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“Da che tornasti, ahi misera. Miserable me, since you returned.”
Elliot’s gaze fleetingly sought Wentworth, who had his eyes closed, looking anguished.
How miserable he had been, until today. No, the moment in the Lime Studio, standing beside Wentworth. Leaning against one another.
At last the curtain dropped for the interval, and Elliot surged out of his chair. Cameron and Philip looked quizzically at him and he said he needed the bathroom. Not true at all, but he didn’t care to explain the truth.
Elliot squeezed past Philip and searched again for Wentworth. He’d left his seat. Earlier than most others had. Elliot raced up the aisle and out onto the second-floor balcony, hoping to see him. Only a half dozen people had exited so far, none of them big enough, broad enough, handsome enough.
He looked over the balcony rail and—
There. Heading down the steps. His head was bowed, posture withdrawn. Something about it made Elliot’s stomach clench. He jogged down the steps after him, and only caught him in the middle of the ornate tiled floor, under the chandelier.
“Wentworth.”
He stopped suddenly and turned, smiling tightly, avoiding his gaze.
“You’re leaving?”
“Can’t bear watching.”
“You know it has a tragic end.” Even as Elliot said it, he knew they weren’t talking about the opera.
“I wish it didn’t.”
Wentworth slammed his eyes shut and then strode out of the theatre into the rain.
Elliot booted after him.
“Wentworth, wait.”
He halted under a large awning, jaw twitching as he turned once more.
The rainstorm had ceased, but remnants of it dripped off the theatre around them.
“I’m not, nor will I ever be, into Philip. He just happened to get the other spare ticket.”
Wentworth’s eyes met his, finally. Dark, uncertain, hopeful.
Elliot touched his arm tentatively, and a laugh escaped. It sounded full of nerves and butterflies, even to him. “You make me funny in the head.”
He had the jittery urge to pace, but steeled himself to whatever fate those hesitant midnight blues would bestow on him. “We can’t be friends now.”
Wentworth stiffened. “Why not?”
“I’d never be able to look you in the face again.”
“Look me in the face?”
“Without blushing, Wentworth.”
“It hasn’t stopped us yet, Elliot.”
He wasn’t getting it. He thought Elliot meant out of embarrassment, because of their history. Elliot needed to try again. “You once told me you were as stubborn as an oak. Immoveable. That when you make your mind up about things, you see them through.”
“That’s true.”
“Well there’s one thing you haven’t seen through.”
“What’s that?” Wentworth’s voice cracked, his throat jutted.
“When we first met, you wanted—”
“To get to know you,” Wentworth said.
“Yes,” Elliot whispered, seeing recognition in his eyes. “But more than that.”
“I wanted to be your friend.”
“More than that.”
“Your best friend.”
Elliot shook his head.
Wentworth’s lips twitched at the edges. He bent in and whispered, “Your boyfriend.”
Again, Elliot shook his head. “When we first met you made up your mind.” His heart leaped into his throat and pounded. “You wanted to be my husband.”
Hopes like bubbles
Floating on a breeze
So airy, so light
Easily felled by trees
W. McAllister with Ask Austen Studios, “Hope”
Emotion—and hesitance—shivered over Wentworth’s expressive face. Those eyes suctioned onto Elliot.
“I’ve replayed that moment between us a thousand times,” Wentworth said, softly. “I was out of my mind.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“We couldn’t have got married then. We were seventeen.”
“As I recall, it wasn’t my only objection.”
“That’s right. I promised to refute them all.”
“You did, too.”
“Did I?”
“You were also an early bird, listening to you sing to yourself would be bearable, living on a boat wouldn’t be an issue.”
“Why are you bringing this up?”
“You’re . . . Philip upset you.”
Wentworth rubbed his jaw, eyes glancing toward the puddles on the street.
“The point I’m trying to make,” Elliot said, “is that I liked the realization.”
“You like me bloody moody about guys who whisper in your ear half of our opera?”
So much in there. “Yes.” Breathless. “It makes me . . . hopeful.”
Elliot tucked a loose lock behind Wentworth’s ear, fingertips dragging lightly over his rapid pulse. “Am I right to be?”
Wentworth held Elliot’s wrist, stopping him from dropping his fingers.
Elliot retrieved Honey from Mary and opened the door to his home—alone.
He settled a sleepy Honey into his basket and ran a hand over his caramel-coloured fur. “Our Wentworth couldn’t school his smile the whole way to the docks.”
Honey sighed.
“But he needs some time.”
Elliot tucked himself into bed and tossed and turned, grinning into his pillow.
His phone buzzed and he almost strained a finger shoving his hand in his pocket for it. He shook off the sting, and then the sting of disappointment.
“Hey, Ethan,” he answered.
“Ah good. I got you.”
“You all right?”
“We’re fine, but we have to cancel brunch tomorrow.”
Brunch had slipped his mind completely.
“Yeah, there’s an opportunity to hire this amazing caterer, but they asked if we could do sampling and menu discussion tomorrow morning.”
“Of course. No problem.”
Elliot was already making plans to visit Wentworth on his boat with Honey. Start his training for the open seas.
