Don't Leave Me Here Alone

Chapter Thirteen

The previous night

Ivy found him on the roof of the farmhouse. Riah watched as a taxi dropped him off, the bright headlights illuminating the dark house and sweeping across the yard like search lights. Ivy didn't waste any time. He simply went inside, climbed up into the attic, and out through an attic window to join Riah on the gabled roof. Riah wasn't sure when he had become so well known to Ivy, but he didn't hate the feeling. He stared out at the dark night as he listened to Ivy crawl put of the window and slip a little on the tiles before he pulled himself up with a grunt. There were no clouds, and they were far enough from the city that thousands of stars lit the night. A few stray fireflies, left over from a summer months gone, buzzed around his head. The air tasted of winter, cold and biting.

Riah didn't even try to hide the fact he was crying. He knew Ivy wouldn't have any judgements about it. "Did you know?"

Ivy settled down beside him, stretching his legs out, and shook his head. "He just told us there." He sighed. "Shawn knew. I don't know how much. But he knew some. He helped Adam get the restraining order."

Riah absently tapped a finger on the roof, a habit he'd picked up from Adam years ago. The movement reminded him of the supermarket, of Adam gripping his wrist and being so brave and stoic in front of the wrath of Robert Parrish. Adam hadn't even flinched, though Riah had been able to tell he'd wanted to. Something like pride warmed the cold ache in Riah's chest.

"Fucking good. At least someone had his back."

The tears were still falling. He felt like they might never stop. He'd promised Adam a long time ago that he'd always be there for Adam. And when it truly mattered, he'd failed. He'd let himself get caught up in his own emotions and worries and he'd left Adam alone when Adam had desperately needed him. Riah had downplayed Adam's grief over his dead mother, thinking he wouldn't care as much since she had always been so terrible to him. He'd ignored the bruises Adam sometimes came home with because Adam hadn't wanted to explain. He'd ignored the return of Adam's twitchy little habits that he now knew were borne out of years of trying to protect himself from abuse. He'd ignored Adam's suddenly light sleeping. He'd ignored the way Adam crept around and snuck into the fridge like he was afraid he'd get caught. He'd ignored how touchy Adam had been acting about money, again— something they'd laid to rest years before. He'd ignored it because he hadn't been able to conjure any explanation for the odd behaviour. He'd seen all the signs and he'd simply turned a blind eye to Adam's pain.

"Fucking fuck," he muttered. "What do I do now, Ivy? I can't be mad at him. It wasn't his fucking fault. It would make more sense for him to be mad at me. But..."

Ivy's voice was quiet when he said, "But he still hurt you."

Riah nodded, biting his lip as he did. "I don't know how to let him back in. Not after everything."

"Do you still love him?"

He nodded again.

"Well, look, man," Ivy sighed. "At the end of it all, it's only Adam. You know him better than any of us. You've loved him more than anyone in the world. What is it you want?"

"Him," Riah whispered. "I've only ever wanted him."

Ivy shrugged. "Then it's as simple and as difficult as that."

Riah wasn't sure how to reply. There were too many thoughts pounding against his skull. The lingering pain from the breakup was pumping with each heartbeat, but there was also hope. It was a giddy laugh beneath his skin, intermingled with the aching of his heart.

Adam wanted to try again.

The tapping of his finger seemed to echo off into the silent night. Riah's soul ached for Adam. The past week they'd spent together had ripped open all of the old wounds. Poison seeped from them and laced his blood. Every beat of his heart reminded him of what he'd lost. He'd spent so long not knowing why Adam had ended their relationship. He'd really thought that, once he had the answer, some semblance of peace would come with it. There was none. Just a throbbing regret and a stabbing guilt.