Dalton waited for more, suspended in the moment until Tierney finished.
“I’m totally attracted to you,” he continued in a rush. “So, like, maybe I’m imagining it. Wishful thinking or something . . .”
Sliding fingers up into Tierney’s hair, Dalton found his lips with his own, pressing until Tierney parted them, tilting his head. Kissing him back feverishly, sucking on his tongue. Something thudded to the ground, and then Tierney’s other arm was around him, fingers splayed across Dalton’s back, pulling him in so tightly that Tierney’s shirt buttons pressed into his skin.
Then a horn blared right behind them, and they leapt away from each other. Only a few inches—they were still touching, but not holding on so tightly. Tierney scowled over Dalton’s shoulder at whoever had honked, then refocused on Dalton.
“I don’t understand why,” he rasped. “I’ve been horrible to you.”
Dalton had to be honest. “Sometimes.”
Tierney flinched, backing away a little.
“But sometimes you’ve been sincere and funny, and I get to see the guy you hide behind this personality that, to me, doesn’t seem like yours. As if you borrowed it. It’s that real part of you that I want to—that I’m attracted to.”
Tierney cleared his throat, staring into Dalton’s eyes. Then he removed himself, taking his fingers from Dalton’s waist to run them through his hair and shifting until Dalton’s hands dropped from his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said, biting his lip. “I have a plane to catch.” But he stood there still.
Dalton took a long slow breath in through his nose, holding Tierney’s gaze another second. “I know,” he whispered. Oh God, the ache of unshed tears in his throat was killing him. Soon it would spread into the bones of his face, making his cheeks and skull throb. It was a special kind of pain, reserved for those times when something was too heart wrenching to even cry over. He nodded. “Go.”
Tierney swallowed, bent to pick up his fallen suitcase, then turned and walked away.
This wasn’t how Tierney had imagined adulthood to be when he was a child. He’d naively thought he’d have no one to answer to anymore, but instead it turned out he had to answer to a much higher authority than his grandfather—himself.
Or rather, the self he’d like to be.
It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t as if adolescence had been a picnic. Puberty in particular had been such a cunt. Swooping in and taking over his body, hormones swimming around until he could barely think, and then came the “nocturnal emissions.” The damned dreams, when he’d wake up sweaty and already getting hard again, his body thrumming from the simple idea of Ignacio the lawn boy.
If only Iggy hadn’t mowed the grass shirtless in the summer, Tierney might have lived in denial longer. A few more blissful months, at least, if not another year, until the advent of the next lawn-mowing season.
Would a few more months have made any difference?
Chances were it wouldn’t change where he was now—having just finished his intake interview at Dunthorpe, discussing his course of treatment.
“I think you should go directly into our LGBT holistic treatment program,” Pam, the woman who’d spent hours asking him questions, said. “You show many signs of alcohol dependency, although I wouldn’t go so far as to definitively call it addiction.”
“Damn, and I tried so hard,” Tierney muttered. Pam tilted her head, squinting slightly, but otherwise ignored his lame attempt at humor.
“The program is aimed at our LGBT clients who’ve used drugs or alcohol to cope with the issues of bigotry, repression, and denial. You’d have group therapy, an educational track, and individual counseling sessions.”
“What, there’s, like, a bunch of us here?” Thunk. Every time he admitted to being gay aloud, regardless of the words he used, his heart punctuated the moment by banging on his rib cage. He hadn’t decided if it was a celebration or a protest.
“You aren’t the only one who found coming out difficult,” she said. She was very no-nonsense, although Tierney would have appreciated some nonsense right then. “And yes, one of our features is an LGBT-specific program. There’s quite a bit about it on our website.”
At her inquiring look, he mumbled, “Uh, yeah, I think my sister-in-law did all the research on this place.” Had she told his parents? Did Chase know? Whatever, he had a lot to thank her for. Well, if this worked out he did. Maybe he should thank her anyway, though. “Um, what kind of education?” Would it cover the ins and outs of dating guys? Guys like Dalton?
“About the physical and psychological effects of drugs and alcohol, and your relationship with them. Your therapist will be working on the issue with you as well, I imagine—addiction treatment here is a scientifically based, disease model. It’s not a twelve-step program,” she added when he just stared at her. “It’s a cognitive behavioral therapy approach to dealing with substance abuse.”
He maybe shouldn’t have been so honest about his drinking during his intake screening. But honesty was something he was clinging to like a rock in a river—it was all he had now. Honesty began with complaining. “I thought I didn’t have to partake in any sessions I’m not comfortable with.”
She nodded. “You don’t, but since you’re here voluntarily, I’m assuming you’re asking for help, and I’m attempting to guide you along the path to the recovery you’re looking for.”
That made an annoying amount of sense. “All right.”
He spent the next few minutes listening to Pam’s proposed itinerary for him, interspersed with wondering why the “L” came before the “G.” Maybe lesbians were more politically connected. Once he returned home and took his place in the LGBT community, he’d see what he could do about that.
Home. His heart found that word as alarming as any mention of his new, out status. It also found following Pam through the Dunthorpe Centre—regardless of how posh and serene it was—to his assigned room pulse-racing, not to mention the idea that he was about to commit to a rehab program. Did he really want to? Need to?
Wait. He stopped, suitcase in his hand, watching Pam march down a long, semi-institutional hallway. A very nice, well-monied institutional hallway, but still, it was a hospital. One that treated guys like him with stress-related issues and addictions. What if I just went home?