On and Off Read online

  To Doc1984: I didn’t see you as much of a pop music fan.

  To Wallflower: You’ve never seen me at all.

  To Doc1984: How about Mr. Hot Date? You still seeing him?

  To Wallflower: We’re up to date number I’ve-lost-count. But if I’m honest, I hadn’t met him yet that night.

  Mitchell scrolled back through his PM’s. That had been the night he thought Doc was flirting with him.

  To Doc1984: So does that mean you really were hoping I’d gone out to buy flowers?

  To Wallflower: Lol! It would’ve been the shortest online relationship on record after I met Hot Date.

  To Doc1984: I guess that makes me an almost-ex. Still better than dealing with my actual ex.

  To Wallflower: Was that a thing?

  Maybe he could talk this out with Doc, get his insight, before he dumped it all on Jackson. If he thought Mitchell was an idiot for not taking the commentary job, he wouldn’t pull his punches the way Jackson might.

  To Doc1984: My ex and I used to be competitors. At the most important event of our careers, he outed me and lied about our relationship in order to get an edge and beat me.

  To Wallflower: Sounds like a real catch. Did his evil plan work?

  To Doc1984: Oh yeah. Barton won, and I was left a laughingstock. And then he has the chutzpah to call me today to see if I want to work together again.

  Mitchell watched the dots on his screen that indicated Doc was typing. They appeared and disappeared several times before disappearing altogether.

  To Doc1984: You get disconnected or something?

  To Wallflower: No… I’m here.

  To Wallflower: So your ex wants to just work together, or does he want you back?

  To Doc1984: Either or both. I hung up on him, but now I’m having second thoughts.

  He waited for Doc to ask more questions, but the conversation went quiet for so long, his screen went to sleep. He tapped the trackpad to wake it.

  To Doc1984: Hot Date show up?

  No response. Guess he’d have to wing it with Jackson tonight.

  But for the first time in weeks, Jackson didn’t call. And when he dialed, it went straight to voicemail.

  Chapter Six

  He was in love with Wallflower. Well, he was in love with Mitchell who just happened to also be Wallflower.

  Who was having second thoughts about breaking up with Barton Fisk and contemplating getting back together with him. Which left Jackson where?

  In love with someone who clearly didn’t share the same sentiments.

  His screen had long since gone into sleep mode. He should’ve responded as soon as he made the connection, should have told Mitchell-slash-Wallflower who he was. He’d been too busy holding his hand over his chest to stop the palpitations.

  He’d been dumped before, but never by proxy. If Doc1984 had told Wallflower to send Barton packing, would he have listened? Wouldn’t that have been incredibly self-serving? He wanted Mitchell to choose him, not be told to keep him.

  His phone buzzed. Shit, their nightly call. He’d been sitting here for hours. He couldn’t talk to Mitchell now. By not immediately identifying himself, he’d already left it too late, even if Mitchell would have chosen him over Barton. If he confessed now, Mitchell would feel betrayed, and he’d had enough of that in his life. But even if Jackson deleted his Topical account and disappeared from Wallflower’s life, the lie of omission would wear at him and eventually tear them apart.

  He’d lost his partner and his online friend tonight. They just didn’t know it yet.

  He sent the call to voicemail.

  * * *

  For someone who claimed to be considering getting back together with his ex, Mitchell was awfully insistent on seeing Jackson. After several days of avoiding their usual calls and claiming he was too busy to go out to dinner, Jackson finally agreed to meet up at Mitchell’s place.

  Mitchell would tell him about Barton. Jackson would finally get his confession off his chest and apologize. Mitchell would go back to Barton’s welcoming arms, cursing Jackson’s name for his betrayal. Jackson would go home to lick his wounds. He’d survived cancer; he’d survive this.

  Even if this hurt so much more.

  At least the elevator was working again. Mitchell answered the door as soon as he knocked, and the smell of Indian spices wafted out.

  Mitchell leaned in to kiss him and gave him a strange look when Jackson pulled away after a brief peck. The lights flickered, and he looked around in surprise.

  “What’s all this?” Jackson had run through dozens of possible breakup scenarios for tonight, but none of them involved candlelight and… were those lilies?

  “I’ve been a jackass this week, too caught up in my own drama, and I wanted to make it up to you.”

  “I’m the one who ghosted you. I need to tell you—”

  “We’ve both been stressed lately.” Mitchell interrupted. “I’ve got the whole night planned to help with that.” He dragged Jackson into the bathroom. The tub was already filled, surrounded by more candles.

  “Get undressed.” Mitchell stripped down quickly and stepped into the tub.

  “But—” Jackson didn’t think he could do this. To feel so close to Mitchell knowing he was going to lose him tonight no matter what.

  Mitchell took Jackson’s cane from his hand and leaned it against the sink. Then he reached out and pushed Jackson’s shirt up and unbuttoned his pants. Satisfied when Jackson accepted the inevitable and started removing his clothing, Mitchell sank into the tub. When Jackson kicked off his briefs, Mitchell gestured to him to step inside and lean back against him.

  “Barton Fisk and I started dating two years before the last Olympics,” Mitchell whispered quietly into his ear. He pulled a small bowl off the ledge of the tub and used it to gently spill water into Jackson’s hair. “He was my first boyfriend, and I thought I was so lucky to find someone who shared the same interests and drive.”

  Jackson tried to face Mitchell—none of this made sense. Mitchell put his hand on the back of Jackson’s neck to push his head forward and continued wetting his hair. “Over those two years, we kept jockeying back-and-forth for first place.” He opened a bottle of citrus-smelling shampoo and massaged it in. Jackson wanted to fight the tender gesture—he didn’t deserve it. “I quickly learned that it was hard to maintain a healthy relationship with someone who was trying to kick your ass on a regular basis. But I loved him.”

  Jackson stiffened. Was this where Mitchell admitted he still had feelings for Barton? But he simply picked up the bowl, this time to rinse, and continued his story.

  “It was also hard keeping our relationship quiet. I wanted us both to come out so we could see each other more freely, but Barton worried about the risk of it affecting our scores and the fans, especially with the Olympics coming up.” Mitchell ran a soapy washcloth over Jackson’s body.

  “At the Games, I was in first after the short program.” The washcloth stilled. “Barton was so pissed off, he refused to sleep in our room in the Village. I was woken up the next morning by an official with the US team saying Barton had accused me of hitting on him and that he didn’t feel safe rooming with me. You know the rest of the story.”

  This time, Jackson succeeded in twisting around in the tub, sending water over the side. “He outed you to win the medal. That bastard!” Jackson took a second to think about what he’d just heard. “But why didn’t you set the record straight? Why have you kept quiet all this time?”

  “Everyone thinks I was humiliated to be outed, but that’s not the case. The guy to whom I’d devoted two years of my life betrayed me for a hunk of gold. How did I not see that in him? If that’s what competition was all about, I was done with it.”

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “And then there were my parents. Who had never once pushed me to skate, who loved me whether I won or lost. Until I finished out of the medals at the Olympics, and I found out they’d spent every dime I’d ever earned an
d then some because they were banking on me getting sponsorships. The type that weren’t there for a gay figure skater who’d been accused of making unwanted advances against the gold medalist.”

  And now Jackson had betrayed him by hiding his identity. Mitchell would never forgive him. Every minute he sat in this tub and allowed Mitchell to finally open his heart, Jackson was making his eventually confession more painful. For both of them.

  “Mitchell, I need—”

  “You need to know that I love you,” Mitchell whispered. “I didn’t think I could ever trust anyone again, but you chased me down at the rink and challenged me to see you.”

  Jackson teared up and pressed his face into Mitchell’s neck. “I love you, too.” He paused. “You need to know that. And I would do anything to avoid having to hurt you.”

  The joy in Mitchell’s eyes became uncertain.

  “Barton wants you to work with him.”

  “How did you know about that? I turned it down. Twice. But I only told…” Mitchell’s lips tightened with awareness before Jackson finished the sentence for him.

  “Doc1984.”

  “Were you looking at my computer?”

  Jackson shook his head. “I haven’t been here all week.”

  “Then how… You’re Doc?”

  He nodded.

  Mitchell stilled for a moment, then exploded out of the tub.

  Chapter Seven

  Why the fuck should he even be surprised? Just another person pretending one thing while being something else.

  Mitchell walked the city streets for miles, until his hair had long since dried, along with the clothes that had clung to his wet body.

  When had Jackson realized Mitchell was Wallflower? Did he somehow know from the start? No, Jackson wouldn’t have let it go so long or so far. He was honest—

  No, he was a lying bastard. At any point in their online chat the other night, he could’ve identified himself. Mitchell had even asked him for advice. If Doc had only said, “small world, babe. I’m Jackson,” they’d be curled up in bed right now instead of torn apart.

  When his feet refused to walk another step, Mitchell thumbed open his Uber app and got a ride home. The apartment was dark and empty. Jackson had blown out all the candles, and a step into the kitchen showed that he’d packed away the butter chicken. A note was propped against his laptop screen.

  I love you.

  I never meant to hurt you.

  Neither had his parents. They’d just wanted vicarious fame and fortune.

  Neither had Barton, really. He’d just wanted to win.

  Now Jackson.

  What did Jackson want?

  What did Jackson want? He’d wanted someone to see him as something other than just a cancer survivor. Mitchell thought about their first dance, the way Jackson had felt in his arms. He’d wanted to help Mitchell learn to trust again. How many times had he encouraged Mitchell to open up, to get the weight of the truth off his shoulders?

  He’d wanted Mitchell. In his life, in his bed.

  And Mitchell had wanted Jackson. Still did.

  He picked up the note and set it beside the laptop, bringing up the Topical site. He searched through the public forums, finding all the times they’d argued and disagreed on general principle. But Doc had also been the first to comment when Wallflower posted about having an identity crisis since his boyfriend had broken up with him and he’d changed careers. Doc had admitted to having to reinvent himself, as well. They’d had their first private message conversation that night, with Doc feeling the need to make sure Wallflower wasn’t in such a funk that he’d do anything drastic.

  And he’d kept Wallflower’s secrets even when Mitchell continued arguing with him on every possible thread. He’d never used their private conversations against him, even the night Mitchell met Jackson after shutting down Doc’s invitation.

  That, too, was the Jackson he’d come to fall in love with.

  And what had he given Jackson in return? He’d had so many opportunities to trust him, to let him in. Hell, he’d told Doc what was going on before he’d told the man he was sleeping with. He hadn’t opened up to Jackson until he felt the man slipping from his grasp. Mitchell had told himself the candles and bath were for Jackson, but they were really for himself, a way of sugarcoating his tale of woe so maybe Jackson wouldn’t find him quite so pathetic.

  He looked at that final private message conversation. He read the messages. Reread them…

  He’d screwed up.

  From Jackson’s perspective it must’ve looked an awful lot like they were breaking up.

  * * *

  Mitchell posted the first message at seven in the morning.

  subTopic/Relationships

  How do you patch things up when your secrets and lack of trust allowed someone you love to slip from your grasp?

  The next message went up at eight.

  subTopic/Defense Mechanisms

  Do you think someone can reinvent themselves after they’ve spent the past year hiding behind petty arguments?

  By nine, he was really reaching.

  subTopic/Toothpaste

  When you’re in a new relationship, at what point do you start stocking your partner’s (far inferior) brand of whitening toothpaste in your bathroom? Not all arguments are petty.

  At ten, he received a private message.

  To Wallflower: You’re going to lose all your street cred if you keep this up.

  To Doc1984: You’re not here to keep me on the straight and narrow.

  To Doc1984: How do I fix that?

  To Wallflower: I should’ve told you who I was as soon as you typed Barton’s name.

  To Doc1984: I should’ve told you about Barton before you had to read it online.

  To Wallflower: Cuppa Joe’s, one hour

  Mitchell shut down his computer.

  Two minutes before eleven, Jackson approached Cuppa Joe’s, leaning heavily on his cane. Mitchell stood to greet him, holding out his hand. “Hi, I’m Wallflower.”

  Jackson beamed. “Doc1984. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Mitchell used the handshake to pull Jackson into his arms and hold him tight.

  “Doc1984, huh? I suppose I need to reread Orwell now.”

  Jackson looked confused.

  “Your username. You must be a big fan.”

  Jackson laughed. “That’s my birth year!”

  They were still laughing together as their lips met.

  Epilogue

  Mitchell grabbed the paper bag between his teeth, freeing up a hand to open his apartment door. He toed off his running shoes and laid the cardboard coffee holder on the counter before setting the bag beside it.

  “Hey, babe. I brought home bagels. Figured we could stay in the rest of the day.” He hung his coat up on a peg by the door and shook the snow off his beanie. “It’s so cold outside, I almost didn’t want to leave the warmth of the rink.”

  Instead of commiseration for having had to get out of bed in the wee hours of a snowy Saturday morning to give a handful of private lessons, he was greeted by silence.

  “Jackson?” It was almost noon. Surely he was awake.

  His chest tightened. Had Jackson been sleeping more than usual? Maybe the move had taken too much out of him. Or it could be a recurrence—

  Breathe. Jackson kept getting stronger every day. His last scans were clear. Since Mitchell had convinced him to give physical therapy another try, he didn’t have as much pain in his leg, although his range of motion and strength were about as good as he could expect.

  And he was here, living in Mitchell’s—their—apartment. Mitchell looked around his living room. They still needed a couple more shelving units, but Jackson’s books were the only remaining boxes from his move, stacked neatly in the corner. With Mitchell’s old skates and an assortment of Bunga gel pads scattered on top.

  When they’d discussed who should move in with whom, they’d agreed Mitchell’s bathtub was worth the sacrifice in living
space, but the lure of soaking away their aches may have interfered with their judgment. Now that he was sharing his space with another person, Jackson really needed a dedicated office. Off limits to Mitchell’s clutter and sudden bursts of choreographic inspiration.

  His phone buzzed with a notification.

  To Wallflower: Why are you out there talking to yourself instead of here in bed? :-(

  Mitchell rolled his eyes. Leave it to his dorky professor to send a private message on Topical instead of shouting from the other room.

  To Doc1984: I thought we agreed our relationship doesn’t extend to emojis.

  To Wallflower: I think it’s time to change the boundaries.

  He walked into the bedroom with a smile, prepared to show Jackson exactly how few boundaries existed between them. Spared the horror of group lessons this session, he and Jackson had found better ways to spend the rest of their Saturdays.

  “You’re going to want some boundaries when you feel how cold my feet—”

  He gasped. Jackson knelt on one knee beside the bed.

  “You better say yes quickly, before I fall over.” Jackson’s nervous laugh seemed to have nothing to do with his precarious position and everything to do with the black box he held in his shaking hand.

  Mitchell folded his own hand over Jackson’s, cradling the box between them. “Get up, Doc,” he said tenderly.

  “Not until you give me an answer, Wallflower.”

  Mitchell tugged at Jackson’s arm until they were standing eye-to-eye.

  “Yes. Of course, yes.” Mitchell took his future husband’s lips even as he felt the metal sliding over his finger. Appearances had never mattered in their relationship, and he knew whatever ring Jackson had chosen would be perfect for him.