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WET GRASS PRESSED AGAINST Asbjorn’s face as he braced for another kick. A shot of pain lanced through his sore side. “I’m not resisting arrest! Just fucking arrest me already!”
His voice was drowned out by the sound of a piercing siren from within Sean’s building, followed by the report of two gunshots.
Rough hands grabbed his wrists and cuffed him.
He heard two pairs of booted feet run, presumably trying to reach the source of disturbance within the structure. The third pair of boots was right outside his field of vision, and a knee dug into the small of his back.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law....” The words, familiar from television shows, hit him like yet another kick in the stomach, and time stretched to forever before he was sitting in the back of a police cruiser. Within the hour they were at the police station. He saw Dud’s tall figure uncoil, leaving the confines of the police cruiser ahead of him. At least he didn’t seem to be moving like he was hurt. Asbjorn shifted and winced.
Fucking rookies. Can’t handle the responsibility. Can’t follow fucking procedure.
Asbjorn was put in a small interrogation room with a mirror. He scowled at it.
At least half an hour passed before the beat-up, gray steel door opened and two plain-clothes cops came in. “Heya, bud.” The taller one looked him up and down. His graying brown hair was overgrown, curling into ill-kempt locks that fell along his symmetrical, scruffy face. He didn’t look like a cop.
Undercover, Asbjorn thought.
“You’re charged with resisting arrest and with an attempt to break and enter.” The tall guy leaned his hip against the steel table. “Wanna shed some light on that?”
Asbjorn felt pain lance through him again as he straightened in the hard, metal chair. “Asbjorn Lund. I require medical assistance. Your officers probably rebroke my rib.”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Hastings. I’ve been here for some time and I’ll determine whether my men did any harm to you or not. First you answer my questions, asshole.”
Asbjorn was transported back a few years, and Hastings’s face swam before his defocused eyes. He breathed shallow, careful breaths, centering himself. “This is Mark Falwell’s case. I’m willing to talk to him.”
“Detective Falwell isn’t available. You’ll talk to us, bud.”
Name, rank, serial number.
Asbjorn stared ahead. “It’s either Mark or an attorney, sergeant.”
“Okay.” Hastings took a deep breath. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Not ten minutes later Sergeant Hastings entered the room again, his face unreadable. “Mark’ll be coming later. He vouches for you. That doesn’t mean you ain’t an asshole, though.” Hastings stripped off his blazer and tossed it over the chair, revealing a short-sleeve polo under his shoulder-holster. His slender, muscle-roped arms were freckled and bore thin scars. A partially obscured tattoo gave Asbjorn a clue as to the man’s past.
“For a Marine, I’d have thought your men would be better trained, Hastings.”
Hastings’s eyes met Asbjorn’s lazily. “Oh yeah? And what would you know about that?”
“The Marines talk a good talk, but it’s the Navy where things are ship-shape.” Asbjorn grinned. “I’d bet my old unit wouldn’t be losing their cool, beating up a guy they just arrested.”
Hastings looked him up and down. It felt like minutes before he broke the intrigued silence. “So tell me about that alleged broken rib of yours.”
Not much later, Asbjorn sat in the visitor’s chair of Hastings’s cramped office, chasing two ibuprofen capsules with a cup of acrid, lukewarm coffee.
“Wanna see a doctor?”
“No.”
“Wanna press charges?”
“Yeah.” Asbjorn’s bright blues lifted to Hastings’s languid stare. “I’d love to press charges and have your men suspended, ’cept if I do that, the case will make its way into the papers. Once that happens, Sean’s case will become public, and the perp will go after him again.”
“Sean...?”
“Gallaway. The student whose room that was. My... friend I was just checking on.”
“Friend, eh? Navy has got a bit of a reputation that way.” Hastings’s mouth twitched in a barely suppressed smile.
“You have a problem with that?”
Their eyes met again, and Hastings shook his head. “Nah... but his case is something of a sensation ’round here, y’know. This perp’s been floating ’round for, what, three years? And this Gallaway kid’s the first one to step up and do the right thing.” Hastings shrugged apologetically. “We feel kinda protective of him. He’s our only link.”
“If you feel so fucking protective, you may keep in mind that he hates being protected. If it had been up to me, he’d have been staying at my place.”
If there was one thing Asbjorn didn’t handle well, it was embarrassment. He hated the feeling of warmth on his cheeks and the sudden fullness in his chest. He hated the way his airways constricted, leaving him stranded with a progressively reddening forehead and cheeks.
Right now he started to feel just that.
His thwarted effort to do good. The disastrous arrest. An undeserved police beating. Having to control himself and not hit back. Curling in a fetal position, protecting his recently broken rib. Feeling like an idiot. Almost admitting to a relationship – with another guy.
To another guy.
To a Marine, for chrissake.
The silence stretched until it broke. Hastings reached for the bookshelf behind him. He removed a massive Departmental Regulations Handbook and pulled out a small bottle of Johnnie Walker Red from behind the thick volume. He cocked his eyebrow. “Want some?”
“Yeah.” Asbjorn nodded.
He watched as Hastings poured a bit into two coffee mugs and shoved one across the desk toward him. They raised the whiskey in a silent toast. It went down hot and rough and sweet. The pain of it was a welcome distraction from his pain elsewhere.
“You can’t protect him like he was a girl.” Hastings’s words came out of nowhere.
Asbjorn’s head snapped up. “I don’t treat him like a girl.” His tone was defensive.
“Hey, just sayin’. I had a case just last year. Two guys on the force, they got together. Hey – no problem. Except they were partners. We do have rules against fraternization, regardless of gender, but the captain decided to turn a blind eye just to see how they handled it. They stopped working together well. Had to have them separated. You know why?”
“Necking on stake-outs?”
Hastings shot him a disgusted look. “No... they were pretty low key about it, ’cept they wouldn’t let the other take any risks. They were so fucking overprotective of one another, they fought to take the bullet for one another instead of just taking cover. Almost succeeded, too.”
Asbjorn let the words sink in. It seemed plausible. “I dunno how to act around another guy. It’d be easier if he were a chick.”
Hastings knocked his drink back and shrugged. “Only so much I can help you with. I could tape up your ribs.”
“Maybe it’s not broken.”
“Maybe I wanna check.”
As Asbjorn eased out of his button-down flannel shirt so Hastings could poke around, his thoughts were with Sean. Maybe he really was unreasonably protective. Maybe Sean needed breathing room as much as Asbjorn did.
Knowing that didn’t make doing the right thing any easier.
––––––––
MARK PULLED SEAN THROUGH the door of the police station.
“Who’s in charge of Lund and Seevey?”
“Hastings.”
Mark nodded to the dispatcher, waving Sean along. “C’mon, let’s go! All I seem to be doing recently is getting your buddies outta jail.”
Mark knocked on the doorframe of Hastings’s office, and Sean took in the scene. Asbjorn, shirtless, the sergeant examining a series of deep and developing bruises on his torso, and a bottle of whiskey on the desk. “We’re here. Hey, where’s Seevey?”
“He passed out in his cell. It’s quiet there, so I figured I’d let him sleep.”
“And this guy?” Mark’s eyes didn’t quite meet Asbjorn’s.
“Ah... a misunderstanding of sorts. The boys thought he was our perp and got carried away. He thought the boys were the perp, and he got carried away too. He got worked over a bit trying not to resist arrest. So they say.”
Sean was pissed off something fierce. He’d told Bjorn he’d be fine. He’d discouraged Bjorn from cosseting him. Asbjorn’s fears were unfounded and ridiculous. Sean was capable of protecting himself and resented any insinuation to the contrary. And now his sleep was disturbed and his strobe light got shot up by the police, and he had to accompany Mark to get Asbjorn and Dud out of the clink.
He edged into the room behind Mark, looking over his shoulder. Sean’s angry scowl was wiped off his face at the sight before him. The expanse of well-muscled, pale flesh showed extensive bruises and lacerations up and down Asbjorn’s torso. The tall policeman – Sean remembered him in an onrush of memories – pressed his fingers against Asbjorn’s ribs.
“That hurt?”
“Yeah... but not like it’s broken.”
“All right, then. We all lucked out.”
Sean watched Asbjorn wince in pain. His stomach flipped in an onrush of déjà vu. And this happened how, exactly?
“Asbjorn.” Sean eased his way into the room, nodding to sergeant Hastings. He crouched next to Asbjorn’s chair and looked up into haunting blue eyes. He put his hand on Asbjorn’s arm for balance. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“It’s nothing.” Asbjorn didn’t meet his gaze. His long arm reached for the coffee mug and he tipped it up to his lips, draining its contents.
Sean turned to Sergeant Hastings. “How did this happen?”
“Misunderstandings occasionally do occur when two parties try to protect the same person.” Hastings’s lips quirked up “No charges will be pressed. Your friend here feels it would attract public attention. That would be bad, considering the threats that have already been made against you.”
Sean straightened. He wanted to embrace Asbjorn, chew him out, apologize, kiss him, take him home, care for him. He wanted to nurture and protect and do all those things Bjorn had allowed him to do when he was injured only a couple of weeks ago. He wanted to love him. Yet all he could do was just stand there, motionless, his heart melting with unexpressed emotion.
––––––––
ASBJORN GLANCED IN Sean’s direction. Along with whiskey, he had the bitter taste of defeat and humiliation in his mouth. “I think we all better turn in. Thank you for coming in to identify me, sunshine.”
Sudden sadness gripped him. He wanted his sunshine back. He wanted to hold him, nuzzle the top of the perpetual halo on his head, run his hands up and down his back, his sides... just hold him.
But he couldn’t. His sunshine, being a man, needed his space.
Asbjorn stood. “Thanks for the drink and the company, sergeant. Gimme a call so I can return the favor someday.”
Hastings grinned. “Sure will.”
He saw Sean bristle and sighed.
“Mark, can I get a lift to my place?” Asbjorn felt exhaustion descend upon him.
“Sure. We can drop off Sean as well.”
Asbjorn felt the silence spread.
When in doubt... ask.
“Where would you like to be dropped off, Sean?”
Sean seemed to hesitate. After all, Asbjorn was not exactly extending a heartfelt invitation. There was no contact between them, not even a proper meeting of the eyes. Asbjorn was known to need space.
“My place is fine, thanks. I wouldn’t want to impose.”
When Asbjorn heard the cold undertow in Sean’s voice, the sense of sadness that had only pressed upon him crashed, engulfing Asbjorn in a wave of breathtaking despair. He looked down, examining his black Asics running shoes with sudden interest. His embarrassment was still there – and feeling the way he did, he couldn’t possibly push himself into Sean’s space uninvited. Sean wasn’t a girl. He didn’t need to be protected.
“Let’s go.”
––––––––
THE NEXT THREE DAYS dragged on. Sean carefully reset and managed his modified security system, safe behind his fortress of detectors and alarms. His grand jury testimony was coming up on December fifteenth, and he was ready and eager to get it all over with. The assistant DA had already coached him on how to answer only the questions he would be asked, using short sentences and simple words. His nerves felt like a tight string and he missed Asbjorn’s calm, reassuring presence, but this was something only he could do.
Had Asbjorn been around, he would act all protective again, driving Sean to utter words he would later regret. At least classes had started again, and he itched to resume aikido. He wanted his routine back. His bruises were barely detectable now, most of them but a yellowish tinge on what remained of his surfer’s tan. Immersed in schoolwork, he found escape in papers and labs and endless equations, and in solitude.
All he ever wanted was Asbjorn, but Asbjorn wasn’t available. At least he had called him “sunshine” at the police station – even though he was not sure it still meant something. The look in his eyes had been stormy that evening, full of upset and pain, unwilling to allow Sean to kiss it the nastiness away.
Asbjorn had his pride.
Had Asbjorn been Casey, Sean would’ve pulled him in, snaked an arm behind his waist, nuzzled his neck, and made it all better. Except Asbjorn was neither Casey nor any other girl, and Sean wasn’t quite sure how to make him feel good without making him feel... emasculated. He didn’t want his friend to feel the way Sean tended to feel when Asbjorn offered way too much help.
The library was quiet. Sean was putting finishing touches on his physics lab, feeling the glow of satisfaction that comes with a job well done. The document was saved, the data spreadsheet was navigable, and the graphs were generated with their axes properly labeled. He stretched his arms, turning up his lips in a hint of a smile as he contemplated what to do next, when a loud crashing sound sent him bolting out of his chair.
He jumped with a shout. Turned toward the threat.
A residual sound of splintering wood, the eerie wind-chime of breaking glass, and an after-image of a silhouette flooded his mind, and he found himself standing at the ready, face to face with Sheila, his aikido student. The floor by her feet was littered with books.
“I must have piled them too high,” she said apologetically. “Did I startle you, Sean?”
His pupils were wide and his breathing ragged as he turned away from her. “No, no... sorry, Sheila. I... overreacted.”
“Flashback.”
“Talk to me.”
“Keep going.”
Asbjorn’s words emerged in his mind, and he took a moment to get settled behind his keyboard again. He tried to focus on the here and now. People a few feet away exchanged words in a quiet hush. That, the warmth of the library, and the scent of Sheila’s peppermint gum did little to anchor him. He blinked tears away. This wasn’t really happening, was it? He’d always been so mellow, never startled, never scared. A girl dropping a stack of books behind him wasn’t going to faze him now, was it?
He deepened his breath and closed his eyes, pretending in his mind he was doing an ukemi roll. Gradually, his center wobbled back to where it was supposed to be. There... and he wasn’t going to change a thing. He was going to hold his ground.
––––––––
AIKIDO, EVEN MORE THAN surfing, had been Sean’s center for years now. The Tuesday night class began as always, and everything was going well. The slow-motion demonstration of techniques was controlled and smooth. And yet...
Never before had Sean remembered flinching when he saw a fist fly his way. Never before had he closed his eyes as he moved to the side, blindly grasping the offending limb, hoping for the best. This was an elementary error – something he worked hard to train out of his beginning students – and now he seemed unable to relax and just do.
He moved from couple to couple. Only some partners elicited this reaction from him. The larger, more aggressive ones.
He was relieved when the class ended, dismissing everyone and hastily began folding his hakama.
“Sean-sensei, is everything okay?” Sheila’s soft voice whispered as his black hakama was still splayed open on the mats between them.
His breath stopped for just a bit before he replied. “Why do you ask?”
The girl looked in his eyes with grave concern. “You’re giving off an odd vibe. Like something bad is going on. I’d like to help, if I can.”
He considered her offer with all seriousness. She was able and kind, almost ready for her black belt. Most importantly, she was unlikely to treat him like he was a girl. “Would you like to go out for some pizza?”
They ended up at the same joint where he and Asbjorn shared their first meal together. Sheila was surprisingly easy to talk to. Her soft, gray eyes reflected mirth, sympathy, and sorrow – right on cue, perfectly synchronized with Sean’s narrative.
“So what you’re really saying is that you and Asbjorn don’t respect one another’s personal boundaries.”
Sean picked at the mushroom on his unfinished pizza slice. That would be one way of putting it. He drank some beer.
“Sean-sensei....”
“Sheila.”
“Yes?”
“Just call me Sean. Unless we’re in class. Okay?”
He watched a blush rise in her cheeks. “Okay, then. Sean – ”
“Wait, Sheila. I need to come clean here. I don’t want to lead you on and have you be disappointed later.” Their eyes met. “You aren’t interested in dating me, are you?”
Sheila blushed again. “Oh no, never. I know you’d never date a student. And I have a boyfriend at BU, anyway.” She gave him a radiant smile. “But it’s so nice of you to be upfront about it!”
Sean felt a sigh of relief escape him, ever so quietly, when Sheila brought him up short with a much more serious tone of voice.
“So, Sean. How about you tell me what’s really happened?”
The pub’s low lighting and cavernous booths made him feel sheltered, and the smell of food and beer let him relax, bit by bit, until his story spilled out. One pizza and two pitchers of beer later, Sean’s story was out and he felt drained. Exposed.
“I’m sorry you have to go through all this,” Sheila said in a solemn tone. “I guess as long as the bad guy stays away, you will be all right though, won’t you?”
Sean rotated his beer glass in his hands for a while before he answered. “I’m testifying against those two guys from that alley about two weeks from now, so... I really have no idea what will happen next.”
“When?” She asked.
“December fifteenth.”
“And it’s November 29th,” Sheila mused. “That’s coming up right quick.” She measured him with a shrewd eye. “Are you scared the stalker will find out?”
“A little,” he admitted. “But that’s not the biggest issue. Mostly, I don’t know what to expect, you know? I’ve never been to court before. I got some parking tickets, but I paid those online. This is different. It’s – even though I’m supposed to be one of the good guys, I feel like I will be judged by all these people. Even with the DA’s instructions – and he wants me to just answer his questions, and say nothing else. And the jury will be looking at me, trying to figure out if I’m lying, and in the meanwhile, I’ll feel... exposed, I guess. Naked.” Sean began to gesticulate with a pizza crust. This was a lot to say and a lot to think about.
“But you’ll have people there with you, right? Asbjorn will be there. He is really supportive, isn’t he?”
Sean growled in frustration, his agitated voice rising in pitch. “He was! He was so bloody supportive. I couldn’t stand him treating me like a chick anymore!”
A small smile blossomed on Sheila’s heart-shaped face. “So... you think women are weak, but men are strong?”
He balked. “I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did. I suspect you figure that if I got attacked like you did, I would welcome being hovered over and protected. And you know, to a degree, it would be a real comfort, but after a while it would really piss me off.” She grew quiet, a finger drawing an absentminded pattern on the table.
“Really?” Sean asked.
“Yeah,” Sheila whispered. “I have been where you are, Sean. Women are capable and strong. We have been dealing with this kind of shit since the dawn of time.” She didn’t specify whether “this kind of shit” was being sexually assaulted or overprotected, and Sean bit his tongue in an effort not to ask. Maybe both.
“So your real problem is Asbjorn, then,” Sheila said after a while. “Does he love you?”
“Sean I love you so much, it’d be easier to just die.”
“He said he does.”
“And do you love him?”
Sean remained silent for awhile. “Yeah....” He breathed out, his statement barely audible.
“Did you tell him?”
“Um....” There just never was a good enough time. Sean didn’t want his words to be a mere echo of Asbjorn’s. He wanted to say it his way, yet when presented with an opportunity, a kiss or a caress was so much easier. “I’m not really good with words....”
Sheila drained her glass. “Well, if you feel self-conscious saying it aloud, maybe you could write it down.”
Sean groaned. “A love letter? After yelling at him for treating me like a girl?”
“Love letters were a high art practiced by both men and women. Or you could just text him.”
Sean groaned. The idea had some merit – but so did seeing a dentist. Both were invasive and painful.
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ASBJORN WALKED INTO the pub to forget. Bedtime was coming nigh and he hadn’t been sleeping well. Just one beer.
He ordered his Sam Adams at the bar, leaning into the backrest of his stool to catch a local news report. A sip. The first sip always felt best. It reacquainted him with the effervescent fluid, the high aromatic taste of Cascade hops tingling his palate with their citrusy essence. Then came the slightly bitter, malty aftertaste. Asbjorn closed his eyes. He could savor this moment. Uncomplicated. Alone. Free.
A familiar laugh made his heart skip as it teased his ear. He turned his head, incredulous. Sean sat across the table from a nicely built girl. Their eyes met as they laughed. The girl grabbed Sean’s cell phone.
She messed with it for a while. “Here. Now you have my number. You will call, right?”
“Right.”
“Promise!”
“I promise.” A smile lit up Sean’s face, the halo of sun-kissed hair surrounding his face bringing out the warmth of his deep cocoa-brown eyes.
The girl’s phone beeped and she checked the text message. “My ride is here! I have to go now.”
“Thanks, Sheila.”
She beamed at him. “Don’t forget your promise.”
Asbjorn took another swig of his beer. Its flavor profile was suddenly somehow bitter. He couldn’t believe Sean would replace him so fast. He could see Sean sitting in his booth alone now, all starry-eyed, undoubtedly thinking romantic thoughts. He saw him push his plate aside, pull a notebook out of his backpack, and start writing.
Asbjorn felt his fists tighten as jealous rage welled up within him. He could barely breathe. Sean could have at least said something – anything. The embarrassment of being arrested, which seemed to have receded with Asbjorn’s fading bruises, reasserted itself and tore through his sense of self like a bullet through virgin flesh. He couldn’t stand it anymore.
The beer sat on the counter, unfinished.
He swung the door open and felt the brisk November air hit his face, the briny ocean scent riding high that night. It was laden with nostalgia.
Drawn by the familiar smell, he headed down toward Memorial Drive, toward the river. He’d follow the river out toward the harbor, away from the pristine college environment, away from anything that could possibly remind him of his... love.
Love denied.
His sunshine would warm him no more. The days would be cloudy till the end of time, and the term of endearment itself dimmed, losing all of its previous luster and warmth.
He tightened his fists as he neared a row of bars on the waterfront. These weren’t fancy places. The smell of spilled liquor and vomit greeted him, announcing the harbor dive for what it was. Cheap harbor dives were the same the world over. He entered the poorly lit space and grinned at the sight of beat-up wooden furniture. Men drank, and drank hard. A game of darts was going on in the back.
Asbjorn ordered whiskey. He ran his hand through his short hair and smiled. Silently he offered words of apology to Tiger.
You said never to fight without a reason, Tiger-sensei.
I have a reason now.
A selfish reason.
An angry reason.
I promise not to start the fight.
I promise not to inflict permanent harm.
Five bars later, he stumbled back two steps, his breath heavy with drink and his knuckles swollen and raw. His back and sides ached, and last week’s fading bruises gleamed with renewed vigor. He’d have a shiner on his left cheek by morning.
And oh, he felt so much better.
He might even fall asleep tonight.
“Anybody else?”
Two dark figures peeled off the stools in the back of the room. About the same height, the two men approached him, entering the small circle of light on the scuffed dance floor.
“Hey, isn’t it my turn to buy you a drink?” The broader of the two removed his baseball cap, letting his pale hair gleam under the lights. His partner grinned, running his hand through rowdy black spikes.
The sight of the two always made Asbjorn smile. “Don. Adrian.” He nodded toward them.
“C’mon, Lund. We’ve been trailing you through three bars already. Won’t you ever sit still so we can catch up on the good ole days?”
Fifteen minutes later, they were settled inside an aged aluminum-construction diner with twenty-four-hour breakfast service. Way past their bedtimes, they were all running on trucker coffee and adrenaline.
“So where does this put you now, you think?” Adrian’s question was mild, noncommittal.
Asbjorn poked at his potato hash. “I dunno. I guess I put him in a bad situation, and he decided it’s easier to just dump me.”
Don spooned some more sugar into his coffee and stirred, his visage troubled. “You sound like everything’s your fault.”
“It is.”
“How?”
“He took care of me after our fight, and eventually I told him to leave. Had I not done that, he’d have been at my place and nothing would have happened. And then, I keep trying to fix it and it’s not working, y’know? Nothing seems to help. He just... he pushes me away.”
“Not all the time, surely.”
Asbjorn paused for thought. No, not all the time. “I drove him away.” He poked the potato some more. “The worst part’s that he and that girl looked pretty good together.”
The other two men maintained expectant silence.
“He pushes me away a lot. Like he doesn’t want any help. But he still sleeps with his light on, y’know? He’s trying to act like he’s okay, but he’s not. I know what he was like before this, and I know what he’s like now, and he just won’t let me help. I just... I just don’t understand.”
Adrian and Don exchanged a look.
“Maybe I can talk to Sean.” Adrian said with a faraway look in his eyes. “If I bring it up, he may be more open to suggestions.”
“Why you?” Asbjorn didn’t try to keep a jealous note out of his voice.
Don draped his arm over Adrian’s shoulders. “Adrian works with trauma victims. Mostly minors, but... he’s good.”
“There are new techniques out there to deal with PTSD. Sean doesn’t have to be going through all this shit,” Adrian said, his voice confident. “It’s a lot better than even five years ago.”
Asbjorn met the dark eyes with a glimmer of hope. “Thanks. Whatever I can do to help. Even if it’s staying out of the way. Just let me know.”
Half an hour later, Asbjorn was dragging his fight-weary legs up the stairs. He fumbled the keys out of his pocket and stabbed at the lock with his key a few times. He finally got it in.
Then he saw it.
A piece of mail was stuck between the door and its frame. He grabbed it and stumbled inside, slamming the door behind him. He ripped the envelope open and pulled out a sheet of ordinary white paper folded three times. There was no form of address, no signature. Just words written in precise, somewhat angular handwriting.
Is it so hard for
Lucid dreams to lead me
Over rough terrain
Veering onto true path to
Enter your embrace
Yesterday’s mistakes
Overcome together
Understanding ourselves
“Whatever. Fuckin’ joke.”
Asbjorn slapped the poem – if that counted as a poem – on his dining room table. Same table where he and Sean had their argument.
Sean.
The boiling, jealous rage he’d experienced earlier was gone, lanced, spent. All he felt now was the disorienting, hollow emptiness within, a sense of loss. He rubbed his abused knuckles, welcoming the physical pain. It formed an attachment to the present.
His eyes drifted to the precise letters again. What did this mean? A riddle? A joke? He reread the words, rustling the white sheet of paper in his hands.
Some words sounded promising, such as “embrace.” Or “overcoming mistakes together.” As poetry went, he thought the poem sucked. As though whoever wrote it tried to fit certain words onto particular lines while not being particularly good at it. It reminded him of that code-breaking seminar he attended back in his navy days.
Then he saw it.
The first letter of every line.
I
L
O
V
E
Y
O
U
“I love you.”
He grimaced. A secret admirer? Probably some woman. But who? More importantly, did he care? He sighed, crumpling the paper, ready to throw it away.
Wait. Suppose it was from Sean?
Nah. No way.
But just suppose.
I could pretend it’s from Sean.
His rough hands smoothed the white sheet with their precisely written, well-intentioned words. Whoever wrote it, Asbjorn would hold on to it.
He chose to pretend.
Not bothering to shower or change, he fell on top of his bed. As he drifted off to sleep, the sheet of paper slipped from between his relaxing fingers and a single, wet tear slipped from between his lids.
I will pretend.