Coda Books 04 - Strawberries for Dessert (MM)

it brought a lump to my throat. He pulled away to look into my eyes. “Anything you want, Jonny.”
    The dinner was fantastic, but I wasn’t nearly as appreciative as I should have been. I let myself get ridiculously drunk and passed out in my bed while he cleared the table. The next morning I was hung over and completely miserable for the entire day. He was infinitely patient.
    He stayed by me the whole time. He was unusually quiet. And not once did I see the clouds in his eyes.

Date: May 18
    From: Cole
    To: Jared
    I have found hope in his misery. Does that make me a terrible person? I know he is devastated, and yet, all I can think is that now, we can stay together. The answer is so clear. If only he will accept it.

    I SPENT a couple of weeks being miserable. I snapped at everybody. I didn’t jog or shave. I was sullen and angry, and any intelligent person would have stayed far, far away. Cole, on the other hand, proved to be a glutton for punishment. He was there the entire time, making meals, putting up with me, still making love to me when we went to bed at night.
    After two weeks, I was able to accept that sulking would get me nowhere. I made myself straighten up. I worked up my résumé for the first time in nearly ten years and started looking for a job. Still I was hostile and jaded. I had gambled away a portion of my life, banking on a payout, and been shit on instead. My attitude was far from stellar.
    Finding a job proved to be impossible. Lots of companies were downsizing, and the market was flooded with men and women of all ages scrambling for the few positions that were still available. I had a handful of interviews, but it seemed that if I wasn’t under-qualified, then I was over-qualified. It was hard to accept that there was nothing I could do. The entire process was unbelievably frustrating.
    On top of that, things between Cole and me were hot and cold, and I had no idea what to do about it. I was absolutely crazy in love with him. There was no other way to put it. And at times I thought he felt the same way. We spent most of our time together. We rarely argued, and if we did, it never lasted. The sex had reached an all-new level of intensity that left me breathless. We would have periods where everything seemed perfect.
    And yet, more and more, I saw those clouds in his eyes. More and more, as I tried to pull him close, he would push me away as he had done in the past. He seemed sad and restless. I tried to ask him about it a few times, but he would just give me a strained smile and say, “It’s your imagination, love.” All I could do was hope that he wasn’t lying.
    I returned one afternoon from an interview that had not ended on a promising note to find him sitting on my couch. His back was to me, and at first I thought he had curled up in the corner of the couch to read, as he often did. But when the door closed behind me, he jumped. He turned toward me for only a moment, probably on sheer impulse, before turning away to cover his face with his hands. But in that moment, I saw what he was trying to hide from me—that his eyes were red and wet with tears.
    “Hi, sweetie,” he said, standing up, but not turning to face me. He was wiping his cheeks. “How did the interview go?”
    “Terrible.” But I didn’t care about that. “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing! I just nodded off. I guess I’m tired. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep, though. I’ll start dinner. Are you hungry? I was going to make—”
    “Cole,” I said, interrupting him, because I knew he was lying. I knew that talking a mile a minute about inane bullshit was his primary method of avoidance. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
    “Nothing, love. Really.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    “I was so tired, but I’m better now. Just give me a minute….” His words trailed off as he went into the kitchen, trying to escape, but I followed him. He was pulling things out of the fridge, still refusing to look at me.
    “Why are you lying to me?” He froze, and hung his head. “Are you angry at me? Have I done something to upset you?”
    “No,” he said, shaking his head, and his tone sounded sincere.
    “Then what?”
    He covered his eyes with his hands, and I knew he was fighting not to cry again. “I need some time,” he said shakily, “to get myself together. I can’t face you like this.”
    More than anything, I wanted to pull him into my arms and hold him, but when I reached for him, he flinched away from