I'm a little sore from staying in one position for too long, but I don't care.
"What does this mean, Trey? Why are you here?"
"I had some time to think about things, and I decided I don't want to be another person who walks out on you when things get tough."
I swallow, still needing to hear the words.
"So... are we... are you...?"
"Your boyfriend. Now go back to sleep," he grumbles, pulling me closer and resting his chin on top of my head. Relief rushes through me and I sag against him. It feels too good to be true, but I know that's my past talking. Things had gotten tough and he had left, but he's back now. And calling himself my boyfriend.
And that has to be enough.
Chapter twenty-three
Trey
Gareth is discharged the next day and I'm given strict instructions on what he can and cannot do, and a pain killer and antibiotic regimen.
"Where are we going?" he asks from the passenger seat of my SUV. His leg brace means he's sitting slightly sideways and hanging onto the 'oh shit' handle to keep from knocking his knee against the glove compartment.
"My house."
His head whips in my direction but I suppress my smile. Pleasure heats my chest, knowing I can share this with him. And that he wasn't expecting it.
I pull into the driveway of my mid-century cape cod - the one I used to share with Eve before she moved in with her new boy toy. I tease. Those two are more in love every day and I'm glad they were able to work their shit out.
She'd tease me endlessly if she knew that not only did I fall in love with a client, that I was moving him and his kids into my house. At least temporarily. We’ll have that conversation when he’s recovered.
I'm going to have to come clean eventually, but there's still a lot that Gareth and I haven't said to each other yet. He deserves the truth before anyone else.
I put the SUV in park before coming around to his side, opening the door, and lifting him gently, bridal-style. He wraps an arm around the back of my neck to help, but I can tell he's still hesitant to touch me. I told him last night that we were together, but haven't really explained or showed him what that means. I've barely had the time to decide myself what that means.
All I know is that it felt good to hold him - to be a steady presence he needed to unload what felt like decades of stress and shame. It felt nice to show up for him, even when I didn't necessarily want to. When I'd sent the text to dissolve our professional relationship, I'd been frustrated with myself and with him. He'd been making so much progress with our sessions, and I thought for sure he'd be comfortable coming out. Only to be disappointed when he balked at the challenge.
I hadn't been completely ready to cut him off, but I knew we couldn't keep going the way that we were.
But getting that phone call from Lindsey had been my worst possible nightmare. I'd thought he was dead. That he'd died without me ever telling him how I felt about him. Without ever getting the opportunity to live completely out and free.
I don't know where we go from here, but I need him safe, and in my house, where I can take care of him. The rest we'll figure out together.
I set him down on the couch, silently, before getting him a glass of water and the pain meds he's scheduled to take. He fights me on the harder pain killers, so I don't push it. I prop his leg up on a number of pillows, find a blanket to wrap around him, and check that the top of his brace isn't digging into the skin of his thigh.
I kneel beside him and gently pull his sweatshirt and t-shirt off, because they smell like the hospital.
Silently, I go to my closet and pull out clothes for him.
He puts the t-shirt on with a bit of adjusting, but I have to help maneuver my gym shorts around his cast. I'm bigger than him, so the clothes are loose, but seeing him wearing my clothes has something settling in my chest. Seeing him in my home, on my couch, wearing my clothes. It just feels right.
He looks up at me through his eyelashes, sheepishly.
I sit back on the coffee table, facing him, hands clasped between my knees, wondering how in the world we have this conversation.
"Remember the story I told you back at the hospital? About my client who isn't ready to come out of the closet?"
His cheeks flush pink with embarrassment but he nods, obviously curious as to what I'm about to say.
"The problem isn't that he isn't ready to come out of the closet. The problem is that I've never done this before. I've never had a real relationship with someone and I'm not sure how this works."