Page 16 of The Leaving Kind

Nick pulled into a gas station. He did not sidle up to a pump, but parked by the air-filling station. He killed the engine and turned to face Cam.

“I love you, Cameron. I don’t say it often enough. I used to carry a checklist of the people I loved, so I could remember to tell them how I feel. But I don’t use it anymore because I think—I choose to believe that you all know.” He pressed his fist to his heart.

Cam found himself echoing the gesture. He also found himself hoping Oliver didn’t have to rely on Nick’s newfound discovery that people simply knew he loved them. Then again, how could Oliver not know? Nick’s adoration of his partner shone brightly whenever he and Oliver were in the same room.

They should totally get married.

Nick evidently wasn’t finished talking, though. He took a breath and lowered his fist. “Last year, you suggested I talk to someone. Well, I did. I mean, I am. I ...” High color bloomed across his cheeks. He ducked his head, but the sweep of his long hair failed to hide the blush. “I started seeing a therapist. I don’t like it—the talking. But she’s helping me deal with my losses in a way I wasn’t able to on my own. And I think it’s because I’ve been seeing her that I can talk to you now.”

For sure.

Nick lifted his chin. “You were right. Now it’s my turn to say it back to you. You know how when you first came back I’d ask when you were leaving?”

Cam nodded.

“At the same time, I was terrified you’d actually go. You didn’t. Not then.” Nick grimaced and winced and growled softly.

Used to the time it sometimes took his brother to express himself or work out what he was feeling and then find the accurate words for it, Cam waited. And the waiting was kind of nice, as though he’d needed Nick to need him in this way. When had his brother grown so far past him?

Nick touched Cam’s forearm before closing his fingers in a slow, firm grip. “Anyway, if you want to start with me, I’ll try to help. I can listen. I might not be able to tell you the right things afterward, but I can listen.”

This was so typically Nick. First, because he had a partner, he wanted Cam to have one. Now, he’d found solace in therapy and thought Cam might too. But although slightly annoyed, Cam knew the suggestion came directly from the heart. Nick was saying I love you, again, in his own, awkward way.

Cam put his hand over Nick’s. “You do just fine. And ... thanks. I’ll, ah, keep that in mind.”

Nick smiled. Nodded. Squeezed Cam’s arm again.

“And Nick?”

“Yes?”

“I’m here for you. Always. Even if you want to talk about marriage. Mom and Dad made a pretty good go of it.”

“They did.”

“I’ll see what I can remember for you.”

“Good. Because I have more questions.”

Cam grinned, and as his face cracked upward, he felt lighter than he had in quite some time. “Bring them on.”

Victor followed the sound of banging along a hallway that didn’t bend where it was supposed to. Where the hell had the front door gotten to? And whose house was this anyway? He ended up in an odd cul-de-sac of paneled walls and turned a full circle, the familiarity of the scene prickling his senses. His house used to be this confusing, before they’d joined a few of the smaller rooms together.

Was this his house?

The banging—knocking?—sounded again, and Victor chose a new direction. The front door was this way. Always had been. When he found himself in a new corner, this one lit by windows, he turned another circle.

The knocking continued, louder now, and the tone had changed from a rap against wood to a sharper, rhythmic tock.

“Victor!”

Eyes peeling open suddenly and somewhat painfully, Victor struggled to focus on the face in front of him. Looming over him. Tight dark curls framing a sun-browned face. Large, expressive eyes— Oh, he knew those eyes and recognized that expression: anger, disappointment, and exasperation. Tereza had mastered each one individually over the course of their friendship and all three in the years they’d lived together.

Victor licked his lips, and that was a mistake. “Ugh.”

“Jesus Christo, you are a mess. Thank fuck I decided to come extra early.” Tereza wrinkled her nose. “When was the last time you showered? And where on Earth did you find that robe? I thought we gave it to Goodwill six years ago.”

He was on the couch in the living room, sprawled indelicately, with his beautiful peacock robe spread out like a picnic blanket, which it might as well have been if he hadn’t been wearing it. As he reached for handfuls of the silken fabric—in defense of it and himself—he encountered crumbs. And a sticky patch. And— Oh dear lord, when had he torn it?

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