Page 111 of ILY
Leaving no longer feels like I’m being forced out.
“I think I’m ready to retire now.”
“Take a vacation,” he says.
I shake my head. “I’m not going to change my mind, Carlo.”
He gives me a look. “I know. But you have a lot of hours to burn. So…take a vacation, Thorne. A long one. Apaidone. Spoil that poor bastard because I know this is fucking with his head. And when you come back, then sign your exit papers.”
Oh.
“Thank you.” I can’t hear it, but from the way it feels, I know my voice sounds a little tight.
“Ah, don’t get fucking sappy on me, alright. But, uh…if you do end up doing something wild like get married, I hope I get an invite.”
I stand up and manage a smile. “Yeah. Of course.” I start to turn, but he clears his throat, and I look back at him.
“Also, if you know anywhere around here that does ASL classes?—”
“Why?”
“Seems like it might be a good thing to learn.” He lifts his hands and makes more nonsense signs. “Looks like a fun language, and it can’t hurt to have another one in my bank.”
“Will you please stop that before you sign something offensive?” His hands fall hard into his lap, and I only just manage to hold back a laugh. “I’ll send you some resources.”
“Thanks.”
I nod at him once, then shut the door behind me as I go. No one’s paying attention to me. No one seems to care. And that makes walking out the front doors and heading back to Leaf a hell of a lot easier than it might have been just six weeks ago.
The one thing I love about my apartment is that it’s high up and downtown, where there are plenty of distractions—and stuff to keep Leaf busy while I finish up the last of my work before my official vacation.
Right now though, it’s just the two of us. I’m a little fucked out and boneless, the two of us wrapped up in T-shirts and boxers. He’s leaning against the balcony railing, and I’m holding him from behind, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath.
I was never happy here until this moment, and that is a sad realization to come to.
Leaf taps my arm and points. “What is that?”
I follow his finger. The big green Portland sign is lit up against the sky—dusk fading to darkness. “Concert hall.”
“What do they play there?”
I laugh and kiss the side of his neck. “I don’t know. A little bit of everything, I guess. I’ve never actually been.”
He turns in my arms, pressing his crotch against mine as he leans back so I can see his lips in the patio light. “How long have you lived here?”
“Don’t judge me,” I tell him, tapping him on the mouth with the tip of my finger. “Your friends all sold you out. You were barely not a hermit.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it because he has to know that’s fair. “At least I wasn’t a serial killer.”
My stomach sinks. I haven’t told him what the forensic agents found. Yet.
But I think he reads it on my face because his shoulders go tense. “How bad is it? What did they find? Please tell me it’s nothing super gross. Like…I don’t want to hear shit about her being a cannibal.”
“I don’t think she was a cannibal.” In truth, it would be hard to find evidence of that at this point. “It’s not worse than we thought. Does that help?”
His brow furrows, and he kind of answers me with an expression on his face before he does with his voice. I’m getting used to someone who spent years primarily communicating in ASL, and I find it’s so easy to read him.
I no longer feel lost.
