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He pulls his arm away and shifts. I’m expecting him to put distance between us, but instead, he presses up onto his forearm to look down at me.
“I’ve told you a bit about what a mess I was. Went into a lot of the pain-numbing activities. Alcohol, mostly; sometimes, uh,harderthings when that didn’t work. I slept with alotof women in that time because it was the only thing that gave me a momentary high—followed by the lowest lows I’ve ever felt. Sometimes, I felt like ending it—”
“Is that what—”
He shakes his head. “Heh. No.Thoseare the result of a glass bottle. He was aiming for my head, but I got my arms up in time, and when it smashed, he slashed at me with it. Luckily missed anything major.”
“Holy shit.” I can’t imagine how he got himself into that situation. “Can I ask how it got to that point?”
He nods but doesn’t answer right away. “I slept with his wife.”
My gut clenches. “Did you know?”
His eyes meet mine suddenly, hold my gaze, challenging me, and he doesn’t have to answer because I can read the guilt on his face, but he does anyway.
“I knew. I just wanted everyone to hurt like I did.”
“Wow.” I swallow, trying to think up something reassuring. “I …”
“Nope. It was horrible. Tara was taken from me, but it wasn’t anyone’sfault. Whereas I fucked up that man’s life.Me—and his wife, obviously—but I played an active part. It wasn’t some universal tragedy, just me being selfish and making a fucked-up decision.” He rubs his jaw and looks away. “It hit me, when I was sitting in a hospital bed, bandaged to the elbows, no emergency contact on file, that … I hated myself. They said I was lucky, but I just wished the guy had better aim.”
My heart aches for him. “So how did you go from that to … this?”
“Art.”
“As in … drawing and painting …” I trail off as he shakes his head.
“No, Art as in the pain in the ass.”
That’s literally the last answer I’m expecting.
“I was fired from my job since I brought drama there, which meant there was no way I could make payments on rent in Boston since I refused to touch Tara’s insurance money. So I swallowed the tiny scrap of pride I had left, picked up the phone, and called him. I told him everything. We’d been friends before I left but not super close, so the fact he was the only person I had was depressing. Maybe that’s what made it easier to admit everything, I dunno. I’m not sure what I wanted out of the conversation, but no way in hell was I expecting him to show up a few hours later with a U-Haul, ready to pack up my place.”
“Did you know he was coming?”
“Nope. Got an Uber when I was discharged from the hospital and found Art outside my apartment, where he gave me shit about leaving him waiting.” Orson’s fond smile warms me. “He roped in the neighbors to help him, and they had my place packed up in one afternoon, and before I knew it, we were on the way back here.”
“You didn’t fight him on it?”
“Nope. I was on good painkillers, but mostly, I was exhausted. Lost. Needed fixing. The asshole did it too. Somehow, he got me to therapy, got me socializing, even had me use the insurance money to buy the shop.” Orson’s eyes have gone kinda glassy. “I … I owe everything to him.”
I swallow back the emotion building in my chest. Knowing Orson went through all that is hard, but realizing thatArtis the one who pulled him out of it? Who didn’t write him off as too much effort and put in the work to help him?
Looks like I owe everything to that bastard as well.
“Never thought Art would become my favorite person.”
He huffs a laugh and ducks his face into my chest. When he reappears though, his expression is tight. “I’ve put in a lot of hard work to get to where I am. But I know all that’s a lot. I made some shitty choices, and I totally understand if it’s too much for you.”
“I get the feeling you’re trying to scare me away, so I’m gonna be clear here. I don’t scare easily. You made a mistake. That doesn’t make you special—people make mistakes all the time. Fuck knows I’ve made some big ones. Good people can do shitty things, and yeah, what you didwasshitty—we’re not gonna skirt around that—but answer this: If you were in that same situation today, would you do it again?”
“Hell no.” His face twists angrily. “I still feel like shit over it.”
“There you go, then. You made a mistake, and you grew from it.That’swhat makes you special.”
His expression is full of relief as his head drops onto my chest. “You are way too good for me.”
I cringe, and thankfully, he doesn’t see it. It’s easy not to hold all of that against Orson when he’s not the same person, but would he hold my past against me when he realizes I am? I haven’t changed.
