Marc Jillson & The Gazebo (Love Inscribed 2)

I guess . . . I talked a lot about you being like me, but maybe you’re not.

Yeah, that’s it for now,

Jack

I stared at the words, long and hard. Perhaps they should be comforting. You’re not like me. But I read between the lines: You thought whatever we were doing or saying wasn’t right, and you did and said it anyway.

You’re worse.

My phone had been buzzing and again I ignored it. I fucked about the room, stubbing my toe as I kicked the couch. Laughing through the pain, I opened my laptop and dove into old Demon-Slayage chats.

September

DaMage: What do you think love is?

Me: Not a question I expected . . .

DaMage: Confession: I’m tipsy.

Me: Confession: I wish I could see what that looks like.

DaMage: Looks like me, sprawled on my couch, listening to Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together.”

Me: Good song.

DaMage: So what do you think?

Me: Nice image.

DaMage: About love.

Me: Dude, I’m the wrong person to ask. The last guy I crushed on . . . it couldn’t have ended worse.

DaMage: I think love is comfortable silence and giving in to laughs at silly puns and patiently putting up with each other’s crap.

Me: What are you drinking? May I have some?

DaMage: *snort.* Good lyrics, these. You should listen.

I hadn’t listened to it then, but I found it on Spotify and played it as I checked Hunter’s numerous messages asking if I was okay. I blinked back overwhelming emotion and wiped away the stray splotches that landed on my phone.

Me: Thanks for the pasta recipe. It was delicious.

Hunter: You sure you’re good?

Me: ‘Course.

Hunter: Coming around?

Me: You bet.

I packed a bag, stuffing the Archie tin and my letters inside. Not sure what my plan was with the latter, but I followed my instinct.

One Uber ride later, I was eating Hunter’s lemon pasta leftovers from the pot at the kitchen table. He watched me devour it, head cocked, fingers drumming the table. His gaze dropped to the orange-stained cuff of my sleeve. Damn Cheetos.

I gulped my mouthful, a funny lurch in my stomach. Hunter read right through me.

“How were your, um, classes?” I said.

“Fine.”

“All your studying done?”

His eyes narrowed with a frown, and he wheeled around the table, trapping me in the kitchen. His jaw was hard, no sign of a dimple anywhere. Goosebumps rippled over me.

Oh, fuck, he knew something was up. Why did he have to be so intuitive?

I grabbed the backpack that I’d tossed on the table. “I should hang this up.”

I started to round him and he cut me off with a sharp swivel of his chair. “Just a moment.” His deep voice held a note of command and then his eyes softened, filled with patience. “You said you’d be in a mood, yet you’re hiding it.”

I cast a panicked gaze toward the pot. “Did I tell you I really love this dish?”

“You implied you ate already.”

“It’s the parmesan that gives it oomph.”

“It’s the lemon rind, but the combo is good.”

“Lemon rind, yeah. Delicious. Should we do some Demon-Slayage?” I hefted my bag. “Got my laptop.”

“I overheard things, Marc. You were visibly shaking. You hung up without goodbye.”

“Shoulda said goodbye. Oops,” I gave him an apologetic grin.

“That’s not the part I care about.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and rubbed the strap. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

Hunter’s frown deepened.

“I’m good. Totally awesome. The best evah.”

“You’re bullshitting me.” Hunter leaned forward and whispered, “You’re bullshitting yourself.” He added softly, “I thought we were past that.”

A sad twitch jerked his jaw, and I felt a million pained twitches of my own. They kept growing, multiplying. Panic squeezed my lungs.

“What do you want from me, Hunter?” It came out a gravelly plea.

He took a deep breath, like he was nervous. “Isn’t it obvious?”

I paced the five feet between the table and the stove, my socks gliding against the tile. I plucked off a leaf of basil hanging next to Peter the pepper plant. Its aroma spiced the air as I squished it between my fingers.

“I can’t,” I blurted and slapped my basil hand over my traitorous mouth.

“Can’t be boyfriends?” He held my eye. “Or can’t move in with me?”

Oh, fuck. “Both. Either.”

Frustration and confusion rose in the flush of Hunter’s cheeks. He frowned down at his legs, and I wanted to cry.

I shook my head vehemently.

“No, no, that’s not . . .” I ripped open my bag and shakily pulled out my unsent letters. Every horrible thing I’d ever done I’d written into its pages, and the idea of giving it to Hunter to read made me sick. “You deserve someone better, Hunter.”

“You think I haven’t heard those words before?” he said sourly. “Think I don’t know what that means?”

“It doesn’t mean whatever you’re thinking,” I snap.

“Then talk to me. Explain.”

“I’m afraid you won’t like me after.”

His laugh was dry, hollow. “Is it worse than us fighting right now? Worse than breaking my . . .”