Love In Slow Motion, page 1
Love In Slow Motion
E.M. LINDSEY
Love In Slow Motion
Copyright © 2023
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any events, places, or people portrayed in the book have been used in a manner of fiction and are not intended to represent reality. Any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Cover by Cate Ashwood Designs
Editing: Edits by Anna
Proofing: Bailey Polanco
Content warning: This book contains mentions of off-page narcissistic abuse by a spouse, abuse recovery, and C-PTSD.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
“The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved—loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.”
-Victor Hugo
It all happened in quiet succession. His shin collided with the table he was pretty sure Jacqueline had moved without telling him. Sebastian began to whine, a stream of curses fell from his lips, and then a familiar baritone chuckle sounded from the front door. Relief swept through Fredric with an intensity he hadn’t expected, and he turned his face up, feeling his cheeks strain with his grin.
“Still laughing at old men?”
“Only when they embarrass themselves.” The voice got closer, polished shoes shuffling across the threadbare carpet, and then a warm hand closed around his bicep, and he was able to straighten up. “Let me guess,” Ilan said, and his voice was cold and hard, “she moved all your shit around?”
“Please don’t,” Fredric sighed out. The week had already frayed his nerves beyond repair, and he didn’t really have it in him to have this conversation about Jacqueline again. He’d already gone a round with her that morning, and he would have tripped over a hundred more tables if it meant having the cottage to himself for a little while longer.
“Julian said she’s been particularly vicious this week,” Ilan murmured as he let Fredric’s arm go. “And not just with him.” He sat on the sofa with a soft grunt, and Fredric heard him pat the cushion next to him. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” Fredric said and then walked the now-clear path back to the sitting room and took up space beside his son’s best friend. “We all knew this week was going to be terrible. I was just hoping she’d find another focus than Julian.”
Ilan snorted a bitter laugh. “Considering she guilted him into coming to his ex’s wedding…”
And Fredric felt a measure of responsibility because he hadn’t been able to do enough to stop Julian from showing up. He’d been tied in knots over the events that week, and his heart ached knowing that no matter what he said or did, Julian would put himself through hell, if only to shut his mother up. It was what he had always done—in the name of keeping the peace, and Fredric had lived with that suffocating guilt for as long as he could remember. And he could only blame himself for being such a weak man that his son would show up to the week-long circus Julian’s ex-husband was calling a wedding celebration.
He’d shouted himself hoarse the night Jacqueline had told him, and even now, his throat ached a little with the memory.
“I don’t see what the problem is, Fredric.” Her voice had been cold and sharp—something he’d once loved about her, but had now come to despise with a sort of searing hatred. “Julian made his choice.”
He had laughed then, bitter and furious, because it was categorically untrue. He may have been blind, but he didn’t need sight to know that Bryce was an opportunist, and the moment he met a richer cousin, he’d jumped at the chance to leave Julian in the dust.
Of course, Jacqueline had seen to it that Julian hadn’t made a single choice to benefit himself for most of his life. His one, single rebellion against her was turning down law school and getting his master’s degree in literature. He remembered the seething fury in Jacqueline’s voice the night Julian announced he’d taken a job at a high school, teaching English. It had given Fredric an almost perverse pleasure knowing his son had done it as a very soft, very quiet fuck you to her.
Fredric admired his bravery and his poise. Some days he wished he was half the man his son had grown up to become, because all that was left inside his aging bag of bones was cowardice and regret. But he did have a breaking point, and the wedding had taken him by the hand and then flung him off the edge.
And there was no going back now.
“You okay?”
Ilan’s voice brought him back to the present, and Fredric turned to him, hoping his smile was convincing enough. Ilan had always been able to see through the façade of their home though, and it was one of the reasons Fredric had gone out of his way to make sure the boys’ friendship didn’t fail, regardless of Jacqueline’s dislike for Ilan and his background. He knew that if Julian ever needed saving, Ilan would be the arms he’d fall into.
To this day, he was still surprised that the two of them had never fallen in love. No one cared for Julian the way Ilan did, but Fredric supposed that maybe it was the kind of love which didn’t need romance.
“I’ve been better,” he finally managed to get out, and he heard Ilan sigh.
“This sounds like a scotch kind of conversation.” The sofa let out a small groan as Ilan hefted his bulk from the seat, and Fredric held up a hand to stay him.
“I don’t think there’s anything here except wine, and even that might be gone.”
Ilan scoffed, and Fredric heard the distinct sound of a zipper and then rustling cloth. “Come on, Papa, you always underestimate me.” He was back, his warmth against Fredric’s side, and then something cold pressed against the back of his hand. “Take this glass. I came prepared.”
Fredric felt a real, genuine smile spread across his face as the sound of liquid sloshing from a bottle filled the room. The scotch in his hand was aged and expensive, the spice tickling at his senses, and he was suddenly eager to let the burn of alcohol eclipse the quiet frustration of the week.
“Have you been by to see Julian?” Fredric asked as he lifted the glass to his lips. The scotch went down easy, and he smiled against the rim.
Ilan made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and Fredric recognized it instantly. It was his single tell—like his body preparing for a lie. “No. I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Fredric’s brows rose, and he turned more fully to the other man. “And what are you keeping from me?”
Ilan cleared his throat but said nothing.
“You forget, I know you better than you know yourself. I don’t care how grown you are…”
“Almost as old as you,” Ilan shot back, and Fredric could hear the laughter in his voice, but the moment quickly sobered. He liked the man Julian had brought to the wedding, but since Bryce, Fredric had done nothing but worry for his son’s heart.
“Just tell me he’s not in trouble. Tell me that he’s made the right decision,” Fredric begged after a moment.
Ilan breathed out, then Fredric felt a touch of fingers against his knee before Ilan’s large palm engulfed it. “I think Julian is falling in love faster and deeper than he expected to. And I don’t think he’s letting himself see a future beyond this week. But I think…I think this man will change his mind.”
“Have you met him? This new boyfriend.” Fredric asked softly.
“No. But I heard Julian’s voice and it’s…” He chuckled, his baritone rumbling and hitting Fredric like a physical thing. “It’s nothing like I’ve ever heard before.”
“I know what you mean,” Fredric admitted. He thought about him—the man who had swept his son off his feet. The quiet tone of his voice, the rich passion, the fact that he’d given something to Fredric that no one ever had before.
Fredric had come to terms with permanent blindness not long after he’d woken up from his stroke and realized he couldn’t see. But his life wasn’t over. In fact, he woke up grateful that he could wake up at all. The first time his children fell into his arms and he smelled the dirt and cookie crumbs, felt their tiny hands cling to him, he knew that his survival had been a gift. So, he worked his ass off to heal, and he’d quietly mourned what he lost, knowing that there was an entire lifetime of things to discover with touch, with taste, with scent, and sound.
He’d said goodbye to stargazing, and then Archer, who vowed to love his son, had come along and had given him a recording. And at first, it sounded like nothing. It was just noise. And then he’d let himself experience it—fully and completely. He let the sounds form shapes that his mind could explore, that could take form in new ways, and suddenly the stars had become his again.
He’d done his best to hold back his emotions at the time, though he could hear it in Julian’s voice that he hadn’t perfected his ability to keep himself together. And even Corinne had held his arm just a little tighter as she walked with him back to the cottage. But she didn’t linger, and when he was alone, with his fingers in Bastian’s fur, he let himself cry.
It wasn’t gut-wrenching sobs, and he didn’t allow himself regret for what he’d lost. But gratitude for what he’d been given made him want to fight until his knuckles bled to make this relationship between that man and his son work.
Fredric returned his attention back to the scotch and realized that Ilan was no longer at his side. He tilted his head, and he heard soft, rumbling baby talk and knew that the younger man was rolling on the floor with his dog.
“You spoil him,” Fredric said, leaning slightly over his knees.
Ilan laughed, and a hand swatted his ankle. “You’re one to talk. How often do you make him a plate of filet mignon?”
“Never,” Fredric said with a small sniff, though he wasn’t about to deny that the dog was spoiled. But he was worth it. He was Fredric’s everything, even if he was getting along in years. “How was your drive in?”
“The usual. Shitty until I saw the coast, then better. I keep telling myself to just pack up and move.” He let out a sigh, and Fredric inched his feet forward until his shoes connected with the hard body lying on the floor. A hand reached out and closed around his ankle, and Fredric felt settled. “How has the week been really?”
“I’m sure Julian’s told you. It’s all pomp and circumstance. Bullshit,” Fredric said with a half-smile, then shook his head. “I think the more they see Julian happy, the crueler they’re trying to be.”
“Is your wife going to be here tonight, because…”
Fredric grunted, and Ilan went silent. “No.” He inched forward again, reaching with his stronger arm to brace himself on cushion behind him, and he slid to the floor, pulling his legs up toward his chest. The ache in his back told him he was probably too old to be sitting like that, but tonight, he decided he wasn’t going to care. He’d face his regret in the morning. “She’s not staying here with me for the rest of the trip.”
“Did you two…” Ilan stopped and cleared his throat. “Are things okay?”
Fredric hesitated, because they weren’t telling people yet. But the truth was clawing at his chest, the way it had been doing for months. The day after Bryce’s wedding was announced—the day after Jacqueline had told him that Julian would attend no matter what, Fredric felt the last, frayed thread of their marriage pull tight. “You can’t be serious. You can’t ask him to go through that.” It was a single, sorry attempt to drag humanity from her. “How can you ask him to go through that?”
Jacqueline’s response was no surprise. “How can I not? Our son is fat, he’s a teacher, he has no backbone. Can you blame Bryce for wanting more? Maybe this will show Julian he needs to work harder if he wants to keep a partner interested.”
And the string snapped. He had his partner draw up the divorce papers and laid them on the living room table. When Jacqueline finally graced him with her presence, he addressed her with the coldness she’d given him for as long as he could remember. “I want out. I won’t make a big scene, but I can’t do this anymore. You can have the house, obviously all of the cars. I won’t make a public statement, but I don’t want to spend another year married to you.”
She hadn’t said much, except to request they wait to tell people until after the holidays. He knew he shouldn’t have given in—if he hadn’t, maybe Julian wouldn’t have sacrificed even more of his dignity to be there watching his ex flaunt his new husband and his access to even more cash. But standing up straight and taking control of his life had been new for Fredric, so he allowed her to win this one, final battle.
He might have tasted bitter regret if he hadn’t heard the sounds of his son falling into real, absolute love.
“Jacqueline and I are getting divorced,” he said after a beat. He heard the rustling sound of Ilan sitting up and the quiet jingle of the tags on Bastian’s collar as he was dislodged. “It’s…we separated a while ago, and the hearing is set for January tenth.”
Ilan made a soft noise, and then he settled next to Fredric with his back to the sofa. “Fuck.”
Fredric couldn’t stop a laugh, and he leaned in toward Ilan. It felt good to talk about it like this—with someone whose life hadn’t been warped and changed by his marriage and the abuse he suffered in it.
“It’s been a long time coming,” Fredric said after a beat.
“Yeah, I know. Have you told Julian and Corinne?”
Fredric squeezed his weaker hand into a fist, then nodded. “I have. They…took it well enough, I suppose. I deserved a lot more anger from Julian than he gave me for taking this long to finally get out.”
“He loves you,” Ilan argued, and Fredric laughed again.
“I know he does. God, I know.” He dragged his hand down his face, then leaned back against the cushion with his eyes wide open toward the ceiling. “I don’t deserve it, but I’m grateful for it.”
“If you ever start to wonder where Julian got his self-esteem from,” Ilan began, and though it was meant to be a joke, Fredric felt it like a blow to the sternum.
His breath caught in his chest, and he squeezed his hands again to stop them from shaking.
“Can I ask you something,” Ilan said after a moment, and Fredric waved at him to go on. “What are you going to do?”
Fredric closed his eyes and tilted his head toward Ilan. “I don’t know. I’ve already let my firm know that I’m not coming back. Maybe I’ll take up knitting.” He stopped when he felt warm fingers curl around his wrist.
“That’s not what I mean,” Ilan said, and Fredric sighed, because he knew what Ilan was really asking.
“I don’t know, and I’m terrified,” he admitted. The words were gutting, bitter, and painful as he forced them out, but he hadn’t said any of this to anyone. Ilan’s hand tightened on his, and he let the touch ground him as he reached for emotions he’d been tucking away into dark corners for so long. “Sometimes I don’t know if I can do this without her, but I also know that I’d rather die than stay another day in this marriage. She was my first everything, but I feel like she robbed me of all the joy that could have been, if only I’d had the courage to leave the day I realized I was nothing more than a burden to her.”
“Papa,” Ilan breathed out, and Fredric shook his head, sitting up and dislodging Ilan’s grasp.
“I’m tired of letting fear dictate my future—what little I have left of one.”
At that, the other man laughed. “Don’t be such a fucking fatalist. You’re not actually old. You’re gorgeous, and you’re one of the smartest people I have ever known. You’re funny, and you’re kind, and you’re worthy.” His voice got a little lower, and Fredric wondered for a moment if he looked anything like the child with the small voice and angry, swinging fists Fredric had once known. “If you do anything else in your life—anything at all—be happy. All I want to know, is that you’re going to try and find what makes you happy.”
“I’m not afraid to try,” Fredric said, then he smiled. “Hell, I’m not even afraid to fail.”
“So, what is it?”
The question was simple, the answer easy, but the words wouldn’t come. He reached for Ilan, and he felt something hit him as their hands touched. A tiny spark, a little burst of heat that raced up his arm. He turned Ilan’s palm in his, traced around his fingers. They were strong but delicate, and the lines in his palms were deeply etched.
“Come on, old man,” Ilan prodded gently. He shifted so they were even closer, and Fredric could feel the gentle rise and fall of his breath where their shoulders touched. Ilan’s hand turned, fingers tangling with Fredric’s like a ballast, like something he could cling to and stop wondering if he was about to tip off the edge of the earth. Those hands, belonging to a man who had been such a steady presence for years, meant everything right then.
