Under_The_Whispering_Door_by_TJ_Klune

shooting stars, and a memory rose up around them. It was a trivial thing,
something unimportant. He and Naomi had just started dating. He was
nervous around her. She was out of his league and sharp as a tack. He didn’t
know what the hell she was doing with him, how they’d even gotten here in
the first place. He hadn’t had this before, too shy and awkward to ever
instigate anything. There’d been furtive attempts at the end of high school and
into college, women in his bed where he tried to pretend he knew what he
was doing, and a man or two, though it was awkward fumblings in dark
corners that carried a strange and exhilarating little thrill. It took him time to
admit to himself that he was bisexual, something he’d felt relief over, at
finally giving it a name. And when he’d told Naomi, a little nervous but firm,
she hadn’t cared either way, telling him that he was allowed to be whoever
he wanted.
But that wouldn’t happen for another six months. Now, it was their second
—third?—date and they were in an expensive restaurant that he absolutely
could not afford but thought she would enjoy. They’d gotten dressed up in
fancy clothes (fancy being a relative term: his suit sleeves were too short, the
pant legs rising up around his ankles, but she looked like a model, her dress
blue, blue, blue) and a valet had taken his shitty car without so much as a
raised eyebrow. He held the door open for her, and she’d laughed at him, a
low, throaty chuckle. “Why thank you,” she said. “You’re too kind.”
The maître d’ eyed them both warily, his snooty little mustache wiggling
as Wallace gave his name for the reservation. He led them to the table in the
back of the restaurant, the smell of seafood thick and pungent, causing
Wallace’s stomach to twist. Before the maître d’ could act, he hurried around
the table, pulling the chair out for Naomi.
She laughed again, blushing and looking away before sitting down.
He thought how beautiful she looked.
Things would fall apart for them. They would hurl accusations like
grenades, not caring they were both still in the blast radius. They did love
each other, and they had good years, but it wasn’t enough to keep it all from
crumbling. For a long time, Wallace refused to accept any blame. She was
the one who’d messed around with the gardener. She was the one who knew
how important his job was. She was the one who’d pushed him to go all in
with their own firm, even as his parents gave him nothing but dire warnings
about how he’d be destitute and on the streets with nothing in a year.