“I thought you mostly taught yoga now.”
“I do. But Vincent's been good to me. Let me transition away from sessions because I had a plan. A way out.” His voice went hard. “Now I've got nothing. So yeah, I'll probably go back to taking clients. That's my reality. Not exactly compatible with whatever you're imagining this could be.”
Something snapped in my chest. “So you're just giving up? The gallery's gone so you're going back to—what, exactly? Hating your life? Resenting everyone who tries to help you?”
“I'm being realistic.”
“You're being a coward.” The words came out before I could stop them.
His eyes went cold. “Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you for acting like I'm the problem here. For making me feel like shit because I want to help. Because I have money and you don't. Like that's something I should apologize for.”
“I never asked you to apologize—”
“You didn't have to. It's written all over your face every time you look at me.” My hands clenched. “You know what? Maybe you're right. Maybe this was just a fantasy. Because the guy I thought I met wouldn't be this bitter. Wouldn't push away everyone who gives a shit about him just to prove he can suffer alone.”
Dusty's face went pale, then flushed with anger. “At least I'm honest about what this was. You're the one who's been lying to yourself, pretending a week of good sex means something more.”
The words landed like he meant them to. Direct hit.
“Is that really what you think this was?”
“What else could it be?” But his voice was quieter now, some of the heat draining away. “You've got a whole life waiting for you. Career decisions. Surgery. Pittsburgh or Alabama or ESPN. And I've got seven more years of saving ahead of me. If I'm lucky.”
“So we just pretend this week didn't happen?”
“No.” He shook his head, and for a second the anger was gone, replaced by something that looked like pain. “I'll remember it. The cabin, the breathing exercises, the way you looked at me like I wasn't just...” He trailed off. “But remembering isn't the same as building a future. You have to see that.”
“What I see is you running because things got hard.”
“And what I see is you trying to fix me like I'm broken.” His hand was on the doorknob now. “Maybe we're both right.”
“Dusty—”
“Take care of yourself, Cord. I mean it. I hope the surgery goes well. I hope you figure out what you want.”
“I want—”
But he was already gone. The door clicked shut with a sound that echoed through the suite.
I stood there staring at the closed door. My breakfast was getting cold on the table. The suite felt too quiet. Like all the air had left with him.
My shoulder throbbed, reminding me why I was leaving. Surgery on Tuesday. Recovery. Decisions about my future that suddenly meaningless compared to the man who'd just walked out of my life.
One week. That's not enough to build a life on.
Except it had been more than that. Until it wasn't.
Fuck.
I finished packing on autopilot. Threw my clothes in my bag, grabbed my shoulder brace, made sure I had my pills for the flight. The routine helped, gave my hands something to do while my mind spun in circles.
You're being a coward.
I'd said that. Actually said that to him while he was dealing with losing everything. While his brother had stolen seven years of his life. Real mature, Morales.
At least I'm honest about what this was.
