“What do you mean?” It was hard to follow Dylan when Apollo’s insides were busy crumbling to ash.
“I mean, I want you to choose me for me. Not because I’m good with the girls. Not because I fit in your spare room or your spare time. Not because there’s a hole in your life and I help you forget that for a few hours, but for me. I want you to see me and choose me, and I’m going to hold out for that.”
“Don’t.” Apollo had to force the word out, force himself to speak the necessary words. Just like on a mission. Do the thing. Don’t think about the thing. Do it because it’s required and the world doesn’t give a fuck how badly it hurts you to do it. “Don’t wait. I’m not going to be able to give you that. Not now, not—”
Dylan held up a hand. “You don’t get to decide how long I wait. Sorry, but you really don’t. And I never said I was waiting forever. Just that I’m going to be the friend I should have been to you all along and give you space to figure stuff out. And I’m still going to be around, still going to be here for the girls and for you, but after your mom is settled back in, I’m going to go stay with Allie. We both need space.”
Apollo nodded because he couldn’t argue with how damn reasonable Dylan was being, not when part of him wanted Dylan to be unreasonable, wanted Dylan to beg and plead with him to...what? What good would that serve anyone? Apollo going through the motions? A secret affair they already knew was doomed? No, no good could come of anything other than being reasonable and nodding along with Dylan. “Of course. We wouldn’t want to accidentally—”
“Accidentally fall into bed naked one night?” Dylan laughed. “Absolutely not. And maybe...”
“Maybe what?”
“We are friends, right? And I can tell you things, as a friend right now, not as the guy who wants to bone you or the guy waiting for you, but as a friend?”
“Of course.” Apollo already knew he wasn’t going to like whatever Dylan said next and braced himself, leaning against the counter.
“You need help. Like a grief counselor. Something like that. Someone to talk to, because God knows you’re not doing it with me or any of your other friends. You need to find a way forward or else you’re going to keep bottling it up until it spews out in ugly ways like it did on Sunday. If not for you, do it for the girls.”
“I know I acted badly. I did. And yeah, I’m overprotective, but I don’t need counseling.”
“It’s not a dirty word.” Dylan shook his head sadly. “And I knew you’d shoot the idea down, but you’ve got to get beyond this...this shrine you’ve built for what you used to have.”
“That’s not fair.” Apollo’s back stiffened, hands clenching against the counter. “You don’t understand, and honestly, I hope to God you never do. I don’t want anyone to understand.”
“No, you don’t want to let anyone understand. There’s a difference.” Dylan, seemingly uncowed by Apollo’s anger, patted his arm. “And I’m not saying you have to let him go now. Or next week. Or anytime before you’re truly ready, but at some point, Apollo, you have to live.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” Apollo growled at him. “I breathe in and out, even when I don’t want to, even when it seems so damn unfair that I get to. I take care of the girls—”
“That’s not living. That’s existing. And I want you to know the difference.” Dylan ghosted a kiss across Apollo’s cheek before retreating.
I do know. I live when I’m with you. Apollo couldn’t say that, couldn’t even bear to think it because it felt so profoundly disloyal. Felt wrong to have let Dylan pierce the veil of his misery, even for a little while. And because he couldn’t speak, he had no reply when Dylan said, “I’ve probably said enough. I’m going to go check on the girls.”
He left Apollo alone with his churning thoughts. I’m going to wait for you. Jesus. Who in the hell had asked Dylan for that? And what was Apollo supposed to do with the part of him that thrilled at the knowledge that Dylan wasn’t giving up on him completely, the part of him that wanted Dylan to wait, the selfish bastard part of himself that wanted to follow Dylan upstairs, beg for exactly what Dylan didn’t want—tonight and only tonight.
But Apollo had no answers for any of that and stayed firmly rooted to his spot in the kitchen, wrapping his grief and his anger around himself like a shroud, one that could protect him from how awful it felt, listening to Dylan’s footsteps on the stairs, knowing Dylan was hoping for something he wasn’t capable of.