#come close

The outfit he’d decided upon was simple enough: loose white slacks, laceless brown dress shoes, and a light blue button-down to top it all off. Zipping the duffel bag shut, he tried not to think about the reason he’d chosen that shirt over any of the other colors, but the memory burrowed its way into his head in spite of his attempts not to recall it. Way back when, on their sixth anniversary, Stella had told him it brought out the blue in his eyes. Though he’d made a great effort to bury his guilt, it still disgusted him how badly he wanted Tony to tell him the same,

It still didn’t stop him. He clipped his nails, trimmed his body hair, and shaved his face clean, meticulously preparing himself to be seen and touched. And as he snuck into the garage and hid the duffel inside the SUV's spare wheel compartment — a trick he’d learned from people who were better than average at hiding drugs — he ruminated on how he’d resort to anything to feel desirable again. Even infidelity.

And to think he ever believed he’d turn out different than his father.

As soon as his shift ended — he’d made sure to be back at the station at exactly 2:00 PM — he showered in the locker room and slipped into the outfit he’d packed into the duffel, briefly examining himself in the full-length mirror. He looked younger without the beard and taller in the dress shoes, the high slacks and tucked loose button-down creating a silhouette that even he couldn’t deny looked appealing. That observation came to him by surprise — he couldn’t recall the last time anyone had called him handsome and he’d believed it.

He’d stopped believing in Jesus when he was no older than June, but the fact that he managed to leave the department unseen truly did make him wonder whether there really was a sky daddy.

Placing his duffle in the passenger’s seat, he took off in his SUV, heading straight for a grocery store that was on the way to Tony’s apartment. It wasn’t high-falutin or anything, but it wasn’t exactly a Walmart, either. Ripe, organic vegetables, high-quality meats — the kind of quality a man like Tony would appreciate in his food. Tony’s list was longer than he’d been expecting, but Vince was already learning not to question his culinary genius. Case in point: he actually despised jalapenos, but for Tony, he was willing to give them another shot. Worst case, he’d ask him to put them on the side, something which he halfway feared would get him a look of either disapproval or disbelief. 

Highly aware of the time, Vincent stocked up his cart with all the speed of a chipmunk gearing up for hibernation. He wasn’t particularly skilled at choosing which vegetable seemed ripest, but he knew well enough to steer clear of the ones with bruises and mysterious scars that suspiciously resembled bite marks left by tiny little teeth. He tried not to think too hard about those.

He was halfway through the chip aisle when something on the opposite shelf caught his attention from the corner of his eye: a six pack of root beer in fine glass bottles, the liquid inside as dark as pitch. Root beer had always been his favorite type of pop, but over the years, he’d noticed how all the best brands had changed their recipes from cane sugar to high fructose corn syrup, which was a major disappointment. Picking it up and turning it over, Vince deduced from the labels that this root beer was the real deal — cane sugar and dark licorice, the shit that burned on the way down in all the right ways. The only thing that would make it even better was some nice, rich French vanilla ice cream piled to the top of a glass, bubbling brown fizz as the root beer drowned it. 

What was it he’d told Tony, standing at his car window and shining his flashlight right into his eyes? ‘Could be drinking root beer floats instead of you driving twenty over the speed limit and me being the one who had to catch you,’ Vince grinned to himself, putting the root beer in the cart. It wasn’t a guarantee that Tony would remember it, but it was worth a shot. Not to mention, Vincent <em>really<em> fucking wanted a root beer float. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to taste on Tony’s lips. 

The last thing he shoved in the cart was a gallon of the best-looking French vanilla ice cream he could find, and when he made it to the checkout lane, the total was so egregious, he simply swiped his card and pretended he didn’t see it. To his immense relief, the payment went through. It was a $100 Visa gift card he’d won from a raffle at the station, and when he found it at the bottom of the kitchen drawer of expired credit cards and random shit, he’d had no idea whether it’d been used or not. A godsend. Maybe Jesus really was real.

Vincent breathed a soft laugh through his nose as he carried the bags to his SUV, his gut a flutter of conflicting emotions. It was almost funny to think that if god was real, he’d be helping a man cheat. Vincent convinced himself to laugh about it because the alternative was dwelling on the reality of what he was doing. The reality of what he would never be able to take back.

It wasn’t until he pulled his SUV into the Driftwood Cove apartment complex, squeezing it into a tiny space between two large, beaten-up trucks, that it really set in. The doubt. The fear. The terror. He was about to become a cheater. Clearing his throat once, loud and hard enough to hurt, he unlatched his seatbelt, swung open the door, and — stopped. There, on his ring finger, was the bright silver band he’d been given thirteen years ago. It had scratches, smudges. It was well-loved. And when Stella had placed it onto his finger, brown eyes smiling right up at him, she’d brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. Kissed him. She’d tasted like Anastasia lipstick and strawberry chardonnay and… forever. An entire lifetime.

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, soaking up the tears before they could slip down his face. That girl… that sweet, funny girl with the silly laugh and the perfect eyes who’d told him she loved him every night… Vincent still loved her. Desperately.

But that Stella had been gone for a long, long time. 

Slipping his ring off of his finger, slow and gentle, he looked at the deep red divot it left behind and reminded himself, quite painfully, that the fact that she was gone didn’t mean he wasn’t betraying her. 

He placed the ring in the cupholder and pulled a hand over his face, breathing in the cool, crisp air of a dawning autumn. Then he exited the car, grabbed the groceries from the trunk, and turned around to find the building of the man he’d chosen to betray her with. He was halfway to the staircase once he remembered, and he sighed as he returned to the car to retrieve it. The duffel with his boots and uniform. He’d need to change back into it after he and Tony fucked. Hide the evidence of the sin he’d committed. After all, he had a wife to fool.

By the time he made it to Tony’s door, the guilt had found itself a lovely companion: agonizing anxiety. It made Vincent’s heart thud hard, fast, ceaseless, his stomach so tight he was almost nauseous. He shook himself out as well as he could with the bags in his hands, forcing himself to close his eyes and count his long, heaving breaths. 

This was it. 

Here it was. 

Fucking do it.

Forcing out one hard, heavy breath, Vincent transferred all of the bags to one hand — a valiant task — raised his fist, and knocked on Tony’s door. Shave-and-a-haircut, two bits. Partially a habit and partially an attempt at humor to shove down the flurry of guilt and terror and dark, heavy want pulsing through him like thunder. 

It felt like ages before the door eased open, the light wood squeaking on rusted hinges with peeling black paint. Vincent froze. Tony was so much taller than he’d remembered, the hard lines of his jaw cut sharp by shadow and the apartment’s thin yellow light. All at once, Vincent returned to himself like a spirit to a body, relaxing his shoulders, tilting his head, and giving the man his most glittering grin — the one that had made his face crawl with faint pink. 

“What's up, man?" Vincent said, and raised a dark brow, grin slowly turning mischievous. "You ready for some fuckin' nachos?"