Page 22 of No Rhyme or Riesling

John sank back onto the floor and ran a hand through his hair.Christ. He had no idea what to say to that. It was bad enough that Adam had lost his father in such a sudden, unexpected way, but to also feel responsible for it? Granted, it wasn't truly Adam's fault. He wasn't the one who'd botched the surgery, causing Frank Barnes to bleed out on the table.

But John could certainly understand Adam's shame and guilt. John had those in spades himself.

“I can't do this anymore, John,” Adam whispered before another sob tore out of him. “Make it stop.” He balanced the urn between his thighs and covered his ears. “Make the screaming stop!”

John's heart broke. He shifted over, trying to ignore the presence of the urn as he gathered his boy in his arms.

“We'll make it stop,” he promised, rocking Adam and pressing a kiss to the top of the boy's head. “We'll make it stop.”

For both their sakes, one way or another, he was going to find a way to help Adam get past his grief.

Chapter 8

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ADAM

ADAM THOUGHT he'd never stop crying.

He'd been at it for what felt like days—though it could have only been minutes, for all he knew—with John holding him all the while. Just about the time Adam thought he'd finally be able to stop, get composed, and catch his breath, feeling wrung utterly dry, another wave of grief and guilt would hit, and he'd start all over again.

It was like a dam had been torn down. One that had been standing for nine years, rock solid, holding back a tidal wave.

“I've never said that out loud before,” Adam managed to get out between sobs.

“Said what?” John murmured.

“That it was my fault.” Adam choked out another sob, looking down at the urn. He hated that this was all he had left of his dad. That he'd never again get one of the man's amazing hugs. Never hear his dad's laugh. The urn was cold and hard in his arms, but he couldn't let it go. And he didn't want to pull free of John's embrace, either. “I mean, I've always thought it. But I've never actually said it.”

John was silent for a long moment before he breathed a laugh. “Damn that man,” he said, sounding like he was muttering to himself.

“What?” Adam sniffed. “Who?”

John shook his head. “Beau.”

Adam frowned, his confusion worming its way just enough through his grief that he managed to stop sobbing and twist around in John's arms, though of course the tears kept coming as he looked up at him. “What about Beau?”

John rolled his eyes. “I asked him why he served you this time when youneverdrink. He should have known better. As a da–” John broke off. “As a dom,” he corrected himself before he went on, “even not yours, he should have known to tell youno, especially when you were clearly struggling.” John shook his head again. “But he said something needed to come out.” John paused, his voice barely a whisper when he added, “I guess he was right.”

Adam sniffed and wiped his eyes, watching John stare at the floor.

“I should have seen it,” John murmured, then rolled his eyes again. “I did see it. I should have said something. Or pushed you to explain. To let it all out.” John sighed. “Christ. I'm so sorry, baby. This is my fault–”

“What? No!”

“It is,” John insisted. “BecauseIshould have known better. Because I know you. Even back when you were a teenager, you would bottle everything up and hold it inside until the pressure hit your breaking point, and then it would all explode in one dramatic outburst.” John shook his head. “Hell, even that night you snuck into my bed…”

Adam blushed.

“How long had you been holding in that urge?”

Adam wiped his eyes again. “Months,” he admitted. “Years, really.”

John pulled out a handkerchief and waited while Adam blew his nose. “Can you tell me about the drinking? I've been wanting to ask, but I figured it was a sensitive topic—obviously something to do with your dad—so I didn't want to upset you. But I guess I should have.”

Adam winced, trying to balance the urn against his thighs while trying to fold the handkerchief back into some semblance of tidiness, except now it was damp and wrinkled from snot and tears. He draped his arms back around the urn with a sigh, clutching the handkerchief in his fist. “D-Dad always had a glass of scotch every night. Just one. Not even to get, like, buzzed or anything, let alone drunk. He said he just liked the taste. Said it was his treat to himself after a long day of work.” Adam paused, trying to remember the words Dad had used. “Something about a way to celebrate another good day, or unwind with something he enjoyed after a hard one.”

One corner of John's mouth tipped up in a knowing smile as he nodded.

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