“That’s what we’re going to work on.” Marty’s eyes bulged convincingly and his voice was soaked in confidence. “Before you leave Dunthorpe, you’ll have a plan for sticking to the path you’ve chosen.”
“I want to be authentic.” Tierney swallowed. “The real Tierney.” Forget the Terrebonne part of the equation.
It took most of his hour-and-a-half-long session, but by the end, Tierney had his first concrete step toward authenticity figured out: he had to apologize. Sincerely. As soon as he got home. Not just to Ian, but lots of people.
Still, the dude was foremost in his mind. Pretty much all the other times he’d apologized, it was just him trying to make sure he didn’t lose the friendship. The relationship he’d totally abused. He’d wallowed in the progressive destruction of his heart that seeing Ian caused, but never pursued what he thought he wanted. On top of that, he’d made Ian pay for all the times he felt neglected or shorted. Especially when Ian fell in love with someone else, and Tierney had freaked.
So, yeah. He had an apology to make to the guy.
That night he lay in bed, thinking about the shit he hadn’t revealed to Marty.
I’m so proud of you.
When Dalton had said it, Tierney’d felt nearly numbed by those words, but with an edge of scorn—for himself, not Dalton. He still didn’t quite know how to take them, but . . . he wasn’t sure he recognized the feeling, but he’d almost label it “worthwhile.” Not a complete waste of space.
He had a hard time trusting it, though. And he had an even harder time trusting the little whisper in his mind that insisted Dalton might truly be attracted to him. Why would he be? Everything that had happened between them so far had gone wrong. He’d been a strung-out freak when they first met, then that shit at Ian’s house, and the blowjob. And fuck, that meeting.
He pushed himself off the bed and out of his room, trying to outmaneuver his memories. Wandering down the hall, past the info desk and into the common area, he found the poker-playing faction of the ladies who formerly liquid lunched. They were a constant fixture.
Tierney peered over Rita’s shoulder. “Wanna sit in a couple hands?” she asked in her pack-a-day voice.
“Sure.” Nothing else to do.
“New bathrobe?” Angela eyed the pale-aqua grandeur of it. Of the four ladies at the table, she had the most beauty, and he’d bet it was largely unaided by surgery. Her boobs defied gravity, though.
“Uh . . .” He looked down and plucked at the fluffy collar. “Mother sent me this.”
“Damn, that thing’s horrifying.” Sabrina lifted her brow—no mean feat for someone whose face had been so precisely sculpted and Botoxed. “What’s a gay boy like you wearing something that ugly for?”
Tierney snorted. “It’s my defense against cougar attacks.”
The ladies all laughed, even Sabrina, then Rita settled a baseball cap on her head, and arranged a carrot stick so it dangled out of her mouth like a cigarette. “All right, enough chitchat. Five-card stud, fours are wild.”
The first time he’d played cards with the former liquid lunchers, he’d blurted out, “I’m g-gay,” in answer to some stupid question he couldn’t even remember now, totally terrified about how they’d take it.
But their interest had faded into resigned acceptance quickly, although Sabrina had piped up with, “It’s always the young ones with the firm ass muscles, isn’t it?”
At the time he’d been shocked into silence, but he was used to her suggestive comments now. Tonight, he gave her as much crap as she gave him. It was a great distraction.
Later, fed by the good feelings, the laughter, and the ladies’ scornful amusement over how they’d gotten themselves landed in rehab (not to mention their guffaws at his cougar jokes), Tierney went back to his room and let himself think that maybe Dalton could really want to be his friend.
The ladies who formerly liquid lunched seemed to like the real him—or whatever he had left without the facade.
Still, he was too much of a mess for anyone to want him. Wasn’t he?
Christ. He did need to bring this up with Marty.
On a Monday, just over two weeks after arriving at Dunthorpe, Tierney turned down the in-flight cocktail service on the plane ride home for the first time ever. He didn’t even have to force himself to do it. He didn’t want a drink, or the snack mix packet. As soon as he’d walked out of rehab—the very second he’d stepped foot back into the real world—a tiny fissure had torn open in his gut, and acid had started spilling out of it, causing his insides to burn in various spots at various times in various intensities.
Everyone probably thinks I’m a dumb-fuck for getting shitfaced and announcing my deepest, darkest secret to a roomful of people. But the longer he put off facing the world, the more his anxiety increased. Since he’d committed himself to being the most authentic Tierney possible, with all his scars and defects hanging out, the sooner he got on with it the better.
As he got closer to home, he expected to get even more agitated, but it didn’t happen. If anything, he felt calmer. It took hours of staring out the little oval window into the passing clouds, but he finally figured out why: he’d started remaking himself into a man he liked.
Authentic Tierney had some rough edges, but he was a happier, better guy than Tierney Terrebonne, sleazeball extraordinaire.
Gastrointestinal distress or not, he had hope for himself for the first time in . . . ever.
“I’m going to make Ian take me to lunch.” Sam’s stream of words followed in his wake as he loped past Dalton’s desk.
“Have fun.” Dalton didn’t bother to look up when Sam opened Ian’s door, but he did check to make sure Sam had actually shut the thing. He may be able to pretend he had no idea what they were doing in there, but he’d discovered he couldn’t will himself deaf.
As he refocused on his computer, he caught someone coming into the office out of the corner of his eye. “Can I—” he began, turning his head. Gasp. “Tierney.”
His heart performed a somersault, but Dalton played it cool, standing up, smiling warmly and not asking why the other man hadn’t called or texted or even sent a postcard. He had other things on his mind. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks.” Tierney shoved his hands in his pockets, coming forward but not meeting Dalton’s eyes. He looked completely different than when Dalton had first seen him a little over a month ago, now wearing jeans and a pinstriped button-down. The whisker scruff and artfully disarranged hair had a more intentional look today. He was so humanly insecure right then, he seemed, well, semiedible. “I’m, um, I’m here.”