Chapter Twelve

Rolling onto my back in the hotel room bed, I feel a pleasant exhaustion in every muscle and a tingling warmth enveloping me. The afterglow of passion lingers around me and Trevan, mingling with the faint scent of cologne and sweat. He rests his hand gently on my shoulder, offering a comforting weight that seems to anchor me at this moment. I never imagined I'd hook up with somebody so soon after Brogan departed this world. Let alone at all. Yet, perhaps three months of agony and grief warrants a certain release, free of my immediate responsibilities for Lily since Melanie has that under control for the time being.

"Oh, for the love of God, that was terrific," he cries out, rolling onto his backside with eyes crossed.

I agree almost breathlessly. "Wasn't it, though?"

We lie side by side with our bodies still intertwined and the sheets a tangled mess around us. Trevan reaches for his discarded sport coat as a glint of silver catches the soft evening light filtering through the hotel curtains. He tosses the jacket aside while a few loose items spill onto the floor. But I'm too mesmerized by the sleek silver case in his hands to care.

Trevan opens it with a satisfying click, revealing four dark, aromatic cigars nestled in red velvet. A thick match slides out from a hidden compartment, promising of fire and indulgence to loom in the air like the bittersweet finale to Beethoven's Symphony No. 5.

"You're gonna love this," Trevan insists. He purrs while lighting the cigars.

I take a puff, allowing the rich and earthy smell to fill my lungs. "Oh, yeah?" I ask with a playful challenge in my voice.

He inhales deeply, shaking out the match. "Never had a real Cuban before, have you?"

A chuckle leaves my lips with a billow of smoke curling around my head. "Guess not. What kind of millionaire am I, right?"

"Your words, not mine," he quips, clicking his tongue. "But let's just say, these are practically fresh from Castro's balmy asshole itself."

I nod. "Well, that makes me feel much better," I reply, my response dripping with sarcasm. "I rarely like giving gentlemen a rim job, at least not on the first date," I cough, the smoke catching in my throat. "But damn, this is smooth."

Trevan's arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer. His eyes land on my shattered iPad on the floor. "Well, there goes your deposit," he laughs. "What happened there?" He asks, furrowing his right brow.

A grimace forms on my face, all the while rolling my eyes. "Let's just say my in-laws are trying to steal my daughter," I say, the anger simmering beneath the surface.

He takes another drag of his cigar as smoke billows out of his nostrils. "After the fuckfest we just had, I barely remember your name, let alone you mention your in-laws."

My palm collides against my forehead, sickened by the reminder of last night. "That's why I almost lost it and went for the minibar," I confess under the veil of shame.

"You think anyone in AA hasn't slipped up before?" Trevan asks somewhat gently.

Shaking my head, I reach for a glass on the nightstand to flick the cigar ashes. "Not me," I affirm. "Not in years. Brogan—my husband—" my voice cracks, the pain still raw as a fucking red sirloin. "He made me realize I was on a dangerous path—so he gave me an ultimatum—" I stammer. "Quit drinking, or sign divorce papers."

I hand Trevan my cigar to sit up while my mind races at the speed of sound. I'm so grateful I didn't give into the temptation last night. A relapse would've been disastrous, especially with the custody battle looming over me. There's no doubt that the Baxters would use it against me, twist it around to make me look like an unfit father. All I can do is shudder as an icy chill raises the hair on my arms. I can't lose Lily. She's the only thing keeping me tethered to this world. Lily is the only light in the darkness that has consumed me since Brogan's death.

Unable to handle the tension in my brain any longer, I rise from the bed and head to the bathroom so I can gather my thoughts.

"Where are you going, handsome?" Trevan asks playfully.

I glance back over my shoulder while a wry smile tugs at my lips. "To pee? Unless you have a firm opinion about that, too?"

After relieving myself in the opulent marble bathroom, I splash cold water on my face while staring at my reflection in the mirror. The ghost staring back at me is unrecognizable, a stranger haunted by guilt and confusion. This is the first time I've been with another man since Brogan—since his death. A pang of shame washes over me, but it's quickly followed by a sense of clarity. This isn't what I need. I can't risk falling back into old habits, into the destructive spiral that almost guzzled me whole.

I dry my face and return to the bedroom, my resolve solidifying with each step.

"Look, Trevan," I say, reaching for my phone. "I have plans later, and I need to get ready. This—was a mistake." I pause, allowing a breath of fresh air to cleanse my cigar-laden lungs. "I can't be around somebody who thinks backsliding is even remotely an option."

Trevan sits up as his eyes darken. "I never said that," he protests. "I said everyone relapses sometimes."

Shrugging, I choose to disagree. "It doesn't matter," I counter. "I can't risk it. Not anymore."

My fingers curl into fists while every muscle in my body tenses up with barely suppressed rage. I want to scream, to throttle this man who dared to deceive me. But I take a deep breath, counting to ten, trying to regain a semblance of control. Striding to the other side of the bed, where Trevan is lounging, I retrieve his chinos from the floor.

Two items fall from the pocket, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. The first is a plastic photo sleeve, displaying a picture of a tall brunette woman, two children, and a man who could easily be Trevan's twin. My heart sinks at this very moment. But it's the second item that confirms my worst fears—a gleaming gold wedding band.

I can't hold it any longer. "Are you fucking kidding me?" I roar as my voice bounces off the hotel walls. "You're married? And to a woman?"

Trevan raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, all the while exuding a sheepish grin on his face. "Hey, hold on now, it's not what it looks like," he pleads. "I can explain."

Explain? How can he possibly explain this? A wave of nausea hits me, the disgust and betrayal rising like bile in my throat. I've been a victim of deceit, manipulation, and falsehoods. And the worst part is I let it happen in the first fucking place. I let my guard down, desperate for a distraction, for a solitary moment of forgetfulness. But now, the cold reality crashes against me like the Pacific tides. This isn't just a one-night stand gone wrong. This is a betrayal of trust. A violation of my vulnerability. And I won't fucking stand for it.

Trevan sputters, trying to explain, but my rage is a wildfire that's consuming everything in its path. "No," I snarl. "You don't get to speak. You get to march the fuck out of my hotel room. Now!" I point a shaking finger at the door, shoving his pants at him with my other hand. "Get out of here and never show your face to me again. If I see you in public, you'd better run for your fucking life. Because I swear to God, I will kick your ass into next Sunday."

He fumbles with the door handle while a wave of shame and embarrassment mold his face like a wax sculpture. Within seconds, he's gone, leaving a hollow silence in his wake. My anger cools as quickly as it flared, replaced by a wave of nausea. I feel like someone has robbed me of my dignity. The guilt of contemplating being with someone else is overwhelming, even though I didn't break any vows. I can't imagine my life without Brogan. And at this point, I'm not entirely certain I want to.

A text notification vibrates on my phone as I glance at it. My heart sinks again, realizing the time. I'm supposed to meet a realtor soon. Somebody Dirk recommended helping me find mine and Lily's new home in Seattle—at least prospectively. I grab my phone while the screen flashes a low battery alert and open the message. It's from a therapist, the guy Dirk set up a consultation with for Lily. Meanwhile, a flicker of hops ignites within me. Maybe there's a chance for a fresh start. An opportunity to build a new life for Lily and me. But the gnawing guilt remains as a constant reminder of the darkness I almost succumbed to.

Hi, Max. Dirk Halstead mentioned you'd probably need reminding. But it's ten past six. Are you still coming?

There's a second message from Melanie, who appeared to send while Trevan and I were between the sheets.

Call me when you get this. I promise it's not more bad news.

… Quite the contrary, actually.

I dial Mel's number in my contacts, but it goes straight to voicemail. It's evening time there, so she's probably wrangling Princess Peach around Denver. If anyone can handle a sugar-fueled seven-year-old, it's my sister.

Tossing my phone onto the bed, I dig through my suitcase for a semi-wrinkled mint green polo shirt. The battery will just have to hold out until I can get it to a charger later. I quickly respond to the therapist, apologizing for my upcoming lateness, and rush towards the elevator.

Running a tad late. Pardon my disregard for your precious time. I'll be there in ten minutes—twenty tops. The Starbucks on 23rd and South Jackson, right?

Meeting Durango is a breath of fresh air. Just talking to him about Lily's struggles these past few months feels like a weight lifting off my shoulders. It's no surprise that he's easy to talk to, given his profession and expertise in psychology. Plus, I'm pretty sure he's not hitting on me either. Which is a major relief. He seems professional. And well, definitely not my type at all.

"After losing Brogan," I confess, clutching my iced tea. "I wasn't sure how Lily would adjust to having me as her sole parent. Sher wasn't used to me being around every waking minute of the day."

Durango raises an eyebrow. "As opposed to not being around at all?"

Explaining my globetrotting career as a fashion photographer brings up a sense of nostalgia. Even after a menial three months. He seems genuinely interested in hearing about the constant travel between New York, Los Angeles, and the European fashion capitals.

"That's a massive adjustment for any child, let alone one on the spectrum," he observes, jotting down notes on a yellow legal pad.

I nod, a familiar pang of guilt hitting me like fucking lightning. "I knew it was, but she loves me nonetheless. Which is a blessing, because it's just the two of us now. Well, other than my twin sister, Melanie," I admit. "The world can be a scary place for her, and I'm the only one left to protect her."

Durango nods in agreement. "Fair enough," he says, sipping his beverage. "You said you're from Denver?"

"Yep," I affirm. "A Colorado transplant," I add with a sardonic smile. "But my roots are in Indiana—Hoosier born and bred."

He pauses, his eyes lingering on my left hand. "Forgive me for noticing, but it seems you're still wearing your wedding ring," he notes curiously. "That can be a significant hurdle for some people grieving the loss of a spouse."

A knot forms in my stomach. He's absolutely right, of course. It's a constant reminder of what I've lost, of the love that was cruelly ripped away from me. But I can't bring myself to take it off just yet. It's a part of me. A part of Brogan Baxter. And I'm not ready to let go. Not yet.

I glance down at my Cartier wedding ring, twisting it around my finger a few times. "Yeah, you're right," I admit. "This and my bracelet—I haven't been able to bring myself to take them off."

"I just noticed they match," Durango observes. "Was that intentional?"

Another nod. "Yes," I reply, sullen with this reminder. "It's a complete collection called ‘The key to my heart' or something like that," I add, fiddling with the bracelet, its intricate clasp refusing to budge. "I need a special tool to take it off, and it's—it's difficult."

The tears are resurfacing, waves of sorrow overwhelming me once more. I don't want to talk about Brogan anymore. Not right now, anyway.

"The tool's probably in his office drawer somewhere," I mutter, insisting we change the subject.

Durango nods calmly. I appreciate his professionalism, but I still want to know more about him. After all, if he's going to be Lily's new therapist, I need to trust him.

"You seem like a Midwesterner yourself," I say, trying to gauge his reaction. "Maybe Dayton by way of Chicago?" I point vaguely to the right, as if the table were a map of the United States.

He chuckles sweetly. "Close, but farther west—I'm actually a Colorado native."

I let out a gasp, feeling relieved that I had finally moved on from the subject of Brogan. "No way! Colorado?" I ask, surprised. "Denver?"

Durango shakes his head. "Not Denver," he affirms. "I grew up in Grand Junction," he adds, tracing the rim of his cup with his finger.

"I've heard of it," I say. "It's been on the news a lot lately."

He winces. "The Douglas Thames conviction that exonerated Robert Dewey? And Michael Blagg, for fuck's sake?"

"Mmm hmmm," I nod. "Yeah, that monster," I add, shooting a finger gun in Durango's direction. "And that little girl a couple of years ago?"

"Little Delaney," Durango finishes my sentence. "Tragic case," he says, shaking his head with sorrow. "Not exactly the kind of publicity my hometown needs."

"Yes, but," I cut in. "It was touching how Taylor Swift spent a whole day with Delaney right before she—" my words falter, realizing her young life was robbed from her family just like Brogan's from mine. "It made her dream come true."

Gazing into my empty tea glass, the melting ice resembles every square inch of my heart. "Lily is my universe now. If anything happened to her, I don't know what I'd do."

"Welcome to parenthood," Durango jokes with a hint of sarcasm. "Where have you been?"

I grimace. "Until this year," I reply, tilting my head against the window and stretching back into the chair. "Checked out. From the realities of taking care of a kid," I add, resting my hands behind my head. "Mostly one to six thousand miles away for three weeks each month on business."

It sounds callous as it leaves my lips. Am I really that emotionally detached? Not that I didn't enjoy spending time with Lily. It's just—work. Always word! But now, I'm finally getting it. What it really means to care for a young human with every fiber of my being, to put their needs first. Always.

Durango coughs as the ice in his cup rattles. "Oh, but yeah Michael Blagg—" he pauses, his gaze fixed on the melting cubes. "No matter how much I disliked my ex-wife by the end, I never in a million years would've thought about committing murder."

Bingo. I knew it. Not gay! As attractive as he is, I know he's not my type, anyway. And even to my gay eye, Durango Walters is straight as a damn nail. "Exes can be the worst," I offer, trying to steer the conversation.

He nods. "Yeah, we divorced shortly after my son, Gage, was born," he says. "Six years old. Couldn't face starting a family on a lie, even after telling it to myself and everyone else for years," he finishes, a tinge of discontent in his crackled voice.

My stomach twists. The complexity of that lie, the fallout of that divorce—it's heavy. A lie is a lie, no matter how one tries to spin it. I can't help but entertain the doubt swirling in my mind. Is Durango really the right person to guide Lily Bean? Is he even an exemplary role model?

"What lie?" I ask, my eyebrow shooting up.

Durango grimaces. "About who I was, Max," he clarifies. "You understand, maybe," he makes air quotes. "Keeping up appearances."

Genuinely confused, I bite. "Why would you need to keep up appearances?"

He takes a deep breath, glancing around the coffee shop with a tinge of guilt—or perhaps shame. "Because I'm gay, Max."

Those words congest the distance between him and me at this small, round table. "I couldn't stand to be that person anymore and it wasn't genuine. It wasn't fair for either of us."

A wave of understanding warms over me. His confession and the years of hiding—it's a lot to take in. But suddenly, in this precise moment, it makes perfect sense.