Better With You (Better Love 2)

But also, I have Googled him numerous times. I don’t tell him that.

“I used to want to go to the pros.” He sighs again. “I used to want a lot of things that I don’t anymore.”

I lift his hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles, and he hums.

“Tell me about Brandon.”

My smile is instant.

“He was just like me, but nicer.” We both laugh. “I’m serious. Nicer, and more talented. He was a brilliant artist. He was good at everything—drawing, painting, sculpting—but he loved digital art. He wanted to go into graphic design. He helped design the LGBTQ+ Student Center’s website for our Community College. In high school, he painted a mural on one whole side of our bedroom. It was just of us doing random shit. One of the scenes was of us in front of the Bean at night, the whole skyline lit up in the reflection.”

“The Bean at night is amazing.”

“It is. We used to come to the city for concerts and stuff, and it was always our first and last stop. Day Bean and Night Bean, he called it.” Riggs kisses my head softly, and it makes tears prickle my eyes.

“He sounds like he was a great person.”

“He really was. I know people tend to romanticize others after they’ve died. ‘Their smile lit up a room,’ ‘they made friends with everyone,’ that sort of stuff. But that was actually Bran. He was legitimately one of the friendliest, kindest, most genuine people ever. Everyone loved him.” I choke back the surge of anger that flares in my chest. “Everyone who mattered, anyway.”

“I think it’s really good of you to replace his headstone with the one he deserves, Bailey. It’s thoughtful and caring, and I admire you a lot for it. A lot of people wouldn’t even bother.”

“I owe him at least that.” The guilt is evident in my tone, and I swallow it down. When I open my mouth next, the story falls from my tongue so easily. The only other person who knows it all is Ivy.

“I was the reason stuff got bad for him in high school,” I confess, my voice a whisper. “I was dating this guy. Craig Dixon. I had been dating him since 9th grade, off and on. He was a constant fixture in our house. He was always hanging out with us. I thought...I dunno. I thought he loved Brandon like I did. When Bran came out to me, I was just kind of like ‘okay, cool,’ and when we were in private, I used his pronouns and name. But, you know, Brandon wasn’t out yet. He wanted to wait until we graduated.” I swallow the brick in my throat. Work to wet my bone-dry tongue. “I fucked up. I fucked up so bad.”

Riggs tightens his hold on me. “You don’t have to tell me,” he whispers, but I shake my head.

“I told Craig. It was an accident. I was talking about Homecoming and mentioned Brandon going with us, and Craig thought I was talking about one of the football players from a rival school. Craig was our wide receiver. Anyway, he got pissy and started trying to say I was trying to cheat on him, and then Bran overheard and stepped in to defend me. He ended up coming out to Craig. We’d all been friends forever. Since kindergarten, really. I thought he loved us. Loved me... I...I didn’t think he would...”

I start crying. Big, fat, tears leaking down my cheeks.

“He outed Brandon at school the next day. Stood on one of the tables in the cafeteria during lunch and announced it to everyone in there. Just...threw him to the wolves and sneered while he did it. He led a campaign to make his life miserable for the rest of our senior year.”

God, it was terrible. The pranks, the name calling, the vicious bullying. It was like the guy I was in love with didn’t exist. I’d been completely blind to the kind of person Craig truly was, and my brother paid the price for it.

“And to make it worse,” I continue in a whisper, “our parents didn’t even try to stop it. They weren’t at all supportive. If anything, they made it worse by dragging us to church and trying to request prayer chains.” I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow. “I was so scared for him.”

“I’m so sorry he went through that. Nobody should ever be treated like that.” Riggs’s rumbling voice is muffled as he speaks into my hair. “But he got out. You both did. You said he was doing well at college. That dickhead Craig, your parents, that whole fucking town— they didn’t win, Sundance. They didn’t succeed in breaking him.”

I take a few steadying breaths and let his words wash over me, seeking out the warmth in them.

“Yeah,” I rasp. “He was doing so well. And he said he didn’t blame me for any of that shit, even though I know it was my fault. And then,” my voice cuts off on another sob, “and then, when he got sick, I left him at the apartment, so I could go see a stupid band play. I should have stayed with him. We were supposed to make dinner that night and hang out because we’d been so busy, we hadn’t seen much of each other, but this band I liked was playing a surprise show, and Bran didn’t want to go, so I ditched him. If I had been home, if I had gotten to him sooner...”

I can’t say it, but I know Riggs knows. If I had been there to call 911, Bran probably would have lived.

“That’s not your fault,” Riggs says fiercely. “You can’t blame yourself for that. There’s no way you could have known.”

I just shake my head and cry. It doesn’t matter how many times I hear it, I will never believe that. But I can still do one last thing for him. Not to assuage my guilt—nothing will ever wipe me clean of that, and I have accepted it—but to give him the respect he deserves, especially in death.

When my tears have dried, Riggs moves us to the kitchen. We tweak our recipes and do some trial bakes. We laugh and smile and crack jokes, and it’s exactly the release I need after my cathartic confession on the terrace. When Riggs has the car drive us back to the hotel, we shower together. He washes my hair and jokes about having enough flour in it to make a small cake. When we move to the bed, we have sex, and it’s languid and intimate in a way I’ve never experienced before. He kisses me like he means it, and it’s terrifying, but I still fall asleep with my face buried in his neck.

The next morning, after he’s left for his workout, I wake to find a delicate, perfectly crafted origami star on his pillow, and my heart stutters in my chest.

Crap. I think I’m falling for the asshole.

Again.