Tom nearly gasped at his own confession. This is it, he thought. This is the end of the facade. He glanced over at Peter, who moved his dishes to the side, lay his forearm on the table, buried his face into his forearm, and neglecting his deeply instilled "Britishisms", wept. I broke him, thought Tom. He listened in sorrow at Peter's sobs. This man was nothing but good to me and I broke him. Tom looked away. He couldn't bear the sight of his shattered lover.
Peter sat up straight, wiped the tears away from his cheeks, and looked at Tom. Tom seemed very apologetic, very transparent, very honest. Honesty was exactly what Peter wanted. But then Peter's eyes fixed on the knife. Tom tried to kill him. He had already successfully killed Dickie and Freddie; there was nothing stopping Tom from taking another victim.
Peter stood up from his chair and began to walk slowly toward the door, hoping he could sneak out without Tom noticing. However, a squeaky floorboard gave him away. Tom turned his head, stood up, and started to walk towards Peter. Peter tried to step more quickly, but Tom matched each move.
"Peter, where are you going?"
"I was just going to get a bit of fresh air," lied Peter, trying and failing to diffuse his own panic.
"Oh, Peter. You're not much of a liar, are you? Why were you crying? Why did you try to sneak away?"
"I just found out that the man I love is a cold-blooded killer."
Tom shuttered at Peter's insult. Cold-blooded. If he could just kill someone and walk away, then maybe the nightmares would have been less intense. Maybe he could have followed through choking or shanking the trembling man in front of him without any remorse. But he was too fragile for that.
"Peter, it's not like that. Dickie attacked me. It was self defense."
"And...Freddie?"
"Freddie threatened to blackmail me. He found out too much."
"Have I found out too much?"
"Peter, no." Tom reached his hand out to Peter and he recoiled.
"Tom, if you try to touch me again I'll scream!"
Tom believed Peter's threat was genuine. The walls were thin and echoed. If Peter screamed, every cop from miles around would be there in an instant to haul Tom away. Tom returned to his chair. Peter, nearly hyperventilating in panic, paced back and forth while he slowed his breathing, placing his arms behind his back. He never seemed to know what to do with his long limbs when he was uncomfortable.
As Tom sat, he tried to figure out what Peter would do. Would he turn him in? Would he sweep this all under the rug? Would he leave him? So many questions dangled in the air but he was afraid to reach for anyone. As he looked at Peter, the pity continued to fill his heart. He had no idea that such a tall man could look so small and so vulnerable. He wanted to hold him, but knew that attempting to would yield disastrous results, so he just whispered Peter's name reassuringly.
"You're not...going to Palermo," said Peter with a gasp, clearly still trying to catch his breath.
Shit. He IS going to turn me in. I knew it.
"I'm not?"
"No. You're going to stay here."
"You're not going to turn me into the police are you?"
"No."
Tom thought he would feel more relieved by Peter's consolation, as if a huge weight would lift off of his shoulders, but he felt nothing.
"Where am I going?"
"I'll telephone you this evening with the number of someone you can call to set up an appointment. His name is Dr. Russo. He helped a friend of mine a great deal when her mother died. Maybe he can help you as well."
Tom scoffed. "A shrink? You think I need a shrink?"
"A psychologist," corrected Peter. "It might be a conflict of interest since I know one of his patients but I think I might be able to help you pull a few strings."
Tom was at a complete loss for words.
"There's nothing wrong with getting help, Tom. But remember: be as vague as possible when discussing things. Don't even mention the names Dickie or Freddie because if you do, he'll have no choice but to inform the police."
"Peter, why are you doing this for me?"
"I'm just as much doing this for me. You need help, Tom. And it's not the kind of help I can give you. I love you, but I don't trust you right now. Maybe, in time, I will. But for now, I just need time."
Peter reached into his pocket and placed a key in Tom's palm. Their key.
"I will call you tonight," repeated Peter. "I love you, Tom."
And just like that, Peter was gone. Tom hung his head in...shame? Horror? Relief? Worry? He couldn't quite sum up the emotion, but he knew it was overwhelming him. He glanced at the key that Peter returned and sighed bitterly. The one time I finally open up to someone and this happens. Never again.