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“Let’s not delay the inevitable.”
“Right.”
Bennet gestured for Lyon to get up.
“At least let me drive you home.”
“The fresh air will do us good.” He forced a smile that panged in his chest. Darcy was going. Charlie would be gone in another three weeks. Bennet would be alone.
Lyon frowned curiously at him, a reminder he wouldn’t be entirely alone. Bennet should be grateful for that. He was. Lyon was the reason he was in Cubworthy at all. He’d stick it out until Lyon finished school.
He gazed around the room. This was the last time he’d stand here for a long time—possibly ever. He saw Darcy and Caroline playing Scrabble, Darcy reading his son’s thesis, Darcy sneaking glances at him from his favorite spot in the corner, Darcy crouched in front of Lyon, talking gently . . .
He scrolled a hand through his hair and his lips felt stiff in their smile. “Get back safe, Darcy. Win your case.”
“I intend to.”
Somehow, Bennet walked from the room, slipped his shoes on, opened the door.
“One last early morning ride?” Darcy asked in a low voice. They stood at the threshold, Lyon already halfway to the road. Dark and heavy eyes searched Bennet’s.
“Sure. Uh huh.” Bennet was still bloody nodding. He backed to the path. “See you then.”
Except, Bennet didn’t see him then. He couldn’t make it out of bed. His body was too heavy, like he’d caught a bad cold, only with no other symptoms. His limbs refused to follow instructions. Demanded more sleep.
By the time he’d forced himself to the stables and hit their usual trek, the morning was brightly underway and Bennet had missed him. He messaged his apology, and Darcy wrote back saying it was no problem, and that was that.
Nothing left to say.
Two weeks passed.
Bennet spent every free hour organizing Cubworthy Pride and tinkering under the library van’s hood until the engine ran again.
For the parade, he’d swapped out the books inside with LGBTQ+ romances, biographies, and histories, donated by authors he’d worked with and their friends, and friends of friends.
Soon, though, all his preparations were done and there was nothing left to distract him.
Like an idiot, he counted down the days until Easter, moped about the town, then chastised himself and hit the pub to chat with Charlie.
“Another visit to the greenhouse?”
“How did you know?”
“You often have a hint of soil about you when you come from there. And you always leave pine needles on your stool.”
Bennet smiled sheepishly.
“What’s going on? You’ve been miserable for weeks.”
“I’m fine. I’m looking forward to Lyon’s birthday tomorrow.”
“Uh huh.”
“Really.”
“Sure. You also miss Darcy.”
Bennet spluttered on his lemonade. “What! How could you even—”
“Come on, Benny. I’m only suggesting the possibility that you like him.”
“I do. I did. As friends.”
Charlie raised a brow.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop immediately.”
“Why?”
“It’s over. Not that there could have been anything anyway.”
“He’s not the one?”
Bennet ground his teeth. “How can he be? He’s not out.”
Charlie nodded gravely. “Love has always been straightforward throughout history. Silly me.”
“Look, he’s gone, Charlie. That’s it. Over. Next time we see one another, it’ll be as acquaintances.”
“It’s your birthday,” Bennet said to Lyon as he gulped the last of his morning coffee. “I don’t have to go for a ride this morning.”
“You go every morning. I think you should go.”
Bennet narrowed his eyes on his brother. “What will you do?”
Lyon shrugged. “I’ll come too.”
“And hang out on the barn roof?”
Lyon grabbed the house keys. “You ready?”
Bennet slipped on his riding boots. “Lead on.”
Fifteen minutes later, they reached the barn. Instead of scrambling onto the roof, Lyon followed him inside. It smelled thickly of fresh hay and it took a moment for Bennet’s eyes to adjust to the dim light. He looked questioningly at Lyon, who shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe I’ll ride with you today.”
Bennet fumbled his grip on the stall door and Doll’s white head butted his shoulder. He rubbed her around the ears, under the mane. “I can saddle up Petrie for you. He’s a good solid horse. Wiremu gives me free rein with the horses, you know that.”
“Nah. I mean, I think I can do it.”
Bennet blinked at him.
Lyon moved to Petrie’s stall and called the horse, petting him with easy fondness. As if he’d done it before.
He kissed Petrie’s long nose. “I may have bribed Darcy to teach me.”
Bennet’s fingers froze under Doll’s thick mane.
“We practiced a couple hours every day while you were working.”
“You . . . you did? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“So . . . you can ride?”
“I can saddle a horse, ride at a walk, and trot. Darcy taught me how to do it properly. Still a lot to learn, though.”
Bennet imagined the two of them—Darcy, the firm and fair teacher, and Lyon gulping back a million crude remarks as they figured out how to work together.
