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“Piss off.”
He grinned into the camera and I might have grinned back.
Following his recipe, I had dinner ready in twenty minutes. The front door slammed and raised voices came from the entryway.
“Why won’t you admit it?” That sounded like a wounded Jason.
I stopped tossing the pasta and lemon sauce and listened.
“It’s not the time to admit anything,” Uncle Ben said sharply.
“Seriously? Because I flew from Germany to talk about this.”
“And you have a return flight next Monday.”
“Yes, but—”
Uncle Ben cut him off. “I told you the truth: I don’t mind you seeing other people.”
“You were supposed to be seeing others too.”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Yes!” Jason’s pain and frustration echoed through the house. “It makes a huge fucking difference.”
“Can we pause this conversation? Marc wants to join us for dinner.”
“I should be good at pausing my feelings. God knows I’ve been doing it for years.”
“What?” Uncle Ben sounded quieter.
“Ever since Marc moved in with you.”
I tensed, shutting my eyes. Hunter moved on screen, frowning. Could he hear Uncle Ben and Jason too? They were certainly loud enough.
Jason sighed and I could imagine him sinking against the front door staring at his folded arms. “I always knew he had to come first. I understood that. He was only a boy, he needed you and stability, but letting you go after seventeen years of following each other around the world hurt, Harry. This house, your job, it was meant to be temporary. Sitting next to an empty seat on what was meant to be our flight to Europe, our next adventure. I know it was selfish, we had a good run, but every time we called, I had to hold my tears in so you knew I had your back, that I accepted your decision.”
“You never wanted kids—God knows we fought about that—and Marc wasn’t easy on you or me at the beginning.” Shame washed through me and I stared at the pasta. Hunter gently cleared his throat, and I couldn’t stand him seeing me. Eyes blurry, I ended our call and pocketed the phone.
Uncle Ben murmured, “I could never have asked you to stay.”
A sniff. “Maybe you should have asked me anyway.”
“Jason, honey. Ballet is your life. You had opportunities few ever do. I couldn’t ask you to give them up.”
Jason sobbed and my throat ached. The enormity of what Uncle Ben had given up . . .
Shaking, I moved to the hall. Jason’s head was buried against Uncle Ben’s chest.
My step hitched, and they sharply looked over.
Uncle Ben frowned and I cut him off before he could address me.
“I cursed you, I hit you, I broke your car window.” Strong, salt-and-pepper haired Jason blinked as a tear rolled down his high cheekbone. His pouty lips pressed together. “I hated him, then, I laughed at him.” I forced myself to meet Uncle Ben’s eyes. “You gave up your dreams for that, but you never should have. You should have sent me into care.”
Uncle Ben gripped Jason harder, frowning hard at me. “Don’t, Marc. This isn’t about you.”
I scoffed, hard. “Who are you fooling?”
“This situation is difficult and not your fault, do you hear me?”
I didn’t believe him for a second. “You know what? Dinner’s ready. I’m leaving.”
“Hey, hey. We can do dinner together, we can fix this.”
I laughed hollowly and Jason shuddered in Uncle Ben’s arms, like he did back when I was an asshole. Maybe I still was an asshole. “No, we can’t. You guys can. Talk to each other. Start over, knowing I’m not in your way anymore.” I held Uncle Ben’s eye. “Admit your true feelings.”
I twisted on my heel and stalked toward the basement staircase.
“Come back here, Marc.”
I ignored him.
His footsteps pounded against the floor as he chased after me. “Wait.”
I whirled around. “What? What could I possibly do to change the last six years?”
He stopped. “You can’t.”
“See?” I held in the sting.
“Please stay.”
“Don’t you see? Standing here listening to your and Jason’s pain, knowing that I’m the reason . . . It’s screwing with me, okay?”
Jason came up behind Uncle Ben and settled a hand on his shoulder. “Let him have his space, Harry. Please?”
Uncle Ben folded a step toward Jason, and I rushed the last steps into the basement.
Pacing the basement, I stuffed Cheetos into my mouth trying to get myself under control. No easy feat while hearing the murmur of continued argument upstairs. With orange fingers, I opened my folder of unsent letters, determined to fix shit, but . . . look how well things had gone tonight.
Frustrated and apparently willing to make things worse, I opened Jack’s letter.
Might as well clean up all the crap at once.
Jill,
Look, this isn’t me asking for forgiveness or whatever but maybe our talk got nasty.
I was remembering our old antics, and the truth is you used to ask me if what we were doing was a good idea. You’d give me a look, like maybe I was going too far.
