Page 72 of The Long Way Found

And then Jack walked back into The Ridge, and Luke had opened every door, easy as breathing, like the lesson hadn't already been taught.

He’d wanted this so badly. That’s what hurt the most.

But Jack was still an asshole.

Okay. Enough.

He stepped out of the closet, washed his face in a men’s room, and gave himself a pep talk in the mirror. He was done negotiating with himself about what he needed. Done being cool with it. Done twisting himself small to fit around someone else's limitations.

He wanted to be chosen—above the meeting, above the mission, above the next necessary thing. He'd spent his whole life telling himself that wanting it was too much, that a man as capable and self-sufficient as he was had no business needing it.

But now, he was done with that story.

He was done with Jack.

He was done taking a backseat to whoever came along next.

He straightened as he walked down the hall, put on the real smile, not the performed one, the real one. The one that had gotten him through genuinely terrible things, and sashayed back into his birthday party.

He first stopped at Suze and Molls’ table, where most of the skiing gay foursome had gathered. He relaxed into Molls’ hug, and they all argued ceaselessly about why Taylor’s latest album was better than the previous one.

Perfect, Luke thought.

He saw Mara across the room, got up, did a quick disco “bump” with Dale and Evan on the dance floor, and took a big forkful of somebody’s birthday cake that had been left on a table.

"I'm sorry, baby," Mara said when he got to her, immediately placing her hand on his arm.

"It's all right. I'll be fine."

"Luke—"

"I mean it, Mar." He looked around the room at the flowers, the people, at what was left of a really good night. "Look at this beautiful party. You did an incredible job. Thank you."

"Do you want me to stay?"

"No. Go home. Get the kids to bed." He squeezed her hand. "It sucks that he didn’t come, don’t get me wrong. But I'm good."

She held his gaze and looked for the lie. He let her look.

"Okay," she said, convinced enough.

He watched Julio bundle up the kids, said goodbye to the last of the stragglers, and let Patty tell him birthday boys don't clean up. She kissed his cheek.

He got his jacket. He took one last look at the room, saw the empty chair at his table, pushed it under the table, turned his back to it, and left.

He drove home with the windows down, the May night cool enough to remind you it wasn’t summer yet.

He didn't turn on many lights in the house. He sat on the couch with Marley's head in his lap and let himself come down from the party, the hallway, the three voicemails, all of it.

The anger had moved through and gone. That was the thing about actually feeling something instead of rooting around it—it didn't stay long. He wasn't furious anymore. Now, he was tired and clear and forty years old.

The party had been good. He was keeping that. The friends, the love, and the killer gourmet cookies his mystery boss always sent.

He’d had six weeks of something real with Jack. He was keeping that too, because it had been real, and pretending otherwise would be its own kind of lie.

What he was setting aside was the story about the exception. The version where Luke Calder was the thing that finally taught Jack Garrison to stay. He'd been so careful not to believe that story, but then he'd bought it anyway, the way you do when you want something so bad while you're telling yourself you don't.

He wasn't going to do that anymore. He was allowed to need what he needed and to stop accepting less.