Chapter Seventeen

Colson sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room and watched the sun rise. He'd left home around five, and after several frustrating delays with the train and Metro-North, didn't arrive in Greenwich until after eight. Too late to make an appearance at his parents' house, so he'd checked into a hotel in town and tried to collect his tumbling thoughts.

What did you say to people you hadn't seen in fifteen years? Especially when you knew they didn't give a damn about you. He was probably stupid to have made the trip, but after sitting with Millie and listening to her talk about chances she regretted not taking, he'd decided it would either be something new and better, or the end. He hoped it would be the former, considering his mother had called him. He'd know in a few hours.

Then there was Harper.

Damn him.

They might've started out seeing each other to scratch an itch, but like a damn mosquito, Harper Rose had burrowed under his skin, and Colson couldn't ignore him. Harper turning growly and possessive had ignited a flame that burned like whiskey streaming through his blood. He'd developed an unquenchable thirst for Harper's mouth on his, those strong hands holding him down as he took Colson apart piece by piece. He liked sitting with him and trading barbs, and he enjoyed Harper's shrewd, sharp intensity.

Yeah, he was a little obsessed with the man.

He gazed at Harper's message from the night before, and his finger hovered over the Delete button. Millie Johnson was a sweet lady, but she didn't understand. He ran a hand through his hair.

"What the hell did he mean, things to work out?" he grumbled. As a writer, Colson didn't like vagueness. "If he has a problem, he can tell me. It's not like we're strangers."

But the more he thought about it, the more Colson realized he was wrong. They might've been intimate with their bodies, but they'd rarely shared what was in their heads or hearts. He knew as little or as much about Harper Rose today as he had the day they'd first met.

Except how hot and demanding his kisses were. How hard Harper thrust deep inside him so that even thinking about it set off mini explosions inside Colson, rendering him dizzy with desire.

"It's him who held back. I told him about myself." Colson paced the room. "He needs to open up and tell me why he freaked out and ran. And why he can't spend the night. Because he's hiding something important."

But he'd never get an explanation if he deleted Harper's message and ignored him. If he wanted to know, he'd need to give him another chance, but he wasn't going to make it easy for him. He decided to answer.

Thanks.

Colson pressed Send and turned off his phone. He wanted no distractions with what he had ahead of him that day, and if there was one thing Colson was certain of, it was that Harper Rose was the most frustrating, annoying, distracting man.

He lingered over his cold brew at a café on Main Street. Things hadn't changed much since he'd last been there—a few stores had moved in, along with two more coffee houses. He looked as out of place with his earring, longer hair, and tattoos now as he'd felt as a gay kid pretending to be straight, terrified that people might find out his secret.

As a teenager, he'd sneak away on the weekends with a fake ID and hang out at the clubs. Sex wasn't hard to find, and at nineteen, he'd lost his virginity in the back of a dirty Chevy Impala. For a few brief moments under a naked stranger calling him baby, he'd gotten more love than he'd ever received from his parents.

He sipped his coffee and caught a few glances from businesspeople stopping to get their drinks before boarding the train to the city. Maybe they recognized him from the profile picture on his books. He also didn't miss the interested side-eyes from some women and even a couple of men sitting and drinking their coffee or tea.

Maybe things had changed enough that his parents were willing to open a dialogue. If that was the case, he'd be agreeable to start fresh with them and put the past with all its hurt behind him. He could be the better person. He finished his drink and tossed out the cup. He was getting ahead of himself. First, he had to be let in the house. He called for a car, and with sweat dampening his shirt, sat in the air-conditioned coolness, peering at the rolling lush lawns of the great estates.

It was almost a half-mile drive up the path to the entrance of his parents' huge mansion. He'd always preferred his grandparents' ranch-style home, which while still large, was less ostentatious than his parents' massive Tudor. He wiped his hands on his shorts and rang the bell. To his surprise, it wasn't Amalia the housekeeper answering the door, but his father. Having not laid eyes on him since he was twenty-two, Colson shouldn't have been shocked at how he'd aged. For some reason, he'd expected the great Hamilton Delacourt to have remained untouched by the passing years, like in The Picture of Dorian Gray . God knew he had enough skeletons to hide in the attic. Instead, he'd turned gray, his skin a collection of lines, like the weathered clapboard on the house they owned on Nantucket, a product of years spent on the Sound.

"Well. To what do we owe the great honor of a visit from the prodigal son?"

"Nice to see you too, Dad."

Colson's gaze was direct, meeting his father's blue eyes. They flashed and after scanning him from head to toe, dismissed him with undisguised contempt.

"I see nothing's changed." He gave Colson his back and walked away.

Colson followed, considering it a win when his father didn't ask him to leave.

"Not true, Dad. Since I left, I've had two number one New York Times best-selling books. And I'm working on another. I'm a successful author."

"Obviously, that didn't translate into you dressing like one. Or is unwashed vagrant the in look these days?"

Flushed with anger and frustrated with the conversation, Colson chose not to engage. "Where's Mom?"

"Probably in her room. Why?"

His parents hadn't shared a bedroom for as long as he could remember. "Because I want to see how she's feeling. Never mind. I don't need your permission to go speak to my mother."

"She's fine. Dramatic as always."

He left his father and ran up the wide staircase. At his knock, his mother answered.

"Come in."

Pale as an angel, she lay in bed, thinner and frailer than he'd ever seen her.

"Mom?"

A faint curve of her lips greeted him. "I was right. The only way to get you to come see me is to say I'm dying."

He perched on the end of a wooden chair by the side of her bed. "Are you?"

She lifted a bony shoulder. "Who knows? The doctor said my heart is weak. Are you surprised?" Her blue eyes glowed fiercely, the only spot of color on her white face. "My only child broke it and left me."

"You're kidding. Left you ?" His head spun at how she'd twisted the narrative to make his banishment from the family about her. "I didn't leave, remember? I was kicked out, told I didn't belong. You both told me you didn't accept who I am. How could I stay?"

"Yet you lived at your grandparents' house."

"Because they loved me. When they went into assisted living, they told me I could stay in their home as long as I wanted. That it was my home too."

"I often wondered if you'd given them a sob story about having no place to live after you left, and that's why they gave you the house in their will." A meticulously styled brow arched high. "As well as all their possessions. Normally, that would go to their next of kin." She sniffed. "It's not like you're going to need any of your grandmother's jewelry for a future wife."

It wasn't surprising that his mother showed no emotion concerning her parents. Or anyone else except herself. Grace Delacourt was the most self-centered woman he'd ever met. Colson believed some intrinsic part of her that would've allowed her to love was missing. He contrasted her with Millie, who'd showed him more kindness than his mother ever had.

"Next of kin. Meaning you." Colson's laugh was bitter as he swept his arm out in front of him. "Because you have so little. You're almost destitute. I can tell."

"There's no need for sarcasm. I'm not supposed to have stress."

He bowed his head. "Sorry," he muttered. He truly didn't wish her ill will.

"Did you come alone?" Her hands played with the edges of the comforter.

"Yes, why?"

"I wondered, that's all."

"No. I'm not married. I would've told you that when I called you. I'm not even seeing anyone." At that news, her expression became cunning. "What is it?" he asked.

"It means there's still a chance."

Dread crept through him at the implication of her words. "A chance for what?"

"You people can get married now, and you haven't. You don't have a…a boyfriend." Her lips pursed. "So that means you're not so sure."

"You people? Really, is that how you think of me? And what am I not sure about?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing…and yet he could.

"Being homosexual," she hissed. "Did you have to make me say it?" Distaste dripped from her words. "My son, being with other men." She shuddered. "The thought of what you do together…makes me ill. I'm positive that's why I had a heart attack. It's not normal. It's wrong."

"Then don't think about it. Because there's nothing wrong with me loving another man." Maybe the lack of sleep was affecting him in more ways than one, but he refused to allow her to put him down. "I told you before, I am normal, whatever that means in the twisted dictionary of your mind. Maybe I don't want to be married. Whatever I want and decide, it's my choice."

She pushed herself up to sitting, her cheeks pink. "But you'll stay now."

"Why? Do you accept who I am? Or you think because you've been ill, that means I should forgive almost fifteen years of neglect from you?"

"I'm your mother. Doesn't that mean anything to you? I gave you life."

"And I'm your child. You're supposed to love me no matter what. But you can't do that, can you?" He brushed at his wet lashes. "You gave me life, but that doesn't mean you get to decide how I live it. Or who I love."

"I need you."

"No, you don't. You have everything here. Nothing's changed since I left, including your attitude. All these years, it's always been me who reached out, never you. You say you need me? You have a funny way of showing it because in over fifteen years, it was always me who made the first call. I was the one who'd call at Thanksgiving and Christmas. There was never an invitation to come home. You never knew when I had a bad case of the flu and was home alone with a high fever, or in the hospital when I broke my leg skiing. You never once bothered to call me to see if I needed you."

He would not let her destroy everything good in his life—the career he'd made for himself, his friends, Hogan, Millie, and maybe…Harper. His agent was more than someone who made money off him. Tens of thousands of fans read his books and loved them enough to make them bestsellers. People cared about him.

"I have to go. Bye, Mom. I hope your recovery goes well."

She made no move to stop him.

At the bottom of the steps, his father waited. "Leaving so soon?"

Ignoring his father's question, Colson said, "Let me ask you something. Did you ever give a damn about me?"

His lips curled in a sneer. "I saw weakness in you early on, and when you revealed who you were, it all made sense. In this world only the strong survive."

"That's where you're wrong, Dad . I'm not weak. I'm strong as hell. Because I can live knowing I have two of the coldest, most unfeeling people as parents, and yet still have room in my heart to love. But I didn't learn that from you. Grandmother and Grandfather taught me."

"Two old fools. They never should've given you all that money."

"But they did." He narrowed his eyes. "And while it enabled me to have this extraordinary, easy path in life, I've been selfish and not given back. As soon as I get home, I'm going to set up a trust for gay, houseless youths and make sure my grandparents' names are front and center." His grin broadened. "And yours as well."

He walked out and down the path, past the large circular driveway, and called for a car. By the time he reached the main road, the car was waiting, and he sank into the seat, grateful for the air conditioning cooling his overheated face.

If it wasn't so sad to see how enraged his father became as he spoke—veins popping out, his face almost purple—it would've been funny. Of course, he had no intention of disgracing the project with his parents' names. But he'd long thought about what to do with so much, aside from yearly donations. Now he had a plan.

At the hotel, he was shocked to see it was only eleven o'clock. With no reason to remain, he packed up and checked out. On the train ride home, he tried to read, but his mind kept wandering. As it was the middle of the workday, he debated calling Harper, then decided he didn't—couldn't—wait until the evening.

"Detective Rose."

"Hi."

"Colson?" The deep voice dropped a pitch lower. "Is that you?"

"Yeah. I know you must be busy, but—"

"No, it's okay. I-I'm glad you called. How's your mother?"

He thought for a second. "The same." Any explanation would take too long for a phone call and required a face-to-face conversation.

"Oh. I thought she was ill? That's what Millie said."

The train sped along the tracks, the landscape outside the windows a blur of buildings and roadways. "It's…complicated. But nothing's really changed." A thought struck him. "Wait. You spoke to Millie? Why? Did something happen? Is she okay?"

"She's fine." Harper cleared his throat. "I…uh…she saw me at your door and told me you were away."

His lips twitched. "From all the way across the street?"

"Wiseass," Harper growled. "I was concerned because you said you didn't have the best relationship."

He wasn't about to discuss it in public. "I can't talk about it now. I'm on the train home. I should be there by early afternoon."

"I'm off at six." He waited, but Colson wasn't going to ask. If Harper wanted to see him, he'd have to make the first move. "Can I come by later?"

Relief along with a bit of giddy excitement tumbled through him, but in no way would he make it easy for Harper or show how eager he was to see him. "Yeah, sure."

"Won't be until probably around ten."

"I'll be awake. See you when you get there."

"Bye."

Colson stared at the dark screen. What was Harper doing for the hours between six and ten, and who was he doing it with?