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“Yeah, you cover off favorite things, hopes and dreams, deep insecurities you can throw in their faces later.”
I eye him, trying to work out if he’s serious. “I’m beginning to see why a relationship isn’t on the cards for you.”
“Finally, someone takes me seriously.”
“Maybe they’d take you more seriously if the sexual tension between you and that bartender wasn’t thick enough to cut glass.”
“Anyone who thinks that little shit is into me isn’t paying attention. You saw him with that woman last night.”
“Bi people exist, you know. Look at Orson.”
“Don’t queer lecture me, asshole. I have intimate knowledge of almost all the queer identities—if you know what I mean.”
“I’d have to be in a coma not to know what you mean.”
His eyes are closed, hand rested in his messy hair, almost like he doesn’t want to face this conversation.
“Why are you so sure he’s straight?”
“Just am.”
Stubborn bastard. If he refuses to see what’s obvious to everyone but him, there’s nothing I can do there. My own relationship needs all my attention.
I’m itching to call or text him, but I can’t risk him blowing me off, and it’s a conversation I want to have face-to-face. With him at work, it needs to wait until this afternoon, but my gut is twisted with nervous worry.
I think about what Art said, about Orson telling me what he likes. I’m not struck with anything genius, but the more I think about him, the more I piece together. He likes the quiet. He likes special moments. Connection. Nothing big or extravagant.
He took me out on the lake just so we could be together. He got that old car just so we could spend time together, like he used to do with his dad. The car thing isn’t something Orson cares about all that much; it’s knowing he’s spending time with someone he loves, doing something they’re interested in.
Like with his mom and sitting by the fire.
I haven’t even had hot cocoa in forever.
Holy shit, that’s it.
Sitting in front of the fire, sipping hot cocoa, and painting his toenails. Orson’s interests are doing things for other people, so maybe if I can take him back, remind him of a happy time when he did that, that’s the connection he wants.
Yes, yes, yes.
I’ve never painted another person’s toenails in my fucking life, but it’s something I’ll learn to do for him. Excitement races through me at the idea because surely,surely, doing something so sentimental will be enough to rid him of his anger.
The whole situation is a mess, and I get why he’s mad, but I want him to know without a doubt that when it comes to me, I’m a sure thing. He never has to worry or second-guess.
Now for my first problem.
I don’t have a fireplace.
“No chance you’ve got a fireplace hidden around here anywhere, do you?” I ask.
“No.” Art peeks open an eye. “Why?”
“I know what I’m going to do for Orson, and it’s kinda integral to the whole thing.”
“Can’t think of one off the top of my head.”
Well, fuck. From memory, he’d mentioned a cool night—check. Hot cocoa—easy enough to come by. Nail polish—I assume I can pick some up from the store … but a fireplace isn’t something I can just come up with.
Think, Ford, think.
