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“But you must have been so miserable.”
“I was,” I admitted. “I mean, I think I still am.”
Edwin gave a squeak of dismay.
“Not because of you, though,” I added hastily. “Because of…” The idea of having to drag it up all over again was enough to make me want to throw myself back in the river. “Because of a lot of things. But mostly because of me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
For a moment, I thought he might let it go. The Edwin I’d been with would have. But we had both changed since then. “I think,” he said, picking his words like he was crossing rough terrain, “I need a little more from you than that.”
“And I would give it if I knew how.”
“I only ever tried to make you happy.” Not an accusation. Just a lump of truth, as rough as a pebble.
“That wasn’t your job.”
He flinched slightly. “I d-don’t see caring about someone as a job.”
“Responsibility, then.” My mind flashed to all the people in my life who wanted to give me their love. All the people in Leo’s who had given him everything but. “Only I can make me happy, myszko. And that’s something I’m”—something wistful turned up the corners of my lips—“still figuring out.”
The pause that followed made me worry I’d accomplished nothing except letting him down all over again.
“Can you accept that?” I asked, failing to sound anything other than pleading.
His answer was to come and sit next to me. And when I didn’t pull away, to angle his body to mine, his face against my neck. The gesture was familiar enough to bring its own sting, but there was sweetness too. A memory of good things, no longer ours. Precious nonetheless. I put an arm around him, knowing of old how he liked to be held, and he nestled into me, as if no years and no pain stood between us. The scent of him, too, hadn’t changed: wheat starch paste and parchment, the promise of meadows in spring.
And this time, our silence was bearable.
In the end, though, it was Edwin who broke it. “It’s not always easy with him. W-wi-with—”
“Arlo?”
“Marius.” But there was a shaky note of laughter in Edwin’s voice.
I gave an aggrieved huff. “Fine. Adam.”
“It’s not always easy with him,” Edwin went on. “But it’s not hard either. Not like it got with us.”
Shifting slightly, I kissed the edge of his brow. “I don’t think it’s ever supposed to be that hard.”
“It just seems like the b-biggest failure sometimes.”
“That we didn’t work together?”
Edwin sniffed with frankly unattractive intensity. “That love wasn’t enough.”
We were edging close to that danger zone again. The one with Edwin crying and me finding yet more ways to hate myself. “I guess,” I said, “that depends on what you think love is.”
“What do you mean?”
“If it’s the journey or the homecoming.”61
Lifting his head, Edwin subjected me to narrow-eyed scrutiny. “I can’t tell if that’s deep or meaningless.”
I shrugged. “Well, Iaman artist.”
