“This really has been hard on you, hasn’t it?” he whispers, and goddammit, I can’t do it.
I pull in a deep breath, clear my throat and try to collect my composure. “Yeah, it’s about Michael. Ever since he went out with Dr. Klein, I…”
“I understand.”
No, you don’t. Trust me.
But he goes on. “You’ve seen firsthand the damage someone did to him. It’s okay to have a hard time with him going to someone else who could hurt him again.”
There’s that, yes. But there’s… But I…
How am I supposed to tell Ian there’s so much more to it than that? That I’m not just scared of Michael getting hurt again? That it hurts like hell to watch him go, especially now that he’s admitted to feeling things that I feel too, things that Ian would divorce me over if he knew?
Except I can’t lie to him. If I do, he’ll see right through me and drag out the truth anyway. But what will he do when the truth comes out? How the fuck do I tell my husband I love someone else and convince him I still love him too?
Because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? I love Michael. No two ways about it. But my feelings for Ian haven’t changed. If anything, I’ve fallen even more in love with him recently. His compassion for Michael, the way he’s so patiently and gently helped me guide Michael back to a place where he can be intimate with men again—how could I not?
“I need…” I step back, safely out of his embrace, and wipe my eyes. “I need to be honest about something.”
Ian’s eyebrows jump above the frames of his glasses. “Okay?”
Where do I even start? “Everything we’ve done with him, I…”
Ian tenses, as if he’s on the verge of folding his arms across his chest, but he doesn’t. And he doesn’t speak.
I clear my throat again. “I am so sorry, Ian. I thought I could do this without feelings getting involved, but—”
“Feelings?” His voice is quiet and completely neutral.
“Yeah.” I slump back against the counter and let my head rest against the cupboard. “I don’t know if it’s…” My conversation with Michael flashes through my mind again. I close my eyes. “Maybe it’s the whole Florence Nightingale thing. I don’t know.”
“You’re in love with him.” It’s not a hard-edged accusation—more like a resigned statement of fact.
A fact I can’t deny.
Swallowing hard, I meet his gaze. “Yeah.”
“I see.”
“This doesn’t change how I feel about you.” Why does it sound so fucking pathetic when I say it?
He studies me. I can’t tell if he’s angry, hurt, skeptical, or if nothing’s quite settled in his brain yet. Then, without speaking, he pulls out a chair and sits at the kitchen table, gesturing for me to do the same. I hesitate but finally join him.
If I’d manned up and broached this subject last night, we both could’ve had a drink, but at this hour, Ian has to be up soon for work. He’ll probably be showing up at school with red eyes as it is; no sense adding a hangover to the mix. It’s both too early and too late for coffee, so there’s nothing to do except face each other across the table.
Ian takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “So what happens now?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to make sense of everything. Guess I hadn’t gotten that far yet.” My stomach is threatening to climb up my throat, and I try my damnedest not to get sick. “The last thing I want to do is leave, though.”
He lowers his hand, puts his glasses back on and meets my gaze.
The sick feeling gets even worse. I don’t want you to leave either.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, as if that might somehow magically fix anything.
Ian’s face still betrays nothing, and neither does his voice. “There’s something I’m curious about.” He thumbs the edge of the table, watching that instead of looking at me. “Even though I’m not really sure I want to know the answer.”
I gulp. “Okay.”
He’s quiet for a long time. Every passing second makes me itch—it’s never good when Ian isn’t sure what to say. Finally, he lowers his hand into his lap, and he looks me in the eye. “If you and I had never met, do you think—”
“Ian.” I shake my head. “Don’t go there. Please.”
“No, I think we need to go there.” He holds my gaze. “How do you think things would have turned out with him?”
He never would have met Steve.
I banish that thought as quickly as it materializes, and I stare at the table between us. In ten years, I’ve never struggled this hard to look my husband in the eye, but it’s a challenge tonight. “I don’t know, to be honest. I really don’t.” I run a hand through my hair, and with some more effort, meet his gaze. “It wasn’t in the cards. And it’s impossible to say what would’ve happened if I’d never met you, because I did meet you, and my whole life’s been different since then.”
His lips are taut, but he doesn’t speak.
“I love you, Ian,” I say softly. “Yeah, Michael and I have a long past, and yeah, there was a time when I thought we’d have a long future. But that was before I met you.”