Top Shelf: A Seacroft Novel Read online

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Where has he been? Huh? All these years? Since you’re so tight now, maybe you can tell me. In fact, since you seem to get along so well, why don’t you just forget about me? You’re not really Oliver’s type—he likes them to wear Gucci and bring a trust fund to the table—but maybe his good Samaritan act will extend to a pity fuck to massage his ego.”

  As Seb hurled words at him, Martin’s shoulders slumped. The tiniest voice in the very back of his head said he needed to stop, but the fire was consuming him. He’d never known how to back down from an argument, and it was too late to learn now. His insides blackened like everything else in his life. He ignored the defeat rising in Martin’s eyes. Why shouldn’t Seb torch what had sparked to life between them? Martin had gone behind his back and, in the end, maybe fit better with Seb’s family than he ever had.

  “What are you saying?” Martin’s voice was small.

  “You can’t help me!” Seb’s voice echoed in the fading light of the street. “And neither can Ollie! And I don’t want your pity or your judgement. So go jerk each other off and pat yourselves on the back that you escaped before I dragged you down and ruined your life.”

  “We don’t—Seb, you don’t mean that.”

  Seb was done talking. Pain bracketed the edges of Martin’s mouth, and it was time to leave. Seb grabbed his bag off the ground and spun.

  “Where are you going to go?” Martin called from behind him.

  Seb didn’t answer, and there was no indication that Martin was following him. He stalked down the street as his guts smoldered and went to ash, leaving his life trailing behind him.

  23

  The sucking loss at the sight of Seb’s retreating back threatened to pull Martin under. Only Penny, standing anxiously on the steps when he returned to the house, gave him something to focus on and stay afloat.

  Brian returned from work to find the two of them in the kitchen, Seb’s untouched meal still on the table.

  “He’ll come back,” Brian said. But he hadn’t seen the look on Seb’s face, or felt the wrenching pain of every word and accusation flung at Martin. Grief and rage twisted Seb into someone Martin didn’t recognize.

  Had he made a mistake in talking to Oliver? Or had admitting to it been the problem? If he’d said nothing and waited for Oliver to show up unannounced in the morning, would Seb have reacted any better?

  He rolled, missing the nearness of Seb’s body in the bed. The last few nights, it had been as if they were tethered together, with Martin holding Seb to the world while he mourned silently. Before that, something else pulled them together. Need and lust, yes, but Seb had been so careful, kind even. Martin wanted that back. Not just the sex, but the sense of connection, like someone finally cared about him after months of drowning in depression and the endless loneliness brought with it.

  Brian watched him while they ate breakfast. Martin had to reassure him he would be fine before his brother finally agreed to go to work. He told Martin repeatedly to call if he needed anything, reminding him of those first weeks in Seacroft, when Brian treated him like he might break under the slightest pressure. He was better now, though, sturdier. He had to be, in case Seb came back.

  Just before noon, a knock sent his heart off on a runaway train. He raced to answer it, forming apologies and promises as he pulled the door open, and the train skidded off the track.

  It was Oliver.

  He must have seen the crushing disappointment on Martin’s face, because his own smile faded. “He’s not here, is he?” he said.

  Martin didn’t have to ask who he meant. “I don’t know where he is.”

  They drove downtown, because Oliver wanted to see the bookstore. The area was cordoned off, and several dumpsters had been placed on the street. Crews were loading heaps of old material into them with shovels.

  “Holy shit,” Oliver said.

  “More or less.”

  They parked and went to the diner, because Martin couldn’t bear the idea of going back to Brian’s. Carol Anne and Penny were both there and made a big fuss when Martin introduced her to Oliver.

  “Sit! Sit!” Penny shuffled them to a table near the cash. “Do you want something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Are you hungry? We’re trying a new coconut crusted catfish this week. I’ll get you some. On the house.”

  “She’s very friendly,” Oliver said when they were alone again.

  Carol Anne appeared with water and a basket of rolls, then pulled up a seat. “How’s Seb?”

  Martin shook his head, and her eyes widened.

  “I’ll find him.” Oliver gave her a confident smile. It hurt that Oliver was saying it, because Martin didn’t even know where to start. A sense of failure was sinking in. From the moment they’d come back to town, he’d wanted to help Seb so badly, and now he was left to powerlessly wait.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “He hardly spoke for two days, and then I mentioned that you’d called and it was like raising him from the dead.”

  “I probably should have warned you not to say anything. He—We—It’s complicated. I could blame it on fiery artistic sensibilities, but that wouldn’t be fair. We never made it easy on him.”

  “I saw you all at dinner. I don’t think any of you know how to make it easy for yourselves.”

  Oliver wiped a crumb from his chin. “That’s somewhat true. It’s especially tough when Seb and my dad are in the same room. They’ve never understood one another. And then a few years ago there was this fight. Seb came to the house for my dad’s retirement party. He brought a guy with him, someone we’d never heard of. Seb didn’t even seem to know him very well. He might have found him on Grindr right before he drove up. Dad could tell it was a stunt, and he started picking on Seb. He never could resist pushing Seb’s buttons, but once Seb was old enough to push Dad’s back, it always ended in a shouting match. I don’t remember all of that last one, but Seb called Dad a bigoted snob, and Dad said he didn’t need a fag flaunting his lifestyle under the family roof, and . . . ” Oliver shrugged.

  “He didn’t tell me.” The anguish on Seb’s face at the thought his family might come to see him in Seacroft suddenly made more sense.

  “For all his bluster, Seb’s a really private person. He doesn’t trust easily, and he’ll strike first if he thinks someone’s trying to hurt him.”

  “First blood,” Martin said, and Oliver nodded.

  “He’s learned to hide most of his insecurities under mountains of cynicism. You could drill for years and never strike oil with him.”

  None of that made Martin feel better. The contrast of Seb, swaggering through the shop like king of the world, and the shrunken figure he’d become in the last few days played over and over in his head. “I could have helped.”

  Oliver’s smile was kind. “If he was going to let anyone help, I think it would have been you. He’s different with you. I don’t know him as well as I probably should, but I could see the way he looked at you this weekend. There was care there. He wanted to make sure you were okay, even when he couldn’t stop stoking the shit show that is our family. He cares about you, trust me on that.”

  Martin’s throat hurt the longer Oliver spoke. He’d like to believe that Seb cared about him, but . . .

  “He left.”

  “He’s hurting, and he doesn’t know what to do with everything he’s feeling. He’s been putting distance between himself and the people and situations that hurt him for years, so that’s his go-to response.” Oliver put a hand on Martin’s arm. “You haven’t done anything wrong. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”

  Martin wished he could believe him.

  * * *

  Seb wasn’t sure how they got to the loft door. Kenneth was a hundred and eighty pounds of nearly dead, intoxicated weight draped across his shoulders.

  “This isn’t my apartment,” Kenneth slurred as Seb propped him up against the wall and fished through his pockets for keys.

  “It t
otally is. Don’t be an asshole.”

  “But I don’t want to be at my apartment. I want to be at Anton’s apartment.” He hiccupped, and Seb had to move fast as Kenneth slumped toward the floor. But his dismay over not being in his fuckboy du jour’s bed vanished as Seb ran his hands over Kenneth’s clothes and then in the other places he might have stashed a key.

  Giggling, he pulled Seb closer, nuzzling at his neck. “You’re pretty.” His breath smelled like the fruity vodka drinks he’d spent all night drinking at the club. “You’ve always been so pretty.”

  “Get off me!” Seb found the single key, deep in the front pocket of the skintight jeans Kenneth had poured himself into, and shoved him away. Cursing, he fumbled until he managed to get the lock open and swung the door wide.

  “We should go to Pete’s Gate! Anton always goes there after the other bars close. We could still catch up to him. He’d like you, trust me.”

  “Shut up and get inside.” Seb ground his teeth as the last of his patience wilted.

  Clubbing had been Kenneth’s idea, and Seb should have seen it for the mistake it was from the outset. But he’d been tired and numb, and letting someone else make plans and decisions had been a relief, so he hadn’t given it much thought.

  Kenneth spotted Anton almost from the moment they arrived and proceeded to drink himself under the table while rambling on about how much he missed him and what he would do to win Anton back. Of course, he’d done none of those things, and Seb finally found him nearly passed out in the bathroom shortly before last call.

  And that was how he wound up dragging his oldest so-called friend up to Kenneth’s apartment at dark o’clock without the benefit of a buzz or someone to help him take the edge off through the night.

  Not that he wanted anyone. Certainly not Kenneth, and not one of the guys who had come up to him with a smile on their lips and sex on their minds. The hands on his body when he’d tried to dance felt like fire against his skin, burning trails all the way to his heart which screamed at him to get out. Every face looked the same, and none sparked his interest.

  At night, all cats are gray.

  Seb didn’t want to think about the hands and the body he really needed right now.

  Kenneth was unconscious by the time Seb had him sprawled out on the couch. He poured a glass of water and set it on the coffee table, then headed to the bathroom.

  Steam filled the room as he stripped out of the jeans and T-shirt he’d worn. He was tired, but he stank of booze and the film any bar packed to its fire code capacity left on everyone inside.

  The water was hot enough to scald his skin, and he stood under its spray, head bent, letting it slide the grime off his body, wishing it could take more with it.

  Exhausted and heartsick, he’d arrived at Kenneth’s the day before. Kenneth took one look at him and forced him into bed, despite Seb’s protests that he’d hardly done anything but sleep for days. Kenneth went full-blown mother hen on him, or, as best he could anyway. His cooking skills were limited to heating chicken noodle soup in the microwave and serving it on a tray with saltines. Seb pointed out he was homeless, not sick, but Kenneth didn’t care.

  Seb had still been awake deep into the night, long after Kenneth had fallen asleep in the other room. When he checked his phone, he had streams of missed calls going back days, mostly from Oliver. The one call Martin had answered was a green checkmark amidst the red list. The more recent calls from Martin and Oliver, the ones since he’d left Seacroft, came less and less frequently as the day went on.

  He’d been wrong to insinuate anything going on between Oliver and Martin. He shouldn’t have said it but hadn’t been able to stop himself. They were together now, though, talking about him like a wounded bird that needed care.

  He didn’t need anything from them. He’d never needed anything from anyone but himself.

  There had been voicemails too, but Seb didn’t bother to listen to them or the cold comfort they offered.

  He’d finally fallen asleep as the sun was rising, which meant it was late in the afternoon when Kenneth ripped the blanket off him and told him to get his ass out of bed. “Come on, princess. Moping won’t help. We’re going out.”

  “Out” meant drinks, then dinner, then more drinks, then dancing. Seb enjoyed himself at first, but the longer he let Kenneth drag him from one bar to the next, the more he wanted to go home, wherever that was.

  Now, back in Kenneth’s apartment, he shut the water off in the shower. The bathroom was warm and steamy as he stepped out and dried himself. His hands on his body made him think of Martin’s hands doing the same thing in his parents’ guest room bath. He blocked out the ache from the memory of Martin’s lips on his skin.

  Kenneth was still snoring on the couch, so Seb left him there and let himself into the spare bedroom. He slipped into clean briefs and lay down, even though he knew sleep would escape him.

  On his night stand, the phone flashed with a text message from Oliver.

  Call me.

  He stared at it, chewing his lip, then finally flipped through screens until he got to his voicemail.

  “You have three new messages,” the automated greeting said.

  “Seb?” Martin’s voice was breathless, and the flutter of wind over the receiver said he was outside. He might have left this message minutes after Seb had walked away from him. “Seb, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have talked to Oliver. But you wouldn’t talk to me. Please come back.”

  Seb deleted the voicemail. The next one played.

  “Hi, it’s Martin again. It’s morning, and you’re not—Oliver is still coming today. I know he wants to talk to you. We could meet you at the diner if you—I don’t know. Call me if you can.”

  Seb stared at the ceiling as he listened to Martin’s sad voice, and regret pricked at his skin. Martin didn’t deserve this; he only wanted to help. It was better that Seb had left before Martin was consumed by the disaster Seb left in his wake.

  The third message was from Oliver and came in while Seb was out with Kenneth.

  “Hey, it’s Ollie. I came to see you, and you weren’t there. I saw Martin, though. You were an ass to him, I hope you know that. I also know you’re hiding out at Kenneth’s. If that’s what you have to do, that’s fine, but call Martin and tell him where you are. He’s worried, and for whatever reason, he cares about your dramatic ass. You can give me the silent treatment, but he deserves more than that. I’ll come down there to drag you back to Seacroft if I have to, and then—”

  Seb deleted the rest of it.

  He thumbed back to his texts and hit reply to Oliver’s last message.

  I’m fine. Don’t call me again.

  He flipped through a few more contacts until he found Martin’s and hesitated. He wanted to send the same message, but he owed Martin more. Or less. If he said nothing, Martin would get on with his life.

  He’s worried, and for whatever reason, he cares about your dramatic ass.

  No one had cared in a long time. The realization hurt. Oliver might, but overcoming decades of sibling squabbling and family baggage was hard. Kenneth cared, but only when and how it suited him.

  Martin, though . . . Seb could still feel the warm press of Martin’s leg against his thigh, trying to warn him off as he launched himself toward making a spectacle over a family dinner. He could see Martin’s eyes reaching for him across a crowd as Martin stammered his way through a welcome speech meant for the community and delivered entirely to Seb, like he was some kind of lifeline.

  Martin cared, but he’d settled his hope on the wrong person.

  I’m not who you think I am.

  He sent the message before he could second guess himself.

  24

  I’m not who you think I am.

  It had been days and that was the only response Martin received. He didn’t even know what it meant. He’d called Seb’s phone twice and texted more than that, but there was nothing else.

  I’m not who you think I am.
<
br />   He’d spoken to Oliver, who had been vague and said Seb was fine, but he wasn’t ready to talk or come back yet.

  A week after the fire, Martin ran into Cassidy outside the diner.

  “Where have you been?” She clutched at his jacket. “I tried to change the beginning of my essay. It’s a disaster!”

  Settling into the task was hard. Every time he tried to read what she’d written, or remind her of something they’d talked about, he remembered their last conversation had taken place in the bookstore. He already missed those rainy afternoons in Seb’s apartment, reading quietly while Seb and Cassidy bantered in the background and fashioned new stories out of old books and paper no one wanted anymore.

  “It’s not the same, is it?” Cassidy asked.

  “What?” Martin stared blankly at her laptop screen.

  “This?” She gestured at the bustling diner. Customers and waitstaff flowed around Cassidy and Martin like a rock in a wide river.

  “Do you think the knitting circle would come hang out here?” he said.

  “I bet they would!” Cassidy’s smile didn’t last long before her green eyes turned serious. “Have you heard from Seb?”

  Martin could only shake his head.

  Cassidy misses you. He sent the text as he went to unchain his bike. If Seb wouldn’t reply to him, he might talk to Cassidy. She had known him longer than Martin. Maybe she would be enough to pull him back.

  Helplessness gnawed at him as he rode back to the house. It wasn’t the same weight pressing down on him as it had been through his last days at Mount Garner. Before, he had an unshakable conviction that everything was broken, and he could do nothing about it. Here, he knew what had gone wrong.

  He missed Seb, but all he could do was send text messages into the void.