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I hadn’t meant to kiss him like that, or at all; regardless of the fact that it was barely a kiss on the cheek, I should have known better than to do it in public. I hadn’t thought, I’d just acted on instinct, and like every other poor bastard who’d done the same, I was about to pay the price. I’d evenseenthose guys filming, had worried about what they might have caught on camera, and then promptly forgot all about it in the wake of being here and taking care of Nico. Taking care of him while simultaneously ruining his life, apparently.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Nico says again, repeating this like a mantra. It’s the third time he’s said it and things are decidedlynotokay. I pull my hand away from his, stand up and pace across the room. He remains seated, watching me. He needs to be resting, and drinking some water, and not fucking worrying about the press ripping him a new one.
“I can’t believe I did that,” I tell him, incredulously. “I was just…I don’t know,relievedto see you, and thankful that you were okay. Or at least okay enough to go home. I didn’t think. I evenheld your handin front of the fucking doctor! Jesus, Nico, I’m sorry. I know that’s not good enough, but I really am sorry.”
There isn’t enough oxygen in this room, and it’s too damn hot. Rubbing a furtive hand over my chest, I wonder if this is how Troy feels when anxiety has him by the throat. It feels like the world is going to end, just as soon as Nico can find the words.
“Anthony, can you stop moving around so much for a second? It’s hard to follow you.” I stop pacing immediately. “Thank you. We’d better have that conversation now, I suppose.You said you’d call your agent back in five minutes and I think we’ve already used half.”
“Why are you being so calm?”
“Would you prefer I be angry? Shout at you?”
“Yes,” I nod, “do that.”
“And what would I be angry about, precisely? That you came to the hospital when I called? That you obviously care about me? You’ve been here for nearly two days, feeding me, helping me shower, doing my damnlaundry. I know I’m not always the easiest person to be around, but if you think I’m going to berate you for holding my hand in the hospital, you must think I’m a raging asshole.”
Taking a seat in the chair so that I can face him where he’s seated on the bed, I take a couple deep breaths. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying…” He stops, coughing so hard that he curls forward, chest heaving. Before I can do it for him, he reaches over and takes a bottle of water off of the nightstand. “I guess I’m saying that I made a mistake. I didn’t think I could do it—be with you in any significant way. I’ve been hiding for so long, and the one time I stopped…I’m not proud of it, but the truth is I was afraid of what might happen. I still am, to be honest.”
I want him to stop talking. Each word he says is like a thumbscrew being drilled into chest. I’d thought I couldn’t feel more wretched, and am not thrilled to be proven wrong.
“But…I don’t know, Anthony. I don’t want to speak for you, but these past few months haven’t been great for me. I miss you terribly. Missing you feels worse than pneumonia, and that’s saying something.” He smiles, letting me know this is meant to add levity to the shit heap we’ve found ourselves on. I muster up a smile back. “I’ll admit, it would have been nice to have the chance to handle things differently. Have some time. But we’ve got to work with the situation we’re in and…”
Trailing off, he shrugs weakly. This really is too much for him, right now. We should be in bed, Nico cocooned against me where I can keep him warm, not having this fucking conversation because somebody thought they could post a video online and pretend to know who we are. I check my phone and see four missed calls as well as a string of texts from Street. Our five minutes seems to be up.
“You’re going to have to tell me what you want. Exactly what you want,” I tell him.
He laughs, a thin, joyless sound that turns into another coughing fit. It hurts to listen to him. “What do I want…simple answer? You, Anthony, I just want you. I don’t know how that looks now, but if you don’t want to hide then we won’t. I dictated everything between us before, and I was wrong. Maybe, we try things your way from now on.”
I take a breath that feels just as shaky as Nico’s. “I don’t want to hide, Nico. I want to be here every night and not worry about who might see my car parked out front or what they might think that means. I’d like you to come with me to Corwin’s for the next family barbeque, and I’d really like it if you’d be my date to Troy and Sam’s wedding.”
“Alright. Then that’s what we’ll do.” As though the last half hour has slowly sapped his energy, Nico wilts. He looks liable to fall over soon, if he doesn’t lay down. “Call your agent back. Tell him…”
“I will.” Standing, I reach a hand out for him and pull him to his feet. Folding back the sheets I just used to make the bed, I nudge him to climb in. “Use the inhaler and drink a little Gatorade for me, okay? I’m going to get you some vegetable soup. You need some nutrients.”
I call Street back as I head downstairs. He answers with an annoyed exhalation and a hissed reminder that five minutesdoesn’t mean fifteen. “Sorry, Street. Change of plans. We’re going with the truth. Nico Mackenzie and I are together.”
“Shocker. I figured you’d say that, though. I’m going to send you something to read over. Read it, send me changes or approve it, and then I’ll send it to South Carolina’s PR team.”
“Like, a statement?”
“Kind of. More of a letter, written by you, of course, stating your basic rights as a human being to love whomever you want, and that you’d like your privacy to do so.”
“Will Nico be in it?”
“I left his name out, but any hockey fan worth their salt will watch that video and know who he is.”
“I know, but…let’s keep his name out of things as much as we’re able, okay? He doesn’t need any more trouble.”
“Fine with me. It’s in your inbox, read it and let me know. Five minutes, Lawson, or I send it without your approval.” Starting the microwave with yet another bowl of soup inside, I put the phone on speaker and pull up my email. Street, who can monologue better than anyone, fades to background noise as I read the statement.
“Looks good to me,” I interrupt. The microwave dings.
“What?”
“The statement. Just read it, and it looks good. Go ahead and send it to them.”
