Chapter Five

RYAN

"You didn't say anything, did you?" In bed, Ryan propped himself up on an elbow and searched Emerson's face. It took a liar to recognize one, and Ryan would know if Emerson tried to bullshit him.

"No, of course not. I told Logan I had no idea where you were." Disapproval radiated from the man standing over him. "But I really don't like lying to people. Especially Dex. You could've let me tell him, at least. It's his job to help people recovering from addiction."

But even as Emerson spoke, Ryan set his jaw. "I have to do this myself. You don't understand."

Three weeks had passed since life had crashed around Ryan for what seemed like the hundredth time. How many more failures was he supposed to accept before listening to the obvious?

There was no place for someone like him. He'd learned that when his parents had thrown him out and told him not to come back. Now, almost forty, he was right where he'd started: alone, homeless, and jobless, all the bridges he'd worked hard to build burned to a crisp.

"What I understand, after being almost ten years clean, is that it is imperative you have professional help. And a good support system behind you. From what you've told me, Logan helped you."

"He gave me everything," Ryan said slowly.

"So you said, but I'm still not seeing why you'd walk out on someone who wants to give you everything."

"I don't want to talk about it." He flipped off the covers. "Can you help me? I need to shower, and I'm a little shaky this morning."

Immediately, Emerson held out a hand, and Ryan took it, rising slowly to his feet. He swayed a bit, and when the dizziness passed, he let go. "Thanks."

He'd been clean for fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours of his body waging a war against itself. After receiving that letter, he'd spent several days wandering aimlessly, getting high at night with random people at the Marquee. Maybe in his secret heart, he'd hoped Logan would show up to save him again, but he hadn't, and Ryan ended up alone and broken, walking through the dark, desolate streets. At one point he'd passed by Logan's building and hesitated, knowing he could go upstairs and Logan would be there with anything and everything he might want.

He'd turned and walked away, farther downtown, past the 9/11 Memorial and up to City Hall Park, where he'd sat on a bench, staring at the Brooklyn Bridge rising high in front of him.

It would have been easy to walk into the water and let it take him away to nothingness. But something deep inside him had rebelled at that idea, and he'd wound up on Emerson's doorstep, asking for help.

The incessant craving licking through his bloodstream hadn't fully diminished, and he yearned for the oblivion only a good high could give him, but the tiny bit of clarity he still possessed gave him the strength to resist. The days had been brutal, but Emerson had allowed him to do it his way, and so with only the two of them in a cabin somewhere in the Catskills, he'd sweated and screamed, writhing on the bed, begging Emerson to give him one tiny hit of something, anything to make the agonizing pain go away. Violent nightmares assaulted him every time he closed his eyes, leaving him unable to rest.

Ryan knew this was his last chance. If he didn't beat the beast of his addiction this time, he would lose himself forever. During the times when his mind cleared, he'd walk through the forest behind the cabin, scraping his fingertips across the rough bark of the trees, dipping his toes into the cold water of the stream half a mile from the cabin. Wanting to feel the pulse of the world. Needing to become part of the elements of life.

Ignoring the cool dampness after a recent rain, he'd lain among the rocks and wet dirt and breathed in the fresh earthy scent of the forest surrounding him. The rich blue sky soared high above, a vivid backdrop for the trees with their leaf-filled branches reaching upward, and Ryan pictured his body melting into the carpet of mud and twigs, becoming one with the ground. Would anyone miss him or notice he was gone?

Garrett was married and happy without him. Logan didn't need him except as a project to take care of.

No one gave a damn if he lived. Or died.

He should care.

Did he?

Emerson had listened to everything he said and allowed him to make his choices. Logan too had given him that choice, but Ryan had been so afraid he'd overstep and cross a line. Logan had kept telling Ryan how well he was doing. How proud he was Ryan had come so far.

All the well-meaning people telling him how brave and strong he was for getting help…

An utter crock of shit.

He wasn't brave. He was a scared, snively creature, too weak to withstand the slightest disappointment. Like being told he'd never practice law again. It had been easy to order a bottle of vodka, have it delivered, and sink into nothingness.

Logan would have never allowed him to suffer through the agony of withdrawal, listening to his screams, watching him shiver and shake as he detoxed. Logan would've wrapped him in silk to smooth his way, like he always had. It was another reason he'd continued to get high while they were together—his body was the only thing of his own he could control. Logan had made it all so damn easy by doing everything for him, even before Ryan asked.

Not any longer. Ryan didn't want peace and calm. A painless ride out of addiction meant it would slip from his memory, become forgettable. He wanted to suffer, wanted the agony. Even the beating he'd taken that had landed him in the hospital hadn't left enough of an impact, as he'd been too wasted to remember anything but the first punch.

He needed each and every excruciating detail of his withdrawal etched like a scar on his heart and mind so he'd never, ever want to go through it again.

So now, with his head still a bit fuzzy and his body weak, Ryan walked to the bathroom while Emerson waited across the room.

"Proud of you, Ry. It's a big step. A week from now, you'll start feeling like your old self again."

He didn't answer and turned on the shower taps, grateful for the hot water streaming over him. "My old self? That's a joke. Who'd want to be that fucked-up mess?" He washed his hair and stayed under the spray, feeling almost human. He finished and stepped out of the stall. The mirror reflected what he already knew from touching his body—he'd lost muscle mass, and his ribs stuck out. A far cry from the gym rat he'd been years earlier, residing at the top of the leaderboard in his spin class.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and returned to the bedroom. Emerson had left him alone, and he was grateful to be able to get dressed on his own. He slipped into his briefs and sweats, and found Emerson in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. For the first time in memory, he had an appetite.

"I can make you something." Emerson nodded to the counter. "There's eggs and bacon and sausage."

His stomach growled. At the beginning of his marriage, when he'd been relatively sober, he'd loved to cook Sunday morning breakfast for them. Creating meals had been a source of comfort, and he itched to recover that peace of mind.

"I'll do it."

Brows raised high, Emerson nodded. "I'll be out of your way in a second. There's coffee in the pot if you want."

He poured a cup, and while he waited for Emerson to be done, chopped up an onion and pepper and peeled potatoes. It felt good to be using his hands again, and though they were slightly shaky, he didn't cut a finger off. Emerson gave way at the stove, and he proceeded to make his favorite—home fries, then scrambled eggs with two strips of bacon.

"Damn, Ry. That looks amazing, and it smells even better."

Pride surged through him at Emerson's words. "Thanks. I haven't made breakfast in years, but I got the urge. Living at Logan's, every meal, even breakfast, was ordered in, unless we had bagels."

"You didn't cook for him? Man, he was a fool. Those home fries look like the bomb."

"Have some. I made a ton." Without waiting for Emerson's response, he piled some on the man's plate. "And no, Logan isn't the type for home-cooked meals. He's the king of ordering in and making restaurant reservations. I bet the man has never had a home-cooked meal in his life." Imagining Logan sitting around a table in a cozy kitchen and eating a family dinner almost brought a smile to his face.

With a full plate in front of him, he attacked the food, relishing each bite, almost as much for the fact that he'd made it on his own as for being hungry. Emerson picked up a strip of bacon and crunched half of it, then set it on the plate.

"Can I ask you something?"

Ryan finished chewing. "Yeah, sure. What is it?"

"What's the deal with you two?"

"Deal?" His brows scrunched together.

Emerson nodded. "Yeah. I mean…you know Logan's worried about you. He's called me at least four times since you walked out." Frown lines scored his face. "I didn't like lying. He seems like he cares."

Ryan's stomach flipped, and he set the coffee mug on the table instead of drinking it. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Because you've been with me for almost two weeks now, and I think after cleaning up your piss and vomit, I can ask a simple question. I know you live with him, but are you two lovers?"

Lovers . Such a strange word to describe what Logan meant to him. Lovers implied a level of intimacy, and Ryan wasn't sure Logan had ever allowed anyone to see beyond the glittering facade of perfection he wove around himself. The physical was the easy part—willing lips and hands, kissing and stroking, bodies swelling with desire.

But their hearts? Neither of them allowed the other inside those empty spaces.

"No. We aren't lovers. We hooked up once, a long time ago, but that was the only time. I don't know…" He fumbled for words, and Emerson jumped in.

"It's okay. It's none of my business. I only asked because Logan is so relentless in trying to locate you. Most people don't really go out of their way unless they care."

Ryan bit into a strip of bacon. "I'm sure he cares, but not in that way. Logan Silver isn't the type to get emotionally involved with people."

"What about you?"

His brows pulled together. "Me? What about me?"

"Are you in love with him?" Emerson asked, his voice as careful and patient as if he were speaking to a child.

Good thing Ryan wasn't eating or drinking anything, as he would've spewed it across the table and ruined Emerson's shirt. "In love with Logan?" Aware of Emerson's steady gaze, Ryan gathered his shaky wits. "Why would you say something so ridiculous? I can barely get out of bed on my own these days. The last thing I'm thinking about is sex or being involved with someone. Now, can I finish my breakfast in peace?"

"Sure. I don't want to upset you."

After the dishes were loaded into the dishwasher, Ryan laced his sneakers. "I'm going for a walk. I'm feeling antsy cooped up here." The weight of the log ceiling pushed on him, and he felt closed in by the walls of the cabin. He couldn't breathe. He needed space.

"I'll come with you."

Ryan directed a half smile at him. "I'm not going to get high, if that's what you're worried about. I know how badly I screwed up and disappointed everyone who tried to help me."

"How so? I'm here for you. Dex would be happy to help with whatever you need, and Logan is waiting for you to contact him. People care about you, Ryan. You can let us in. At least let Logan know you're alive."

Ryan hardened his jaw. "So he can come in and save the day? Again? No. This has to be on my own. I fucked myself over. I'm sure my job has already replaced me. So that's all my hard work down the toilet."

Emerson surprised him with a grin. "Well, about that…Logan told them you have the flu and you'll be out for a while."

"Of course he did," Ryan said bitterly. "Logan Silver to the rescue once again."

"He's just trying to make things easier for you. Maybe send him a quick text? He's really worried about you."

"Fine." Ryan picked up his phone and sent Logan a message.

I'm alive. I know you want to help, but please let me do what I need to do, alone.

"There. Done."

Feeling no better than he did before, he stomped over to the door and flung it open. "When is everyone going to realize I don't need to be taken care of?" He stormed away and took off running behind the cabin and into the woods, until he was surrounded by nothing but trees and the smell of earth. He found a tumble of rocks, sat against their hard edges, and let the angry tears fall. How long could he go through life, letting other people clean up after him? He was thirty-eight years old, yet as helpless as a baby.

Maybe having his childhood ripped from beneath him had left him without the ability to make good decisions. He'd always been living on the edge of survival. He needed to live on his own and be responsible for himself. Even prior to moving in with Logan, Remi's loan had smoothed the way for him to get his feet back under him. What he needed was to figure out who the hell he was. At his age, it was time.

Twigs cracked, and he huffed out a sigh. Of course Emerson would follow him. He remained silent and closed his eyes.

"You okay?"

Ryan didn't answer.

Emerson cleared his throat. "Look, I know you want to do this on your own, but you have a better chance of recovery if you speak to someone on a regular basis."

At those words, he opened his eyes. "I had that. With Dex and the group and with you whenever we'd hang out. It didn't stop me from reaching for the bottle when I got the letter from the disciplinary committee."

Emerson stood his ground. "Yeah. But you didn't come to meetings that often, and you hid the true extent of your problem and that you'd been using for so long."

Ryan's smile was wry. "I'm a great faker."

But Emerson remained somber. "Which is why I want you to try something new. What would you say about seeing a psychologist? Someone who specializes in the queer community and has worked with people suffering from addiction."

Ryan blinked. "I wasn't aware there was such a specific degree."

"I don't know about his degree exactly, but Noah is a psychologist who works with at-risk queer youth at a center in Brooklyn. He's studied the effects of long-term addiction from childhood to adulthood. I spoke with him a few days ago, and he said he'd love to talk to you."

Ryan highly doubted anyone would love to talk to him about his life. No one needed that much ugly. "I appreciate it, but first of all, I can't afford a psychologist. Even if I don't get fired, my insurance doesn't cover mental health. Second, if I don't have my job, then my main priority is finding a new one and a place to live."

"You're not going home?"

He met Emerson's eyes. "Logan's apartment was never home to me."