50. Drew

Idon't mind therapy, but I don't much care for group therapy. I've been a private person all my life and having strangers without degrees weigh in on my experiences like they have something to offer initially rubs me the wrong way.

Turns out there is wisdom in random strangers, though, and hope, too, that there's another side to all this.

The hope is how I know the meds are going to work. Well, that and the fact that I stop wondering whether everyone who looks at me too long is trying to read my mind. The doctor said it might take up to two weeks to start feeling any different, but by day three, all of a sudden—hope.

I'm not saying I'm cured and ready to take on the world after coming dangerously close to plotting out a quiet death, but the weight holding me down is slightly lighter, and the sun shines a little bit brighter. And I miss Olivier like a limb.

I'd really been hoping to keep my shit together through the wedding, but when I pissed myself on the way to the bathroom that last night because I hadn't been able to bring myself to move off the bed until it was literally too late, I'd known I wasn't going to make it. The panic set it, and when Olivier showed up in the doorway afraid to get close to me, something inside me—some lingering sliver of the real me—reached out.

He saved my life.

The heavy melancholy is the first thing to lift. The depression lingers, but it's the kind I've gotten used to. So used to, in fact, it's hard to believe it's not just my personality at this point. I guess we'll see.

On my fourth inpatient day, I'm writing in my journal like a good little mental patient when one of the staff knocks on the door of my private room. Well, it's private except for the window in the door for them to spy on me. Makes jerking off a little awkward—not that I have. My sex drive's MIA, but at least I'm making plans for the future again—like I might need to jerk off at some point, and the window is problematic for my future horny self.

"You have a visitor."

Fucking finally. I'd known not seeing Olivier for three days would be tough, but I was so miserable when they broke that bit of news to me, I would have agreed to a brain transplant if it made the misery stop.

However, it turns out, I depend on The Heir like I depend on the sun to rise. Not seeing him is like living underground. Buried alive.

I close my journal with the pen inside and roll off the bed, nearly falling on my face in my rush to get my shoes on. The closer I get to the patio where visitors are seen, the stronger my fear that it won't be him becomes.

By the time I'm out in the sunlight, my palms are sweating, but then I see him, and all the tension leaves me in a rush.

We hurl ourselves at each other, and one more weight comes off. "Fuck, I got scared it wasn't you," I confess.

"Of course it's me. I've been waiting at the gate since dawn."

"Bullshit."

"Well, I did get here before it opened."

I laugh softly, nuzzling my nose against his sweet, citrusy skin.

"There's my laugh," he whispers, and it makes me want to cry.

He pulls away and looks at me, running his hands over my chest, up my neck and then my cheeks, like he's checking to make sure I'm still in one piece. "How are you?"

"A little better."

"Really?"

"Really. How are you? How's the honeymoon?"

"I like all the nature up here," he says. "And this view is amazing. Can I kiss you?"

"You better."

He wraps his arms around me again, and our mouths meet, lips already parted and ready for action. All the blood in my head rushes immediately to my dick.

I specifically requested a medication that wouldn't mess with my erections—sex is like the one thing I still sort of enjoyed up until about two weeks ago, and while the doctor expressed some doubt about whether it would be enough to help my depression, I have hope. And apparently Olivier's been the one holding my sex drive hostage. Figures. He's selfish like that.

But so am I, because I can't stop kissing him. Can't let him go.

The days following my father's funeral marked a serious low point in my life. I was glad I'd been able to be there for my family, and despite the circumstances that brought us all together, I'd felt welcomed and loved. I even had the chance to tell my mom finally that yes, I did in fact, have someone "special" in my life.

But once I got back to the city, my fucked-up brain chemistry wasn't allowing me to process the loss, and frankly—Peggy. Her rage is the polar opposite of my apathy—we're like two sides of the same misery coin, and the first thing my therapist here suggested I do was block her number.

I hesitated at first, and then later that evening, when I picked up my phone, I got an instant surge of anxiety. When I remembered there was zero chance of finding my sister's name on my screen, I realized how traumatized I was.

And I get that they throw around words like trauma pretty loosely here, but whenever I've pushed back on the term on the grounds of how mine's not that serious, they say something like, "Drew, there are many kinds of trauma, and they're all valid."

My list of "triggers" is also extensive. It varies wildly from mundane things like having my picture taken to impossible to avoid things like daylight savings time.

Meanwhile, this kiss is about to get obscene, so I have to end it, but Olivier is water in the desert, and I want to drink till he's dry.

He softens it up like he's reading my mind—not in a paranoid way, just in the we've got a good connection way—and we end up separating, but I don't let go of him. "Catch me up," I say. "Tell me everything."

He hesitates, studying me a little longer.

"I told you I'm getting better. Talk to me. Please. I miss you."

"I miss you, too. Okay. Well, so, I'm married."

I'm so relieved he went through with it. I nod, letting out a breath. "Congratulations."

He grimaces. "Also, the book got announced. We're having brunch with my parents after the honeymoon, and every breath I've taken since I left this place was just so I could survive until now. Your turn."

I smile at him, fuck… "Uh… I have a journal?"

Our mouths connect again, and this time, it's longer and slower and less desperate than the first time.

"You already look so much better," he says, hugging me close.

"I told you."

"I trust you." He runs his hands up and down my arms, gaze locked on my face. "So, is there like—a bathroom somewhere we could go?"

"I wish," I say. He might be joking, but I'm dead serious. "I need to get away from your dick."

We give each other one last, thorough kiss before stepping apart, connected only by our hands. We both adjust the tents in our pants and walk to the edge of the patio, away from the other patients and visitors.

I get him talking about the wedding, Elodie's trust fund, and the unexpected news that he got his parents to sign the penthouse over to him.

"How'd you manage that?"

"I told my dad I'd tell the editor to pull all the content about the arranged marriage."

"And he believed that?"

Olivier laughs. "I mean, what choice does he have?"

"You're really okay with all this?"

"It's turning out way better than I thought it would."

"No, I mean—losing your family."

He turns to meet my eyes. "Where do you think you're going exactly?"

I swallow hard, and we stare at each other a moment. The sun lights up the silver striations in his blue eyes, and I get so overwhelmed, my throat closes. There's no way I won't be okay as long as he's mine. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he whispers, and adds in a lower voice, "Drew."

"Fuck…" My poor cock.

"Sorry. That was horny. Let's take a selfie and tease the coming out."

"You don't wanna give it a couple weeks?"

"I am," he says as he slips his phone out of his back pocket. "This one will be about raising mental health awareness on behalf of my very close personal friend."

"You're the devil," I say as I bend my head to touch his and look up at the camera. Both of us have faint smiles and eyes full of secrets.

"Perfect," he says and snaps the photo. I only flinch a little.

"How's the brownstone coming?" I ask.

He lets out a short laugh. "Did I mention how much I fucking miss you?"

Olivier used the first part of his share of the book advance to put a down payment on a brownstone in Brooklyn which was in desperate need of renovation. It was a bargain for that neighborhood, and even in the state I was in, I'd loved the place.

It took some convincing on my part to get Olivier to consider living on the other side of the river, but ultimately, he has trouble saying no to me, too.

He used his parents' money for the renovations. His father did email him to ask about the enormous amount of disappearing funds, but Olivier told him he was remodeling the penthouse for Elodie. No further questions were asked.

"The old walls are gone. It's really big, you know?"

"It's three thousand square feet," I remind him.

"That sounds tiny."

"One day, I'm gonna teach you about five-dollar bills. That's gonna really blow your mind."

He snorts and leans his head into my shoulder. "He's got jokes."

I put an arm around him and let my head rest on top of his, listening to him tell me about the Long Island plumber—trigger—and the plan to restore the original crown molding. "Two more months, they said."

"You know you have to triple that."

"What?"

"Contractor math."

"Ugh. You need to get better and get out of here. I need you."

"I'm coming," I tell him.

"If you keep saying shit like that every time I visit, you're gonna turn the next two weeks into the most intense edging I've ever experienced."

I laugh again, and Olivier's answering smile is blinding.

I see him again the next day, and the day after that, and every day until his "honeymoon" is over, and I'm ready to get on with our lives. We leave the treatment center the same way we came in, hand in hand and deeply, deeply in love.

On a less sappy note, we make it about fifteen minutes on the road before the need to really reconnect overrides everything else, including Olivier's ability to drive. I google the nearest motel, and Olivier hits the gas.

I'm happy. Not like stupidly happy or blissfully unaware. Not euphoric or elated, but as Olivier and I enter the totally typical roadside motel room and he takes in his surroundings like Alexis on Schitt's Creek, I laugh easily at him without a shred of restraint.

He gives me a wry glance. "If I didn't want you so bad this would be a hard no."

I stalk toward him. "But you do."

"I'm shocked they didn't offer an hourly rate."

"You're wearing Burberry."

"Oh, like that woman could tell…"

I push back his hair to shut him the fuck up. "You turned off, baby?"

"No," he whispers once he catches my gaze.

"I worry sometimes you won't want me anymore when I'm not walking around with a dark cloud over my head."

"I'm worried you won't want me anymore when I have a normal amount of money."

"Lucky I only ever wanted you for your body," I say.

A sigh shivers out of him. "Truth is, I'll take you any way I can get you."

"I've gathered that." And it's been one of the most healing epiphanies of my life. Not a Band-Aid, or a temporary fix, or a way to cope. My ever-growing certainty about what we mean to each other mends my shredded soul.

It would have been so easy for him to drop me off at that treatment facility and never look back. But that wasn't what he did. He spent his honeymoon with me out here in the sticks for the privilege of being able to see me for an hour nearly every day. I know without a doubt I'd do the same for him.

What he did that pushed him over the top as the man I'm determined to spend the rest of my life with was sacrificing two of those days for my mother to visit.

Seeing her—going to therapy with her—allowed me to process some of my guilt over not being closer to my father. I'm sad about it. I have regrets. But the guilt has eased. For the first time in my life, I was able to firmly grasp her love for me, not as a given, but as a real living thing specific to me and the man I am. Yes, I came out to her. I wanted to. I needed to. Things are going to be different now.

"If we get bedbugs…"

I shut Olivier up with a kiss that's as long and deep as it is salacious."Who says we need to use the bed?" I ask as I back him up against the wall.

"Fuck, I missed you so much."

To the casual viewer, it might look like a quickie against a wall. But for me, and for him I think, too, when I slide my aching cock inside his hot, tight hole and attach my mouth to his for the duration, we're making love. It does go by fast—too fast—because it's been almost a month, but this stop is only meant to hold us over until we get home.

Yet, as I swallow his whimpers and groans and shove my need repeatedly into the snug channel of his ass, our chemistry—our connection—becomes something I can feel as strongly as if there were literal ropes binding us together.

He comes on a particularly deep thrust as my tongue sweeps across his, and I follow him blindly into the abyss. Hips stuttering, mind-blown, body fully electrified.

"God. God…" he groans as we continue to gush cum.

"Love you," I whisper, panting against his sweaty neck.

"Drew…fuck…"

"I love you so much."

He locks his arms around my back and sobs. He's wrecked, and he's been holding it in a while now—being strong for me. I had a feeling.

"It's okay," I assure him. "We made it."

He nods, continuing to cry on my shoulder.

It's not until we're back in the car half an hour later, that he reaches across the console for my hand as we merge onto the highway that will take us back to the city. "I love you, too. More than literally anything."

Yeah. I duck my head and squeeze his hand. I had a feeling about that, too.