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Alex met the love of his life on vacation in Vegas, two steps away from a couple of Vegas showgirls trying to pawn off photos. They were stunning, but Alex knew the scam, and his attention had already strayed beyond them to a man who had dropped his bag, items splaying all over the strip for drunk or high tourists to stoop down and sweep away with. Alex had dropped to his knees in an attempt to help pick everything up before it was too late.
His hand wrapped around a bottle of sunblock stronger than the sun itself, and then he looked up to hand it over, and, well.
Time stopped.
There was music blasting from every direction; the smell of smoke permeated the air and scratched at his throat and lungs, and distantly drunken laughter peeled over the walk way as people walked around them. But all that disappeared beneath the swimming blue of the eyes that met his. Disappeared as his own eyes dipped down and traced the curious ridges of full, plump lips accentuated by a dark beauty mark.
“Oh,” the man breathed.
Alex was stone cold sober.
They’d been in Vegas all of an hour, had barely just swooped out of the hotel to explore the strip, and he knew that the rest of the trip would be eclipsed by this moment. By this man.
“Hi.”
The corner of that plush mouth curled up. “Hi.”
His name was Henry.
His name was Henry and before the sun rose on their last day in Vegas, Alex kissed an I do into those plush lips in front of the worst Vegas impersonator they could have possibly stumbled upon, surrounded by their drunken friends.
It was new.
It was reckless.
It was. Well.
It was perfect.
And it was a dream.
Because Henry was going back to London, and Alex was going back to New York, and not even a ring, a promise, or the taste of their kiss could save their marriage.
They tried.
But like most people in Alex’s life, Henry didn’t see the point in fighting for him, and just shy of six months after departing Vegas, and three weeks of the silent treatment, Alex received Henry’s intent to divorce.
Which, fine.
They were doomed from the start.
Everyone realized that the moment they woke up hungover and found the rings on their fingers and the marriage certificate lying on the nightstand by the bed.
That doesn’t change the facts, though.
The fact is it’s been two years and Henry’s still the first name Alex thinks when he wakes; the text thread he reads to fall asleep. The kiss he dreams of on the nights he dreams, and yeah, maybe its pathetic to long for someone who decided he wasn’t worth fighting for, but Alex has always been one to cling to the should-be’s—how the world should be, who he should be, how they should be together still—and no amount of matchmaking or goading from Nora and June is going to change the fact that Henry, wherever the hell he is, and whoever he’s decided is worth it, is the love of Alex’s life.
He’s on a blind date with one of Nora’s perfectly fine coworkers when he sees him.
Gerry’s fine, really. In terms of people Alex has sat across a table from, he’s a solid six on the this could maybe be something scale. And he’s talking about helping kids because he’s a good guy, and Alex goes from hanging on his every word, to completely lost to his existence entirely. Because from the corner of his eye, he spots a head of blond hair haloed by the traffic lights.
His brow furrows, and he turns towards it, thinking, Henry’s— when that head turns, and it’s not just a reminder of Henry.
It is Henry.
Here.
In New York.
Alex blinks.
Glances at his date.
Then back out through the window, where Henry’s waiting to cross the street.
He sets his napkin on his plate, smiles politely at Gerry, who hasn’t stopped talking, and quietly pushes his chair back to stand. “I am so sorry,” He says, standing as Gerry looks up at him wide eyed and confused. “But I have to leave right now.”
“Is everything okay?”
A startled laugh bubbles from the back of alex’s throat, “I don’t even know how to answer that.” He digs into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, grabbing a couple twenties and setting them on the table. “You’ve been amazing.” But you’re not him.
He doesn’t wait for a response. His gaze trails back over to the window just as the streetlight changes, and then Henry’s moving with the crowd, and Alex forgets Gerry entirely to dart out of the restaurant and after him.
If this were a movie, Henry would be gone; disappeared in the crowd, and Alex would pine after his appearance like a heartsick puppy and wonder and wonder and wonder what the hell he’s doing here. And then a chance encounter would bring them back together.
Only this is real life, and Henry’s not from the city, and he’s looking around with wonder in his eyes and Alex catches up to him with ease. Stands a few paces back, his heart racing, his chest heaving, and when he says Henry’s name, it’s barely loud enough to hear over the hustle and bustle of the early evening, but Henry’s shoulders tense all the same.
Henry’s shoulder’s tense, and he turns and they stand there, and it’s like that first moment back in Vegas, when Alex looked up and Henry met his gaze. He can almost feel the weight of the sunblock in his palm, now, can almost feel the blistering heat on his skin. Can taste the nicotine in the air.
“Alex?”
“You look good.”
Henry’s beautiful, of course he is. His hair’s slightly longer, his clothes looser—less like he’s being styled and more like he’s experimenting with style. Like he’s taken control of his life in a way, back in Vegas, he’d been scared to. Starting small and building outward.
He’d blamed their marriage on an act of rebellion, that first morning. Trying to lay claim to his life in reckless demeanor.
Alex had tucked in close to him, and said, “Just because it’s reckless doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
And at the time, that had felt right.
Henry swallows; looks down at his tea. “As do you.”
“You don’t have to act like we’re strangers,” Alex says, scooting his chair in closer to the table. He sets his hand on the top, next to his coffee, index finger and thumb pinching together nervously.
Henry looks back up at him. “Don’t I?”
Alex tilts his head. “Why?” He asks. “Because you ghosted and divorced me?” He shrugs a shoulder as Henry grimaces and drops his gaze back down to the table. “Would I have chased after you if I wanted that?”
Henry’s brow furrows, and he looks back up. “Why did you chase after me?”
Alex shrugs again, picking up his coffee. “Because you’re Henry,” he says. “And I’m Alex.” He takes a sip, sets the cup down, and gives Henry a steady look. “And you’re here.”
“I’m not here for you.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I’m not under any misconceptions here, Henry,” He says, softly. “You divorced me. I know where we stand.”
“Then why are we—”
“I didn’t divorce you.” He smiles tightly, let’s the weight of that shift over them for a moment, before leaning back in his chair. “So. Tell me about life. What have you been up to? What are you doing in New York? Catch me up.”
Henry hesitates.
And then, “My gran died.”
Alex sits up straighter; grins. “Congratulations.”
Henry takes a big, deep breath that raises his chest, and then he nods, the small pinch at the corner of his mouth evening out with a small smile. Quiet, respectful celebration. Which is more than the old bitch deserves, if half of what Henry told him is the crux of how she treated the people she was meant to love.
“Thank you.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes, and then Alex clears his throat, and asks.
“Why New York?”
Henry’s brow furrows again, and his gaze drags down to the tabletop, his fingers fiddling with the side of his cup. He seems to think about his answer for a long moment, before glancing back up, and smiling. “Why not?”
Alex’s back slams into the back of his door as soon as he’s closed it; hot breath coasts along the line of his jaw, and those perfect, plush lips send shivers down his spine as they connect with the sensitive skin on the underside of his jaw. His fingers clutch at expensive fabric, as strong fingers dig into his hip.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” Henry says.
Alex tosses his head back, brings one hand up and buries it in Henry’s hair. “I was about to say the same thing,” he replies, breathless.
Henry pauses; pulls back to look at him. “No, you weren’t.”
“What are you?” Alex asks, tugging him back in. “A mind reader?”
“Of the most skilled variety.”
“If that were the case, you’d shut up and kiss me.”
Henry huffs a breath, but does as he’s told.
Henry’s gone in the morning.
Alex wants to be surprised. Wants to pretend that sweeping his arm over the cold side of the bed is surprising; that he expected to find Henry there, watching him sleep.
He’s not, though.
He is, however, surprised to find a crumpled receipt seemingly rescued from the garbage lying on the pillow. He picks it up; flips it over.
There’s a number scrawled across the back.
how early did u leave
ur side is cold
I don’t have a side.
Oh?
It was a one time thing. For old time’s sake.
is that why u gave me ur new #?
is that why ur texting me back?
It felt wrong to leave without a goodbye.
thats new
Alex.
U kno where i live
If you want a warm bed
A warm body
While ur in town
I won’t.
ok
I mean it.
ok
Alex.
Have a good day, henry
It should ward him off.
Being wanted but not being wanted.
But when Henry knocks on his door two days later, all Alex feels is relief.
It becomes a thing.
He doesn’t know how long Henry’s in town and he doesn’t care, not as long as they get these moments; kisses on the staircase leading up to his apartment; blowjobs in various places—against the back of his door; the shower; the couch; everywhere he imagined when he woke up and found the ring on his finger and even places he couldn’t have possibly, like the kitchen counter; up against the fridge; the balcony at two in the morning when the world’s gone quiet, and the stars peek out from behind the clouds and city smog—quiet conversations in the dark of night, pieces of Henry’s life slowly unveiling themselves as Henry gets comfortable with their situation.
Henry’s going to leave him again and it’s going to hurt like hell.
But that’s a road he’ll cross when he crosses it.
For now, denial.
For now, Henry’s skin beneath his fingers; his hair woven between them; his lips around them; his tongue sweeping over them.
For now, Henry.
Henry, Henry, Henry.
Alex will worry about himself when it’s over.
“Who are you texting?”
“Nobody.”
June scoffs. “All day every day, lately, you’re on your phone. I know it’s not Gerry. Nora says he’s been wondering what he did wrong for weeks.”
Alex grimaces. Sets his phone down. But doesn’t reply.
She’ll be furious if he tells her.
Might try and make him see sense. After all, she and Nora were the ones who had to help him pick up the pieces when the divorce finalized. Of which, there were many. Some days he thinks he still finds them in strange places around his apartment; wrapped up in a swimsuit that was at the back of his dresser; tucked in an old pair of shoes that haven’t seen the light of day in years; in his nightstand, a piece of gold tumbling from between a wrapped up handkerchief.
That last one’s on him. He should’ve remembered where he put the ring.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“So you lie to me, now?”
He sighs. Looks to the ceiling.
“Henry’s in town.”
A breath hisses out between her teeth. “And?”
“We’ve been talking.”
“Alex.”
“It’s fine.”
“Is it?”
He shrugs. “It has to be.”
She stares at him for a long moment. Sighs. “You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do, just—” She reaches out and settles her hand over his. “Don’t let him break your heart again?”
He rolls his eyes at her. “It’s not like that.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
It’s fine.
“How much longer do we have?”
Henry hums thoughtfully, his hand tracing a shape over Alex’s bare chest, right above his heart, which feels symbolic in all the ways he shouldn’t let it. “I’d say a couple hours.”
Alex swallows. Squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t mean tonight.”
“Oh?”
Carefully, he unwinds himself from Henry and pushes himself up against the headboard. Takes a deep, steadying breath, and then forces himself to look at him. “When are you going home?”
Henry blinks. “I was under the impression you’d like me to stay the night.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
Henry looks at him long and hard. Seems to make a decision, and then says, softly, “This is home.” His brow furrows, and he tilts his chin up, “New York, I mean.”
“H—”
“I’ve moved here. Permanently.” He clears his throat, looks off to the side of the bed, and then sits up as well, tossing his legs over the side. “My inheritance came through and I bought a brownstone.” He stands, walks five paces and picks up his pants.
Alex blinks; watches him dress himself. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Henry pauses with his shirt in his hands, facing away from him. “Why would I?”
There’s a crack a mile wide in Alex’s chest, but he shrugs; pretends that the glue they used to put him back together is holding strong. “I just thought we had an expiration date.”
Henry shrugs his shirt on. “Don’t we?”
“Why are you getting dressed?” Alex asks, scooting towards the edge of the bed and tucking his legs underneath himself. “I thought you were staying the night.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“You could.”
Henry turns to face him, emotions whirling behind his eyes. “I can’t.”
Feeling small, Alex asks, “Why not?”
“Alex—”
“Don’t go,” Alex says. “You don’t have to go.”
He goes.
Alex stares after him.
Wonders how it all came to this.
Who they were when they met. That’s who he wishes they could be. Two clueless strangers, happy to dive into the connection. The rest of the world damned and nonexistent.
It was just them.
Them and the way they made each other feel.
Now it’s just Alex. Chasing after that feeling.
How long can he keep going on like this? Running after someone who doesn’t want him, who doesn’t need him, who won’t ever love him back.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Maybe—
Maybe he needs to stop running.
Stop chasing.
Let it go.
He ignores Henry’s text.
He’s on a date with a lovely girl, and his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he knows it’s Henry because Henry’s the only one who doesn’t know where he is, and he ignores it in favor of listening to Ramona’s tales of Veterinary woe.
His phone buzzes again.
And again.
And again.
Ramona raises an eyebrow. “Do you need to get that?”
Yes.
“No.”
Buzz me up.
Alex?
Are you all right?
At least tell me you’re okay.
There’s no spark with Ramona. He walks her home; doesn’t kiss her goodnight despite all the signs being there that she’d like one, and then heads home, his head in the clouds and his heart in his throat.
He feels like he’s done something wrong.
Even moreso when he steps up onto his floor and finds Henry sitting by his apartment door, his jacket on the ground beside him, his elbows pressed to his knees, and his temples in hand. When he hears Alex’s footsteps, he looks up—starts to take a deep breath, almost as if he’s relieved, but then his gaze rakes over Alex.
Takes in the nice shirt and pants. The just this side of fancy shoes.
Alex squares his shoulders. “What are you doing here?”
Henry’s gaze washes over him again, and then he says, as if deep in thought, “It’s Wednesday.”
“Okay?”
“I always come over on Wednesday.”
Alex blinks. “You haven’t replied to my texts in a week.”
Henry nods.
“Why are you here, Henry?”
Henry sits up. “Why do you think?”
Alex sighs, steps around him and shoves his key into the lock. “Because I’m a good fuck.” He twists the key with a little more force than necessary and looks down at Henry, who’s watching him with the most perplexing mix of emotions on his face. “I’m sorry I didn’t adhere to your schedule, but I had plans.”
“A date?”
“Yes.”
Henry’s brow furrows. “And just like that, you’re done?”
“Just like that?” Alex shoves open his apartment door. “Jesus Christ, Henry.” Henry opens his mouth, and Alex shakes his head. “ You divorced me.”
“I thought we’d moved past that—”
Alex thinks of his dad; of the quiet way they’d moved past him leaving them. Alex thinks of his mom and the way her absences always went unmentioned. Alex thinks of his heartbreak, each and every time, and how nobody ever once wonders if maybe they’ve hurt him. Alex thinks of burying it, and burying it, and burying it, and he thinks of the glue and those featherlight seams in his heart, and he thinks maybe, it’s enough.
He thinks maybe it’s finally shattered beneath the weight of all of it.
It doesn’t matter how much love he has to give.
It’s never his to have.
“ I love you,” He says, fiercely, his knuckles white where they’re holding his keys. “But I can’t keep waiting around for you to decide to love me back. This,” he motions between the two of them with the keys, “Is done. I’m done. I can’t—I can’t fucking do this anymore.”
Henry blinks up at him. “You chased me down,” he says, softly, as if in disbelief. As if it’s surprising that Alex has feelings at all. “This was all your idea.”
“And so is my ending it.” He nods once, perfunctory. “I thought if I showed you what we could be that one day you’d accept it. That you’d—fuck, want me. But you were right. We had Vegas.” He nods again, mostly for himself. “We can keep Vegas. The rest of it is collateral damage.”
Henry moves to stand. “The rest of it?”
Alex shrugs. “My heart. Whatever’s left of it.” He smiles tightly, and then steps into his apartment while Henry processes that. And then, without looking back, he quietly closes the door behind himself and falls against it, taking a deep breath.
He won’t cry.
He won’t .
He opens his door to find a bottle of vodka, a worried sister, and a fuming best friend.
He blinks wearily at them.
“Are you going to say I told you so?”
Nora pushes into the apartment; June pats his arm.
“Only when you’re good and drunk,” she says.
He nods, mostly to himself, and closes the door behind them. “Fair enough.”
When he wakes, the apartment is quiet. His head’s pounding and the smell of coffee is the only thing that keeps him from burying his face back in his pillow and yelling for his sister to leave. He sits up; listens to the footsteps coming down the hallway. Prepares himself for a lecture; even thought its half past noon and his head feels as if it’s been hit with an anvil, he knows one’s coming.
Only when his bedroom door opens, it’s not June, and it’s not Nora.
Henry stands there tentatively, a cup of coffee clutched in his hands. He swallows; his gaze flits around the room, before finally settling on Alex and staying.
Alex blinks at him. “Am I still drunk?”
“I should hope not,” Henry says, his voice hoarse.
“Where are—”
“They left.”
“Why?”
“I asked them to.”
“Why?”
“We need to talk.”
Alex sighs, shaking his head, “I really don’t think—”
“Yes,” Henry interrupts. “That’s the problem.”
He rears back. “Excuse me?”
Henry steps forward, holds the mug out for him. “Drink your coffee,” he says. “Take a shower. We’ll talk when you’re awake.”
“I’m awake now.”
“Alex—”
Alex stands up. “What the fuck do you want with me?” He asks. “You marry me, you ghost me, you divorce me. You come to my city. You fuck me. But you don’t want me. Why?” He steps in closer to him, glares up at him. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Henry’s gaze softens. “Who said you were the problem?” He asks, quietly. Almost resigned. He inhales, reaching out and gently pressing the mug into Alex’s palm. “Drink,” he says. “Shower. Then, we’ll talk.”
And before Alex can even ask what the fuck that ’s supposed to mean, Henry’s turning on his heel and disappearing down the hall. The mug is warm in Alex’s hands; he doesn’t know if it’s from the warmth of Henry’s grip, or if the coffee’s just that hot, but he stares down at it so long that whatever heat causes it slips away.
He sets the mug on his dresser and follows after him.
Henry’s sitting on the couch, hunched over, his hands buried in his hair.
Alex watches him for a moment. And then, carefully, says, “I tell everyone I met the love of my life when I was twenty five.” Henry tenses and then sits up, not turning to look at him. “I tell them that all it took was one look and I was gone. That the rest of my life rewrote itself around his existence.”
Henry’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.
“It’s followed up with the same question, every time. Where is he, they ask me.” He sniffs, wraps his arms around himself, before shrugging ruefully. “I tell them, he was the love of my life, I just wasn’t the love of his.”
Henry shakes his head. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
Henry looks over his shoulder at him. “Alex—”
“Don’t sell me platitudes,” Alex interrupts. “Don’t tell me you loved me in Vegas, don’t—don’t lie to me to make me feel better. You don’t have to love me. You—”
“But I do,” Henry says, turning on the couch and nodding. “I do love you.”
Alex closes his eyes; shakes his head. “No, you don’t.”
Footsteps sound as Henry stands from the couch and makes his way around it. “I understand why you don’t believe me,” He says. “I’ve done such a shit job of proving it. Divorcing you, running from you, fighting it at every turn. The question was never if I loved you, though, Alex, it was always the question of what would happen when you realized I wasn’t what you wanted.”
Alex blinks; frowns. “What—”
“I divorced you because you deserved better than to wait around for the likes of me. I divorced you because I didn’t deserve you. I divorced you because I couldn’t bear to watch you fall out of love with me over time and distance. I figured if I let you go then it’d hurt less.”
Alex swallows. “And did it?”
“Christ,” Henry hisses, stepping in. “No.” His eyes are wide and wet, his jaw clicking side to side. “I’m not here on a bloody whim. I didn’t actually think we’d find each other again, I just thought that being in the same city as you might bring me some peace. Knowing you were near might ease the ache. And then the same week I arrive, there you are, staring at me across the sidewalk, and it’s like no time at all has passed.” He swallows. “But it had. It had, and I’d divorced you and I couldn’t have you, so I . . . took what I could. Coveted what felt allowed.”
“I gave you every opportunity—”
“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“I—I could taste your heartache,” He whispers. “I’d never once considered that you’d get hurt in it all. And then there it was, evident in your every touch, your every word and breath and I just—couldn’t face it. Because then it’d mean something awful.”
“What?”
“That I broke your heart. That I broke your heart, and I could never fix it, because we would never be the same.” He takes a shaky breath. “I buried it in denial, and then the other night you put it all out there, and there was no denying it anymore. But,” He swallows, takes a hesitant step towards Alex. “You said you love me. Not in the past, not in a memory. Presently. You love me. And I—couldn’t quite believe that.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“I’d imagine for similar reasons to why you believed you were the problem.”
Alex stares at him for a long moment, before swallowing and looking out towards the window. “Where do we go from here?”
“From here?” Henry asks, coarse. “I’ll go wherever you lead. Wherever you’ll have me. If you want me to leave and to never speak to me again, so be it. I’ll go. But if you like, we can . . . start over.”
“Start over.”
Henry nods. “Two strangers hunched over a bottle of sunblock.”
Alex sniffs, reaching up to wipe at his nose, and suggests, “SPF eight thousand?”
Henry wrinkles his nose. “Better go for ten. I am English.”
It startles a little laugh out of him. “That you are.”
“Emotionally stunted and all,” Henry adds, something akin to hope dancing across his face. “But I’m working on it.”
Alex swallows. “Do I have to pretend I’m not in love with you?”
“If . . . you want to.”
“And if I don’t?”
Henry exhales shakily and shrugs helplessly. “Even now?”
Alex smiles wryly, shrugging as well. “You could divorce me a second time and it wouldn’t make me love you any less.”
Henry shakes his head. “I wouldn’t,” he says, softly.
“No?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He swallows again and looks to the clock, then to Henry. “We could start with lunch?”
“Lunch?”
Alex nods. “The meal between breakfast and dinner? Usually eaten around this time?”
“I know what lunch is.”
“Then . . .?”
“You would forgive me?” He asks, hesitant. “So easily?”
“Would you rather I hold a grudge and make you work for it?” Henry grimaces, and Alex nods. “I didn’t think so. We’ve wasted so much time already. Why waste more?”
Henry’s eyes fill with tears. “I don’t deserve you.”
“I could write a list of reasons why that’s not true.” He steps towards him. “And I will. But for now, I’m going to shower, and then we’re going to get lunch, and then,” He shrugs. “I don’t know what comes after that. We’ll take it as it comes.”
He reaches out for Henry’s hand; takes in the difference in skin tone and the size and shape of their hands. Two entirely mismatched pieces that fit in perfect harmony. Slot together like they were made for one another.
“Does that work for you?”
Henry’s gaze is caught on their hands, too, but when he looks up, it’s like that first day in Vegas; bright blue eyes gleaming with possibility meet Alex’s with valiant promise.
“I suppose that’ll do.”
It's not perfect, not right away. There are speed bumps and therapy and personal issues to work through.
But one thing remains true.
Alex met the love of his life while on vacation in Vegas, two steps away from a couple of Vegas showgirls trying to pawn off photos. Time stopped, the world reset, and every day he finds the statement more and more true. Maybe it's destiny, maybe it's fate, maybe it's just the two of them choosing to follow their hearts and making that choice over and over and over until there's no more time to keep making it.
Whatever it is, it's right. And so are they.