The Distance

Chapter 2: The Geometry of Distance

The first thing Adamson registered was the smell of bacon.

It was so profoundly out of place that for a disorienting second, he thought he was still dreaming, or perhaps in someone else’s apartment. He blinked against the weak, grey light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His head throbbed with a dull, tequila-laced rhythm, and his mouth felt like it had been lined with felt.

He was on the sofa. The throw pillows, usually arranged with geometric precision, were scattered on the floor. A knitted afghan he hadn’t seen in years was tangled around his legs. He had fallen asleep here, too exhausted and emotionally spent to make it to the bedroom.

And James was cooking.

Adamson pushed himself up, the world tilting slightly. He could see into the open-plan kitchen. James stood at the stove, his back to the living room. He was wearing a soft, faded grey henley and a pair of old sweatpants, an outfit so unlike his usual sharp, minimalist style that it felt like looking at a stranger. The sight was both comforting and unnerving.

He padded into the kitchen, the cold floor a shock against his bare feet. “Morning,” he croaked.

James turned, a spatula in his hand. His expression was unreadable. “Morning. You’re alive.” He turned back to the pan. “I heard you come in. Sounded like you were navigating an obstacle course.”

Adamson’s stomach clenched. He had been quiet, he’d thought. Or at least, he’d tried to be. The Uber ride home was a blur of nausea and self-loathing, punctuated by the phantom sensation of Liam’s hand on his. He’d fumbled with his keys, stumbled over the rug, and collapsed onto the sofa, praying for unconsciousness.

“Yeah, sorry,” Adamson muttered, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen island. “The team… they were really celebrating.”

James didn’t reply. He focused on carefully transferring crispy strips of bacon onto a plate lined with paper towel. The silence stretched, filled only by the sizzle of grease. It was a different silence from the night before. This one was heavy, charged with things unsaid.

“I didn’t know we had bacon,” Adamson said, desperate to fill the void.

“We didn’t. I went out.” James’s tone was flat. “I woke up early. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Thought I’d make breakfast.”

It was a peace offering. A bizarre, cholesterol-laden peace offering. James only cooked like this—messy, indulgent, domestic—when he was trying to fix something. Or when he felt guilty. Adamson’s heart ached. He wanted to reach across the island and take his husband’s hand, to confess everything and beg for forgiveness in the face of this unexpected kindness.

But he didn’t. The image of Liam’s intense, admiring gaze flashed in his mind, a counterpoint to James’s quiet demeanor.

“It smells amazing,” Adamson said instead, the words ash in his mouth.

James brought two plates over. They were piled high with bacon, perfectly scrambled eggs, and toast cut into triangles. It was a breakfast from their university days, from Saturday mornings spent tangled in sheets, sharing sections of the newspaper and planning a future that felt infinite.

They ate in a silence that was anything but comfortable. Adamson could feel James’s eyes on him, assessing. He kept his own gaze fixed on his plate.

“So,” James said finally, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “The celebration must have been something. You don’t usually drink tequila.”

Adamson froze, a triangle of toast halfway to his mouth. He’d brushed his teeth, but apparently, it hadn’t been enough to erase the evidence. “Yeah. Liam—from the sales team—he insisted. It was his idea.”

“Liam,” James repeated. The name hung in the air between them, neutral and yet loaded with unspoken inquiry. James had heard Adamson mention colleagues before—Sarah, Mark, Diane. But ‘Liam’ was new. “He’s the one who texted you?”

Adamson’s blood ran cold. He hadn’t mentioned a text. He’d said the team was forcing him. How did James…? His eyes flicked to his phone, lying on the counter where he’d dumped it last night. The screen was dark, but had James seen it light up? Seen the name?

“Yeah,” Adamson said again, feeling like a broken record, a liar trapped in a circular narrative. “He’s… very persuasive.”

James nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Adamson’s face. He was an architect. His entire world was about reading plans, seeing the underlying structure, identifying points of stress and weakness. Adamson felt like a flawed blueprint under his gaze.

“You should be careful with that,” James said, his voice deceptively soft. “Tequila. You always get a terrible hangover.” He stood and took his plate to the sink. The moment of interrogation seemed to have passed, but the tension remained, a new wall erected between them.

He was washing the pan when he spoke again, his back to Adamson. “I was thinking… maybe we could do something today. Since it’s Saturday. We could go to the Distillery District, walk around. Get a coffee like we used to.”

It was a monumental effort. Adamson knew it. James was carving time out of his sacred work schedule, attempting to bridge the gap with a plan, an itinerary for intimacy. A week ago, a month ago, Adamson would have grasped at it with both hands.

But now, the offer felt like a duty. A chore. The guilt from last night curdled in his stomach, mixing with the rich food. He couldn’t stand the thought of walking through the cobblestone streets, pretending everything was fine, feeling the ghost of Liam’s touch on his hand while James’s swung, untouched, beside him.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

Both their eyes snapped to it. The screen lit up.

Liam : Hope the head isn’t too punishing today, champ. 😉 Last night was fun. We should do it again soon.

Adamson’s heart hammered against his ribs. He saw James’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. He didn’t turn around, but his hands went still in the soapy water.

The silence was deafening. The message was innocent enough on the surface, but the winking emoji, the word “fun,” the easy camaraderie of “champ”—it spoke of a shared secret, a connection that excluded James completely.

Adamson didn’t pick up the phone. He didn’t explain. He just watched the screen go dark again, the message now a permanent, digital specter in the room.

James finished washing the pan. He rinsed it, dried it with a methodical slowness, and placed it back in its designated cupboard. He wiped his hands on a towel and finally turned around. His expression was carefully neutral, the shutters drawn.

“Well,” he said, his voice devoid of all the tentative warmth from moments before. “If you’re feeling rough, maybe it’s best you just rest today. I’ve actually got to review those Vancouver revisions anyway. The deadline got moved up.”

It was a retreat. A full-scale withdrawal behind the familiar battlements of work.

“James, wait—” Adamson started, but James was already walking away.

“It’s fine, Ads. Really. I’ll be in my study.”

The door closed with a soft, definitive click.

Adamson sat alone at the island, surrounded by the remnants of a breakfast that tasted like regret. He had gotten what he wanted. He was free of the obligation of a shared day. He was alone.

The loneliness, however, was now a different, more terrifying creature. It was no longer a passive absence; it was an active chasm, dug by his own choices, and on the other side of it, he could see James, willingly locking himself away.

His phone buzzed again.

He looked at it. Then, with a hand that trembled slightly, he picked it up.

Liam (Work): Seriously though. You free tonight? I know a great little speakeasy. No tequila, I promise. Just good conversation.

Adamson stared at the words. Good conversation. Attention. Excitement. It was the antithesis of the crushing, silent judgment of his own home. It was an escape from the monument he and James had built, which had somehow become a museum of their past love.

He thought of James in his study, building digital worlds because the real one between them had become too complicated to fix.

His thumbs typed out a reply.

Adamson: What’s the address?

He hit send. The action was like taking a match to the final remaining bridge. He could almost hear the crackle as it began to burn.

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