Resist (Sphere of Irony 3)

“Mitchell,” she says without meeting my eyes.

“Mom…” I reach out and put my hand over hers. “Is it really so bad? For me to be,” I swallow, “to be gay?”

“Oh love, no. It’s just… I guess for me it’s a surprise. You never seemed…” she lets her words taper off.

“I dated girls, you mean?” She nods. “Yeah, I tried. I didn’t want to be gay. But this is who I am, mom. I’m sorry if it’s disappointing.”

My mom clasps my hand. “Listen to me, Mitchell. I am not disappointed. You’re a wonderful man and a good son.” Her voice cracks. “I met your young man at the hospital. He’s lovely, Mitchell.”

“Thanks, but we’re not together anymore. You know that,” I whisper, my eyes burning. “What about Dad?” I change the subject, not able to discuss Gavin yet.

My father has been scarce since I woke up in the hospital. Only stopping by for a few minutes each day. Even at home he manages to avoid me somehow.

“Your father loves you, Mitchell. He’s having a harder go at this, yes. But almost losing you…” she sniffs. “Just give him some time, love.”

“I can do that.” Hell, it’s better than the cold shoulder he gave me the night I came over to tell them. I guess me almost dying made him rethink cutting his only child out of his life.

My mom pats my hand and stands up. “I’ll go make a snack.” She pauses in the doorway. “Don’t give up on Gavin, son. He loves you, mark my words.” Then she’s gone.

I lean back into the soft pillows and stare at the ceiling, my mind spinning. Never in my life has there been someone like Gavin. I’ve never known the pain of heartbreak. Not even that asshole Grant made me feel so broken, so lost, so utterly fucking hopeless.

Is mom right? Does Gavin love me?

Shit, I don’t know. Maybe I had the right idea, not getting close to anyone, minding my own business. Work and more work, that was all I had for a long time. Yeah, it was lonely sometimes, but fuck if it didn’t feel better than this.

But hell, I wouldn’t give up my memories of Gavin for anything, not even to take away the pain. I close my eyes and imagine the feel of his tan skin under my hands, the scent that surrounded me when I buried my nose in the crook of his neck, the look in his eyes as he came deep inside me. Shivering, I let the memories overwhelm me, replaying every last minute in my head, savoring them like fine wine.

For a while it works and the pain stays away, allowing me a few minutes of happiness in my lifetime of self-imposed misery. Then reality bleeds back in and I’m right back where I started. Alone.

***

A week later, I step out of the cab in front of my townhouse in Huntington Park. It feels as if I haven’t been here in years, not three months. I wince as I slide the key into the front door, my chest still tender, especially now that I’m off the painkillers.

I shuffle down the hall, dropping my bag at the foot of the stairs. The air is muggy and stale from the house being sealed up for so long. When I step into the living room and glance around, I remember that I don’t have any furniture to speak of except a bed and a kitchen table.

Shit.

The last thing I feel like doing is shopping. I scan my fingerprint and enter my office. The temperature control system has recirculated the air in here so it’s much less hot and humid than the rest of the townhouse. I turn on the systems and wait for them to boot up.

I had let my phone die while I was in the hospital and never bothered to charge it back up. What’s the point? I have no one to call, no one I want to hear from, and after that damn article, I don’t want to field questions from reporters either.

That means I’ve been off the grid for two entire weeks, which is a lifetime in the age of technology. When I pull up my email, it’s overflowing with messages. Sadly, I realize that this is it. This is my life. Back to sitting in this room, working with clients on tracking down criminals who threaten corporate bigwigs, and working out in my basement.

Jesus. I don’t know what’s worse, that I feel so pathetic now that I’ve had a life or that I didn’t realize how pathetic I was before.

I plug in my phone and start answering emails. There are quite a few from Sasha, which I childishly delete without reading. I don’t need her butting in and reminding me that Gavin fell on his sword for me by giving that interview. Then he up and vanished while I was recovering from a gunshot wound! How she can defend that, I have no clue.

I sort the rest of the emails into current clients and future clients and delete all of the garbage ones

. As I’m reading a message from the office of a high profile investment banker who has a potential disgruntled ex-employee threatening him, my phone chirps to life.

Dozens of text messages flood the screen, each one accompanied by an electronic beep. The voicemail icon pops up, letting me know I have fifteen unheard messages. Again, I delete everything from Sasha. I’ll deal with her later—maybe in a week or ten, when I’m not still pissed off at her for taking Gavin’s side.

The only thing that catches my eye is a voicemail from two weeks ago. It says it’s from Gavin.

My chest squeezes painfully and I suddenly feel nauseous. Despite knowing that listening will most likely drive the knife in deeper, I can’t resist.

Mitch…