“I’ll be there.”

Marc moved back in with Riley the next day, and they spent several weeks drinking, crying, watching sad movies, and generally hiding from the world.

***

THORNE’S TWO WEEKS of vacation were a mix of grieving, restless energy, and sailing. Once Thorne got over thinking constantly of the last time he’d been in a boat—and the things Dash had done to him on that tiny island—he managed to relax and take in the cool air, the breeze, the freedom he felt. He was on the water for hours every day except the few when rain poured down. He spent those days feeling sorry for himself and jerking off to thoughts of Dash.

By the time he returned to work, he was far from healed, but he no longer thought the weight of his need for Dash would crush him. Jack told Thorne he was “considering other options,” but he managed to keep his personal issues out of the office. Thorne got a few stares from junior partners and assistants, but for the most part things were just like they’d always been. But Thorne wasn’t; he would never be the same.

On Friday morning, nearly six weeks after Dash had walked out the door, Thorne hit snooze on the alarm and rolled over. Fridays were the worst. He hadn’t been sober on a Friday night yet. He also hadn’t eaten a pancake, or cake of any sort, and he didn’t know if he’d ever go to Bavaria Haus again. Fuck, when would this get easier? When would he be okay again?

Never.

At least most of the changes Dash had wrought in his life were good. The rest… He’d just have to keep praying that would pass. Maybe…no, he wasn’t ready for that, or was he?

Would getting laid exorcise his Friday demons? He hadn’t wanted any man but Dash in months, but he couldn’t stay celibate forever. He could go to the sort of club where sexual need hung in the air, where there was no doubt what everyone was there for. Maybe he could at least forget the ache he still felt every day for a few hot, sweaty moments.

He dragged himself out of bed and dressed for work, not yet decided about what the night would entail. He picked up coffee from a cart. Then, as he passed the door of a restaurant, the sweet smell of pancakes and syrup hit him, and his stomach clenched. He tossed his coffee in the trash. He’d regret that later when a caffeine headache rendered him useless, but he couldn’t possibly swallow anything right then. The smell of pancakes had made him sick ever since that horrible morning five weeks and six days ago.