Page 47 of Protecting the Nerd

He had known, then. Not only that, but he’d ordered all this stuff for me. I had to swallow before I could speak, fighting to keep my emotions in check. “Thank you.”

“Can I give you a birthday hug?”

I stepped into his embrace. The man gave the best hugs, so tight and comforting. When I let go, he grabbed a wrapped gift from the coffee table and handed it to me. “Your present.”

“You got me a present?”

“Of course. It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

He’d gotten me a gift. An almost childish rush of excitement flooded me as I took the present. It was a book, that much I could gather from the weight and shape. I ripped off the wrapping paper and flipped the book to read the title. Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl.

“Have you read it?” Quillon asked.

“No.”

He smiled. “It’s the single best book I have ever read. My father gave it to me when I joined the Marines, and for many years, I took that book with me everywhere.”

I scanned the synopsis on the back.

“The author was a Jewish psychologist who survived a concentration camp in the Second World War, and he wrote this book about that experience. It’s so profound that every time I read it, I discover new meanings. I figured it would appeal to you.”

Equating what Essex had put me through with a concentration camp was ridiculous because the two didn’t even exist in the same stratosphere, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t suffered at the hands of my brother. As if it were a contest to determine a first prize for suffering. “Thank you. I will love this.”

“I hope so.”

“Regardless, the fact that you even got me something means a lot to me.”

“My pleasure.”

“When’s your birthday? I’ll need to repay the favor.” I winced at how that had come out. “I didn’t mean repay as in paying off a debt or to suggest this is transactional for me. It’s not. I meant?—”

A warm hand on my shoulder cut me off. “I know what you meant. And it’s September fifth. Turning fifty this year.”

I breathed out with relief. “Does that bother you?”

“Nah, not anymore. I hated turning forty, but I’m fine now. I love my life.”

His hand still rested on my shoulder, and I liked that he wasn’t afraid to touch me. Maybe that was a gay thing. Fir did it a lot too, and Tiago was touchy-feely as well. Whatever it was, I liked it, and I didn’t move out of fear he’d pull back. “My age doesn’t bother me either. I like not being in my twenties or thirties anymore.”

“Same. You hungry?”

“Sure, why?”

“‘Cause I made a special breakfast for you.”

“What?”

“Fir said you once told him how much you loved French toast, so I asked Brianna for some thick-sliced Dutch white bread, and that’s what we’re having.”

Pure joy filled me. “You made me French toast?”

“Sure did. It’ll take a few minutes to finish, but let’s sit down. I also have fresh orange juice, a soft-boiled egg, and a few strips of bacon.”

In short, the man had made everything I loved. I hugged him again tightly. “Thank you.”

He held me as long as I clung to him, which was far longer than I should have, but for once, I didn’t care. What he had done for me was so momentous and meant so much that I didn’t have the words to express how I felt. Hell, I didn’t even know where to begin disentangling the whirlwind of emotions inside me, so hugging him would have to do.

Breakfast was delicious, and I wolfed down four slices of the best French toast I’d ever had, royally sprinkled with powdered sugar. No syrup for me, thank you. I’d never cared for it. Once not even a crumb was left, I rose to help, but Quillon pushed me down again. “Not today, birthday boy. And you’re not working either.”

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