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Michael hadn’t wanted to contest the divorce. Between the cheating he could prove and the intellectual property theft he couldn’t, Michael simply wanted things over as quickly and cleanly as possible, so they’d filed no fault and let their lawyers divide up their (shockingly meager) assets. Michael got the house and half their joint account, which hadn’t amounted to much in the way of cash after the mortgage, car payment, and lawyer fees. And with the way Kenny had fucked him over on the business side of things, his personal account wasn’t going up anytime soon. Not until he sold the house.
Maybe a week or two back home in Weston, taking care of his father for a while, was what he needed to clear his head and stop cuddling with a dog’s rawhide toy. Take a break from the life he thought he wanted and get his priorities back in order. His only real issue, though, was money. Until the house sold, he had a couple of hundred in his personal account to last him. It would get him to Weston, though. And stretch further there than here in the city.
If worse came to worst, he could get a job. A regular, working-class job and forget his lavish, rich man lifestyle for a while. Figure out who he wanted to be in this new chapter of his life. Maybe even rebuild his relationship with his father. If such a thing was possible.
After a quick shower, two rounds of puking, a piece of dry toast, and throwing a bunch of clothes and toiletries into three suitcases, Michael packed up his Audi and hit the road. He’d left a handful of sentimental items behind, including a bottle of one-hundred-year-old Scotch given to him as a gift two Christmases ago, but once the house sold he’d either be back in Austin for good, or he’d fly down to clear things out. Whatever. He’d think about it later.
All he could think about right now was his dad. A man he hadn’t seen in twenty years and rarely spoke to, but still loved and admired for his tenacity. His ability to live life as he saw fit, no matter what others thought of him. Growing up, Michael had tried not to care how others perceived him, but that had led to a lot of bullying in high school for being gay. He’d wanted to be accepted and wasn’t, so he’d fled to a big city as soon as possible. Made a lot of money. Made a lot of friends.
Friends who’d dumped his ass the moment he lost both Kenny and the fame and notoriety that came with their app’s success.
Assholes.
With two ginger ales from a local convenience store and a box of saltine crackers, Michael hit the highway and drove north. He drove past exit signs, trucker plazas, dry land, green foliage, hills and flatlands, and all manner of things. One pit stop when the ginger ale needed to be released, and he tempted his still-queasy stomach with a plain hamburger that stayed down.
Hangovers were the worst any day, but on a day spent driving? Ugh.
Signs for Amarillo began popping up, and on the outskirts, Michael took the exit toward the county hospital and Weston itself. His eyes were sandy, his back hurt, and all he wanted was a nap, but he got his tired ass to the hospital around five that evening. Parked. A lady at the front desk told him where to go.
It was a small hospital and he found Elmer’s room pretty easily. The first bed was empty, but Elmer snored away in the second. The wires and leads disturbed him less than seeing the way his dad had aged in the last two decades. More wrinkles on his face, more gray in his hair. Michael’s heart ached for his dad and for himself, because they’d both lost so much. And that loss had separated them for a long, long time.
Existing together with that pain had been too hard, too stifling. Separation had been for the best—or so he thought.
Seeing Elmer again in person shifted something inside of him. Even if they never forgave each other for the awful things they’d both said that last, fateful night, Michael would make sure his dad got through this. He’d come out of it the same independent, stubborn old man he used to be, period.
Michael would do everything he possibly could to make sure that happened.
Josiah Sheridan unlocked the front door of the house, heart galloping in his chest, even though his was the only car in the driveway. More than once over the last year or so, Seamus had parked his car elsewhere in order to surprise Josiah, usually when Seamus thought Josiah had done something wrong and needed a lesson. But Josiah had been on his best behavior these last few months; he’d been careful ever since the big blowup the night Brand Woods was stabbed.
As the county sheriff, Seamus McBride couldn’t have just walked away without stepping in, no matter how much he disliked the Woods family. Even though Josiah was a CNA and had an ingrained need to help people in trouble, Seamus hadn’t liked him meddling.
He’d shown Josiah how much the next day.
But Brand was alive, recovered, and apparently living with one of the other hands on his family’s cattle ranch. Josiah was secretly happy for the pair and wished them all the best. Openly, he pretended to dislike their “chosen lifestyle” as much as Seamus did, because that’s the lie they told the world. Even though Seamus had been regularly—and not always permissibly—fucking Josiah for nearly two years now, Seamus was firmly planted within the “gay is evil” Sunday crowd.
Some days Josiah longed for the freedom to simply be himself, but he had nowhere else to go and no money to get there.
He went down the hallway to the guest room he still kept his things in for appearances’ sake and changed from his scrubs to shorts and a T-shirt. Seamus didn’t like him sitting around the house in his scrubs. “They make me think of sick people,” he’d often said, “and I don’t need that after a long shift.”
Josiah didn’t particularly need most of Seamus’s shit after a long day at work, either, but Seamus was bigger, stronger, and knew where to hit so Josiah didn’t have visible bruises. It was safer to keep his snark and complaints to himself. After a quick glance into their bedroom, the bathroom, and the tiny closet of a room Seamus used as an office, Josiah relaxed a bit. No Seamus.
As the sheriff, Seamus’s hours were sometimes all over the place, since he was always on call for emergencies, which worked well with Josiah’s own flexible work hours. Today had been his last day tending to Mrs. Wellington, who was being moved into a nursing home as they spoke. Her family had decided it was best for her final few months of care, since she was dying from cervical cancer and had signed a DNR.
Josiah eyeballed the cabinet where Seamus kept his favorite liquors, tempted to take a shot of whiskey in Mrs. Wellington’s honor. He cared about all his patients, but the end-of-life ones got to him the most. He was simply glad she had a lot of family around to support her in her final days and weeks.
Not like me. If I was dying tomorrow, no one would be there.
Those thoughts didn’t hurt like they used to. He’d simply adapted to being isolated and lonely, and to putting up a front for his clients so they didn’t see how desperate he was to get out. To get away and start over. To be someone else, anyone else for a little while. To know what it felt like to be truly wanted and loved.
He hadn’t felt like that since Andy. A lifetime ago.
Unwilling to wander down that particular stretch of memory lane right now, Josiah checked on the slow cooker meal he’d prepped that morning. He’d mastered those kinds of foods so there was always a hot meal waiting for Seamus, even if he got home before Josiah. It saved bruises later. The food looked undisturbed, so Seamus hadn’t been home recently, and it was already close to seven. Josiah scooped out a bowl of meat and potatoes, and he ate alone at the kitchen table in the silent house. Silent save the faint tick of the kitchen’s wall clock. For as lonely as he was most days, even with someone else in the house, Josiah treasured these quiet moments alone.
He ate his dinner, then put his bowl and fork in the dishwasher. Drank a glass of water, even though he really wanted one of Seamus’s beers. Eyeballed the liquor cabinet once more before going into the bathroom to shower and clean himself out. Seamus was erratic in when he wanted sex, but he was also, well, anal about cleanliness, and it was easier to stay ready than to worry about Seamus using the enema shower attachment on him.
After getting squeaky clean inside and out, he checked his phone. A text from his boss about a possible new client, a stroke patient who’d be in hospital for a few more days but who might need extra care family couldn’t provide. Josiah texted back that he was interested, especially now that his schedule was open. Seamus frequently said that Josiah didn’t have to work, but Josiah loved what he did. He needed the distance and distraction from the nightmare of his home life too much to give up his career. And he refused to be wholly dependent on Seamus if he ever hoped to escape.
For now, he was stuck here and it was no one’s fault but his own.
