3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Martin

L iving with Jesse has worked out amazingly well; far better than I could have predicted. We've settled into a routine that's already familiar and comforting. It's an odd combination of domestic bliss and torture.

Every morning I wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of Jesse humming as he putters around in the kitchen. I shuffle downstairs, bleary-eyed, where I find him flipping pancakes or scrambling eggs, all bed head and soft eyes. And every damn morning my heart flips in my chest when I set eyes on him.

He always greets me with a cheerful "Top o' the mornin' to ya," and I snort at his ridiculously bad Irish accent. Then he hands me my coffee, perfectly fixed with the exact right amount of cream and sugar. I look forward to our mornings almost as much as our evening walks on Moonlight Beach.

The days he works from home, we share his small office, and on those days, I'll be damned if I can get anything done. I catch myself staring at the curve of his neck as he bends over his laptop or the way his hands move as he talks animatedly about the shelter plans.

It's maddening, this constant state of want. I'm too old for this shite. But in a strange way, it's also exciting. I feel like a kid with a crush; it's like being young again.

On our evening beach walks, Jesse and I cover every topic under the sun, from politics and history to books and movies. One night, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, he surprised me with an out of the blue thought. "You know, I always thought Darth Vader was misunderstood."

I chuckled. "You're a Star Wars fan?"

His face lit up. "Are you kidding? I've probably seen each film twenty times at least!"

"Well, fuck me sideways," I laughed. "I thought I was the only middle-aged bloke around here harboring an unhealthy obsession with lightsabers."

We spent the remainder of our walk trading obscure facts and favorite moments from all the movies, our laughter echoing across the beach.

"Have you been to Galaxy's Edge at Disneyland? You know, their Star Wars land?" he asked as we were heading back toward the house.

I shook my head.

"Oh, Martin," he sighed dramatically, "you're missing out. It's like stepping right into the movies."

I laughed. "Well, I'll put it on the ‘must do while in California' list, then."

He just nodded, a smile playing on his lips.

"Hey, didn't you mention we have an appointment coming up to check out that possible site for the shelter?" he asks a few minutes later.

I nod. "Yeah, with a Realtor. It's an old community center that's been vacant for a while. Could be a good fit, but we'll have to see. It's in a couple of weeks."

"I'm excited to take a look," Jesse says, his enthusiasm infectious. "I mean, this is really happening, isn't it? We're actually going to build this thing."

I smile at his eagerness. It's one of the many things I like about him. His passion, his drive to make a difference.

"We really are," I say with a smile.

The air between us suddenly grows thick with unspoken desire. Our footsteps slow, and I find myself drifting closer to him, drawn by some invisible force. The setting sun paints his face in warm hues, highlighting the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

His gaze drops to my lips, lingering there. My heart races as the world narrows to just us, the sound of crashing waves fading into the background.

I lean toward him, tilting my head up to catch his eyes. His lips part, his breath warm on my skin.

Suddenly, a burst of shouting and laughter erupts nearby. A group of teenagers races past us, kicking up sand and shattering the moment. We spring apart, startled.

My heart pounds as I try to catch my breath. Jesse runs a hand through his hair, his cheeks flushed. We avoid eye contact, shuffling our feet in the sand.

"I, uh..." Jesse clears his throat. "Should we head back?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

We walk up the hill in silence. It should probably be awkward, but instead, it's strangely comfortable. The sound of the waves and the chatter of beachgoers fills the air. I sneak a look at him, admiring the way the fading light plays across his features, highlighting the angles of his jaw and the curve of his lips.

And lying in bed that night, I can't stop thinking about him.

Later that week, I'm sitting at my desk in Jesse's home office, enjoying my second cup of coffee. We'd enjoyed our usual banter this morning over a delicious breakfast of eggs and bacon, and a smile plays on my lips as I settle in to figure out what I need to accomplish today. I dig out my old-fashioned planner, which has been buried under a pile of paperwork for the last few days. Yes, I'm that guy. That old relic who can't quite make the full switch to an electronic planner. My breath catches in my throat as I stare, unblinking, at the calendar page of my book. That can't be right. It's not today… is it?

Grabbing my cell phone off my desk, I stare at it, unable to believe what I'm seeing. It's true. It's true and I almost fucking forgot.

Today is Richard's birthday.

A tidal wave of shame and guilt crashes into me. I shove myself back from the desk, the chair wheels screeching across the hardwood floor.

"Fuck," I mutter, running both hands through my hair. Suddenly, the walls feel like they're closing in, so I stalk out to the living room, bile rising in my throat. My chest constricts with that old, familiar pain as Richard's face flashes through my mind. His mischievous smile. His dark eyes surrounded by laugh lines. His deep, growly voice with the hint of French Canadian accent. The sound of his laughter. The memories hit me so hard and fast I need to sit on the couch and put my head between my knees for a moment.

Never once in almost twenty-five years have I even come close to forgetting this day. It was only a few years ago that I stopped making an annual pilgrimage to Montreal to visit the cemetery where he's buried. I'm always aware of the day's approach for weeks, and it usually looms on the calendar like a specter.

I glance at the clock, quickly calculating the time difference to Montreal. I need to call Celeste. I always talk to Richard's twin sister on this day, but I'm suddenly at a loss for words. Celeste knows me well, and she's incredibly perceptive. What if she can tell I almost forgot?

I shake my head because that is ridiculous. She might be able to read me like a book, but the woman's not a bloody psychic.

I reach for my phone, fingers trembling as they hover over her name.

For Christ's sake, I need to cop on and pull myself together.

She answers, her melodic voice warm and familiar. "Martin, mon cher! How are you?"

Her French Canadian accent normally wraps around me like a comforting blanket, but today, it makes my chest ache as jagged shards of guilt stab at me like knives.

"I'm good, Celeste. Happy birthday!"

"Oh, merci, mon ami." She chuckles. "Can you even believe I'm sixty-nine years old today? Mon Dieu, I certainly don't feel it."

"Ah, but you'll be forever young, Celeste." I smile, trying to act normally.

Celeste and I leaned on each other hard through the darkest days of Richard's illness and after his death. I don't think I would have survived everything without her.

"So, tell me about California! How is the new job?"

"It's good. We're making progress on the shelter, and I like San Diego so far."

"And your boss? Jesse, right? What's he like?"

My stomach twists. "He's… dedicated. Hardworking."

I cringe inwardly at my vague responses. This isn't how Celeste and I usually talk. We've always been open with each other, and holding back on her now feels wrong.

As we continue chatting, my mind drifts to Jesse. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs. How he talks with his hands when he's excited about something.

"Martin?" Her questioning tone jolts me back to the present.

"Sorry, I… What were you saying?"

There's a pause, and I can almost see her brow creased with concern. "Is everything alright? You seem distracted."

"I'm fine," I say, too quickly. "Just… thinking about Richard. You know how it is today."

"Of course," she says softly. "I miss him too. It's difficult to believe he's been gone so many years."

The conversation feels familiar, an annual ritual as we share some of our favorite memories. Normally, this tradition of ours makes me feel good. It brings back some of the best memories of my life, reminding me of how much we loved each other and how lucky I was to find him.

But after we chat a bit longer and end the call, the weight pressing down on my chest grows heavier. I feel raw and exposed. And terrified.

Logically, I know it's absurd to think that having feelings for Jesse is a betrayal of Richard's memory. It's not like I've been celibate since losing him—far from it. But in all these years I've never once been tempted to open my heart to anyone else.

Until now. And it's bloody terrifying.