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“Happy birthday.” Ambrose was staring at him, naked vulnerability on his beautiful face.
“You didn’t.”
“Raf and I did.”
Before him on a massive easel was a compilation of Perry’s illustrations. Each one expertly, perfectly printed and backed on soft white to let the viewer focus on the drape of foxglove petals and the beauty of fragile honeysuckle. Weeping wisteria graced one corner, its lavender hue stunning the eye and drawing the gaze down to the colorful dots of a wildflower field. That field had been one of Perry’s last pieces. The same field Barrett had taken Ambrose to in the spring. Perry had found that spot and showed it to Barrett, and they’d tucked it away like a secret well kept.
Now it could be shared with everyone.
Barrett couldn’t speak. He tried, but the tears falling down his face must have been a sign of his gratitude, because Ambrose reached up to wipe them away with his thumb. He swallowed hard and pulled Ambrose to him. “You did this,” he managed to say.
“I love you. I wanted to do this. Perry was special to you, a good friend when you needed one.” Now Ambrose’s eyes were damp and he was trying to blink the tears away and failing. “Without him, we would have never met.”
“Oh god, you’re right.” Barrett didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His heart didn’t fit in his chest and he thought he might need to sit down. And at the same time, he wanted to see all of the illustrations. Because the room was nothing but Perry’s art.
The door behind them opened and Raf stuck his head in. “Ready for the world to see or do you need another moment?”
Barrett shook his head, laughter bubbling up out of him. “Send them in. They should see this.” And then he marched over to Raf and drew him into a hug. “I know you did this,” he said quietly, pulling back to look at the other man. “And I love you for it.”
“Anything for a friend, you big sweetheart.” Raf’s blush deepened, then he stepped back and straightened his lapels. “All right, let’s do this.”
The door to the gallery opened and the crowd swarmed in. Books were sold at an alarming pace. They heard remarks about the gentle beauty of the illustrations and wonderings at the artist. None of the illustrations were for sale but several people tried to negotiate with Raf or his staff.
In the middle of the chaos, Ambrose handed Barrett a copy of the book and turned it to the back flap. There, in black and white, was a photo of Perry and the bio Barrett had given Raf for print. “He would have loved this,” Barrett said, tracing his finger over Perry’s face. “He would have been incredibly embarrassed, but he would have loved it, too.”
“He deserved to have his art displayed like this.” Ambrose leaned close and Barrett pulled him in. “You’re a good friend, darling.”
“He was a good man.” Barrett kissed the top of Ambrose’s head. “Hopefully I’m a good boyfriend, too.” He was trying not to be too vulnerable in a moment where emotions swirled in him, caught in the tide of everything happening around them.
“The best.”
The kiss they shared was only the start of something new. Something wonderful and bold and different. Exciting and a little frightening. And at the same time, so peaceful that Barrett felt it echo in his bones. This was the right path for his life. “I love it here, but I can’t wait to go home with you.”
“Me too, darling. Me too.”
