Page 19 of Ask Me For Fire


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What could he say to that? Congratulations? Glad to hear it? You must be so relieved? It all felt trite.

From: AmbroseNo worries. I’m nearly falling asleep in my chair. Your nephew waking up must be a huge relief. I’m glad you were there for him and your sister.

From: BarrettMe too. And thanks. Good night, Ambrose.

From: AmbroseGood night

And that was it. The floating lightness in his chest lifted once more and he felt better. More than he had in a long, long time. Ambrose fell asleep that night as soon as he hit the pillows, missing the text that came in from an unknown number.

From: UnknownAmbrose, it’s Preston. I know we said we wouldn’t contact each other again like this but I…need to see you. I miss you. I’m in the area, I want to swing by if that’s all right. I admit I snooped and found you. Talk soon? Please?

Chapter nine

ThetextfromPrestonshould have sent him into a tailspin but after more than four years apart, he could only feel a sense of apathy, but one mixed with a tiny spark of excitement. He knew someone would eventually track him down; it wasn’t hard, given how public home purchase records were. He found himself grateful, in some strange way, that it was Preston and not his mother who had found him. Not that his mother would ever take the time to learn how to seek people out on the internet.

He and Preston had parted on bad terms but had, over the years, regained some equilibrium. It took a lot of therapy and soul searching on his part, but Ambrose had always been one to seek closure, even in small ways. He didn’t dig through Preston’s social media and obsess over every post, but Preston would occasionally “like” a line from a poem Ambrose posted. That very limited contact helped him maintain a sense of dignity.

The flutter in his belly at the thought of seeing Preston again was stayed by that deep desire to not have anyone from his “old life” get close to the bubble of safety he had built. So his message back wasn’t terse but wasn’t immediately accepting, either.

From: AmbroseI’m not completely averse but why now? We made our peace years ago.

From: PrestonI’ve been taking care of my shit. Therapy. Meditation. I still miss you, though. You were the only person I’ve ever loved like that. Part of my healing, I think, is to see you again.

Something about that last sentence…like the tip of a knife over a scar. The cold edge of metal over still-sensitive skin. The memories came rushing back. Preston knew him like no one else, and even when they fought, when they forgave, when they fucked…it all was mixed up in some sealed part of him. He didn’t want to open that door again, but nothing said hehadto provide any real opening.

He would always love Preston. And he was lonely. He wasn’t looking to bring his ex back into his life in any meaningful way. But maybe it would be a temporary balm for his loneliness.

From: AmbroseI’m home all day but I’m working.

From: PrestonThat’s more than I was hoping for.

But unlike before, he wasn’t going to wait around for Preston to show. Ambrose poured himself more coffee and sat at his desk, spreadsheets open and waiting for him. His bills wouldn’t pay themselves and he sure as hell would never go back to relying on someone again.

By the time another client’s work was done and the sun had started its downward path to the horizon, any nerves or worry he’d had over Preston’s sudden reappearance had vanished. This client was particularly precise and it was the kind of work Ambrose enjoyed. And he charged well for it. The money coming in for this job and the next few would let him sock away some cash for the spring. The house needed new exterior doors and trim, on top of more aesthetic updates he wanted to make.

Ambrose thought back to Barrett’s gorgeous interior. He remembered very clearly the clean lines and precise corners, the muted colors next to splashes of bright oranges and yellows and blues. Maybe Barrett could give him the names of the people he worked with to create such a stunning space. Ambrose had always yearned for something sparse but cozy, but anything done to the house would take a lot of cash. He’d been vicious with cutting any unnecessary spending, but the holes in his socks and the worn, sometimes fraying cuffs of his sweaters were proof enough that he needed to give himself a little room.

His head was full when the knock came and he spun in his chair quickly, heart pounding.

From: PrestonGods I hope I have the right house.

From: AmbroseBe right there. I heard you knock. Was head down in some documents.

Ambrose could almost see the smile on Preston’s face at his acknowledgement of being, once again, absorbed in a task. For all the man’s faults, and all their flaws together, Preston was aware of how Ambrose’s mind worked. Hyper-focused on a task until it was done and very little would move him from it.

Ambrose stood, straightened his sweater, pushed his hair from his face, and went to the front door. A queer sense of calm washed over him, driving nerves and worry to the edges of his mind. Were they not different? Older, wiser, smarter? He was not the same Ambrose, and he did not expect to see the same Preston on the other side of the door.

“Preston.”

Preston stood there, open-mouthed. Blatantly gaping, staring.Admiring. It laid on his skin like a burn and then burrowed deep; the hot, almost intrusive way Preston’s gaze raked over him. The selfish, arrogant part of him preened. But he was not blind to the way Preston’s undercut drew the eye to his angular face. The glasses were new, too, thick rimmed and stylish. But Preston was stillhimin some ways: heavy fleece jacket open to hint at a dark red button-down tucked into tight jeans. The boots were a little hipster, trying too hard to be fashionable in a landscape that sneered at thin soles and fake leather. But the necklace lying on his chest was the same. Ambrose had given it to him, a pretty thing of silver and amber (joking it would remind Preston of him.Ambrose. Amber.)

“Fuck. I…”

Preston crashed into him. Ambrose accepted his weight easily, let him carry them through the doorway. His lips remembered the feel of the ones on him now, the taste of desperation andwantheavy on the tongue that flicked against his.

He should push Preston away. Heshould.

He couldn’t.

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