52. Fischer

52

FISCHER

You need to call him. Now.

I 'm in bed in the dark as I take a deep breath and tap the Instagram link attached to Gavin's text.

What I see is unedited chaos. Matthew in a welder's mask wielding a baseball bat. Shirtless, barefoot, in low slung jeans. He looks thinner, and my first thought is this is an old video someone dug up and posted, but then he turns his back on the camera and walks into his workshop where the glass tree glitters in bright work lights.

A comment scrolls up the screen. And then another.

—Gorgeous

—Stunning

Fuck, this is live .

My chest seizes, and I sit straight up, flinching as he swings the bat, and one fragile branch shatters to the floor, leaves of glass breaking and scattering, dust flying. Matthew steps right into the middle of it and takes another swing. " No …" I hear myself moaning to no one.

The sounds of destruction are mixed with a raging music track. Matthew's grunts of effort along with smashed glass are utterly excruciating. I want to click out of it. Not watch it.

But I can't do that to him. He's the love of my fucking life, and if he's hurting, I hurt. So I don't look away. He picks glass out of his torso and arm, but he doesn't stop walking on the shards as he whacks away at the glass covered trunk. It's brutal, bloody, and horrible. It's performance art and agony.

At the violent end, when the tree is nothing more than twisted wires and words, he walks back to the camera, picks it up and shows the massive expanse of destruction in his loft. "I made that," he whispers, and the feed cuts off.

I put my phone face down on my bed and sob into my hands. The gut-wrenching noise rips from me like it's been waiting to come out since the moment I clicked the link.

It's been nearly a week since I left his loft for the last time. I've eaten enough to stay alive, I've gone through four bottles of vodka, and I've racked up dozens of billable hours with my attorney, but what I haven't done—what I haven't had the balls to do—is crawl back to Matthew and beg him to forgive me for listening to anyone who told me to stay away from him.

I can't do it. He needs me. And I need him.

Fuck all of this. I've been way too short-sighted. Listening to the wrong advice.

No one wants a scandal the scale of which I would unleash by taking Nicole to court. I certainly don't. So, if I roll over, communicate through the lawyers that Vaughn won't be exposed to whatever horrors Nicole thinks I'm exposing him to, then I could still have half a life with Matthew.

A secret life—one lived behind closed doors and out of public sight—could be enough if he'll still have me. Because I'll take anything over this .

I can maintain the fa?ade of living on the Upper East Side as a bachelor—a single dad. I can stay out of the club, away from prying eyes that may be prone to gossip. Since I've had him—I've wanted nothing more and nothing less.

But by the time I get my side of the street in order, it may be too late. It may already be. He's wrecked, and he's purging, and all I can do is watch and wonder while I come undone.

I am not expecting company when my doorbell rings. I'm too drunk to make conversation, so I ignore it. If it were the person I wanted to see, he wouldn't stand on ceremony. He'd let himself in.

But my caller is persistent. Getting to the door isn't easy. I'm not normally a stumbling drunk, but I'm particularly unsteady tonight.

It's definitely not the way I want my son to see me, looking up at me with a huge smile on his face, fidgeting from foot to foot and up way past his bedtime.

"Daddy!"

Daddy.

I hold tight to the sound of it because he may never say it again. I may never hear it again if he does. I set my cane aside, ignoring everything else, including the watchful gaze of my ex-wife as I bend to accept the hug he throws at me. I grasp at him like a drowning man, inhaling his sweet, little boy scent and memorizing all the slim, constantly vibrating contours of him. "I love you," I say in case Nicole changes her mind and takes him away.

He laughs. "You smell weird."

"I'm sorry," I say without sacrificing an inch between us.

"I can't breathe," he adds.

Reluctantly, I let him go. And then he walks right past me into the apartment, like he's home, and he's got things to do.

I straighten up and grab my cane. Nicole is studying me with critical eyes. "You're drunk."

I narrow my eyes.

"I guess I should have called."

"What do you want?"

"Can I come in, too?" she asks.

I stand aside, trying to control the frustration that wants to unleash itself on the nearest target.

"Can I make you some coffee?" she asks. "I want to talk."

Unbidden, a tear trickles down my cheek, and she startles like a cat leapt out of a dark corner. I wipe it away. "You know where everything is."

Vaughn already has a bag of Goldfish and is heading into his room.

"I told him I wanted a chance to speak with you in private," Nicole explains, her tone softer.

This makes me want another drink. "We probably shouldn't be doing this. The lawyers should?—"

"I just came from Matthew's."

The words punch straight through my chest. I may be drunk, but it doesn't escape me that her visit preceded the destruction of his beautiful, painstakingly crafted sculpture broadcast for anyone and everyone to see. What could she possibly have said to him to make him do that?

I linger by Vaughn's bedroom door, drinking in the sight of him making himself comfortable with his tablet and headphones on his bed. He flashes me a smile and waves.

I return the gesture limply, my heart cracking at how beautiful he is. How at home he looks.

I want to tell him that no matter what happens that I will love him for the rest of his life. That there is nothing he could ever do to make him anything less than the most important person in the world to me. I want to tell him that nothing that may happen is or could have ever been his fault. That he's enough. He's loved, and I fought as hard as I could. But there are some things too heavy for a six-year-old.

Maybe I'll write him a letter. One he can read one day when he's older. I'll write him hundreds of letters. One for every day we're apart so he understands I never stopped loving him, or, more importantly, wanting him . Letters that explain who I am and why I came home—and why it took me so long.

Nicole calls my name.

Turning to face the music, I meet her in the living room. She's pushing a mug of coffee into my hand before I can refuse it. I'm afraid it'll make me sick. "I may have overreacted," she tells me when I hesitate to take it.

I stare blankly at her. She looks tired. Unhappy, but not angry.

I accept the coffee and nod toward the couch.

We take seats on opposite ends. I let my cane lean on the chair nearby. I hold the coffee, but I can't bring myself to drink it.

"Raven has a massive crush on you apparently. If I'd known that, I might not have taken what she said so seriously."

"What did she say?" I ask, going for an even tone.

"Parties, male escorts, drugs."

" Drugs ?"

"She might not have said drugs, but it was implied. Listen, Vaughn is—challenging. You know this. And when he's in a mood these days he can say some horrible things. And maybe it's because he's six, or maybe it's the divorce and being shuffled around all the time, but he's been hard on me lately. And maybe I'm too sensitive. Something felt off, and I started to spiral. Also, Hunter and I broke up."

"Oh."

"Yeah, so, that hasn't helped. He's been fucking some young barista-slash-actress and Vaughn more or less caught them together."

I can't hide my surprise.

"I promise he didn't see anything that would scar him for life, but it was enough for him to ask me if the lady who was over all the time kissing Hunter was his new babysitter. So there might be some projection involved in all this, too."

"Jesus, Nic." I shake my head, disgusted.

"I don't know what I expected," she says, fiddling with one of her bracelets, running her finger back and forth between it and her wrist.

"Am I supposed to feel bad for you?" I ask.

"No."

"Good. Because it's not coming easy."

She sighs heavily. "I went too far. I'm so fucking sorry."

"You went way too far," I tell her.

She and I remain silent for several minutes after that. I wonder what Matthew said to her. Was he cruel? Kind? I can't imagine him being cruel—not really. And I wonder if he expects better from me, too. If he'd say this is your chance to make everything okay. Stop being such an asshole.

"What does it mean that you're here?" I finally ask.

"I don't want to fight with you, Fischer."

"If you want to say I've abused my son, then we'll be fighting. I'm not prepared to bend over and take this?—"

"I get it," she cuts in, shrill. "I'm sorry, okay? I get it. I should have come to you if I had questions—I fucking freaked out. I know that's a shitty excuse, but it's what happened. The person Raven described was a total stranger, and with what happened with Hunter I started questioning my judgment—like do I even know anyone ? Am I that blind?"

"You deserve better than that jackass," I say. "And me."

Her mouth slams shut, and she stares at me with wide eyes. "You deserve better, too."

I stiffen. If she says one mean thing about Matthew, I can't be held responsible for?—

"I mean I came to say I've already asked Lacy to withdraw the custody petition. I can't claim that I've ever known you as well as I wanted to, but I do feel like I know you would never put our child in harm's way. He's been happier since you've been home."

I take all this in with a measure of relief. But I can't give into it completely. She needs to know the truth before she makes any decisions. "I'm in love with Matthew," I say.

"I gathered that. I also know that the physical part of your relationship is sort of a new development."

"I guess," I say.

"I should have seen it," she says. "You two have always been so…" she searches for a word. " Careful with each other."

There's a rough pinch in my chest. "How do you mean?"

"Like how he'd always get up for you to be able to sit down in a more comfortable spot at Christmas. How you'd hug him like he was made of glass. How you'd hug him at all…" she laughs shortly. "Like of all the people in the world, he was the one you wanted to reassure that he was special."

More tears fall. Visions of Matthew taking the bat to all his hard work make me feel like I'm the one shattering into pieces. "I wish I'd realized sooner," I whisper. "I could have saved you a lot of trouble."

"But then we wouldn't have Vaughn."

True. I wouldn't trade that. I nod, trying to keep my shit together. "Do you trust me with him?" I manage to ask.

"Yes. And I trust Matthew, too."

"Why? What changed?"

"On Wednesday, Vaughn was missing you, and he told me about that night last week where he snuggled with you guys on the couch and watched Coco . That he got to stay up past midnight. Apparently it was a big deal."

"It wasn't past midnight," I say. "But I can't talk about that right now." The memory of the love I felt that night is far too potent—too sharp a contrast to how bereft of it I am now.

"He adores you," she says. "And Matthew."

"How was he?" I ask her. It's not like I don't know. It's not like I couldn't see for myself in the Live, but I'm starving for news of him.

"About like you. Although without the vodka."

"Right," I whisper.

"Do you want to tell me why you never mentioned you were into men, too?"

I hang my head. "I thought it was a phase."

"Was our whole marriage a lie?" she asks, and it's obvious she's crying, too.

Impulsively, I bridge the gap between us, and she meets me in the middle in a hug where she sobs on my shoulder. "I loved you, Nicole. I was faithful to you. The only thing I couldn't be, apparently, was there for you, and that had nothing to do with you."

She clutches me tight, and in some small way it feels like I've come home for real. Like the circle is complete. "Of course Raven wanted you," Nicole says, her voice thick with tears. "You're beautiful, and you're impossible to get."

I let out a sigh. And then I let her go. "I might have to kill her. Ruin her life or something."

"She'll do that all on her own. It's not worth the trouble." Nicole wipes her eyes and sits back. "So what's next? You gonna go get your man?"

"I don't know," I say honestly.

"He's waiting for you."

I draw in a deep, sharp breath. "I'm not sure we're good for each other," I admit.

She frowns, asking the question without words.

"It's so… much ."

"People dream of love like that."

"But can they survive it?" I ask.

"You've survived worse."

"The way I feel about him…" I trail off, hesitating. Not sure this is something she wants to hear.

"You can tell me," she says, reading my reluctance.

"I'm not sure you were wrong to think my feelings for him could threaten my relationship with Vaughn. It's—all-consuming. I've never felt like this before, and it's terrifying to feel like you can't breathe without someone who has so many other options."

"Is that what you want? To leave him free to explore his other options."

I feel the color drain from my face.

She notices. "Yeah, I didn't think so. Maybe now that we all know, that'll take the pressure off. Maybe it won't feel so intense since it's not a secret. Maybe you can have a real, healthy relationship."

"I don't know," I say, despair filling the carved-out space in my chest. "He asked me before we started—what if this the worst idea we ever had?"

"And was it?"

"If this is how the end feels…then yes."

"Then maybe put off the ending a little longer."

Unable to think about Matthew without wanting to rip my heart from my chest, I shake my head and steer the subject back to the reason she's here. "I swear to God, I'll never do anything to harm Vaughn."

"I know, and I'm sorry, Fischer. I lost my mind. My therapist had her work cut out for her yesterday, trying to unravel all the assumptions I leapt to. I hope you can forgive me. That Matthew can, too."

"You should get him home," I say. "It's late."

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

"Sorry I'm…" I gesture at my drunken self.

"Don't worry about it. I figured I wasn't gonna be walking into the happiest place on earth."

I manage a dry laugh.

She goes to collect Vaughn, and they say goodbye to me on the couch. She assures me I can see him on Wednesday as usual, and I tell her I want to ask for a change in my work schedule that eventually might allow our Wednesdays to be more than a tuck in and a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios in the morning. She says we'll work something out.

Vaughn gives me a long hug, like he can sense I need it, and I take every second, letting it fill the part of me that's incomplete without him. "Love you," he whispers.

"I love you, too. The very most."

He pats my cheek as he pulls away.

"Be nice to your mom. She loves you the very most, too."

"Tell her be nice to me ."

I give him my sternest scowl.

He sighs. "Okay."

Once they're gone, the loneliness hits me harder. I gulp as I stare at my empty, quiet apartment. I think of Matthew walking with bare feet on broken glass. I think of Wednesday when he won't be here to keep me company once Vaughn goes to bed, and the idea makes me feel lost—especially when I extrapolate it to all my future days and nights.

I know he's suffering. I also know we could already be over. But if there's a chance I can be saved, then there's a chance I can save him, too.

One of us will eventually have to make a move toward the other. And since I'm the one who's run away from us time and time again, I know it has to be me.