Tierney swallowed twice. Once in relief and once in fear. “I guess until it stops working.”
Ian half snorted. “Whatever, T. You know, I should tell you to fuck off. Cut you out of my life—”
“But work—”
“You don’t think I could work with you? I manage to deal with that fucker Sheriff Fowler, and his son was one of the guys that attacked Sam and Miller.”
Tierney’d heard that through the grapevine, but he’d assumed Ian wouldn’t put up with that homophobic prick again. “You’re saying you could be in the same room with that asshole?”
“Yeah. I am. And that’s my point. I could handle dealing with you if we weren’t friends. It’d be you that couldn’t, and that’s another clue in your big mystery of life. The way you’re running it now isn’t working, you giant dumbass.”
His head was pounding so hard the building shook with it. “Um, so you don’t forgive me?” He had said that out loud, right?
“I don’t fucking know why, but yeah I do—”
Tierney collapsed against the back of his chair.
“—I’m just getting sick of this, T, and I don’t know how much more I can take before I give up on your shit.” Thudding in Tierney’s eardrums nearly drowned out what Ian said next. “If I didn’t know you were gay? I probably would’ve bailed already.”
Wait. So it was pity that kept them going? The blood pulsing through him halted, then reversed direction. Clockwise for despair, counterclockwise for anger. He’d wanted sympathy from Dalton, but getting pity from his friend blew. He could feel words he’d regret rising in his throat like lava, but Ian continued.
“We’ve been friends too long. You know something? It’s because of you I even figured out I was gay.”
Only his white-knuckle grip on the edge of his desk kept Tierney from falling out of his chair. Did Ian mean— Was he saying—
“That night when we were freshmen and you showed me the glory hole? That’s when I first knew.”
Are you fucking kidding me?
“So, your grandfather—you wanna get together and talk about it or anything?”
“No,” Tierney half yelled into the phone, shaking his head. All he wanted in the world was for Ian to stop toying with him like this. “Really. If you need to express your sympathies, do it to my parents. Mother’s planning some wake and she’s expecting you to come.”
“Me?” Ian’s voice rose in pitch much like Tierney imagined his eyebrows were raised. “I could’ve sworn she thought I was too ‘blue-collar.’”
“Yeah, well, now that you have a bunch of grant money to disburse, you’re the kind of business contact Terrebonnes like to cultivate, you know.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, trying to regain some calm after all the fucking hits he’d taken from this little chat. First the shame, then the anger, then the hope and then a loop-de-loop and the straight drop to the bottom of the pit.
“Your family,” Ian muttered. “I don’t know how you live with them.”
“Alcohol.” Which he’d need some of soon, at this rate. “Uh, so, I’ve got an appointment . . .”
“I’ll let you go—”
Thank fuck.
“But don’t forget about the big meeting here next week, man, or you’ll never get any of that grant money your parents have pinned their hopes on.”
Tierney managed a fake laugh, said his good-bye, and watched his trembling fingers return the handset to its cradle.
Considering all he’d been through this morning? A three-drink lunch was totally justified.
The rest of the week, every time the door of the Interagency Disaster Relief office opened or the phone rang, hopeful apprehension infused Dalton. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, but when whoever walked in or called turned out not to be Tierney, he was disappointed.
And guilty. He couldn’t believe he’d let himself react like that when the man had lashed out at him, because—duh—Tierney was just trying to protect himself the only way he knew how, by pushing Dalton away. Worse, Dalton knew deep down inside that he’d been doing some lashing out of his own. Tierney’s comments about him getting an emotional payoff had hit a little too close to the truth, once Dalton had time to reflect on it.
In spite of no contact from Tierney, he did hear from Sam within a few days. They made plans to meet for lunch the following Sunday, during Ian’s rugby game. After checking with Sam, Dalton picked Murray’s Bistro, right in the heart of Simpson. It was his first trip to the neighborhood since that night, so he thought it was appropriate to go with Sam, if Sam was okay with that.
“Oh yeah!” Sam had said when Dalton broached the subject. “I need to get my first trip back to the gayborhood over with, and Ian would be all, you know, protective if I went with him.”
Murray’s felt like an indoor atrium, with a tile floor, huge potted plants in between glass-topped tables and banks of floor-to-ceiling windows that let natural light flood the dining area. The chairs were all cast iron enamel with (fortunately) cushions tied onto the seats, and the acoustics were very European-bustling-café—clinking cutlery and chattering in the air that made one feel in the middle of the action. It reminded him of the restaurant in the boathouse at the Palace of Versailles, but he didn’t tell Sam that because he might have to explain who paid his way to France and why.
Instead, he let Sam lead the discussion. “So at dinner one night my mom started talking about when I’d have my first boyfriend and that’s how I came out,” Sam said, continuing the conversation they’d been having before the waiter brought their meals.
He couldn’t express surprise at Sam’s family just knowing—it seemed pretty obvious—so instead Dalton asked, “How old were you?”
“I think about fourteen.” He squinted up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Young enough that I wasn’t completely grossed out that my mom wanted to talk about boys.”
“My mom would’ve talked about boys with me the same day hell froze over,” Dalton said before taking a bite of salad. Lettuce wasn’t his favorite food, but the parmesan cheese and Caesar dressing coating it elevated it to nearly scrumptious. If it wasn’t for dressing, he might never get enough vegetables.
“So, she’s not supportive?” Sam’s eyes had gone droopy and sympathetic.