by Posy Roberts
“I’m arriving this Tuesday. Any hotel recommendations?”
“Are you coming alone?” I had to know if he was already in love again. “I have a guest room big enough for two, if you need.”
He paused before he answered. “I just need room for one.”
“Okay.” Inside I was jumping for joy.
“I haven’t been with anyone for a while. I thought I wrote about that a few letters ago.”
“Nope. I think I would’ve remembered that.”
He hummed, all thoughtful like. “Are you seeing anyone? Wow, scratch that. I’m being nosy.” He continued, clearly changing gears with “Look, I have your address, so I’ll book a ride to your place. I think I’ll be there just after suppertime, if that works for you.”
“No problem. I’ll cook for you, so don’t eat.”
“Sounds great.”
“Do you eat pork?”
“Yes, when made well.”
“It’ll be made well,” I promised. “And for your information, no, I’m not seeing anyone.”
He gave me a relieved sounding chuckle before saying, “Tuesday, then.”
7
Today
Any free time, I spent cleaning my apartment, paging through my stacks of recipes for the perfect meals, shopping for groceries, and trying to make my space cozy. I wanted Shep to feel comfortable in my apartment, even though it was cold, spartan, with white walls and filled with few personal effects. When Tuesday arrived, I could barely make it through my shift, every task making me antsier.
I rushed home, retrieved the item I’d ordered last week, and tore into the box as soon as I got into my bathroom. I was thankful I’d watched multiple videos online, because the directions were scant, at best.
I wanted to be prepared, just in case we ended up in bed together, but since I’d never done this before, I had a learning curve.
Curve. I laughed as I glanced at the curved tool in my hand. God, I’m ridiculous.
When I got the hang of what I was supposed to be doing, my mind hurtled ahead to Shep touching me there. I was hard within seconds.
The thought of him inside me …
I hopped in the shower after but only got more revved as I soaped myself and thought about Shep and the possibilities of tonight. Who knew if anything would happen? Yes, being prepared had been drilled into me since Boy Scouts, but I couldn’t get my hopes up.
I had to take the edge off and ended up climaxing in record time. Then the shower eventually worked its magic, easing my shoulders and soothing the ache in my hip.
When I saw the clock, I panicked. I’d spent too much time in the shower.
Thankfully I’d chosen a recipe where most of the prep work had been done before I’d gone to work. So all I needed to do now was pop the tenderloin in the oven, chop the veggies, and prep a salad.
When Shep shot me a text saying he had already left the airport and was about three minutes away, I put the asparagus in the oven for a final jolt of heat.
I was pulling wine glasses I found at Goodwill down from the cupboard when the doorbell rang. I made my way over to the door and took several deep breaths, steadying myself before I swung it open.
There he stood. The outdoor light cascaded over him, drawing my eye toward the red and gold highlights still streaked through his dark hair. His blue eyes were bright, sparkling as his smile lit him up.
He looked like the Shep I remembered, but his face had filled out, eyes wiser, chest and shoulders obviously broader. He was more handsome than I remembered, however.
“C-come in.”
He easily laughed, breaking the tension, and carried his small suitcase into the entryway before setting it down. Pulling me into a crushing hug, he spoke in my ear. “Andrew, it’s so good to see you. I’ve wondered if this day would ever come.”
I allowed myself to dissolve into his embrace, wrapping my arms around his waist, breathing in his scent, nuzzling his scruff against my cheek. He didn’t smell of the cologne my mind associated with him, but his scent was far more intoxicating. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I admitted, knowing I was giving away the depth of my feelings.
Pulling back before I let too much go, I showed him to the guest room and invited him to join me for a drink. I headed to the living room with an open bottle of wine, pouring us each a glass and trying to tamp down on how excited I was that he was here.
When he sat beside me on the couch, I handed him his wine. Lifting his glass, he said, “To pen pals and long-lost loves.”
I relished in his words as the ping of the heavy crystal rang through the room. My heart swelled, slowly recovering as the sound died away and we were left in silence. Taking unhurried swallows, we looked at each other across our glasses. Did I see something there?
“So, what brings you to town?” Somehow I managed to sound unaffected despite the dance going on in my gut.
“I haven’t been to Texas in years. I thought now would be a good time to come back.” His gaze darted around the room, but I didn’t take my eyes off him. I read the tension in his shoulders, the way he sat a little too straight, posture perfect, not the easy-going casualness I remembered that drew people to him. He wiped his palms on his jeans.
Suddenly, I wondered if this was more than a simple visit for work. “What’s going on, Shep? Why are you really here?”
“I’m down here for a few interviews. At the university, a few of the museums.”
“What? Why? You’ve never said a thing about wanting to live in Texas in all the letters you’ve written. In fact, when we met, I think you got across how unlikely it would be that you’d even come back to visit.”
He gave me a crooked smile, and the tension in his shoulders ramped up. “I’ve applied to graduate school here. Art History. I want to be an independent curator someday. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s a good program right in the same town as you.”
“But you could go anywhere. Paris or Rome or someplace filled with millions of pieces of art. Why would you come here?”
He shrugged. “Why not? I can get my PhD here too, if I want. Plus, there’s a portfolio program in museum studies where I get to pick and choose my concentration. I like that freedom rather than being penned into a prescribed curriculum.” He let out a wry chuckle. “It’s all those years of independent study I did. I hate being told what I have to do.”
“You would’ve died in the military.”
“Don’t I know it.”
The oven timer buzzed then. “That’ll be supper. Bring your wine.” Shep followed, watching me as I pulled the baking pan out. He sniffed and hummed at the aroma that had me drooling. I rarely made this dish but it was easily one of my favorites.
“What is it? It smells and looks amazing.”
“Bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin with roasted garlic, sort of a weeknight porchetta. And asparagus. I hope you like asparagus.”
“Mmm. I love asparagus. Garlic too. You know the way to a man’s heart. I didn’t know you cooked.”
I couldn’t help smiling at him. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, but there’s a lot you know that no one else is privy to.”
“Yeah?”
I didn’t respond aside from a quirked brow.
“Is it ridiculous that I want to know everything about you?” he whispered as he leaned against the countertop.
I smiled and reached for his shoulder, squeezing it and registering how strong he was now. His eyes grew … soft, dark, and it almost looked as if he was going to kiss me, but then he turned to look at the kitchen table. “Do you need me to get anything else?”
“I just need to slice the meat and plate things. Oh, if you could toss the salad, that would be nice.”
He snorted a laugh. I rolled my eyes at missing that obvious sexual innuendo until it was already out of my mouth. I’d not been around enough gay men my age to think three steps ahead to the obvious.
I reached into the refrigerator and pulled out the dressing and the large
bowl of salad I’d prepared earlier, pressing it to his belly without a word. I made sure I’d added all the accompaniments to the romaine lettuce and handed him a small bowl of croutons as well. He chuckled but did as I’d asked, tossing the salad as I did the last-minute prep on the veggies.
“Have a seat,” I said, and when I joined him, I realized I may have gone overboard. With all the food I’d prepared, my tiny kitchen table was now covered by a mishmash of dishes and glasses, leaving hardly any room for us to eat. “Sorry for being so cramped.”
“No apologies needed. You’re feeding me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a real home-cooked meal like this.”
“Really? What are you eating most of the time?”
“I eat at a lot of restaurants. Food carts. I’ve eaten more airplane and train station food than I care to even admit.”
I wrinkled up my nose at the thought of always eating on the run. “More than any other comforts from home, good food was one thing I missed when I was deployed. I craved certain recipes my mom used to make, so when I got back home, I’d make everything I missed while eating army slop. Then I’d tweak the recipes to make them my own.”
“You’re a fantastic cook,” he said around a mouthful of pork, garlic, and asparagus.
“Thanks.” I cut into my meat, brought a forkful to my mouth, but spoke first. “I don’t have much.” I gestured around my naked apartment. “But I do have a cupboard filled with cookbooks, food filling my pantry and fridge, and enough recipes on my to-be-made list to keep me busy for years to come.”
“You make it sound as if you don’t cook every day.” He looked puzzled by that.
I shrugged and chewed, eventually admitting, “It’s not much fun to cook for one. It’s sort of a thing you want to share …”
He nodded with understanding. “And that, my friend, is why I eat out all the time.”
My friend. I tried not to feel disappointed by that and instead asked him about the graduate program he was considering as well as the jobs at the museums he’d hoped to get. He spoke with excitement about all of them, and the nerves he’d obviously felt when he’d first arrived melted away.
That boy I used to watch at those reenactments was there yet. I could imagine him as the center of attention still, and as he talked about his various friends in numerous cities, it was clear he had a social network that spanned the globe. He spoke of so many people, I couldn’t keep them straight.
“No, not Mikala, my friend from Boston. Michele, from Italy. Mikala is a woman. Michele is a man. They sound a lot alike unless I really pull out my Italian accent. Michele is the one married to Gaia, who just so happens to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
I bit my lip.
“No, not like that, but if there ever would’ve been a woman for me, it would’ve been someone like Gaia.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand, almost as if it were an apology.
When the conversation lulled, I stood, gathered the dirty plates, and headed to the sink to clean up.
I wasn’t ready to go back to the awkwardness that had hovered about when he’d first arrived. All throughout dinner, it had felt like old times, where we could share anything. I wanted to keep that feeling alive.
Shep followed me with the serving dishes and we made quick work of washing it all and putting everything away. He kept praising my cooking. He was astonished, it seemed, that someone who had never worked in a kitchen in an official capacity could have such culinary skills. I brushed him off by showing him the step-by-step directions I’d initially been tethered to before I ever became comfortable enough to improvise and make a recipe my own.
Our conversation drifted back to the comfort of earlier then. I was glad. I wasn’t sure where we were headed, why he was truly here visiting me, but the more I thought about it, the more anxious I got.
I simply had to stop thinking, fight back my insecurities, and just enjoy the limited time we had in each other’s presence.
I had to be happy with that because this might be all I ever got.
As I wiped down the kitchen counter one last time, I asked, “Would you like some water?”
“Sure.”
“Bubbly or still?”
“Oh, bubbles. Always bubbles.”
I nodded and reached into the fridge for a large bottle of San Pellegrino. “Head on into the living room. We can eat our dessert out there.”
“Dessert too?”
“Just something simple,” I said to his retreating back.
I poured the water into glasses and plated a few sweets. Nothing fancy, just some cookies I’d found at the grocery store that I remembered him liking.
“Here.” I handed him the plate of jam in shortbread and sat down beside him.
“Raspberry Linzer. How did you know these are my favorite?”
Quickly, I swallowed the sparkling water in my mouth and then reached for a cookie. “I didn’t know they were your favorite, but you wrote about them once.”
“And you remembered?” His eyes lit up as he pulled the delicate cookie to his mouth and took a bite. He moaned before licking the powdered sugar from his lips. I wanted to be the one to lick that away after his next bite.
Instead, I confessed, “Anytime you wrote about food or drink, I’d try to find it. Sometimes I couldn’t. Like the Kinder Surprise Eggs you talked about. I had to wait until I was in Europe since they’re outlawed in the US.”
“Wait.” He pressed his warm palm to my knee and smiled. “I mentioned something in a letter, and you’d go out and buy it?”
“Sometimes I’d make it. Once, you talked about some dish you had in Romania, I think. It wasn’t like I could go to the closest Romanian restaurant and order it, so I found a recipe online and experimented.”
“Why?” He licked his lips and I got distracted by the gesture. “What made you do that?”
“I’m not really sure. I guess—” I stopped myself, fearful of revealing too much, but he had a right to know too. “I guess I wanted a way to feel closer to you. It’s not like I had friends I could be completely honest with, at least regarding my sexuality. Most of the people I went to high school with never got me. I’d been waiting to get to college to be the real me, keeping everyone at arm’s reach in the meantime, so everyone else only knew the shell I was willing to share. We both know college never happened.” He gave me a look filled with empathy I easily ignored. “All the people in my unit in the army were … Well, let’s just say I wasn’t going to let them know my deepest, darkest secrets in case that fucked up our trust.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you’d go to the trouble of finding the dishes I mentioned, let alone seeking out recipes to make them yourself. I mean, yeah, I get you might be a foodie, but you just got done telling me what a hassle it is to cook for one.”
I focused on my bare feet and squeezed the fringes of the shag carpeting between my toes as I tried to find an explanation that wouldn’t send him running for the hills. When I looked back into his blue eyes, warmth spread through me.
How could I deny him the truth?
“You know more about me than anyone else ever has,” I admitted. “You know that, right, Shep?”
He nodded and swallowed noisily.
“I’ve felt this connection. I can’t explain it. It’s ridiculous when I even try, but from the first time I saw you, I was fascinated. I wanted to get to know you, and then after we finally did connect, you were ripped away from me. Or maybe I was ripped away. No matter, the food, the art you talked about, the books you read, I devoured everything you mentioned in all your letters in order to feel a little bit closer to you.”
“I want to be close to you too.” He shifted, and I couldn’t help but lean into him.
“What do you mean by that?” I turned to give him my full attention, anxious to know where this conversation was headed.
“I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
He cupped my jaw
and pressed his forehead to mine for a moment, then traced the line of my nose with the tip of his. “I love you, Andrew.”
I could barely breathe. I had to be dreaming.
He squeezed my hand and pressed a hard kiss to my mouth, making me see this was very much reality. Then he spoke with such conviction. “Every man I’ve been with over the years has been a cheap substitute. I sought out anyone who reminded me of you.”
“But you told me about all your lovers. I thought you were telling me you’d moved on.”
He let out an exasperated sigh and shook his head. “It was a dick move considering you were in a war zone, but I was trying to see if you cared. Make you jealous, get a rise out of you, something to let me know you still thought about us. Yearned for us.”
“Yearned?”
He didn’t laugh, as I expected him to. Instead, he had fire in his eyes.
“I … I don’t know what to say. I mean … This is something I’ve always wanted, but I never thought it would actually happen.” I pinched myself. He laughed, pulling my fingers away from my skin and moving even closer.
He brushed his thumbs across my cheekbones like he’d done in the cornfield before our last goodbye. He kissed my forehead and looked over every feature of my face, fingertips tracing wherever he studied me.
“You’re the only one, Shep. You’re the only one I’ve ever loved.” I was positive my declaration would send him running; instead, he pulled me closer, now nearly sitting in my lap.
“So you’ve never had your heart broken?” he whispered, a question he clearly didn’t want the answer to because he continued. “You’re lucky you never had to feel that pain. You’ve only been loved, because what we had those two days is what I compare everything else to. And nothing holds a candle to that.”
I had a choice to make right then. Play it safe, go slow, be as cautious, as rigid as I’d been my entire life, or just take what I wanted.
8
