Page 33 of Sapphire Spring

The complexity had been replaced by cold, hard simplicitythat had landed like a body blow.

He was a closeted bisexual who drank to douse the pain ofhis double life, and for most of his high school career, he’d abused theclassmate he’d desired more than any other.

Why pay hundreds of dollars an hour to some nodding psychiatristto learn what he already knew? Especially when Naser Kazemi had delivered upthis hard truth with a few well-chosen sentences.

Why cry over it?

But that’s what he was doing, and as much as he was trying towillhis hand to his mouth, he couldn’t bring himselfto lift the bottle off the counter. When he looked to the frothy amber liquid,he saw Naser’s wide-eyed shock at the sight of him drinking first thing in themorning. And when he tried to look around him for comfort—at the minimalist, gleamingsurfaces of this designer-perfect beachfront house that was his and not his—hefelt like a man living inside the shell of someone else’s life to avoid dealingwith his own.

I can’t do this anymore.

The voice in his head sounded as clear as Naser’s hadsounded moments before, but with more fatigue than anger.

He heard fluid gurgling down the drain before he realizedwhat he’d done. He’d upended the Corona bottle and was emptying it down thedrain, a possibly fruitless gesture given how much liquor was in the house. Butit felt like a start.

His six-figure car parked out on the sand in full view ofhis neighbors, Naser Kazemi storming out of his house on a tide of all-tooaccurate accusations, the revelation that he’d spilled secrets about himself ina blackout—it was all too much to escape, too much to run from.

What if, this time, he didn’t run?

If he showered before what he wanted to do next, he might losehis nerve, so he brushed his teeth, applied some deodorant, and threw on afresh T-shirt. Then he was passing through his back door and walking across thesand toward his neighbor’s house. As was her habit, Shirley Baxter was sittingon her tiny back patio with a cup of coffee and her iPad, shaded from the sunby a giant straw hat and sunglasses so big they could double as roller rinks.

“Morning, neighbor,” she said as he approached. “Fun roadtrip last night? Mexico’s that way, you know.” She pointed south down thecoast.

Then she saw the expression on Mason’s face and sat upslowly, as if she were being approached by an unfriendly-looking dog.

When he reached the edge of her patio, his feetfrozeand his throat closed.

Sensing the tumult of emotions in him, Shirley removed hersunglasses, freckled face a mask of concern.

“You said you could…”

“Mason?”

“You said you could help me,” he finally managed.

Understanding dawning in her expression, Shirley stood likea soldier being called to rise by the first bars of the national anthem.

10

Sure, Naser had more self-esteem thanhe’d had back in high school, but that didn’t mean turning down apornyhatefuckwith his formerbully on the man’s gleaming kitchen counter hadn’t left him embarrassingly hardon the ride home. That his best consolation came from imagining the extent towhich Mason’s hangover breath would have killed the mood wasn’t exactly a signhisaforementioned self-esteemwas working at fullcapacity.

Yet.

He closed his front door behind him and sighed.

The cinnamon potpourri on the console table comforted him.He’d come to associate the pleasant odor with the sweet relief of returninghome after a long period of being reluctantly social. He was an introvert bynature, better in small groups. Happiest during little dinner parties with hisclosest friends. But his greatest pleasure in life was looking up and realizinghe’d passed several hours reading a good book alone in his townhouse and he hadnowhere else he needed to be. A counselor he’d seen in college had told him itwas the result of being from a large family where he’d always felt the need toconform. Butch it up. Play it straight. As if those things had ever beenpossible.

He was Prancer, after all.

And now he was razor wire tense and beset by dark andtwisted fantasies of Mason’s body pressing down against his. The guy’s dirtylaundry hadn’t made the most comfortable bed, so maybe a nap—or several—were inorder. But first, he had to deal with the jittery half-aroused state he’d beenin ever since leaving Mason’s house.

He headed upstairs to his bedroom.

A few years back, Naser had decided his penchant for pain inthe bedroom might be something worth treating, the warning signs of a tilttoward self-abuse that could turn into a cutting habit if he didn’t watch it.Connor had accused him of performing shame-based Internet therapy on himself,so Naser had decided to see a real therapist who wasn’t composed ofWikipediaentries and alarmist blog posts from dubious sources.

Dr. Kelley, whose crystal and dream catcher-filled officemade him feel instantly at home, had been more of a listener than adiagnoser. But at first, he couldn’t decide if she washolding her tongue because she had a gentle soul, or if she was waiting for himto hang himself. For weeks, she’d sat attentively as he’d poured out his self-judgments.How he liked it when his partners squeezed him a little too hard, slapped himenough to sting. How he felt a rush of almost euphoric pleasure when a manclosed his hands around his throat. And how he feared these kinks had all beeninstalled in him by his former bullies, and that alone was a reason he shouldbe more vanilla in the bedroom.

The whole time, he’d been sure she was gently formulatingsome terrible diagnosis she planned to hit him with at the right moment.Masochistapathologishomosexualisor whatever. Instead, one day she’dsimply rested her pen on her notepad and said, “Honey, maybe the only thingwrong with the fact that you like some salt with your sugar is that you thinkthere’s something wrong with a little salt.”

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