks suddenly ablaze.
“He’s not your type?” Sionna nodded thoughtfully. “I can see that. Marcus Caster-Rupp—his best friend, right?—is much more handsome.”
Oh, Lauren knew what her BFF was doing, and she wouldn’t fall for that trick, not in a million years. Only—
“Marcus might be more traditionally handsome,” she heard herself declaring fiercely, outrage in every syllable, “but Alex is approximately a million times sexier. Especially with that beard. And those eyes.”
Not to mention that purr of his, the one that raised every hair on her body and snatched the breath from her lungs.
At this point, both Sionna’s brows were practically levitating above her head. “So, in your opinion, the man you’ve spent over a month in close quarters with is very sexy. And has eyes. Also a beard.”
Lauren threw a throw pillow at her best friend’s annoying face. “Shut up.”
Catching it nimbly, Sionna grinned at her. “Nice aim. I see you’ve made progress in the Crone Arts while you’ve been gone.”
She would not hide her burning face. She would not.
Her best friend’s smirk softened. “I mean it, Ren. You seem . . .”
Oh, jeez. Lauren waited for Sionna’s verdict, skin prickling with discomfort.
“You seem more comfortable in your own skin,” Sionna finally said. “Less like you’re watching yourself and everyone else from a safe distance. I don’t know whether that’s because you left the hospital or because of your million-times-sexier-than-Marcus-Caster-Rupp charge, but either way, I’m happy to see it, babe. I’ve been worried about you for a long time now.”
As Lauren blinked at her best friend, belated revelation rounded her mouth into a silent oh.
How had she missed it all these years? In retrospect, it was beyond obvious.
Sionna might have created the Harpy Institute for Crone Sciences out of newly widowed grief and rage, but she’d also created it out of concern for Lauren. Because she wanted Lauren to engage with the world again.
No, more than that. She wanted Lauren to claim her own space in the world and defend that space.
And if Sionna was correct, maybe that prickle Lauren felt wasn’t entirely discomfort. Maybe it was excitement too. Maybe it was life.
Swallowing hard, she looked down at the threadbare edge of the couch cushion.
Either way, it was temporary. Once Gods of the Gates aired its final episode, she’d never see Alex again. Better not to dwell on her rioting thoughts, her rioting emotions.
Her rioting body.
Screw it. It was after noon somewhere.
Lauren got up from the couch and went looking for a corkscrew. “I’ll drink to that.”
APPROXIMATELY TWELVE HOURS later, the two of them were still ensconced on Lauren’s couch, swaddled in blankets and facing her television.
“I’m so horny,” Sionna groaned, and tossed another handful of caramel popcorn toward her mouth with only middling accuracy. “Why does this show have so many sexy actors? Fuck, it’s a fucking hotness cornucopia.”
She thought for a moment. “Not Jupiter, though. It looks like he has tiny biceps on top of his actual biceps, which freaks me out.”
Lauren snorted in agreement and continued gnawing on her Twizzler.
She’d intended to suggest a different show, but when her friend had proposed taking another stab at Gods of the Gates for their usual Bottom-Top-Switch debate, she hadn’t argued.
Her chest still ached a bit. Watching Alex on-screen helped, at least in the moment.
The scene switched to one involving Venus and Jupiter and Cupid, and Lauren chewed fast, swallowed her Twizzler, and paused the show.
“Tiny biceps!” Sionna wailed, flinging a hand over her eyes. “Oh, shit, you paused on a shot showing his tiny-biceps-on-his-biceps!”
“Forget about the tiny-biceps-on-biceps for a second, Sionna.” Sitting up straight, Lauren poked her friend. “Since you’ve actually watched this show in its entirety, unlike me, I want your opinion on something.”
Her hair standing up in clumps, Sionna emerged from her blanket burrito. “I am here to tender a professional verdict, as needed. Despite the trauma induced by your screenshot.” She pointed at Alex. “Cupid might be a bottom but might also be a switch. I think we’d need to watch his sex scenes with Psyche again to be absolutely sure. Several times, preferably.”
That . . . was probably not a good idea. And also—
“That’s not the opinion I wanted.” Lauren waved a hand at the screen. “I need you to watch this scene and tell me whether Cupid’s relationship with Venus and Jupiter is abusive. Because I have my own opinion, but maybe I’m missing some necessary context.”
Once she unpaused the second-season episode, they watched the scene in silence.
“Well, Venus and Jupiter are horrible to everyone, but . . .” Sionna frowned. “This is different. More intimate. Cupid is her son and Jupiter’s grandson.”
Lauren nodded.
“They manipulate and control him, and tell him they love him, even as they use him for their own ends. They order him to do things that make him miserable, like separating Dido from Aeneas.” Sionna drummed her fingers against the sofa cushion. “I don’t think we’ve ever seen that particular episode together, but when Cupid tells them he loves Psyche, Venus slaps him across the face.”
Lauren winced.
“I don’t think there’s any question, really. It’s abuse.” Sionna turned to face her. “When he broke free to be with Psyche, I considered that a huge step forward for his character.”
On the way to the airport, Alex had told Lauren entirely too much about the final season, but she didn’t want to spoil her friend’s future viewing experience.
“So . . .” she said carefully, “if, for instance, the final season showed Cupid abandoning Psyche and assisting his mother and grandfather instead—”
“It would send a definite message that survivors of abuse can’t ever truly escape their abusers or form new, healthy relationships.” Sionna’s scowl pinched her round face. “Plus, it would just be fucking terrible storytelling. I mean, what would be the point of all those years of character development, then? What would be the point of his relationship with Psyche? Why would they show him breaking free, only to put him right back where he started?”
Knowing Ron, Lauren could guess.
“Cynicism about human nature. Shock value. It’s possible the writers might not even see the relationship as abusive.” Clearing her throat, she added, “Um, if that were to happen in the last season.”
Sionna flopped back and gazed up at the ceiling. “Oh, come on, Ren. You don’t indulge in random thought experiments, and you live with one of the stars of the show. I suppose I don’t need to watch the final season now.”
Lauren’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Sionna twisted her neck to meet Lauren’s eyes. “Care to tell me why you wanted my opinion on this?”
Even with her limited viewing of Gods of the Gates, Lauren had reached much the same verdict as her friend. And if she and Sionna were right—if Alex was right—
Then no wonder he was so angry at the final season’s scripts. No wonder he’d damned the showrunners in his fic on AO3.
She sent her friend an apologetic grimace. “I can’t say, and I’m so sorry. Again.”
“It’s fine.” Sionna waved a limp hand. “Can I get back to my ogling and unassuaged horniness now?”
Thanks to her best friend, Lauren had finally decided for certain: She wouldn’t belatedly report the fic to Ron, and she wouldn’t make Alex take the story down.
It might be a foolish, dangerous choice, but she’d made it, and she’d stand behind it.
“Yup. Ogling time is recommencing, starting . . .” She pressed play. “. . . now.”
