Even when Tierney’s hold on him finally loosened, and he backed away, Dalton kept staring straight ahead. Into his apartment, where he’d live by himself for the foreseeable future, with just his cat to love.
“Bye,” Tierney rasped, then the door clicked shut. When the footsteps had faded down the hallway, Dalton stopped keeping himself upright, slumping back against the wall and sliding down it until he could hug his legs to his chest and rest his head on his knees. He didn’t move again until Blue came to demand attention.
Tierney drove by the liquor store closest to his place three times before he finally pulled over in a gas station parking lot and called Ian. “Dude, are you— Can you come over?” He’d beg if he had to.
“Right now?” Ian’s voice went up too high. “You want me to come to your place?”
“Yeah.” Fuck, he needed to find one of those intuitive friends, who’d understand from his tone or something just how real shit was getting. “ASAP. I need, um, some help.”
Another voice in the background came over the line, but Tierney could only tell that it was Sam’s. Whatever the dude said, Ian changed his tune. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Hang on.”
“I’m trying.” After ending the call, he curled his fingers around the steering wheel and clung to it, taking Ian’s words literally. Because that black hole he hadn’t seen or heard from in so long was coming back, and if he didn’t get a grip he might get sucked into the vacuum.
He didn’t remember driving home, but he could remember the back of Dalton’s neck and the feel of his skin when Tierney had kissed it for the last time. He realized he was back at the condo when he coasted into his parking spot and bumped the concrete wall in front of it. Whatever. That was why they called them bumpers, right? He didn’t even bother to check for damage when he got out. He’d sustained enough damage himself already. Fuck the car, it was insured. More than he could say for his heart.
Once inside, he tried to sit on the couch and wait for Ian, but the ghost scent of Dalton’s soap chased him away, in spite of knowing the smell couldn’t possibly be hanging around. The guy’s laugh might be, though. Maybe, that day Tierney had tickled him, some of his joy had fallen down between the cushions, and if Tierney put his butt in just the right spot, it would leap out and surprise him, like a squeaky toy.
He ended up at his dining room table. Had he ever sat here before? It was fucking monstrous, something his designer had picked out so he could host dinner parties. He’d never hosted a dinner party in his life, and he didn’t plan on having one, ever. He could see Dalton doing it, if things had worked out and he’d moved in, but that was moot now, wasn’t it? It didn’t matter how easily Tierney could picture the guy living here, making dinner in the kitchen, or coming down the hall with a smile and a kiss when Tierney got home late some evening.
The sound of the intercom saved him from examining just how painful his thoughts were. He buzzed Ian in, but didn’t wait for him in the hallway, because that was another place where reminders of Dalton lurked. Instead he just left the door ajar and went back to his stupid, ugly table and slouched in one of the frail-looking chairs, feet splayed out in front of him.
“Dude?” Ian called. Tierney could see the tips of his fingers, backlit from the light in the corridor, pushing carefully against the door. “You here, man?”
“Yeah.” He must have said it loud enough, because Ian’s whole body followed his hand, coming into Tierney’s entry, then his living room.
“No lights? It’s getting dark out.” Ian flipped the wall switch he was standing next to, and the overhead fixture in the living room came on. “Nice place, T.”
Huh. “You’ve never been here before?”
“Uh, no.” Ian lifted a brow and tipped his chin in Tierney’s direction. “I didn’t even think you liked the place.”
“I don’t,” he said. Except . . . “I kinda did, for a while, when— Never mind.”
“Why am I here now?” Ian asked. “I’m guessing you aren’t okay.”
“I had to—” Swallow. He tried to ease the tightness in his throat. “Dalton.”
Ian jerked his head back. “You dumped him? What are you, stupid?”
“What I am is a fucking recovering alcoholic,” Tierney snapped, shooting out of his seat, ready to hit Ian, because, yes, he was stupid and someone should pay for that and Ian had made a pretty good punching bag in the past.
But the guy was already holding his hands palm out in front of him. “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to be insulting. Just, I’m shocked.” Fuck, did he have to go being apologetic? “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Taking his coat off, Ian set it on the table behind the couch, then came around and stood in front of a chair, but he didn’t sit until Tierney sighed and started heading his way.
“Actually, can you sit on the couch? I kinda, um, prefer that spot.”
Ian didn’t comment, he just moved. Maybe he had a sixth sense or something, but he didn’t sit on the side Dalton usually did. Nice of him not to desecrate Tierney’s shrine to a love that ended tragically.
“I could call Sam,” Ian offered after they were both settled in, and the silence had stretched on for a couple of minutes. “He’s better at this stuff than I am. I mean, you could tell him what happened and he’d have advice or whatever, probably better than what I can give you.”
“No.” Sam was Dalton’s friend, and if Dalton needed someone to talk to . . . “You know anything about addiction?”
“Sorta. I looked into it because I think my dad has some problems, but he’s not that interested in taking care of them, so.” Ian shrugged.
Tierney rested his head on the back of the armchair and closed his eyes. Then he explained to Ian about recovering addicts being vulnerable, and how emotional triggers could push them into using, and the warnings about not doing anything major in the first year or so because that exponentially increased the psychological seesaw and blah, blah, blah.
Then came the difficult part. “Dalton and I talked last night, and we’d kinda decided to give it a try. Us. Stop the friends-with-benefits bullshit, because—” Oh God “—I have feelings for him, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“And he said he did for me, and he wanted to go ahead and . . .” Shit, his throat was getting lumpy. Maybe it was a tumor. Sure it is.