Page 73 of Interference

Anthony chuckled and kissed the idiot cat’s head. “I didn’t pick you for your brains, buddy. Don’t worry.”

Bear just purred and arched his back, turning in circles in the sink as Anthony petted him.

The cat was hilarious, but more than anything, I was relieved to see Anthony smiling again. The difference between the version of him practically dragging himself in from the garage and this—happily showering his cats with attention—was startling.

The enthusiastic reception from his cats brightened his spirits, but it didn’t last. The cats were quickly distracted—Moose by his food bowl, Bear by Lily—and without them to hold his attention, Anthony deflated back to something closer to his earlier misery.

Eyes closed, he rubbed the back of his neck. “God. I am exhausted.”

I winced. “I’m sorry. It… If I’d known it would stress you out so much, I would’ve—”

“What?” He met my gaze. “It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not, but can you honestly tell me today would’ve been just as tiring if I hadn’t been there?”

He opened his mouth to speak. Then closed it and looked away.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I appreciate you taking me, but I didn’t want…” I had no idea how to finish that.

“No.” Anthony shook his head slowly, flattening his palms on the island’s tiles as if he needed something to anchor himself. Or hold himself up. “It’s… The issues were between Simon and me.”

“But having me there didn’t help.”

“You’re not the one who would’ve made life easier by being gone, though,” he muttered. Then he exhaled and let his head fall forward. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“Wrong with—what do you mean? Your ex is stressing you out. Anyone would be stressed out in your situation.”

He didn’t gainsay me.

As he started making us both some coffee, I thought about how he’d been progressively more miserable throughout the day. I had to wonder if Simon even noticed. He’d seemed pretty miserable himself, but I hadn’t seen Anthony antagonizing him. Simon had thrown a few subtle digs and barbs, and at least twice, I’d caught him shooting Anthony a sour look that would knock Anthony’s mood down a notch or two. I could’ve been biased—I didn’t spend much time around them together, and I’d had much more interaction with Anthony than with Simon—but a lot of the bullshit between them seemed to be moving in the same direction.

I shifted my weight, leaning on the counter to take some weight off both my prosthetic and my left leg, which was a little sore after I’d spent a lot of time standing today. “Look, tell me if I’m out of line here, but…” I chewed my lip.

Anthony pushed a cup of coffee toward me, and his forehead creased as he silently waited for me to go on.

I took a deep breath. “I might be biased because I’ve only ever seen you guys when things are off, but based on what I’ve seen…” I hesitated. “Dude, Simon seems toxic as hell.”

I braced for him to put me in my place, either lashing out in defense of Simon or himself. Maybe both.

Instead, he deflated a little more, and he wiped a hand over his face. “I want to say he isn’t. He’s…” Anthony stared at the counter with unfocused eyes. Then he shook his head. “God, I don’t even know anymore. We were so unhappy together for so long, it’s hard to tell where the problems even started.”

I don’t know, man, I thought. Looks pretty obvious from where I’m standing.

But I just said, “It sucks you can’t get away from him.”

Anthony grunted. Then he shook himself and gestured at our coffee cups. “Let me get some cream and sugar.”

I knew a subject change when I heard it, so I let it go. Verbally, anyway. It was impossible not to keep thinking about it. As we polluted our coffee and moved into the living room to take a load off, as we hung out with Lily and the cats, my thoughts stayed squarely on Anthony and today.

I felt bad for him. I really did. He couldn’t get away from his asshole ex, and even when he tried to hide it—especially now when he was exhausted after a long day in Simon’s presence—he was obviously miserable.

Not all that long ago, fear and destitution had cultivated some deep, bitter cynicism. I couldn’t imagine sympathizing with anyone who had a roof over their head, no matter how fucked-up their situation was. If someone wasn’t using a piece of dirty cardboard over concrete as a mattress, then they could cry me a goddamned river over their “problems.”

Of course I’d known life wasn’t that simple. Everyone had their crosses to bear. As one of my Army buddies had said, “Someone else having three bullet holes doesn’t make my one bullet hole hurt any less.” Homelessness had just left me angry at the world and short on sympathy for anyone. Such was life when you were cold, hungry, and sleep-deprived.

But even when I was warm, well-fed, and well-rested, there’d always been a part of me that turned up my nose at the rich. It started with growing up lower middle class in a wealthy area. It festered as an enlisted soldier being ordered to war by officers at the behest of wealthy politicians and defense contractors. It grew into malignant rage at a society that let people sleep on sidewalks beneath buildings owned by billionaires who didn’t pay taxes. And when those billionaires had the cops move us someplace else… I mean… fuck everything, right?

Now here I was, staying in the enormous house of a man paid literal millions of dollars to play hockey. Tonight, I’d be lying in a warm bed on thousand thread count sheets in his guest room. I was enveloped in both his wealth and… his kindness.

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