“We’ve worked hard for people here to accept us for who we are,” Bennet tried, frustration pinching his voice. “And a barely sixteen-year-old caught in the clutches of a middle-aged man? You’ve got to see how that looks. How it might reflect on us.”
“I thought you never cared what someone thought of you.”
“I pretend not to, when it’s necessary. But this is not necessary. I want to create a safe place for you here. That’s why I’ve been organizing this parade. I want this community to accept us. I don’t want to compromise that.”
Lyon yanked his other shoe on and stuffed his phone in his pocket. He kept his head bowed toward the floor, but Bennet caught a glistening trail down one cheek. He sighed. “Lyon . . .”
“Going for a walk.” It came out strained. High-pitched. “Later.”
Lyon left.
Bennet waited an hour. He cleaned the apartment, scrubbed at invisible splotches on the counters, and tested the durability of the wall with his head.
He needed someone to talk to. He wished he could duck to the pub and chat with Charlie for his sage advice. He charged his phone and answered the influx of villager comments.
He kept switching screens to the one where Darcy’s name was at the top, an impatient cursor in the chat box.
Sorry, he wrote and deleted.
Let me know you got back safely, he went for instead.
Bennet knew where he’d find Lyon. He climbed onto the sun-soaked stable overhang and slung himself next to him, their legs dangling over the side.
He bumped their shoulders together.
Lyon’s back heaved and a sob fled him. Bennet wrapped an arm around his shoulders and a golden head rested in the crook of his neck and cried.
Thick tears dropped onto him, and Bennet felt the weight of them as if they were his own.
Three days passed, and the only communication he had from Darcy was a few messages asking if he and Lyon were okay, hoping they were, stating Will Wickham wouldn’t be an issue anymore, and—finally—that he had a busy week in court.
Bennet had wished him well and said he was busy too—Pride preparations.
He was busy. So many final details to organize on top of editing another novel and running the mobile library.
And yet.
He couldn’t help thinking of Darcy fighting against discrimination, representing a fellow queer man. Couldn’t stop reading The Email. Couldn’t forget the feel of Darcy heavy atop him, panting his name in his ear. He thumped his head against the bookshelves lining the van.
Will Wickham might not be an issue anymore in the flesh, but his ghost still haunted.
He was sure he and Darcy were mature enough to move on as friends. But . . . romantically? Could Darcy look at him without seeing the man who’d ruined so much happiness in his life?
Footsteps clacked up the steps and into the van.
He peeled his misery off the shelves and turned to Caroline. A golden silk scarf draped regally around her shoulders. She met Bennet’s hello with a cool nod. Much cooler than usual.
Bennet waited for her to speak. She’d never come here for a book before, so he doubted she was here for one now.
She gestured toward the shelves. “Those books, I suppose, are for Cubworthy Pride?”
“They are. Donations from authors.”
“And the rainbow flags added to the hood outside?”
“Also for Pride.”
Caroline stared at him.
“Is there something you need?”
She cleared her throat. “I’ve tried to be good to you, Bennet. To support your endeavors and help you out in the village.”
Bennet frowned. “I’m thankful for it.”
“But whatever you’ve done to Darcy . . . it’s not right.”
“Excuse me?” What on Earth—
“‘I’m drawn to more than his joyful energy.’ He’s never been interested in men, and then you show up talking about Pride and flashing your colors and somehow you’ve convinced him he might be gay as well. Well. It’s not possible. One doesn’t turn gay in a matter of months.”
“You’re absolutely right. One doesn’t turn gay at all.” Bennet’s pulse pounded in his ears. “So it should be impossible for any amount of talk about Pride to change him.”
Caroline stilled, logic taking its time to catch up to her. “Well, you haven’t on a fundamental level. But you’re a clever wordsmith, aren’t you? You’ve superficially tricked him into finding you attractive. Maybe you didn’t do it maliciously, but somehow you did it. I want you aware of it so you can stop.”
“You are being ridiculous, Caroline,” Bennet said gently. Surely this was grief talking? “I am sorry that Darcy doesn’t return your feelings. But I have not and could not make him gay.”
“Tell me. Are you together?”
Bennet’s breath caught and he let it out slowly, painfully. “No, we’re not.”
Caroline let out a shuddering sigh and straightened her scarf. “And you won’t pursue him?”
Hushed voices outside the van caught Bennet’s attention. Let them listen. All that mattered was channeling his feelings and making himself very clear. “What happens between Darcy and me is for us to determine and no one else.”