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I shrug, then nod because I’m being strong and Timothy deserves more than a shrug. He deserves more than me. He deserves someone who can love all of him fearlessly, without caging him. Tears fill my eyes.
He takes a few steps toward me, slow. I relax when I realize he has to walk by me to leave. Going around Nic’s massively long couch would be awkwardly obvious.
Timothy stops just far enough that he can lightly brush my arm with the back of his knuckles. “Can we still be friends? I don’t want to lose you from my life.”
“I’d like that,” I manage, but I can’t meet his eyes. I’m staring at his T-shirt, flat over his stomach. “But I need a little space first.”
Timothy’s hand drops to his side. “You know where to find me.”
I nod and watch his reflection in the glass as he walks away. I make it about twenty seconds before I crumble on the floor.
I don’t know how long I’m there, sobbing on Nic’s hard sofa before I realize I’m not alone. My first horrifying thought is Timothy, but it’s not. Nic’s sitting in a chair, watching me with a look I can’t read. That’s the real genius of Dominic Fontana—the broody, unreadable look that can sell everything from cologne to watches to underwear to a superhero franchise. I sniffle and wipe my eyes with the back of my hands.
Nic points to a tissue box sitting right in front of me. He must have put it there.
“Thanks,” I sniff.
“You let him walk out the door.”
I did. I had to. When I don’t answer, Nic gets up. He returns with a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses. He hands me one and sits again. So far, he hasn’t pressed me to talk about it. Mostly, he’s left me alone.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask a single probing question. Just sits and drinks and stares at the wall.
I sniffle and take a sip. I hate whiskey and it’s not even 10 a.m. but I could use the fire in my belly to chase away the cold emptiness of not having Timothy here. “How do you do it?” I ask after a few minutes of silence.
His gray eyes slide my way. “Do what?”
“Care about him and not lose your mind over the shit he does.”
“I grew up with him,” Nic says after a bit. “Maybe that’s part of it. He’s family and his family is my family. They’re all I’ve got. I can’t—and won’t—walk away from my friendship because Timothy is a walking death wish.”
I flinch. Timothy’s careless and impulsive, but I don’t think he’s a walking death wish. “How do you deal, though?”
“I get mad. I yell at him. Maybe some silent treatment.” He takes a long drink and stares at his glass. “I have to remind myself he’s spent thousands of hours training, he’s got all this experience…and he’s careful. I’ve seen him walk away from stuff he didn’t feel good about, even on set, surrounded by people he wants to impress. Beneath all the flashy showing off, he’s surprisingly analytical. Have you ever watched him work?”
Guilt nibbles at me. I’ve avoided it. He’s been my best friend for five years, but I’ve put my fear first and Timothy accommodated me. We didn’t talk about his job. I’ve seen movies he’s worked in, but it’s easy to tell myself that a lot of what happens on screen happens in post-production and the leap off an exploding building is no worse than jumping off something no higher than a kitchen counter. And Timothy’s prone to exaggeration, so the stories I have heard, I’ve attributed to ego and creative embellishment.
“If you love him,” Nic says, finishing his drink and getting to his feet, “you have to accept all of him. Love all of him. Including the parts you don’t like.”
I love all of him. I do. Even the parts that terrify me. That’s what makes this so hard. But I can’t and won’t put myself in a place where I sit like my Nan, waiting while my worry eats me alive. I never want another heart-stopping call from the hospital, and with Timothy, any time he’s not by my side is going to be filled with worry.
It’s different for Nic. A different kind of love too. He’s used to Timothy, and he has Timothy’s family. He’s not going to be left alone.
I’m so tired of being alone.
Chapter thirty-four
Timothy
There’snopointowninga building if you can’t use it, so I haul all my shit to my still-empty Robertson Boulevard shop to sell my life away.
Not that I’m selling it. It’s all for charity. A silent auction for a crap ton of used and some unused gear. Everything from my snowboard to my surfboard, from wingsuits and parachutes and climbing gear. Even my motorcycle. I took a quiet moment, before everyone arrived, to say goodbye. These items took me on adventures. Let me grow as a person. Gave me so much joy.
They’re a part of who I am—or rather, the memories are. Other people will get to make new memories with this stuff now, and that’s kind of beautiful. I’ll make new memories too.
Turn out is good, but I know enough people, Nic knows people, and the people we know know people. I’ve signed everything signable with a Sharpie like I’m a famous person. Kind of I am, but not really.
“Hey,” I say quietly to Nic, slapping his arm when he doesn’t immediately leave his conversation with some boring director to pay attention to me. “Gabriel Sinclair wants my motorcycle. Get in there, outbid him.”
