Page 47

47

Ben Stirling

It’s late. Luca’s been asleep for hours and our dinner guests left a while ago. It was a really good night. Vanessa is amazing, a real laugh a minute. She and Amy got along as well as I thought they would. Even Marcus wasn’t as bad as I thought he’d be. A bit up his ass, but not too badly. It was a fun night that turned a little raucous at the end.

The house has fallen into a shock of silence with their departure.

Jeremiah and I are in the kitchen, cleaning up and getting ready to head to bed. There’s something strangely calming about it, especially after the excitement of the day.

I wipe down the counters, and he locks the doors.

I rinse the plates, and he loads them into the dishwasher.

There’s an easy comradery about the way we move around each other that I wasn’t expecting to feel so soon. In truth, I wasn’t expecting to feel it ever again.

“Did you have a nice day, birthday boy?” I ask.

“It was the most perfect day I’ve ever experienced. I still feel like I’m floating. I can’t believe you managed to pull off a surprise of that magnitude without me even getting suspicious. I’m usually really hard to surprise.”

Lissa and I have been in cahoots for a few weeks, working on an elaborate plan for her to pop into town to surprise Jeremiah. It took quite a bit of planning and a ton of calls between us, but the look on Jeremiah’s face when he saw her made it more than worth it. As expected, Lissa is a riot and then some.

“I’m sorry the dogs got hold of the cake,” Jeremiah says.

“It’s okay. It was my fault. I should’ve known not to leave it out. Don’t worry though. Amy said she’d bake another one and bring it over tomorrow.”

“Aw, that’s nice of her.”

Jeremiah closes the dishwasher and starts it. He picks up a dishcloth from the counter, folds it lengthways, and slides it over the oven handle, straightening it out just so before he’s happy with its placement.

I’m finding it hard to take my eyes off him tonight because Jeremiah on his birthday is even sweeter than usual. He’s worn a slightly dazed expression all day and his eyes have welled more times than I can count. He’s been so genuinely surprised and grateful for every small thing I’ve done that it makes me want to do more.

“I’m going to find it hard not to spoil you, darlin’, d’you know that?”

He turns to face me, leaning against the oven, his upper body perfectly framed by the range hood. “I don’t need to be spoiled, Ben. I have you and Luca. I don’t want anything else.”

See? He’s the sweetest birthday boy ever.

“Scratch that. I’m not going to find it hard not to spoil you. I am going to spoil you. Wanna know why?”

He crosses one foot over the other and eyes me thoughtfully, amusement flickering distantly in his eyes. His chin raises a fraction. “Why?”

The mood is light and flirtatious, but the significance of the day and the things we’ve said to each other hang thick in the air. Our connection is no longer intangible. It’s solidified. Concrete. Unshakable.

“Because, baby, in life, some lessons are hard, and the only way to learn them is the hard way. The painful way. The way that changes you and your outlook on things.”

His gaze approaches gently, taking me in and holding me lightly. He understands the gravity of what I’m saying and, as always, offers me nothing but a safe place to express myself.

“I didn’t get to choose the lessons I’ve learned. None of us do. Life chooses them for us, but what I’ve learned is this: tomorrow isn’t promised. I’ve loved before, I have, and I loved well. I loved as hard as that version of me could possibly love, but that version thought he had a lifetime to love. He thought he had time. He thought tomorrow was given. The version of me that stands with you here and now is different. The lesson was hard, so fucking hard, but I learned it well. I’m not going to love you like I have time. I’m going to love you like every day is our last day. Our first day. Our only day.”

His eyes well and spill over. Behind him, the kitchen tile glints. The light under the range hood is on, casting a warm glow that brings the intricate patterns to life. Each tile is different, an assortment of swoopy lines and curves that paint a pleasing picture. With Jeremiah standing where he is, the design seems complete. It radiates out as though he’s the missing link, the much-needed focal point.

The image before me comes into sharp focus. Tiny hairs on my forearms stand on end and a rash of goosebumps travels up both sides of my body.

“Wow,” I say as I step closer and take him into my arms, holding his face in my hands and looking into calm crystalline orbs in wonder. “Your eyes. Your eyes, Jeremiah. I never noticed before…they’re exactly the same color as the tile.”