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PROLOGUE: Chad
One Year Later
I laid the note on the table, struggling to make sense of how I’d gotten here. Clint’s words were like a razor to my heart. One day, I’d had this wonderful thing, the next, my dream of happily ever after was shattered, according to him.
I caught my reflection in a large mirror across the room that was hung above a cute alcohol trolley I’d purchased at a secondhand store. The repurposed piece added hominess to my and Clint’s cute but small off-campus apartment.
Whereas I was still young, I looked tired, worn out. Working on a failing relationship was a slog, and I was currently deteriorating rapidly in my efforts. I felt the urge to curl up on the floor and cry, but part of me had been expecting the news written in Clint’s note.
My eyes scanned our tiny apartment. Every room held a memory of Clint and our time here. To me, the apartment was home. To Clint, it was a place to lay his head at night. He wasn’t the nesting sorta guy, but he did allow me to make it the way I liked. Looking around, I noticed a couple of items that were missing. Small things that he had taken with him. A framed picture of us was one of those items.
“He says he just can’t do it any longer,” I muttered toward my reflection ten feet away. Not surprisingly, the Chad over there looked as stunned as the one sitting here.
I glanced at the sheet of notebook paper and Clint’s horrible penmanship one more time, to verify what I’d just read, I suppose. Each time I looked away, I easily convinced myself his written words weren’t true. But they were definitely his words in his handwriting. Reading them again didn’t make the news any easier.
I’d sensed his leaving, even seen him doing exactly that in constant warning visions. His action had been anticipated by me in an ongoing dream that I’d ignored for four months. But here was the proof lying right in front of me. His words, not mine. They would’ve needed to be his words because I didn’t easily give up on love. Giving up simply wasn’t my nature.
My thoughts returned to the one thing that Clint and I had not been able to get past: his inability to live an authentic life as a gay man. After the shooting, and during his and Lucas’s long recoveries, we’d fallen in love while he recuperated in the hospital. I knew he was new to loving a man and lacked experience with it, but I also knew he’d been infatuated with Lucas for years after seeing him in high school years ago. I mistakenly figured he knew he wanted to be with a man by the time we’d met. I’d been wrong, as it turned out.
* * *
“Don’t do that here,” Clint growled, yanking his hand away from me. “Not in my hometown,” he added, appearing repulsed by my show of affection.
I’d heard this protest before and usually rolled with the punches, never one to take his lack of experience personally. “Okay,” I began. “So, not here. Not at home in Columbia. Basically, not anywhere, Clint. So where exactly can I show my affection for you?” I asked, sighing heavily, staring out of his truck’s window. The balmy weather outside matched my somber mood.
We were on Main Street in Beaufort, South Carolina, his hometown and my adopted one. We’d driven down from Columbia, where we were both attending college, for a visit and to check on the progress of the house he was having built on the beach near our friends Perry and Lucas.
“I just don’t like being an out gay dude around here,” he stated. “Folks don’t take to that too well here.”
We’d just left Lucas’s gas station after a quick hello to him and were heading to go back out to the nearly completed beach house. “You don’t like being out in a liberal college town where we live either,” I whispered, still blindly gazing at the small amount of traffic in sleepy Beaufort. I turned to him, hurt evident in my eyes. “So how do you propose we’ll live as a couple here in the new house?”
“I’m not like you, Chad,” he argued. “I grew up here, for God’s sake.”
“That probably wouldn’t matter if you hadn’t,” I muttered, chewing on my lower lip, disappointed I was hurting and acting like a child.
“Jesus!” he complained. “You’re getting so negative lately.”
His assessment of my behavior didn’t sit well with me. Perhaps he was right, though. I hadn’t felt good about myself, either. The thought of being or acting negatively horrified me. I wasn’t a negative person, and I worried I was becoming just that.
Our relationship was pulling me underwater, and I’d struggled lately to see a reason to continue it. The only thing keeping me there was my need to love us through our difficulties, but one had to realize when it was time to get off a dead horse. Apparently, Clint had taken the pulse of the horse, and our relationship, and was ready to move on before I was.
* * *
My cell phone buzzed, and I noticed an incoming call from Perry Jackson, Lucas’s husband, and a good friend of mine and Clint’s.
“Hey, Perry,” I answered, marveling at how little time had gone by since the breakup before he reached out to me.
“Are you okay?” he asked, getting right to the point.
“You heard already, huh?” I asked, sighing. “How’d you hear so quickly? The ink is barely dry on the note he left.”
“Clint drove down from Columbia and stayed with us last night,” he admitted. “Him showing up with a duffle bag and without you kind of alerted us, buddy. Where are you?”
“In our apartment in Columbia.” Perry said nothing as I held back a need to cry. I composed my voice. “He gave up on me, Perry,” I stated sadly. “I guess I’m too much of a dreamer.”
“No, you aren’t,” he replied. “If anything, you’re too big of a lover. I’m not taking sides here by any means, but Clint doesn’t understand you, Chad. Few can really,” he added.
“You do,” I said. “You always have.”
