We exchange glances. That special place in hell has been reserved since long before we found out about this development.
Neither of us says much more. In fact, neither of us says much of anything while we eat. And damn it, I’m still ravenous, but it’s a struggle to eat. Ian seems to be having a tough time too, and pasta is one of his favorite things on the planet. Except the Steve diet works pretty well on him too.
I have to wonder how Steve can sleep at night. Or eat. Or just breathe. He’d been such a charmer in the beginning, but my God, the poison in that man is almost visible to the naked eye after a while. During the five long years he had Michael under his thumb, that asshole committed a lot of unforgivable sins, and people still ask Michael why on earth he stayed for so long if it was really that bad. Of course, anyone who’s ever been in an abusive relationship knows that walking away is easier said than done. The threats, the manipulation—all of it holds on to the victim like a fucking choke chain.
One chain in particular kept Michael firmly within Steve’s grasp—his dog. Any time Michael stepped out of line or so much as hinted about leaving, Steve knew damn well all he had to do was threaten to hurt Cody. Once, after a particularly bad fight, the asshole actually left with the dog and came back without him. He let Michael believe for days that he’d sold him to a dog-fighting ring before finally, after deciding Michael was repentant enough, bringing him home from his brother’s house.
In Ian’s eyes, that alone cemented Steve’s place in the deepest, darkest pits of hell. Ian’s an animal lover just like Michael, and even joking about hurting one makes him see red. Actually threatening to do it? Especially to manipulate someone who once literally jumped into a frozen lake to save a dog? Unforgivable.
I’ve always agreed with him, and this new revelation about the things that happened in that house makes me wish there were some even deeper and darker pits in hell. Steve deserves nothing less than the worst the devil can offer.
After a while, Ian asks, “Is Michael’s therapist helping? With…um…”
“She’s trying.”
“I guess there’s no easy way to come back from something like that. Sitting and talking to someone probably helps, but only to a point.”
I nod. “Yeah. I can’t imagine what else she can do, though.”
“I can’t imagine what else anyone can do.”
Our eyes meet. Ian sighs and shakes his head. We both continue making a half-assed effort to get through the wonderful meal he cooked. Of course I don’t know what the answer is for Michael—I don’t even know how to salvage what should have been a pleasant dinner.
Eventually, we’ve both eaten enough to tide us over until breakfast—or first coffee, as Ian calls it—and we start cleaning up. All the while, I feel like I’m in a haze, part of my mind still stuck in this afternoon’s conversation as if my foot’s stuck in concrete. Every now and again, as we wash the dishes so we can settle in to watch TV, I manage to forget, but that uncomfortable feeling beneath my rib cage reminds me all isn’t right in the world. When I notice it, I remember, and the thoughts start bombarding my brain all over again. I don’t foresee a lot of sleep happening tonight.
As we often do, Ian and I spend the evening curled up on the couch with the dog and cat. There isn’t much on—mostly reruns and the news—but it’s enough to keep us mildly entertained. Or at least distracted. Ian doesn’t laugh much, even when it’s one of the good sitcoms. I don’t either.
I kind of regret telling him what Michael told me—doesn’t seem fair to ruin his evening too. But he’d have dragged it out of me sooner or later. Unlike Michael, I crack under interrogation, and Ian’s a schoolteacher. He can pry a confession out of the most tight-lipped fourteen-year-old. His own husband? Cake walk.
Still, it bugs me to think of Ian sitting there with the same sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
I want to text Michael and make sure he’s okay. Maybe he’s worked up the courage to call Dr. Klein and say he’s reconsidered, and yes he would like to go out sometime. I’d like to think that’s what he’s doing right now, or that they’re already on an impromptu date somewhere, but I know Michael. If he’s afraid enough of sex to admit he’s afraid, then it’s not something he’s going to shake off with a deep breath and a phone call.
But what will it take? I refuse to believe the damage is permanent. Yeah, maybe Michael had turned out to be more breakable than I’d imagined, but not irreparably so. That’s just not possible.