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At home I kicked off my boots, put the flowers in a vase and set it in the middle of the dining table. I put the pastry in the fridge, then rummaged through the kitchen drawer for a lighter and a small tea light before placing them on the counter for later.

I showered, washing the day off my large hairy body.

I lathered up the soap, the one with the sandalwood scent, not too strong, just enough to make a big old bear feel fresh, clean, all scrubbed up. I even shampooed my beard. I wasn’t sure why, it’s not like there was anyone at Andy’s poker nights I wanted to impress… at least not yet.

“Tomorrow,” I thought aloud. “Don’t make a big deal about tomorrow. Don’t even mention it. Act like you don’t even know what’s happening.”

Unfortunately, my dick didn’t get that memo.

Just the thought of him returning home made my thick cock twitch and swell, the soapy water trickling over its vein-strapped girth.

“Oh no you don’t!”

I shut off the shower.

I grabbed a towel and wrapped it tight around me.

I dried myself and slid on my tightest jockey shorts, a pair that would keep my dick snug and tight and hopefully in its place. Hell, I was supposed to be too anxious to feel horny. I couldn’t afford to let my raging hormone levels take over now.

I needed to calm myself down.

I needed to take a breath.

After all, it was just another Friday night of poker with the guys… the guys being Andy, of course, as well as Norm who started making and selling furniture crafted out of recycled wood after his wife died, and Trucker Ted who often took on long-haul runs interstate when Bo Harlow was out of town on another job.

None of them would ever remember what today was, they never did.

And Norm and Ted would barely acknowledge what was about to happen tomorrow. Andy, on the other hand, would undoubtedly be thrilled that his son Dean was returning home for a visit. How short or long that visit was supposed to be, nobody really knew. Dean had simply told his dad, “I just need a break from LA for a while, that’s all.”

A while.

That meant the chances of bumping into Dean while he was in town were pretty high.

Would he say hi if he saw me on the street?

Would he even remember who I was?

I mean, Dean Reeves was a hotshot rock star in LA now. Hell, his picture was no doubt tacked to the bedroom wall of every teenage girl the world over. The odds of him remembering one of his dad’s old friends were slim to none.

Yep, Dean had probably forgotten who I was completely.

No matter. Just spotting Dean in the street—with that scruffy blond head of hair and that perfectly happy smile—would be enough to warm my heart, whether he recognized me or not. Like I said before, I was a simple man. I didn’t ask for much in life. Just the sight of him would fill my cup until the next time he came to visit.

As I pulled on my jeans, the mere thought of Dean made my stomach flutter and my cock stiffen once more. “Jesus,” I breathed in annoyance, zipping that beast away. “Settle the fuck down, would you?”

I put on a flannel shirt, I lined my wallet with cash for the game, I grabbed a six-pack from the fridge, then I flicked off the house lights and turned the porch lights on as I left the house.

I always walked to Andy’s for Friday night poker, knowing I’d have more than a few beers under my belt by the time I returned. The stars were beginning to appear in the darkening blue of the sky and the breeze was still warm, adrift with the smell of backyard barbecues as the people of Mulligan’s Mill embraced the approach of summer.

There was laughter in the air.

Crickets chirped merrily.

And in my pocket, my phone buzzed.

I pulled it out and saw the name on the screen. “Andy, my friend. I hope you’re ready to get your ass kicked tonight… again.”

“Again? What are you talking about? You’re the one who still doesn’t know a straight from a pair, even after twenty years of this shit. I’m beginning to think you only come for the beers and snacks. Ooh, speaking of snacks, the reason for my call… would you mind swinging by Old Man Raven’s and picking up a few things?”

“Don’t tell me, you forgot to get snacks.”

“It’s not my fault. I was busy at the liquor store looking for some damn fancy tequila for Dean when he arrives tomorrow. Do you have any idea how many fancy tequilas there are out there? Tequila ain’t just something you drink in a dive bar in Tijuana anymore. Oh no. There’s one hundred percent blue agave tequila, the gold bottle tequila, oh and let’s not forget the tequila that’s slow cooked in clay ovens built by the Aztecs. For Pete’s sake, it’s tequila , not baby back ribs. Hell, even George Clooney has his own line of tequila.”

“Did you find the one Dean likes?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I grabbed a bottle that cost more than my first car but less than my second.”

“That ain’t saying much, Andy.”

“All’s I’m saying is, the tequila I got him was expensive enough. I figure that oughta do. Besides, he’s twenty-one, what would he know about tequila anyway?”

“I dunno, but he’s been hanging out with all those celebrities on the West Coast for over a year now.”

“So?”

“So, all’s I’m saying is, Dean’s all grown up now. He might know a lot of things we don’t.”

“Jesus, Harry! Don’t say that, you’re making me feel old.”

I laughed. “That’s because we are old, Andy.”

“No we’re not. We’re still in our thirties. We still know how to have fun, don’t we?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell my best friend he’d forgotten my birthday yet again, as I knew he would. I checked my watch. Mom had told me I was born just before six in the evening, at a time when the moon and sun were both in the sky, one handing their job over to the other. She said that’s where I got my work ethic from, two heavenly bodies who kept going all day and all night.

It was well past six now.

Nope, I wasn’t in my thirties anymore.

I didn’t have the heart to tell Andy that for me, the clock had just ticked over into my forties, not to mention that our idea of “fun” was playing poker once a week… and had been for as long as we both could remember. Not that I had anything to complain about. That was about as much fun as I needed—hanging with my best friend, playing terrible poker, losing a few bucks, and sinking a few beers.

“Yes, Andy. We still know how to have fun,” I told him. “Now how many bags of pretzels do we need?”

“Two. No, three. And some beer nuts. And microwave popcorn. But maybe give the beef jerky a miss this time round.”

“But you love beef jerky. I love beef jerky.”

“Yeah, I know. But it doesn’t seem like the kinda thing a gentleman should eat in front of a lady.”

I stopped in my tracks. “What do you mean, ‘in front of a lady’? Did you invite Maggie to poker night again, because the last time you did that she ended up with half the deck up her sleeves and three aces down her pants.”

“No, it’s not Maggie I invited.”

“Who is it then?”

* * *

“Harry Dalton, please meet Madeline Montgomery. Madeline, this is Harry.”

I stood wide-eyed in the doorway, surprised and somewhat confused that Andy would invite someone none of us knew to poker night. “Oh. Hello. I’m—”

“Harry, yes I know,” Madeline half -laughed. “Andy just introduced us, remember?” Even though it was little more than a chuckle, I could tell she had one of those infectious laughs that could make everyone in the room smile… which is what I did.

She was standing in the hallway just inside the door, a bottle of beer in hand. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties, her brown, shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail and wearing a floral print dress that seemed at odds with the beer bottle. But as I would soon learn, defying expectations was one of Madeline Montgomery’s more appealing traits. She was undeniably attractive, but not in a conventional way. It was something about the playful light in her eyes, the casual confidence she gave off, that weird feeling you get when you just know you’re going to get along with someone, almost like you’ve known each other all your lives, or perhaps even in a past one. And there was that laugh… yes that laugh that came again when I stood there in silence, staring at her.

“Hello? Harry? Earth to Harry?” She grinned. She waved a hand in front of my eyes. “Is there anybody in there?”

“Um, yes. Hi. Hello.”

“We covered that already.” She held out her free hand for me to shake. “And it’s nice to meet you. You own the hardware store, right?”

“That’s right.” I juggled the six-pack and the bag of snacks from the general store in one hand. Her palm was cool and soft. “And you’re the new… math teacher?” I was trying to recall my conversation with Maggie, but conversations with Maggie always turn pretty fuzzy in my head.

“That’s correct,” she said. “A-plus for you.”

I beamed like a schoolboy at her approval, then felt kinda stupid.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Andy said. “We’ve got a poker game to start.”

The screened-in porch at the back of the house doubled as Andy’s poker room in spring and summer, while in autumn and winter he moved the game to his dining room. The porch had everything we needed to get us through a night of card -playing: a fridge in the corner for the beer, a microwave for heating up popcorn, a TV on the wall for whichever Friday night game was playing at the time, and an old stereo that was currently belting out Eric Carmen’s “ All By Myself .” Andy loved a seventies power ballad. Who didn’t? Oh, and let’s not forget the ice chest beside the fridge that was topped up for whiskey on the rocks later in the night… or earlier, depending on who was having the worst losing streak. Trucker Ted always seemed to be first to break open the whiskey.

Ted was the one whose place at the table Madeline had taken that night.

Andy explained that Ted had been called out on the road, covering a haul while Bo Harlow was busy doing a run from Minneapolis to Albuquerque. While filling up on gas, Andy had bumped into Madeline. They introduced themselves, got to talking about weekend plans… Andy mentioned Dean’s arrival on Saturday, and of course his Friday night poker game. According to the story, Madeline’s face lit up—evidently she loved poker—Andy told her they were one player down that Friday, and before they knew it, Madeline was invited to the game.

“You take Ted’s seat,” Andy said to Madeline, pointing to the chair next to mine.

Madeline looked from the chair to me and smiled. “Don’t mind if I do.”

* * *

On poker nights, we each had our seat.

I always sat with my back to the main part of the house, looking out the back-porch screen to Andy’s backyard, as well as the shed at the end of the drive that Dean had converted into his own live-in music studio when he left school at eighteen. He had his own bedroom set up in that space, as well as some recording equipment and a small kitchenette and bathroom that made the shed completely self-contained.

Between the ages of eighteen and nineteen -and -a -half—when one of his YouTube recordings was discovered by a big entertainment label in LA—Dean would spend days, sometimes weeks in his studio, writing and recording music, stepping out into the real world only when he needed food supplies or to clear the jumble of musical notes and lyrics in his brain. That shed became his retreat, his haven, his creative sanctuary. He was Aladdin, and that shed was his Cave of Wonders where he conjured up treasure after treasure.

It was shortly after his eighteenth birthday when my view of Dean changed. Completely.

He had always been a good kid, the creative if not somewhat reclusive son of my best friend. He always did what his dad asked, he was a good student and never got himself into trouble. He seemed to be liked well enough by the other kids at school, but he never really seemed to hang out with any friends. His guitar, his songs, his music, they were his best buddies. They were the company he preferred to keep. It was evident, even as a teenager, that they were his life.

But then one summer night after his eighteenth birthday, while sitting there playing poker with the boys, I looked up to see Dean step out of his shed to get some air and gather his thoughts.

His guitar was slung over his shoulder and suddenly I noticed his back had broadened.

He was wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt, one that hugged his firm young biceps, and as he plucked quietly at his guitar strings trying to find the right chord, I watched his youthful muscles flex.

His shorts were tighter, as though his thighs were growing out of them.

He seemed taller, his torso toned, his once pimply jaw now strong, square, and in need of a shave.

The quiet, gangly kid was gone, and in his place stood a young man who—with every twang and strum of his guitar—suddenly tugged relentlessly at the heartstrings inside me.

Every Friday night from then on until the day LA whisked him away, I would play poker with one eye on my cards and one eye on that shed, hoping he’d step outside with his guitar, even if only for the briefest moment, so I could get a glimpse of him in the hope it would get me through another week.

It wasn’t long before I figured out a guaranteed way of not only catching sight of him, but actually talking to him, face to face.

There were two bathrooms at Andy’s: one was inside the house, the other was inside Dean’s shed.

One night we paused the game so that Norm could go relieve himself. It was a well-known fact that Norm’s trips to the bathroom were no short affair, given his age and the time it took him to shake it all out.

“Actually, I gotta go as well,” I said one night, polishing off my fourth bottle as if to hammer home the message. “Do you think Dean would mind if I used his?”

“Go for it,” Andy said. “He might think it’s his shed, but I own it. He ain’t paid a dime in rent since he set himself up in there. Not that I’ve ever asked. I know someday he’ll be a famous rock star with a mansion and a gold fountain out front. Then he can pay for anything his old man wants. Till then, if you gotta pee, be my guest.”

“You sure he won’t mind?”

“Go. He’s probably got a set of headphones on. He won’t even hear you come in.”

My heart was racing as I walked across the back yard, illuminated only by the squares of light that fell on the ground from the windows of the shed.

I got to the door and knocked.

There was no answer.

I knocked again, still no response.

Warily I opened the door a few inches.

I peered inside and my galloping heart tripped over itself when I saw Dean sitting on his bed strumming his guitar. His headphones were draped over the plume of messy blond hair, just as Andy suspected, a cord running from the headset to the base of his guitar. His head was bopping up and down with the occasional lyric slipping out through his lips, his foot tapping, but my brain barely processed anything but the fact that he was shirtless.

I shut the door quickly.

Probably a little too forcefully.

I knew Dean had to have heard that and realized I was going to have to re-open the door if I didn’t want to look like a complete weirdo. This I did with an awkward grin, looking in to see the then eighteen-year-old sitting on his bed, headphones now around his neck, looking straight in my direction.

“Harry,” he said, a faint smile crossing his face. “Everything okay?”

“I knocked. I opened the door, but I guess the wind caught it. I… I was hoping I could use your bathroom. Norm beat me to the one in the house.”

“Sure. Of course. Yes.” He seemed overly obliging, laying the guitar on the bed beside him and jumping to his feet. “It’s right through here.” He pointed. “Excuse the mess, I just had a shower.”

Dean.

In the shower.

I had to gulp hard to keep my heart from rising in my chest.

I also had to hurry to the bathroom to try and crush down the rising bulge in my crotch, which made my supposed urgency to use the toilet look all the more authentic.

“I won’t be long,” I said, and ran into the small bathroom, closing the door behind me.

I went to the mirror over the sink and stared at my reflection.

I ran the water, to make it sound like something was happening in there, and eyed myself sternly.

“Keep it cool, Harry. Don’t get all wacko now. It’s just Dean. You’ve known the kid all your life.”

Except he wasn’t a kid anymore.

No sir.

When he stood from the bed, I couldn’t take my eyes off his lean shirtless body, his young abs taut, his pecs formed into firm young mounds, that happy trail of blond hair running from his belly button and disappearing under his gray trackpants. Speaking of which, was that a—

“Bulge? No, Harry, there was no bulge in Dean’s trackpants,” I sternly told my reflection. “Just. Keep. It. Cool!”

There came a knock at the bathroom door. “Harry? Everything okay? Are you talking to yourself in there?”

“Me? No. I’m fine.”

I flushed the toilet.

I turned off the running water.

I opened the door to see Dean standing there, smiling at me. “Say, do you think I could play you a couple of lyrics and get your thoughts? I’m kinda stuck on something.”

“Me? You want my thoughts? Oh, I don’t know anything about music.”

“You don’t have to. That’s the great thing about music. You don’t have to know why you like something, you just have to feel it inside.” He tapped his long, thin fingers to the middle of his bare chest.

“Oh no. I should go. We’re in the middle of a hand. The guys are waiting for me.”

“It’ll only take a minute.” He tilted his head to one side, his hair flopping before he pushed it off his forehead with one hand. “Please? Come sit on the bed with me for a second.”

The only reason I sat was to help cover up the bulge in my crotch that had once again decided to rear its head. “Sure, let’s hear it.”

He plonked himself excitedly on the bed and tried to brush the creases out of the sheets before patting his hand on the mattress, telling me to sit next to him.

He sat his guitar in his lap and strummed it. “This is the chord progression so far.”

“What’s a chord progression?”

He smiled, as though he appreciated me asking an honest question, as though he was happy to enlighten me. “A chord progression is basically the tune of the song. It’s the structure that holds it together.” He strummed, and sang “bah, bah, bah,” along with the chords.

“I like it. Sounds catchy.”

“Thanks, but those aren’t the lyrics. And there won’t be any lyrics if I can’t get the words of the chorus right. That’s where I need your help. It’s a song about not being able to have the one thing you want… about loving the one thing you’ll never have.”

My pulse was pounding in my throat. “Sounds kinda… sad.”

“It is, I guess. But it’s full of hope too. Can I sing you what I’ve got so far?”

I shrugged—“Sure”—and my large left bicep brushed against his bare arm.

He was sitting closer than I realized.

We both gulped, our throats clacking.

He covered it up by launching himself into his song.

His voice was strong and clear, yet there was a tenderness, a vulnerability, a longing in his tone that sent a ripple up and down my body.

He closed his eyes, and I watched him, mesmerized, as he sang—

You’re a secret on the wind

You’re a stolen work of art

You’re the one I’ve always wanted

You’re the… something … of my heart

He stopped the guitar mid-chord. He rubbed the knuckles of one hand against his forehead. “It’s that last lyric, that one word I can’t get. You’re the what of my heart?”

He looked at me, his blue eyes practically pleading for an answer from me.

“What are you trying to say?” I asked, determined to keep my voice steady, my words calm and collected.

“I want to say you’re the one who owns my heart, you control its very beat, you always have,” he said, blinking anxiously but nonetheless holding my gaze. “It needs to be a metaphor for something strong, something that represents the power you hold over me, but also speaks to the very heartbeat that keeps me alive… that keeps our love alive.” He paused a moment then blushed and quickly added, “I’m not talking about you , of course. I’m talking about whoever the subject of the song might be.”

“Of course. And who’s that?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He took a tremulous breath. “Whoever the listener needs it to be. That’s what songs are all about.”

I felt the blood burning in my veins, I felt the anxious turning of my stomach, I felt the booming of my heart like a hammer striking steel.

“Hammer,” I said with so much self-assurance, there could be no other word to fit the lyric. “You’re the hammer of my heart.”

Dean inhaled sharply.

He blinked quickly, and I could almost see the lyrics flashing before his bright, brilliant eyes.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Then, without a word of warning, he clasped my bearded face in his hands and planted a kiss on my lips.

It lasted all of two seconds before we both pulled away.

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

Then suddenly he bounced off the bed and scrambled for a pen, flicking through the sheets of music he’d scrawled on and scattered across his nearby desk. “That’s it. That’s it! Harry, you’re a genius!”

I didn’t know what to say, how to react, other than to mutter, “I’d better get back to that poker game now.”

I stood, leaving Dean to scribble down his music and lyrics.

Eighteen months later, the song “ Hammer of my Heart ” went to number one on the charts.

* * *

“Harry? Earth to Harry! Are you alright? You don’t have narcolepsy or anything, do you?”

The voice came from Madeline as she sat beside me at the poker table, shaking my forearm.

“Huh? Sorry. No, I don’t have narcolepsy.” I pulled myself away from my memories of that night with Dean and focused on the cards spread in my hand. “It’s my turn, right?”

“We’re waiting,” said Norm, drumming his fingers on the table. “Jesus, Harry. Sometimes you take longer to play your hand than I take to do a piss.” He turned to Madeline, having forgotten there was a lady at the table. “Excuse my French.”

“I don’t think ‘piss’ is French,” Madeline smirked. “And please don’t worry about offending me. It takes a lot to ruffle my feathers.” She turned to me. “And now that you seem to have landed safely from whatever planet you were on, shall we return to our game of poker?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” I blinked at my hand, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do with my cards, not that I really cared anymore.

I shuffled and reshuffled the hand I’d been dealt.

I squinted, deep in thought.

I arched one eyebrow.

Andy frowned at me. “Jesus, Harry. Not only has your poker face not improved after all these years, it’s actually gotten worse.”

Madeline chuckled. “Now, now, Andy. I think it’s a cute face. If not a little clueless.”

I glared at her, pretending to be insulted. “You think I’m clueless?”

She gulped down her beer then said, “Oh Harry, I’m a math teacher. Poker’s my jam… and I’m about to wipe the floor with you, doll.”

* * *

Madeline did in fact wipe the floor with me that night. In fact, she used Andy and Norm to mop up the rest of the cash too, taking all the winnings for herself.

On the way out the door, Norm muttered to Andy, “We’re never inviting her again.”

Madeline laughed good-naturedly and shouted after him from the doorway, “Hey, I heard that, Norm.”

Norm had already disappeared into the dark, grumbling to himself.

Under Andy’s porchlight, Madeline thumbed left like a hitchhiker. “Well, I’m this way.”

“So am I,” I said. “I’ll walk you.”

She gasped playfully. “Such a gentleman. So, chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

“Of course I’m a gentleman. And I’d do anything for my friends.” With a jerk of my head I gestured to Andy, who was swaying in the hallway, barely able to keep his eyes open. “Although I draw the line at putting this one to bed when he’s had one too many whiskeys. Pulling his boots off requires a gas mask. You have been warned.”

“Warning heeded. Thank you.” Madeline turned to Andy. “Are you sure you’re okay to get yourself upstairs to bed?”

Andy’s head wobbled on his neck, brow furrowed, words slurring—“Upstairs? You wanna go upstairs with me? But I invited you here to meet Harry. He’s the one whose mattress needs a good workout, if you know what I mean.”

Madeline raised both eyebrows and couldn’t help but giggle.

I blushed instantly.

Andy swung an unsteady arm around my neck, almost hitting me in the face accidentally. “Ain’t he just the most adorable fuzzy bear you’ve ever seen. And single too. What a catch, huh?” He gave Madeline a wink so sloppy it looked as though he was in the middle of a medical emergency.

Swiftly I pulled his arm off me. “Okey-dokey then, I think someone’s had enough truth juice for one night. You got a big day tomorrow, buddy. Dean’s coming home. Now why don’t I just pop you downstairs on the sofa and you can get a good night’s rest down here.”

I guided him toward the living room, but he was pitching like a ship in a storm and Madeline grabbed the other side. Together we steered him into the living room, plopping him down on the sofa where he sank onto his side, snoring before his head even hit the cushion.

I lifted his legs up, but I decided to spare Madeline the trauma of removing his boots.

“Will he be okay?” she asked.

“He’ll be fine. He’s not usually this drunk, the booze just seemed to go straight to his head tonight.”

“I guess he’s overly excited about Dean coming home.”

I wanted to comment that he wasn’t the only one, but instead I said, “Just for the record, my mattress doesn’t need a workout, but I’m still happy to walk you home.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

We locked Andy safely inside his house and set off along the quiet streets of Mulligan’s Mill, the night still warm and the gravel crunching beneath our feet.

“So, evidently you’re the reason there was no beef jerky tonight,” I said out of the blue.

“What? Wait… I am? How? Why?”

I shrugged and smiled. I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me or genuinely outraged. “Andy told me not to get any jerky. I think he probably thought it’s not something you eat in front of a lady.”

“What? That’s crazy. I love beef jerky.”

“Me too. Apparently, Andy thought you’d be offended.”

“I work in a classroom. You teach kids for long enough, nothing offends you anymore. Wait till he gets to know me better.” Her voice took on a teasing, sing-song lilt. “Which is obviously something he wants us to do.”

“Oh no, please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Please let’s not try to unpack Andy’s attempt to play Cupid. I have no idea what that was all about. I’m sorry, I’m so embarrassed. He’s never tried to do that before.”

“Do what?”

“Oh, now you’re just toying with me.”

She laughed. “Maybe a little. But you have to admit, it’s very sweet of him to do that.”

“To try and set us up?”

“No, I mean, to look out for his best friend like that. He obviously just wants you to be happy.”

“I am happy. He doesn’t have to try and set me up on a date with a beautiful woman to make me happy.”

Without even looking at her I could hear the smile in her voice. “You think I’m a beautiful woman?”

“Well… yes. But…”

“But not in a ‘please come give my mattress a workout’ kinda way.”

“Oh God, can we please stop talking about mattresses.”

She laughed again. That melodious, infectious laugh of hers. “What have you got against mattresses? Don’t you like your mattress? Is it too flabby, is that why it needs a workout?”

“Stop,” I grinned.

“Maybe it’s too squeaky. Like every time you sit on it all you hear is eeky - eeky - eek .”

“Stop!” I laughed too now.

She stopped walking. She stopped laughing. “Or maybe it’s too empty. Maybe it’s too big for one. Perhaps that’s the problem.”

Maybe she was right.

I stopped walking too.

I didn’t say anything.

She pointed to the house we’d arrived at, a small cottage with a light on in the window, illuminating a row of flowerpots sitting on the windowsill. “This is me. I’d invite you in for a drink, but I think cleaning up at the poker table and being called a ‘beautiful woman’ is enough of a win for one night… especially coming from an ‘adorable fuzzy bear’ like you.”

She pulled out her keys and walked to her door, unlocking it and calling back over her shoulder, “It was nice to meet you, Harry Dalton. I’ll see you around.”

She closed the door behind her and the light in the window went out.

* * *

As soon as I got home, I switched on the light above the dining table and wrote inside the card, the one with the illustration of a guitar on the front of it. I tucked the card into the bouquet of flowers sitting in the vase, then went to the closet under the stairs.

I opened the closet door, reached inside, and pulled out my hidden treasure—

An old second-hand guitar I picked up at a yard sale in Eau Claire just after Dean left town.

In the time he’d been gone, I’d taught myself to play, googling lessons online and watching tutorials on YouTube.

I learned songs.

I learned his songs.

I printed the sheet music off the internet.

I played them to myself some nights, although I wasn’t very good at it. I never really intended to be good at it, nor did I want anybody in Mulligan’s Mill knowing that I could play. I didn’t teach myself the guitar so I could pull it out at parties or entertain friends around a campfire. I had no intention of ever playing to a crowd. That wasn’t the reason I’d bought the guitar in the first place.

No, I’d bought the guitar to somehow feel closer to the one person who could never know my true feelings for him.

I bought it to feel some sort of connection, despite the fact that he lived on the other side of the country.

I learned how to play just so I could close my eyes and cradle that guitar to my chest, holding it like a lover, wishing he was there with me, singing his lyrics softly into his ear.

You’re a secret on the wind

You’re a stolen work of art

You’re the one I’ve always wanted

You’re the hammer of my heart

I played the song now, the tempo much slower than his original hit, the chords a simple strum on my guitar, just like the first time he played me the progression in his room that night.

When the song ended, I pressed the guitar close to my chest for a long while.

Eventually I stood it on the floor, resting against the table.

I got up, then returned to the table with the lighter and tea light and the French pastry from the fridge.

I lit the candle and murmured to myself, “Happy fortieth birthday, Harry.”

I blew out the candle, and through the tendrils of smoke I reached for the card resting amongst the flowers in the middle of the table.

I opened it and read my own handwriting aloud. “To my darling Harry, my secret, my stolen work of art, my hammer… Happy Birthday. I will love you always. Dean.”

I sighed then muttered to myself, “If only.”

I closed the card and slipped it through the strings of my guitar, then returned the guitar to the closet under the stairs and a defeated laugh escaped me. “For fuck’s sake, Harry, he won’t even remember who the fuck you are.”

I didn’t eat the pastry.

I put it back in the fridge and went to bed.