Page 77 of Sapphire Storm

His throbbing face was suddenly too tight for his skull. Thecarpeted floor felt uneven, like a fault line was spreading between his feet.

In a daze, he tapped out the only text he could thinkof—three question marks in a row.

His response turned green. A quick scroll revealed theirprevious texts were all blue, including Roman’s hateful one, which had comethrough at 9:15 a.m.

What did that mean? Had he been blocked?

With trembling fingers, he did his best to research, saw thatbeing blocked was one of several possibilities. But the ghosts of his parentswere already scolding him from their gilded perches in their antique-stuffedfront parlor.You fool,they crowed.Don’t you see? You’ve beenplayed.

He called. It went to voicemail after one ring. An automatedmessage.

Had it been the same message on Saturday? He’d phoned Romana dozen times the night of his trailhead scream, but each time he’d hung upwhen voicemail answered and so he couldn’t remember the content of thegreeting. Was it this anonymous, robotic woman or had it once been Roman’sactual voice?

“Call me, please. I don’t understand what’s going on. Isthis text for real? I just…” What more could he say than that? “Just pleasecall me. I hope you’re okay.”

Yeah, sure,he thought once he’d hung up.Ihope you’re okayas you throw rocks in my face the morning after Ibared my soul.

He wished suddenly he had a number for Andy Rosales, the guyRoman was keeping his stuff with out in Victorville. But the more he thoughtabout calling the man out of the blue, the crazier it seemed. Reaching out tothe last boyfriend of the woman who’d probably blamed him for the demise of hermarriage until her dying day? What good would that do when it looked for allintents and purposes like this entire thing had been a…Don’t go there yet,he scolded himself. Without showering first, he threw on some clothes andsped down to the lobby.

The valet told him the Bentley four-door and the young mandriving it had left sometime around 9:30. Ethan had slept until 10:00,believing himself to be free of schedules and burdens and poised to enjoy hislast day of vacation with the man who’d allowed him to touch the sky.

Now he felt like a lazy drunk who’d missed the mostimportant work meeting of his career.

As he shuffled back to the elevators, he had to swallow overand over again just so he could breathe. Once he’d closed the door behind him,he cursed the suddenly empty and abandoned room, still redolent with Roman’scologne, still filled with fresh memories of the hours they’d just spentdevouring each other, owning each other.

Hours being played.

There was no avoiding it now. The truth was staring him inhis flushed, pulsing face.

Saturday night, he realized now, had been the start ofRoman’s plot, not the end.

Suddenly everything on the room’s desk was flying, andthat’s when Ethan realized he’d swept the surface clean with one arm. His laptop’scollision with the far wall dented the top of the screen, which had been openduring the swipe. His wallet, his keys, and his phone were spread across thecarpet like tossed doubloons. The rage that had risen in him was so total andcomplete he shook down to his bones. And he knew what it covered.

Humiliation.

Big, grown-up Ethan,DaddyEthan, had been played.Seduced, tricked, abandoned, and smeared.

And the words that echoed through his head were the sameones that had accompanied his darkest and most destructive thoughts for years.

Your mother was right. It’s not for you. It’s for thebrides and grooms whose wedding cakes you’ve crafted, whose perfect memoriesyou’ve captured in special, custom desserts. It’s for the guests who glide pastyou in the lobbies and ballrooms you’ve graced with your creations over theyears. It’stheirworld, a world of romance and true love and happilyever afters, and you’re the guest in it, not them. You are love’s servant, notits recipient. That joy belongs to the men who weren’t whores.

He could reason with this voice when he had his wits abouthim, when he was in the zone and loving his life. But not now, not when he’dopened his heart only to have it all end in this.

Another Ethan showered and packed up his things.

Another Ethan got his car back from the valet.

Another Ethan wound his way through downtown San Diego’sgrid of one-way streets until he made his way to the freeway. It was the Ethanwho’d sold most of his possessions to pull together bus fare to New Yorkbecause he’d known his parents would report his car stolen if he tried to takeit. It was the Ethan who’d slept on benches after days of looking for a placeto live in the big, cold, heartless city that would supposedly grant all hiswishes if he just stuck it out long enough.

It was the Ethan who’d taught himself to delay despair untilsome small victory delayed it even further.

But whatever this version of Ethan was—some crazy hybrid ofthe past and the present—he kept his phone in his cupholder, looking down at itevery few minutes, waiting for Roman to respond. By the time he pulled into theparking lot at his building, the only texts he’d gotten were from Donnie,asking if he wanted to stop by for lunch on his way out of town. He couldn’t bringhimself to answer.

As soon as he crossed the threshold of his apartment, hewent to work throwing out the meals he’d made for Roman, tearing open theTupperware containers and forking the contents into the sink, the trash, thesink, the trash. There was no rhyme or reason. His mad rush to stomp out allsuggestions of the man had left him crazed. He was jamming an entire marinatedsteak into the garbage disposal with a fork when he realized he’d lost hismind. He never threw away untouched food. He always donated it to shelters. Andthat’s what he’d do with the rest of it.

If he could sit…

If he could just breathe…

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