Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Over the heads of his guests, he saw Ansel talking with one of his cousins and a group of Meg’s friends. His dancer laughed at something one of the girls said and began speaking with his hands, like he did sometimes.
“He cares about you a lot, man. He wanted to make sure everyone you knew was invited. He took care of all the organizing of food and everything. Only thing I had to do was give him the contact info and help him haul the balloons and boxes of stuff over here this morning.”
Boxes of stuff?
For the first time since he’d arrived, Fitch took a good look around his crowded apartment and noticed the decorations. Balloons, banners, streamers and glitter covered everything, but beneath those surface decorations were other things. A few colorful mugs sat on the shelf where he kept his cups. A vase of flowers sat on the windowsill. His curtains were different. A bright throw rug had been tossed on the tiled floor of the kitchen.
In the living room, throw pillows spiced up his drab furniture, picture frames that weren’t his were arranged on the mantel next to knickknacks he’d never seen before. But the thing that got to him most was the faded blue Care Bear on his favorite chair.
Grumpy Bear.
He looked at Ansel, who smiled and winked. All Fitch could do was raise a brow. Right there, surrounded by everyone, Ansel pointed at himself, made a heart with his fingers, and pointed to Fitch.
It happened so fast he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but the sudden thud, thud, thud of his heart said he wasn’t mistaken. But had Ansel meant it? Or was it just a symbolic gesture?
Fitch licked his dry lips and turned to Rob. “Thanks, again, for coming. Would you excuse me for a minute?”
He didn’t wait for a reply before maneuvering through the swarm of people toward his lover. Halfway across the room, his mother caught his arm and pulled him into a hug.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
“Such a nice party, so many people showed up.”
“Yeah, it’s real nice.”
He was just about to keep moving when his sister shouted above the crowd, “Time for presents. Fitch, get up here.”
He glanced at Ansel, at his mom, at the crowd who’d all turned to smile at him, then back at Ansel, and sighed. Ansel tilted his head toward where Meg was standing, his grin teasing. Yeah, yeah, he’d open his presents first. Fitch rolled his eyes but made his way to the front of the room.
Meg handed him gift after gift, reading out the giver’s name as he carefully removed the paper. He’d never been good at receiving them. Even during Christmas, he was careful and shy while Meg had torn through the wrapping and only gave thanks when forced to stop and take a breath. His parents gave him a sweater and his sister bought him a new toolbox. He got socks, ties, more tools, gag gifts, sports stuff, and so many other things he lost track.
“This is from Z,” Meg said, handing him a rainbow gift bag with rainbow paper.
Fitch looked at the smart-mouthed dancer, noting his raised eyebrow and challenging expression, before pulling out a T-shirt. It was pastel pink cotton with text in rainbow colors and it read: My boyfriend wears heels bigger than your dick.
Fitch laughed, then pulled off his shirt and tugged the new one over his head for all to see. Most of the crowd chuckled too when they read the words.
“Nice shirt,” Meg said. “This one is from Tameron.”
It was a framed poem, “Rumors from an Aeolian Harp,” by Henry David Thoreau. One of Ansel’s favorite pieces. Fitch had looked it up after their first date.
“Oh, I love that one,” Meg said over his shoulder.
“Thanks Tam, it’s perfect.” He set the frame on the mantel behind him.
“Last one,” Meg said.
As he ripped into the paper he asked, “Who is this from?” Only, Meg didn’t reply.
“Me,” Ansel said, taking a step forward. “And Lirim. I asked for his help because I can’t draw a straight line to save my life.”
It was a painting. A beautiful, colorful, wild abstract piece of art. He stared at it, at a pair of eyes portrayed so realistically they seemed real.
“It’s messy. Crazy, like me,” Ansel continued.
Fitch looked up. “Our first—”
“Yes,” Ansel cut him off, glancing to the side, reminding him they weren’t alone. After a moment, he took another step forward. “Same makeup.”
It wasn’t just the same makeup, it was the look in those painted eyes, the emotion somehow so perfectly portrayed even in paint. Just like the first night they’d slept together. The way Ansel had looked at him, too scared to hope, too lost to know his own worth. So vulnerable. It had torn Fitch in two then, and seeing it now brought him right back to that dark room.