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“The car. Blue. Fast. I like it.”
“I’m sorry,” Burne tried again. “I’m so sorry.”
“Half wrong, I said. It’s a restricted license.”
“It’s what?”
“I have to send in a medical evaluation form every year.” Devon turned the tea around again. Didn’t take a sip. “And I’m required to wear both the watch, for monitoring,anda medical alert bracelet. They worry about the chance that I’ll pass out behind the wheel.”
“Um,” Burne said, aware that this was the exact wrong question, aware of it even as his mouth opened, “have you?”
Devon set the tea down. The clink shouldn’t’ve sounded like the end of the world. “Not yet.”
“Is that…I mean…I don’t know what I’m asking.”
“Would you trust me?” Devon started to fold his arms, stopped to shove up a falling cable-knit sleeve, regarded Burne across rapidly growing space. “To drive us somewhere.”
“I—”
“Be honest.”
“I…hope so.” His hands were tight around his coffee. Squeezing. “I want to think so. I do trust you.”
“But you aren’t sure.”
“I’m just worried. And it’s raining.”
“I told you once that I can do nearly everything anyone else can.”
“I remember that,” Burne whispered, or thought he did.
“I thought you—” Devon stopped. Bit his lip.
Burne put a hand on the countertop. Support. Balance. “You thought I what?”
“I thought you knew me,” Devon said, “more than anyone else has, ever.” Thunder rolled in along the back of his words.
Chapter 8
The words tasted bitter. Devon hadn’t put sugar in his tea, because the maple blueberry was sweet enough. He wished now that he had. He did not think it would’ve helped.
Burne’s expression held so many emotions, framed by loose red hair and soft crinkled beard. Remorse, pain, shock at how fast the chasm had grown. But also concern. Worry about supposed fragility. Confusion.
Devon wanted to touch his shoulder, wanted to kiss him, wanted to tell him that everything would be fine. But it wasn’t, and he couldn’t.
He’d been here before. He’d done this before. With family, with boyfriends, with clients. Too many times.
The rain rattled bone-white against his windows. Lightning flicked, stabbing the sky over the sea. Inside, Burne’s boots sat next to Devon’s shoes, by the door. Burne’s e-reader lay on the sofa where he’d left it yesterday. The heart-stone wasn’t visible, but it perched next to Devon’s cup of drafting pens, on his desk. Burne’s hands right now held one of Devon’s mugs, full of coffee, because the brand-new coffee machine lurked on the counter.
In a few short days, Burne had moved in so deeply. In a few short weeks, in traded letters and gifts and conversations and revelations, Burne had settled into Devon’s heart as if his vitality could mend all the cracks.
Love did not work that way. Devon knew that. He also knew that he was in love with Burne Cameron, so profoundly that he would not be the same again, no matter what came next. He loved the rumble of Burne’s laugh, and the paradox of those hands, rough and callused but eager and kind. He loved the way Burne got exuberant about sea-caves and tide pools and grass and graduate students, the way Burne made conversations simple, fluid, comfortable. As if Burne, so elemental, would always be there: a rock, an ocean, a reliable pillar.
Devon wanted to say all of that, and could not say any of it, because Burne cared about him and the caring was real and therefore the fact that even Burne thought he was breakable, pitiable, was also real.
His pulse echoed the thunder. He drew a breath, counted silently, let it out.
Burne said, “You’re not wearing your watch—”
