48 Lucas Gets What He Wants

August 15th

"So," Rick began around a mouthful of bagel and a pointed slurp of herbal tea, "you've been extremely mysterious, but now that you've made proper use of our shower and couch, we're gonna need you to cough up the rest of the details right now. Spill."

I groaned and dropped my forehead to the kitchen table. I hadn't been able to explain what had happened last night when I'd driven to their apartment two seconds away from a full-fledged tailspin. And being such good friends, they'd let me clean up and sleep until morning, but now they were getting their revenge.

"Milkshake's gone," I mumbled into the tablecloth.

"Okay, see, you did mention that when you came in covered in dirt," Andie politely pointed out. "And we're very sorry to hear that, but you know perfectly well that's not what this is about."

Damn it.

I tugged Rick's oversized robe tighter around myself. Was it too late to fall into a coma? Or flee the country? "I ran into Armand," I finally managed, the lingering gut punch of being perceived resurfacing with a vengeance. "Last night, when I got home from the ranch. I looked ... Well, you saw me."

I lifted my head just enough to see Andie had dipped her head into a sympathetic nod. Rick, however, was having none of it. He jerked the knife that was still coated in cream cheese my direction. "You have got to give us more than that, buddy boy."

The problem with that was I hadn't stopped replaying every last second of the ... encounter in my head until I had eventually lost consciousness on the couch. "He—" I cleared my throat, deciding to tackle the easier part of the explanation first. "There was an accident, I guess. He had shards of glass in his foot that I had to take out."

You waltzed right in like you owned the place, manhandled him without permission, then flounced away without an explanation. Nothing about this paints you in a good light, Barclay.

My friends, however, didn't seem to think so. Andie's face lit up. "You mean you played doctor?" she teased with a lift of her eyebrow.

God, I wish, my horrifically traitorous brain thought before I could stop it. "I did the bare minimum," I corrected her, trying to shift out of horny mode in order to think about how much blood there'd been. It was amazing Armand hadn't sliced open an artery. "I can't explain it—it's like I didn't notice that we were both there in person until like ten minutes later when it finally sinks in that he's naked—" My flushed forehead found its rightful place back on the table, not showing my face. "He's so gorgeous, you guys."

Which was an understatement. Armand was breathtaking.

The grainy photos I'd found of him online hadn't done justice—even sitting on the edge of the tub, he was tall and his chest was wide and his dark hair had been tousled ...

But his eyes.

Wide, panicked, and full of self-consciousness, but deep and warm and so brown I could sink into them. I'd felt the low, gravelly rumble of his voice (and the accent, oh my god) in my own chest, and he was so awkward and soft and—

And I'd acted like an overbearing, entitled brute.

I could blame it on the blood and the fact that time had been of the essence in getting him patched up, but the reality was that before I could treat this vulnerable man kindly in his state of distress, I had charged directly into problem-solving mode without asking his consent to touch him.

Darren was right about me—when given the chance, I got controlling and bulldozed over people. Which was why he'd always refused me the opportunity to be in charge, ever, of any situation. It made me annoying, overbearing. Bossy.

"Sounds to me like this is the opposite of a problem," Rick offered cheerfully, perhaps assuming that the thesis of this story was that I was covered in mud, which was merely the tip of the iceberg. "Going off your reaction here."

"He's out of my league!" I wanted to maintain this particular narrative in front of Rick and Andie, but I couldn't help admitting, "I steamrolled right in, probably making him super uncomfortable, and he's— Everything about him was aesthetically debauched and there I was covered in dirt and smelling like horse and what kind of first impression is that? Why would he even want to look at me?" I covered my face with my hands that thankfully now smelled like honeycomb soap and not sweat and dirt and horse. "I can't show my face at the con. He's seen enough."

"Lucas—" Andie gently patted the top of my head "—I haven't met or even seen the guy, but if you think he isn't at this moment thinking that you're the one out of his league ..."

I coughed incredulously. "Right. A smelly, muddy nag is exactly what you need when you're naked and injured and hoping that maybe your roommate looks and acts like a normal person and not someone who clearly rolled out of a dumpster."

It was becoming clearer by the minute that Rick and Andie were intent on arguing with me, or trying to convince me to still meet Armand at the con in broad daylight. I got to my feet, pinching the robe closed around me. "Andie, can I borrow some clothes?"

She crossed her arms. "So you can go meet this nice man in public like you promised?"

"Absolutely not, you just don't have any caffeine in this house."

She sighed, then waved her arm toward the bedroom.

I found a patterned button-up and black slacks that were a little snug but fit well enough, considering that none of Rick's clothes would fit at all.

Ten minutes later, I was driving to Latte for Work with the windows down and the radio on. This is a perfectly normal day. I'm getting breakfast. Nothing awkward happened last night, and I'm not thinking about my decision to not meet up with Armand at the convention. The last chance I will ever have with him.

Rick and Andie would argue that I could still salvage this, could present a different side of myself to him in public and change whatever he already surely thought about me. But my stomach churned at the memory of how I'd acted, of how my body had reacted to Armand's gorgeous everything, of how much stock I had placed in the fantasy, the completely misguided and misplaced idea that someone like him could ever like someone like me—

Maybe it would be easier to let it go. Let him leave the country, and we wouldn't have to talk about it, I wouldn't have to face another devastating rejection.

Stop thinking about it, it's done. You ruined it. Get your sad little coffee and go back to wallowing.

I stepped inside the bakery, basking in the divine scent of organic pastries, ordered a sugar-free blueberry muffin—

Then froze.

Darren.

He was sitting at the corner table, the one I always chose, his hair mussed in a way that didn't seem intentional. The moment our eyes met, he shot to his feet with a small grimace.

"Hey." He strode as elegantly as ever toward me; I was still frozen. He stopped directly in front of the pastry display.

"What are you doing here?" I managed through a tight throat.

Darren's face was gentle now. He seemed nothing like the distant creature he'd been when I'd seen him last. "I saw your post about Milkshake ... and this is your favorite place to get brunch," he explained, his voice oddly soft.

"I know that. But why are you here?"

Darren took a deep breath, slowly. "I wanted to apologize, and I couldn't do it over the phone. I—I panicked." He dropped his voice, his eyes following. "I got scared."

I gaped at him. "Scared? Of what?"

"This." He gestured between us, like he'd done when he'd said, "I don't know if it makes sense anymore. I don't know if it ever did." "I was overwhelmed. I said such awful things to you, and I'm so, so sorry." He reached for me but hesitated, his hand shaking. His beautiful face screwed up with such unfamiliar distress it rendered me speechless. "You were right: you've been trying and I've been the one being an ungrateful asshole. And I didn't really realize what the idea of settling down meant until the moment you walked out of my kitchen."

When you kicked me out, I wanted to correct him, the words bubbling up my throat. When you made me give you your key back. But Darren had never apologized like this, had never seemed so genuinely gutted, never would have ever done anything like this in a public setting before.

"You said you were embarrassed of me," I said instead, immediately self-conscious of how bitter the words sounded coming out. "Do you know how badly that messed me up?"

"I know." Darren looked wretched. "I was an idiot, I never should've said that." This time, when he reached out to me, he gently curled his fingers around mine. "Can we start over?" With his other hand he reached into his pocket and pulled out—

His spare house key.

"I love you," Darren whispered. "Move in with me. Please."

My heart jumped to my throat and I couldn't breathe. "I ... I thought you weren't ready."

"I didn't think I was," Darren admitted. He squeezed my hand, the one holding the key had never been steadier. "Everything was dull without you—I'm making my choice, Lucas. You always wanted me to commit, well here it is. I'm choosing you. If you'll have me."

I could feel myself trembling, and vaguely I was aware of other people milling around us, but everything had faded into the background. Surely this wasn't a real conversation; it sounded so much like what I'd imagined Darren would say, back in my darkest moments.

I pinched the key between my fingers, holding it out between us like a shield. "This isn't a yes," I managed shakily, trying to ignore the way his face lit up, the color returning to his cheeks. "It's an ‘I'll think about it.'"

"Of course," he said in a rush, "that's all I could ask for, after what I did. Please—" He gestured shyly to the corner table. "Can ... can we talk for a bit? Catch up?"

I nodded numbly, grabbed my muffin, and allowed him to guide me to the chair. He left briefly before returning with a coffee for himself.

"It's been weird not talking to you," Darren said after he'd sat and there'd been a long, tense moment of silence. He fiddled with a napkin. "I'd ask how you've been, but I guess I know."

"It hasn't been pretty, I can tell you that." My eyes dropped down to the table. The barely scabbed-over shame and hurt trickled back in. I wanted to scream, to tell him exactly how badly he'd hurt me, but I shoved it down. Instead, I gave him a self-deprecating little huff. "Really dramatic, you know me."

He smiled softly. "Yeah. I do. And to be fair, I was pretty messed up too. I got wasted at the bosses' dinner party."

"The one you uninvited me to?" This was followed quickly by: "Wait, you got drunk? At a work party?"

Darren chuckled. "I told you, I was messed up. I needed to call a rideshare to get home. So much for acting like a responsible adult."

The idea of Darren McKinley publicly losing his shit at an event as important as his bosses' anniversary was unfathomable. "Well," I said with a tentative grin, "that makes me feel better about the destruction of my apartment and complete and utter breakdown."

He laughed, an achingly nostalgic sound. His eyes were bright as he appraised me. "I've never seen that shirt before, is it new?"

I'd forgotten about the shirt I'd grabbed from Andie's closet. "No, it's a loan; there was ... a bit of a situation last night with the roommate. Remember I told you about him? Armand Demetrio?" Just saying his name sent a confusing wave of emotions through me that I hurried to push back down.

"Yeah, the disgusting boomer living in your apartment? Mothman, right? You finally meet or what?"

You could say that."It... wasn't the meeting we'd planned on, and there was blood and first aid involved, and anyway I was covered in dirt from being with Milkshake, and honestly he wasn't as old or disgusting as I'd thought he'd be—"

"Hm." There was a smile on Darren's face, but it had gone rigid. "You're blushing."

Was I? I touched my cheek and found it warm. "It was just awkward. He was naked and he'd cut his foot open on something." And now I was thinking about Armand again. Stop it.

"Not following why you needed to borrow that shirt, but, yeah, sounds awkward." Darren picked up his mug and gestured toward me. "Maybe grab a bigger size next time."

Cold jolted through my skin.

My body felt tight again, like it didn't fit. I became uncomfortably aware of every pore, of the way I was sitting in the chair, of the snugness of Andie's shirt against my chest.Darren was sipping his coffee, his eyes gleaming at me over the rim.

"I'm so stupid," I finally managed, struggling to keep my voice steady. "I can't believe I never noticed you doing this."

Darren's smile froze on his face. He cocked his head. "Doing what?"

"Criticizing how I look. What I'm wearing, how I'm standing—you said you weren't embarrassed by me!"

"Lucas." Darren was calm, too calm. "Lower your voice, please."

"No." I had never stopped gripping his key, but now it was burning a hole in my palm. My legs were shaking as I stood. "Darren, I can't keep trying to be good enough for you." I smacked the key onto the table, relishing the way his mouth dropped open. My fingers trembled as they grabbed the pastry bag, crushing the muffin I hadn't touched. Unbidden, a different image pushed through the rest: a plate of homemade muffins sitting on the kitchen counter.

I could easily call to mind dozens of times I'd cleaned Darren's house, or cooked, or bought groceries, especially if he'd had a rough week. Even though he had never done the same for me.

But Armand had. And he hadn't needed to know me for ten years to do it.

And Darren was still shushing me. "Let's talk about this, okay? Like adults," he stage-whispered, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. "Please, you're overreacting. Sit down and finish your muffin—"

But his words couldn't reach me now. The curtain had fallen and all I saw was an insecure douchebag who would always choose his own ego over me.

"Stop," I said, straightening my shoulders. "You're embarrassing yourself."

I didn't wait to hear whatever bullshit he responded with.

I left the bakery without looking back.