She swallowed back the tears that were trying to break free and climbed out of bed, a painful smile frozen on her face. She grabbed her jeans and sweater off a chair and tugged them on, her hands trembling so much that she struggled to get her button fastened. “Well, I better get going.”
He propped himself up on his elbow, the sheet sinking low on his hips, and gave her a long look. She took a snapshot in her mind, never wanting to forget the sight of him like this.
What they’d had was short.
But what they’d had was beautiful.
“See ya, Georgia,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers.
Good-bye, Colby.
“See ya.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
December
Colby sat in his living room, staring at one of the Die Hard movies on television. He hadn’t paid enough attention to know what the hell was going on, but the booming sound of things blowing up certainly fit his mood.
He flipped over his cell phone. No calls. Neither Keats nor Georgia had bothered to respond to his invitation to grab dinner together. That seemed to be the case a lot lately. They always had good excuses, but he wasn’t dumb. Everything had changed.
He wasn’t sure exactly how it had happened or what had triggered it, but he’d felt the shift as sure as the cold front that had rolled through overnight. One day, it’d been the three of them, having a good time, falling into this exciting, oddly comfortable relationship. Things were turning around for them all. Colby had his job back. Georgia had made massive progress with her anxiety. And Keats had landed a gig that excited him.
Colby could’ve taken a photo and labeled it perfect. But the moment had been as fleeting as the click of the camera. Because after that, he’d felt the tug of the inevitable, the unraveling. Georgia, who’d been so open and up for what they were doing, had pulled away—spending more time at her place in the name of making a writing deadline. She was still pushing herself to get out of the house, but she wasn’t asking him and Keats to come along anymore. And Colby’s bed had been cold since before Thanksgiving.
Then if the writing hadn’t been all over the wall already, Keats had come home one day with apartment brochures. That had really punched Colby right in the gut. He’d known that Keats couldn’t stay here forever. They’d done their relationship backward, moving in together first. And that had made things more intense and intimate for the start of something. Keats was a young guy who was just discovering a big piece of his sexuality. Of course he’d want some freedom and independence. He wouldn’t want to shack up with a guy in his thirties and play house indefinitely. But Colby had to admit, part of him had imagined that scenario. And he’d imagined Georgia in that mix, too.
The days he’d walked into his place and had both Keats and Georgia hanging out there, waiting for him, happy to see him, had been some of the best of his life. He loved the way being around them dialed him up to rattle-and-hum mode. It was like everything was sweeter when he had those two to share it with. And though he’d tried to convince himself it was just the amazing sex that was making him feel so damn good, he knew that was bullshit. Because some of the best nights he’d had with them had involved no kink or sex at all.
He liked being with them. Period.
No, he loved being with them. He loved them. Both of them.
And now he suspected he was losing both for good.
The sound of a key in the door drew his attention away from the TV. Keats hurried through the front door in a gust of frigid air and dry leaves. He shut the door with a bang. “Goddamn, it’s cold out there. Did someone forget this is Texas?”
Colby lowered the volume on the TV. “They said we could get snow.”
Keats slipped out of his coat and hooked it on a peg by the door. “I have no idea why George is so anxious to get back to Chicago. If it’s this cold here, I can’t imagine what it must be like there.”
“Picture this thirty degrees colder with wind that will make your bones hurt.”
“Fuck that.” He plopped down in the armchair across from Colby, looking windblown, red-cheeked, and damn fine in his dark green sweater. “You should use that in your argument to get her to come back here after the trial.”
He frowned. “I don’t think weather’s going to convince her.”
“You want her to stay, though, right?”
Colby sighed. “I do.”
“Have you asked her to?”
“No. She told me where she stood up front. It was her hard limit—no pressure, nothing serious. I’m not going to break my word on that.”
He blew out a breath.
“I asked her. Right before Thanksgiving.”