Page 59 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
He nods.
“Gay.”
When he nods again, I’m this close to killing him with my bare hands. But I don’t want to go to jail, so I’ll kill him with sarcasm instead.
“So gay you slept with half the female population of San Francisco behind my back, huh? Was that just you making sure you didn’t enjoy vagina? Just putting the lid on it?”
“Listen—”
“So gay you constantly made fun of Jenner and his boyfriends? That gay?”
“Kimber—”
I take a step toward him, my entire body shaking with fury. “So gay you had to, what, make up all those stories you told me about the amazing sex you had before you met me? All those crazy threesomes in your college days, all those kinky things you wanted me to try, all the ways you made me feel like I wasn’t measuring up to your expectations in bed?”
The last part is shouted into his face. I’m so angry I can feel my pulse in every cell in my body.
In a defeated whisper, Brad says, “Yes.”
I blink. “What do you mean, yes?”
“I mean . . .” He presses his lips together for a moment, his eyes fierce with unshed tears.
I’m shocked to realize he’s going to cry.
“I mean yes. I did all that. I slept around with women because I was desperate no one would know. I said those things about Jenner and his boyfriends and made up those stories about all the sex I had in college and did pretty much anything else I could think of—everything I could think of—so I wouldn’t have to admit it to myself.”
He chokes out a sob right as the first fat tear rolls down his cheek. In a strangled voice, he says, “But mostly so I wouldn’t have to admit it to my father.”
Then he drops his face into his hands and starts to bawl. Shoulders shaking, body trembling, boo-hooing and carrying on in that totally over-the-top, out-of-control way you just can’t fake.
I’m so overwhelmed I plop right down on the gravel driveway in my vintage Christian Dior couture dress and sit there with my legs stuck out in front of me, staring at my shoes.
“But nobody stays in the closet anymore,” I say, bewildered, to my feet. “I’m no expert, but, I mean . . . do they? He’s a grown man . . . a grown man who lives in San Francisco, the LGBTQ capital of the universe. Why on earth would he pretend to be straight?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” Brad wails between his fingers. “I never meant to hurt you!”
“Oh, well, good job with that, Wingate.” I’m too stunned to be furious at the moment, so it comes out as sarcasm, as dry as a crust of old bread.
Brad drops down beside me and folds his legs. He then proceeds to wail and cry in a cross-legged position, and now I’m getting a migraine.
“If anyone should be bawling here, it should be me, asshole. Do you have any idea how much you hurt me? How what you did absolutely devastated me? How I will never, ever get over that shit for the rest of my life?”
He wails louder. At this rate the authorities will show up soon to find out who’s being murdered.
“Okay.” I sigh, exhausted. “Hey, calm down, it’s gonna be okay.”
He grabs me and buries his face
in my neck, clinging to me like a lost little boy, hiccupping between sobs.
I look up at the clear blue sky. I want to remember this moment. I want to let it sink in before I go numb. I want to be able to take it out later and look at it, examine it, try to understand what it means and how I ended up within it. Because maybe if I can understand, I’ll be able to find some deeper meaning in it.
Something that doesn’t make me feel so worthless and small.
“I buried my father today.” I watch a fluffy white cloud float by overhead. In the branches of the trees, birds are singing.
“God, I’m so sorry.” Brad’s sobs have turned to sniffles. He’s drying his face with his hands, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “I know how much he meant to you.”
