The Light Between Us by Beth Morey

let it out in a rush when he saw an angular blonde man standing shirtless in the doorway.
     
    “ Oh,” he said, deflated.  “Sorry.  I must have the wrong place.”  He didn't know how he'd managed to screw that one up.  He'd checked the address Padme had given him until the paper grew tired and wilted from over handling. 
     
    “ Are you looking for Ruth?” the man asked.  He pointed a thumb over his shoulder.  “She's in the shower.  Should be out soon.”
     
    “ The shower,” Derek said in a flat voice, unsettling realization beginning to dawn.
     
    “ Yeah.  Do you want to come in?”
     
    “ Come in?”  Derek squinted at the other man, wondering what he had to do with the girl he was here to win over with chocolate and expensive roses.  “Yeah.  I think I will.”
     
    “ Cool.”  The blonde said easily, stepping back as Derek crossed the threshold.  “I'm Sam.  Want some breakfast?  I was just making scrambled eggs.”  He led the way into the kitchen.
     
    “ I'm not hungry.”
     
    “ Coffee?”  Sam pointed at the coffee pot that was steaming from the freshly brewed near-black liquid, apparently oblivious to – or at least unaffected by – Derek's growing fear and hostility filling the small kitchen.
     
    “ I'm fine.             
     
    “ Well, help yourself if you change your mind,” said Sam, shrugging as he turned his attention back to the eggs simmering gently in their pan on the stove top.  “Uh, what's your name?”
     
    “ Derek.”
     
    “ Nice to meet you, Derek.”  Sam smiled at him, ducking his head a little. 
     
    “ So, Sam,” Derek said, trying not to sound like he was spitting the words through gritted teeth, “how do you know Ruth?”
     
    Sam's cheeks grew pink for a moment, the flush fading as quickly as it had come.  It made Derek scowl.  They'd slept together, he thought.  He could practically smell it on Sam.  “Well, we're both writers, so I guess you could say that's how we met.”
     
    “ Writers,” repeated Derek.  “I see.”  He felt twin flashes of knowing and nausea sear through him.  He'd been right – he knew that teaching wasn't Ruth's true passion.  Writing was, apparently.  And, also apparently, she'd been playing games with Derek.  And here he was, ready to grovel, to do what he never would have dreamed of doing before he met her . . . and she'd just been screwing this writer. 
     
    “ How about you?” Sam asked, eying the flowers Derek still clutched in his fist, the thorns cutting through the paper they were wrapped in to his palms. 
     
    “ Funny you ask, Sam,” replied Derek, voice clipped.  “We're dating.  Or at least, I thought we were.”             
     
    “ Uh, dating?” 
     
    “ Yes,” Derek said, relishing the puzzled look on the younger man's face.  “Which makes me very curious as to what you're doing here, in the morning, shirtless and making breakfast for the woman I brought flowers and chocolate for.”
     
    “ I – well, we just met last night.  She didn't say – I mean, I never would have – I'm really sorry, man,” Sam said, the half-cooked eggs forgotten, the blood fleeing the blonde man's face.
     
    “ Yeah.  I'm sorry, too.”  Derek set the flowers and chocolate bar on the kitchen table.  He shook his head.  “You know what, just – forget it.  I'm going to go.”
     
    “ What do you want me to tell her?” Sam asked, following him to the door.  “About the flowers?”  Derek's anger joined with a sick feeling of self-disgust. 
     
    “ Whatever you want,” Derek said, opening the door.  He paused, turning to face Sam.  “Tell her the flowers are from you.  I don't give a damn.”
     
    Derek turned and slammed the door in Sam's face, relishing the impact's vibration jolting through the soles of his shoes. 
     
    He strode out of the apartment building and down the sidewalk as fast as he could, eager to get as far from this place