Austin sat back. “Shit.”
Peyton let out a small laugh. “Yeah. And, um.” He cleared his throat, then shrugged. “So you’re the first person besides my friends and family I’ve told about this.”
Austin softened. “Yeah?”
“It’s not pretty,” Peyton defended. He didn’t want this moment to be soft or sweet. “They had to take a ton of my lower intestine, and…uh. And my colon.”
Austin’s face was unreadable, but he knew the man was just trying to figure out what that meant.
“I have a stoma now.” His hand moved reflexively to his stomach. “It’s not reversible…and it’s not very pretty.”
Austin gave him a look and said in a tone that settled on his nerves, “I’m sure that’s not true.”
Peyton raised a brow at him. “Have you ever seen one?”
Austin looked a bit contrite, and he shrugged. “No, but I have a hard time imagining something on you that isn’t pretty.”
The words should have been flattering, but Peyton had never been the sort of person who was impressed by empty compliments. The reality was, his stoma was messy and kind of terrible to look at. And there really was no dressing it up to make it more palatable. The fact remained, he had an inch and a half of intestine now protruding from his stomach.
It saved his life, of course. It reduced his pain and made it so he could bake again, and run his business again, and he felt human. Linden and Taylor never hesitated to remind him of that, whenever he felt low, and it was those words which took the edge off how different his body was now.
“Well, you haven’t seen it,” Peyton shot back.
Austin cocked his head to the side. “May I?”
Blinking in shock, Peyton cleared his throat. “That…I’m…”
“Look, maybe that’s like a fifth date sort of thing, but you’re clearly worried about it. And I might have some experience in that,” Austin told him.
Peyton bit his lower lip. “How’s that?”
“My ex,” Austin said, then laughed and shook his head. “I know that’s the mark of a bad date—when the other person can’t stop bringing up their ex, but he was a huge part of my life for a long time. He uh…he got sick,” Austin said, lowering his gaze to the table. Peyton tried to read his tone because he still didn’t trust that Austin was being genuine. “The treatment left him disabled and that’s what led to the end of our marriage.” Austin lifted his gaze and though his mouth was turned down, Peyton couldn’t get a read on what was in his eyes. “He was angry at what happened and no matter what I did…” He trailed off and shrugged. “I could never get through to him. Our needs changed and he wasn’t willing to compromise. So it ruined us.”
Peyton wasn’t sure what to say. He’d heard this before—people claiming they knew what it was like because they were in the proximity of someone who was going through an illness or disability. And he could understand how a marriage could end that way. If he’d been with a partner, there was every chance he would have driven them screaming into the night, never to be heard from again because he had been bitter, and he had been angry.
And while Austin had blamed his ex for their lack of counseling, he didn’t seem angry about it. Just resigned.
“Anyway, you’re not him,” Austin finally finished with a small laugh. “And I’m not comparing the two. But I have been there before, and I can promise you I will get it right this time.”
The words didn’t sit well. Get it right this time? Like he was some kind of experiment?
What Peyton needed was an outside perspective. He couldn’t call his brother or Taylor because they wouldn’t understand, but he did have a neighbor that would understand better than anyone. Hudson wasn’t exactly in the dating game—at least, according to him he wasn’t—but he’d still know where Peyton was coming from. He’d understand the questions deeper than anyone else Peyton knew.
“I fucked up, didn’t I?” Austin finally asked.
Peyton realized he hadn’t spoken in a good long while, and he cleared his throat. “This is just new for me,” he said. “I didn’t date a lot before my surgery, and I think I’m still adjusting. I’m not calling it off. I just need some time.”
“Hey, I can do that,” Austin said. He signaled for the bill, then passed over his card while he boxed up their leftovers in the containers the server dropped off. Peyton didn’t help, and he shook his head when Austin offered him the bags.
“I won’t eat them,” he admitted. “Leftovers tend to sit in my fridge until they start growing new life.”
Austin laughed. “Same. But I can probably leave them in my office and lunch thieves will feast.”
Peyton chuckled as he pushed up from his chair, but his humor died when he saw Austin’s gaze hunting over his body, probably for some sign of his stoma bag. He fought the urge to cover his waist, and instead turned around to push his chair in.
When he moved back, Austin was hooking the bag over his wrist, looking unbothered. Peyton knew he was probably being too hard on him. Of course the man wanted to see what he looked like. That was natural.
Peyton just couldn’t stand the idea of being on display. It was why he wasn’t the Stoma Guy online. It was why he didn’t advocate. Living as some sort of public figure, reduced down to his disease, his successes, and his failures was too goddamn much pressure.