Carter's Duty - 11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

It was much later when the house finally fell silent.

The invasion force had retreated to their encampments. The older Sternostis had taken the master bedroom, rightfully claiming the comfortable bed while relegating the homeowners to the cramped guest quarters. Jeff’s younger brothers had colonized the living room with sleeping bags and the glow of the X-box, and Maria had vanished into the den.

Will Carter stood at the kitchen sink, staring at a spot of stubborn marinara sauce on a white ceramic plate. The water was hot, scaldingly so, but he didn't pull his hands out. He just scrubbed.

Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.

It was a simple, mechanical task. It required no thought, no emotion, and absolutely no conversation. It was perfect.

He knew he should go upstairs. He knew Andrew was waiting in the guest room. He knew that they needed to talk—really talk—about the job, about the move, about the yawning chasm that had opened up between them over the last six months. But the thought of walking up those stairs felt like marching into a minefield without a map.

If he went up there, he would have to explain why he felt so hollow. He would have to explain that he wasn't doing this for money, or for Andrew’s tuition, but because he didn't know how to be anything other than useful. If he wasn't working, if he wasn't fixing things, if he wasn't enduring, then who was he? Just a terrified kid waiting for the Major’s fist to land?

No. It was safer down here. Safer to scrub the counter until it gleamed. Safer to organize the spice rack. Safer to be the Best Man, the host, the martyr.

He looked at the clock on the microwave. He had been cleaning for forty minutes. The kitchen was pristine. There was nothing left to fix.

Will turned off the tap. The silence of the house pressed in on him. He dried his hands slowly, deliberately, delaying the inevitable moment when he would have to turn off the lights and climb the stairs.

Andrew Highmore stared at the ceiling of the guest bedroom, listening to the invasion.

It wasn’t a hostile takeover—at least, not in the way Will would describe it. Downstairs, the Sternosti clan was loud, chaotic, and brimming with the kind of aggressive affection that Andrew actually missed from his own home when his cousins descended on the old Highmore Farm. There was laughter, the clatter of pots, the shouting of instructions in a mix of English and Italian. It was the sound of life.

And it was driving Will Carter absolutely insane.

Andrew turned the page of his Ethics textbook without reading a single word. He took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the headache that had been lurking there since Will had picked him up from campus.

It wasn’t the Sternostis. It wasn’t the wedding. It wasn’t even the fact that they had been exiled to the guest room like teenagers grounding themselves.

It was the silence.

Not the noise downstairs—the silence coming from the man Andrew loved.

Will had been wearing it like armor for months now. It was the same look Andrew had seen years ago, back when the Major—Will’s tyrant of a father—had been tearing strips off him. It was the look of a man who had decided that the only way to survive was to stop feeling anything at all. Will called it "professionalism" or "coping." Andrew knew it for what it was: dissociation.

Will was doing it again. He was working that soul-crushing job at the call center, taking abuse from his boss, dealing with the wedding stress, and instead of leaning on Andrew, he was locking himself in a fortress. He was putting himself on a cross, nailing his own hands to the wood, and waiting for Andrew to applaud his sacrifice.

I’m doing this for us, Will had said, over and over. I’m working so you can study. I’m handling the wedding so you don’t have to.

It made Andrew want to scream. He didn’t want a martyr. He wanted his partner back. He wanted the guy who had kissed him in the rain, the guy who had stood up to the Major. Instead, he had this polite, hollowed-out shell who treated their relationship like a business transaction that needed to be managed efficiently.

If you retreat any further inside your head, Carter, Andrew thought bitterly, you’re going to disappear completely.

The door to the guest room creaked open, breaking his reverie.

Andrew sat up, pulling the sheet up to his waist, expecting Will. He hoped for Will. He was ready to have the fight—the real fight, not the polite bickering they’d been doing for weeks. He wanted to shake Will until that cool, detached mask cracked and something real fell out.

But it wasn’t Will.

Maria Sternosti slipped into the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Andrew blinked, his brain taking a second to process the image. She was fresh from the shower, her hair wet and curled into ringlets. Her skin was flushed. And she was wearing…

Andrew looked down at his own chest, realizing he was shirtless, then back at her. She was wearing his Ottawa Senators jersey. The one he’d left on the chair.

It was oversized on her, hanging down to her mid-thighs, but the implication was deliberate. She wasn’t wearing anything else.

"I’m sorry," Maria said, her voice pitched to a breathy whisper that she probably thought sounded seductive. "I had to borrow this... I hope you don't mind."

Andrew felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him. Oh, for God’s sake.

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew what this was. He’d seen it a dozen times in high school, and a dozen times since. Maria was eighteen, beautiful in a conventional way, and bored. She looked at Andrew and saw a challenge. She saw a "gay guy" and thought it was a setting she could change if she just pressed the right buttons.

It was insulting, really. But mostly, it was just sad.

"You could have asked, Maria," Andrew said, his voice level. He didn't pull the sheet up higher; he didn't scramble for cover. He refused to give her the reaction she was fishing for. "There are towels in the linen closet."

"I like this better," she said, walking further into the room. She moved on her tiptoes, arching her back, making sure the hem of the jersey rode up just enough to show the curve of her hip. "It smells like you."

Andrew sighed, closing his textbook with a snap. "It smells like the penalty box and locker room sweat," he corrected her. "Maria, what are you doing?"

She stopped at the foot of the bed, giving him a look that was equal parts innocence and hunger. "I just wanted to talk. It’s so crowded downstairs. Everyone treats me like a kid. You don't treat me like a kid, Andrew."

That’s because I’m treating you like a hazard, he thought.

He looked at the clock on the bedside table. Will was downstairs. He had been down there for forty minutes, cleaning a kitchen that was likely already spotless, organizing Jeff’s life, doing a hundred things to avoid coming up here and being alone with Andrew.

Andrew looked back at Maria. She was vibrant. She was alive. She was looking at him like he was the center of the universe.

And God help him, he didn't kick her out.

He didn't want her. The thought of touching her made him recoil. But he was so starved for someone to actually look at him—to see him, not just the "student" or the "dependent" or the "roommate"—that he hesitated.

"I'm gay, Maria," Andrew said, cutting to the chase. "You know that. Jeff knows that. This..." He gestured vaguely at her outfit. "...This isn't going to work."

"I know," she said, smiling as if he’d told a joke. She sat on the edge of the bed. It was a violation of his space, a breach of the sanctuary he and Will were supposed to share, but Andrew felt paralyzed by a strange lethargy. "We can just talk. You’re stressed. I can tell. You and Will... you guys seem really tense."

Andrew let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Tense. That’s one word for it."

"He leaves you alone a lot," Maria observed, her dark eyes scanning his face. She was probing for a weak spot, and she had found it with surgical precision. "If I was with you, I wouldn't leave you alone in a guest room while I cleaned a kitchen."

"He’s not cleaning," Andrew said instinctively defending Will, even now. "He’s coping. It’s what he does. He takes on the weight of the world so he doesn't have to feel the weight of himself."

Maria tilted her head. "You talk about him like he’s a project. Or a patient."

"He’s my partner," Andrew said, but the word felt heavy in his mouth. Partner. Were they? Or was Will his benefactor now? His guardian?

"He doesn't look at you the way I do," Maria said softly. She leaned forward, placing a hand on his knee over the sheet.

Andrew stared at her hand. He should move it. He should tell her to get out. He should yell.

But he was just so tired.

Where are you, Will? Andrew screamed internally. I am sitting here with a girl who is trying to dissect our relationship, and you are downstairs scrubbing a countertop because you’re terrified to talk to me. Come upstairs. Come in here and fight for this space. Yell at her. Yell at me. Just do something real.

"He looks at me," Andrew whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "He just... he’s forgotten how to see me."

"I see you," Maria said. She moved her hand up his leg. It wasn't sexual for Andrew; it was purely clinical. He felt nothing. No spark. No desire. Just the cold realization of how broken his own relationship had become.

Girls had tried before, Andrew had made it through High School after a string of them had sought out the Hockey Captain, the golden boy… the golden ticket out of their one horse town… It repulsed him, always had. There was only one person who had shone a light into the darkness of his loneliness. Come on Will, where are you?

He heard the heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs.

Will.

Andrew’s heart hammered against his ribs. Panic flared, hot and sharp. This looked bad. This looked terrible. Maria was practically in his lap, wearing his shirt, her hair damp.

Move, his brain commanded. Push her away.

But a darker, pettier part of him—the part that had been lonely for months, the part that resented the long nights while Will was at the call center—whispered a different command.

Let him see.

Let him see that someone else wants this. Let him see that he can’t just park Andrew in a guest room like a piece of furniture and expect him to gather dust. Let him get angry. Let the Major’s son’s cold logic shatter. If Will Carter wanted to play the martyr, let him see the cost.

It was a cruel thought, and Andrew hated himself for it instantly, but it kept him frozen for that crucial second.

The door handle turned.

Maria, hearing the noise, didn't pull away. She leaned in closer, creating the tableau she wanted. She was acting, playing a role in a soap opera she’d written in her head.

The door opened.

Will stood there. He looked exhausted. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes dull. He looked at Maria. He looked at Andrew.

Andrew held his breath, waiting for the explosion. He waited for Will to storm in, to shout, to demand an explanation. He waited for the fire.

But Will just... stopped.

His eyes didn't blaze. They went dead.

It was the "Major" look. The shutters coming down. The steel doors slamming shut. Andrew watched in horror as Will processed the scene, categorized it, filed it away under "Betrayal," and then simply checked out.

In the ice, deep in Will’s soul, the cold settled in, seizing the heart and encasing it. Something stirred for the first time, cold, and hard. Protecting the fragile man behind a wall of ice.

"Jeff!" Maria squeaked, backing away as she saw her brother behind Will.

But Andrew only saw Will.

"It's not him you have to worry about," Will snapped. His voice was ice. Absolute zero.

"Will," Andrew stammered, the panic finally overriding the lethargy. "It's not what it looks like... I can explain..."

He wasn't trying to explain the sex—there was no sex. He wanted to explain the loneliness. He wanted to explain that he was sitting there paralyzed by grief, not lust.

"I don't want to hear it," Will said.

He turned away.

He didn't fight. He didn't ask "Why?" He just accepted it as one more burden to carry, one more reason to hate himself, and walked into the bathroom.

The door slammed.

Andrew sat there, the sound echoing in the small room. Maria was scrambling off the bed, dealing with her brother, but Andrew felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

He had wanted a reaction. He had wanted Will to feel something.

Instead, he had just handed Will another brick to build the wall higher.

"You idiot," Andrew whispered to himself, burying his face in his hands as the tears finally came. "You absolute idiot."