Only You by Jerry Cole (the top 100 crime novels of all time TXT) 📕

“There’s nothing to worry about, mom. The borders opened suddenly so I thought I’d come down is all – fucking Covid, they’ll probably close them again next week. You know.”  Bradley had to channel his deepest acting ability to make that one sound remotely believable. And even still, the look his mother fixed him with as he hurriedly stepped into his old bedroom suggested she wasn’t buying it either.

She loitered by the bedroom door, looking the scene over with a sense of nostalgia. The suitcase was still tucked under her arm. “Well... dinner is the usual time.”

“Mom?” Bradley indicated the suitcase.

“Oh!” His mother rolled her eyes and dropped the suitcase. “What did you pack? A single shirt?”

Bradley shrugged. “There wasn’t much at my place to pack. It’s all at... yeah.” He trailed off, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He hadn’t told his mother why he was back yet. Not that he needed to with her.

Rarely, was Bradley’s mother a quiet woman. It was said that even the neighbors could hear her snoring, and it was after roughly the third cat ran away from sheer fright that they decided to stop buying them. But in this moment, she offered a rare moment of tranquility.

She looked at her son with a sense of sadness and empathy; a mother desperately wanting to hug the pain out of her son, but knowing that was all but impossible. “It doesn’t need to be said, but you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

“Thanks, mom.” Bradley felt a tear coming, but was quick to wipe it away. “Shouldn’t be long.” Fuck, he hoped so. He needed it to be so.

Sherman needed to come to Bradley. He needed to reach out, apologize, ask for forgiveness. It had to be him. For their entire relationship, Sherman had relished in his status as breadwinner, lauding his money over Bradley like it was something to be worshipped. Worse too that he used that money to manipulate Bradley, with the holidays, with the apartment, with everything really.

No, Sherman had to prove to Bradley that he saw him as an equal, as someone to fight for. Therefore, Sherman had to come to Bradley.

There was just one burning question, and it hung over Bradley’s head long after his mother left him and started cooking dinner. It was like a smoke cloud, the way it filled the room and seemed to suffocate. It wouldn’t go away, no matter how much Bradley tried.

And the question: Was Sherman even going to call? Did he even have it in him to apologize? Did he like Bradley that much? Honestly, Bradley wasn’t sure. He just had to hope.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It had been seven days. Seven long, agonizing, excruciating days, and Sherman didn’t know if he could last much longer. Fuck, he didn’t know if his relationship could last much longer.

The first day was probably the easiest. That day, he’d been full of rage and anger and hate and a whole host of other nasty things he didn’t want to think about anymore. At the time, Sherman had relished in the spiteful fury that raged inside him. He stormed the apartment, he smashed things, he cursed out loud, he punched pillows, kicked sofas and wrung his hands in the air like he was a movie villain. It had felt good.

Now though, he felt sick whenever he remembered that day. The awful things that had gone through his head, all directed at Bradley, were too terrible to even consider repeating.

The next three days were spent in a state of uninterrupted anguish. Sherman had no job. He had few friends. And most of all, he had nowhere to be. So, he parked himself on the couch, lined up every single rom-com film that he could find, and watched them back-to-back. For sustenance, he ordered in. And that was really the only time he left the couch.

All the while too, he made sure to have his phone in sight, waiting for the call.

Surely, Bradley was going to call? Surely, it was on him to call?! He was the one that had been spying on Sherman after all. He was the one that went back to his own apartment, as if stating outright that he was moving out. This was on him.

Also, and not to harp on about it too much, but Bradley did sort of owe him. He had paid for half his rent... and covered his moving fees... and there was that holiday in Bali... and a whole host of other expenses also. What? Was Sherman supposed to apologize for all that too?

Those days on the couch were an odd combination of tears, joyous laughter and crying, and a lot of pigging out on terrible foods that had no right entering a healthy human body. It was a mess.

And still, no call.

By the fifth day, Sherman began to worry. Maybe Bradley was hurt. Maybe Bradley was sick. Maybe Bradley wanted to call, but had lost his phone, and had forgotten the directions to the apartment, and was suffering amnesia and...

The lies that Sherman spun to convince himself that Bradley wanted to call or visit but didn’t were outrageous to say the least, and they barely managed to convince Sherman when he was in his most desperate states. The simple fact of the matter was that Bradley wasn’t going to call and apologize. If it was going to happen, it had to be Sherman.

By day six, this fact really sunk in and where it should have been a revelation, and maybe even something that spurred Sherman on to finally pick up the phone and extend an olive branch... it actually had the opposite effect.

That was typical Bradley, just expecting Sherman to do all the work like that. And why? Because he had helped Bradley out with rent?