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“Well, I don’t think I should tell you now, given the fact that you’re keeping your little secrets fromme,” I say, waving the snow globe in his face.
Theo pulls a face, then turns and hurtles up the stairs. He has the door unlocked by the time I catch up with him and he’s shoving his way inside. “Where is it?”
“In the living ro—Theo,wait!”God, he is such a child. I kick off my snow boots in the hallway before chasing after him. In the living room, Theo stands stock still, staring at the black instrument case resting on the thick plush rug. Across the front of the case, the name‘Charles Rufino’is delicately painted in beautiful gold script.
“You’re fucking with me,” Theo whispers.
I’m suddenly very, very shy. “If you don’t like it…”
Snowflakes melt on the ends of Theo’s hair, turning his waves to curls. He sinks to his knees, fingers shaking ever so slightly as he unfastens the catches on the case and carefully lifts the lid.
The cello inside is astonishing.
It’s Theo’sdreamcello.
“This is custom,” he breathes, holding his hand out; his fingers hover an inch above the neck of the instrument, as if he’s afraid to even touch it. The wood is so dark that it verges on black; tiger-striped and polished to a high shine, it’s a singular thing. It even makesmewant to reach out and make it sing.
“This is—” Theo whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is thirty thousand dollars’ worth of cello, Sorrell.”
It isn’t. Okay, it was thirty-fourthousand dollars, but I don’t want him knowing that. “Is it all right?” I ask anxiously.
There are tears in Theo’s eyes when he stands. He just stares down at the cello. Stares and stares.
“If you don’t like it, I can always—”
“I’m so in love with you,”he whispers.
“What?”
“I said I’d wait until you were ready for me to love you, Kid. I tried to stop myself, but I’membarrassedby how hard I failed.” He faces me, and it’s there on his face—sheer, absolute, overpowering love. It’s a look I’ve seen on his face many times before, but he’s not trying to hide it anymore. Stepping forward, he cups my face in his hands. “Tell me that you’re in love with me, too, and I swear I’ll make you fucking happy,” he says.
It isn’t even a question. I’ve imagined telling him that I’m in love with him a thousand times, but I’ve always been petrified of the admission. Afraid that I’ll sound stupid, or I’ll fuck up the moment when I try and get the words out, stumbling all over myself. In the end, the words come out easy, though, simply because they are true. “I’m in love with you,” I whisper.
His eyes fall closed. “Tell me that you’re in love with me, and I’ll worship you every day for the rest of your life.”
“I’m in love with you.”
“Tell me that you’re in love with me, and we’ll be each other’s forever.”
“I’m in love with you.”
“Tell me that you’re in love with me…” He rests his forehead against mine, fingers twining into my hair, “…and we’ll never leave each other’s side.”
“I’m in love with you, Theodore William Merchant. I’m in love with you. I’m in love with you. I’m in love with you.”
I remember.
I haven’t even opened my eyes yet, but I remember.
So many things are right there—images, events, feelings all fanned out at my fingertips like the cards of a rolodex. I flip through them, skipping from one to the next, tiny fragments of my past falling into place as I do so. My mother—she wassobeautiful!—greeting me from school, crouching down to hug me. My father, singing to me from the front seat of the car. A much smaller, much ganglier version of Theo, sharing his candy, laughing at me when I fell off my skateboard, getting mad at me when I beat him for the first time at Mario Kart.
My parents’ funerals.
Theo, sitting at the back of the class, my first day at Toussaint. How the sight of him had stolen my breath away. How my heart had lifted right out of my chest.
Theo, kissing me in the hallway at Kieran Davis’ house.
Theo sneaking me into his bedroom late at night. Us, devouring each other, sharing hot breath, making each other come for the first time.
