Page 43 of The Last Guy On Earth
“Yeah, you did.” Clay manhandles the suitcase off the bed, looking everywhere except at Jethro. “I’m going,” he says, arm muscles bulging as he grabs his bag and barrels toward the door.
The room is so damn small that Jethro practically has to leap out of the way to avoid getting clobbered by the big Samsonite bag. Then he follows Clay into the living room. It’s all happening way too fast. “Don’t leave pissed,” he says, trying to stop the tide that is Clay running away from him.
“Pretty sure I have to,” he growls, opening the apartment door. He puts his suitcase outside and tosses his hockey bag out after it.
Jethro, wild-eyed, glances around their apartment. This can’t be it. Clay can’t leave likethis.
“Wait, your gaming console,” Jethro says.
Clay throws on his coat, and when he looks at Jethro his expression is more disdainful than Jethro would have ever thought possible. “Keep it. Maybe you’ll actually remember me that way.” He exits through the open door.
“Clay!” Jethro jams his feet into his shoes. “Hang on.”
Clay doesn’t hang on. He’s got the BMW’s trunk open. He jams the suitcase and the hockey bag inside and slams the trunk with a bang.
Jethro grabs his keys so he won’t lock himself out, but Clay uses those two seconds to hop into the driver’s seat. Jethro rushes towards the car as Clay closes the door and then cranks the engine. He’s so eager to get away that all Jethro can do is stand in front of their shitty little porch and watch the headlights flare.
Jethro tries to meet Clay’s gaze one last time, but the headlights blind him as the car careens out of its spot.
Clay’s gone, and Jethro can barely process what’s happened. He watches the red taillights until they’ve completely disappeared. Then he goes back inside and sits down on the sofa.
The furnished room looks the same as it did on the day he moved in.
The neighbor’s TV rumbles through the thin wall, and it occurs to Jethro that it’s the first time he’s noticed it for weeks.
Clay is really gone. Of course he is. This was always going to happen.
We could still be together, Clay had said. But he was wrong. Obviously.
I love you, he’d also said. And that’s just as ridiculous. Maybe even more so.
Jethro literally can’t name another person who’s ever told himI love you, including his own parents. If they ever did, it was too long ago for him to remember.
People don’t say that to him, and Clay probably didn’t mean it. Not really. He was just in shock or something. Clay gets anxious even when things are going well.
That had to be it. Because they both know that Clay can do so much better than Jethro. This thing between them was always going to be temporary. It’s stupid of Clay to think otherwise.
And Clay isn’t a stupid man.In fact, Jethro reminds himself,he’s probably over it already. He’s probably accelerating onto 90 West, thinking happy thoughts. He must be.
Jethro lies down on the couch and props his feet up on the opposite arm. He’s still got his shoes on, which Clay would hate.
He closes his eyes. His brain unhelpfully sends him images of Clay in the kitchen, making jokes and stirring something on the stove. Clay in the shower, kissing the hell out of him, his golden fingers threaded through Jethro’s hair.
The best moments of Jethro’s life tend not to last. He already knows this.
And the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach? It won’t last, either.
Probably.
TWENTY
Jethro
By gametime two nights later,I’m well-slept, well-stretched, and ready to play. Given my recent luck, though, I’m half expecting to see Volkov’s name on the opening lineup. But true to his word, Clay puts me in the net.
It’s about damn time.
The first period of the game isn’t too interesting. Nobody scores, and I wish I could take credit, but Trenton looks a little shaky.
