Page 141 of These Secret Years

One-handed gift opening is a neat trick, if a little hard to watch. He gets the paper off fine, and manages to pry the chair box open, but he can’t grab what’s inside because that takes two hands, so I do it for him, and the gift, while still technically hidden in its case, becomes obvious.

“No…” he says softly, staring at the hard leather rectangular box.

“The idea of you not having one felt like me not having a football. It wasn’t right. Didn’t make sense.” I move the cardboard box out of the way and sit down in front of him. I rest the case between us and watch him work open the clasps, then the zippers.

“I didn’t know what kind you had, but…”

“Holy shit, Knight,” he gasps when he opens the case and stares down at the instrument. “This is a Gagliano.”

“Yeah—I mean it’s used, but⁠—”

“No, fuck, I…ugh, I don’t want to fucking cry again.” He leans away from the case and puts his hand over his eyes, squeezing them with his fingers. “How did you find this in bumfuck Michigan?”

“Christmas miracle?”

“These are rare—they’re expensive.”

“It’s not perfect,” I rush to say. “The luther guy said there’s some scuffs on the back he couldn’t buff out, and he had to replace the bridge and the tuning pins, and the bow is nothing special, just the best one they had, but he said the sound is good. I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

“Luthier,” he corrects me.

“Right. Yes. His name wasn’t actually Luther, to be clear. But that would have been funny.”

I think I’ve managed to steer him away from crying when he lets out a short laugh.

“Anyway, it’s a violin,” I finish.

“I see that.” He’s running his fingertips over the body of it now, then he delicately touches the strings, and I think of the way he used to touch me like that. I lick my lips, take a deep breath, and try to tamp down on those thoughts.

He plucks a string and smiles at the sound it makes. “Thank you,” he says, breathless.

“You’re welcome.”

He closes the case, slides it out of the way, and reaches for me.

I lean in, keeping my hands on my legs as he takes hold of my face and presses his mouth to mine. “Thank you,” he whispers again.

I part my lips slightly, and the kiss turns into something more. A place we’ve been before. My body responds like someone switched on all the stadium lights. Suddenly alive. The electricity between us sizzles and pops, and for a moment—a few good moments, really, the kiss is deep, intense, and all-consuming. I even manage to put my hands on him, lightly on his sides, and hear him whimper softly in a way that sounds nice, pleased.

Then he moves in, getting closer, pressing our chests together. Instinctively, my arms tighten around him, my kiss deepens, and suddenly his hand is on my chest, and his mouth isn’t on mine anymore, and he’s saying, “Wait, wait,” and it sounds like he can barely breathe.

I let him go, lift my hands in the air, and stare into his startled, panicked eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His hand remains on my chest, but he releases the pressure. “I got—I don’t know what that was. I’m sorry.”

I nod. “It’s okay.” I know exactly what that was, and would it kill him to just admit it? He’s not fine. This isn’t okay. I’m angry again. Not at him, but at whoever would do this to someone with a mind like his. Beauty like his and the talent. What kind of monster can’t just sit back and appreciate something perfect without trying to shit all over it and break it?

“I feel safe with you,” he says. “I promise.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just been such an overwhelming day.”

“I understand, Sullivan.”

He appears to bite his inner cheek while he looks down at his hand on my chest. “Can we go slow?”

“As slow as you want.”