Just a Bit Heartless (Straight Guys 13)

“Maybe,” Jordan said, falling back onto the couch. His arms didn’t support his weight for some reason. “What is it to you?”

“Wow, he really is drunk,” another voice said, sounding stunned. It was Nate. They must have had him on speaker.

Fuck that. He didn’t care. Fuck them, and fuck their nauseatingly happy life. They were the reason he was getting drunk on Christmas all alone, like the worst sort of loser. If it weren’t for Raffaele and Nate, he would have never met Damiano. He would have gone on with his life, having no idea that he even existed.

The thought only made him feel worse.

Fuck, he hated this.

Ferrara cleared his throat. “I see it’s not a good time. We won’t take your time—I was just wondering if you saw Damiano. He turned up at our house for Christmas and then disappeared without a word for days. I’m worried he’s up to something.”

Up to something. How dare he. Instead of being worried for his stepbrother, Ferrara was worried that he was up to something.

Jordan curled a hand into a fist. “Fuck you,” he ground out, suddenly fed up. His chest hurt. His throat hurt. His vision was blurry. “This is all your fault. It’s your fault that—that he’s the way he is. If—if you and your gang of privileged little boys treated him normally, if you were his friend—he wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t have turned out the way he is. Lonely. Unloved. Unable to trust. Unable to accept love.”

There was dead silence on the line.

Jordan’s lips twisted. It seemed even the great and terrible Raffaele Ferrara could be rendered speechless. Jordan was probably going to regret saying all of that tomorrow—he was drunk—but he didn’t care. He wasn’t scared of his boss. Even if Ferrara fired him, with his resume, he could easily find another job. In fact…

“I quit,” Jordan said with relish, and hung up.

All the fight left him as he let his phone fall, hot tears falling down his cheeks.

Fuck, he was such a mess.

He was a mess without him.

He didn’t want to ever be without him.

Then what are you doing, getting drunk on Christmas, instead of getting the man?

Jordan sat up, blinking blearily.

That was… a very reasonable question, actually. Why was he waiting for Damiano to come back? Why? Jordan could go after what he wanted, too. Especially since he wasn’t the emotionally stunted one between the two of them. Damiano was… he wasn’t built like that. He wasn’t built to believe that he could be happy, that he could love and be loved back. Damiano would not be able to say the words easily. He might not be able to say them ever. If Jordan kept waiting for Damiano to profess his undying love for him, he might have to endure decades of this uncertainty, with Damiano appearing and disappearing from his life, looking at Jordan longingly but never staying, until they both were old and gray.

Fuck that.

Words didn’t matter. Actions spoke louder than any words. And fuck, Damiano’s actions spoke better than any I love yous. He’d let Jordan put a ring on him, for fuck’s sake. A ring that could track Damiano’s whereabouts anywhere in the world. There was no bigger sign of trust Damiano could have possibly given him, considering how paranoid he normally was.

Damiano loved him. He had to believe that.

The only thing that stood between them and what they both wanted was themselves.

***

Jordan drank a lot of water, took a hot shower, freshened his breath, shaved, combed his hair, dressed up—put himself in order.

He was half-afraid his resolve would falter once he sobered up, but it didn’t happen. He was sure. He was sure it was the right thing to do. He’d never been more sure in his life.

Damiano’s GPS tracker showed that he was already in Italy, somewhere in Sicily, so Jordan booked the next available flight—which was an overnight flight that evening—and made himself busy.

He took a cab to work and left his letter of resignation. He was a little relieved that it was the holidays and there was no one at the office: he knew he still wasn’t entirely sober and probably looked it.

After that, Jordan forced himself to call Ferrara. He really didn’t want to do it, but it was the smart thing to do, professionally. He wasn’t exactly giving Ferrara two weeks’ notice, after all.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said once the man picked up. “I was out of line.”

Ferrara sighed. “No,” he said. His voice sounded clipped but not insincere. “You weren’t wrong. I am sorry—for all of it. I know I was part of the problem.”

“You were,” Jordan said, without venom this time. He still felt fiercely protective of Damiano and angry on his behalf, but he also knew Ferrara wasn’t really a malicious sort of asshole—just a regular one, who hadn’t meant for it to turn out this way.