Page 38 of The Embrace of Evergreen

Time stops as our kiss slows and our bodies shift, melting into one another until I can’t tell where I end and he begins as he rests his forehead against mine and offers me a shy smile.

“You’re mine now, right?” I ask in a whisper, his mouth still close enough that our lips brush as I speak. I need him to know that I want him, that nothing about this is light or flippant or temporary for me. I want him to know that I want to be his.

“Ya, Blue. I’m yours. I think I’ve been yours for a long time already.”

We lose ourselves in the softness of eager mouths and the gentle trail of exploring fingertips for long, drawn-out moments in the warm morning sunlight, and it’s only with one last flick of his tongue across my lip ring and a deep, contented sigh that he eventually slides off my lap, grabs both of our coffees, and settles in, snuggled tightly against my side.

I let my head lean over against his as he takes his first sip, only to be jolted away when he chokes, pale-brown liquid spilling from his lips as he attempts to catch it in his hand with absolutely zero grace whatsoever. “Ugh. My god. What is this? This isn’t really what counts as coffee here, is it?”

Chapter 15

Blue

I had no idea how much I secretly love being domestic. I mean, I can cook well enough not to poison myself, and Gabriel and I eat together when we both happen to be home, but we both have food-service jobs and time-consuming artistic interests, so home-cooked co-meals don’t really end up happening all that often. For years, I’ve spent every free moment I haven’t been at work out with my friends, getting my fix with a hookup, out in the woods, or in the hot shop. There hasn’t been much opportunity for domesticity, and it hasn’t ever been something I’ve felt was missing in my life.

It’s yet another way that I’m finding my time with Ethan has changed me. Since the first night we spent together almost six weeks ago, we’ve become nearly inseparable. We still spend Friday nights out on friend dates, we both still work, and I haven’t cut back on my time at the shop, so I suppose it’s not really that we’respending a drastically increased amount of time together; it’s simply that the time we are together has changed. Ethan still hasn’t agreed to sing any karaoke, but he dances with me every Friday night. He still gets adorably flushed and shy every time I ask him, but he tightens his hand in mine - because our fingers are always already tightly tangled together in our laps under the table - and follows me into the pulsating crowd without hesitation. He wraps me in his arms and buries his face in my neck as we press our bodies together so tightly that even atoms couldn’t slip between us. We cling to one another and close our eyes and lose ourselves in the throb of bass and the sound of laughter and the light brush of lips across salty skin.

We spend late evenings after I’m off work at home. It doesn’t matter whether it’s his apartment or mine; when we’re together, any place feels like home. We curl up on the couch, idly reading or watching old movies while we chat about nothing and everything, and fingertips lazily play with tresses of auburn or turquoise. We split boxes of Chinese and platters of enchiladas and laugh with Gabriel, who is constantly smiling at us like he can’t quite believe we’re real.

Every night in his arms is different than the night before. There are moments of need and desire and lust and passion so intense that, for brief moments, I wonder if my heart might actually give out with my next thrust, and there are moments in which a cocoon of peace and gentle embraces filled with whimpers and panted breaths surrounds us as we tenderly search for obliviontogether. I’ve enjoyed most of my past sexual partners, but I’ve never known it’s possible to find so much, to feel so much, with the same person time and time again. Ethan drifts off to sleep in my arms most nights, sated and content as I stare at the ceiling and take in the way his spicy scent envelops me and revel in the fact that I’ve never felt as grounded as I do with the weight of his head tucked in against my shoulder. A small, terrified part of me tries to whisper that this is why hope is so dangerous. Tries to warn me that I would never survive the loss of this feeling, of Ethan. For once in my life, it feels like I’ve actually found what I’ve always wanted, and even though I promised myself long ago that I wouldn’t, I let myself hope. Ethan is nothing like any of the men I’ve fallen for in the past. He’s kind and generous and thoughtful, and I can’t imagine any scenario in which he’d deliberately hurt me. And yet…I find myself waiting for the bubble to burst, for the other shoe to drop, for my luck to run out. Love has never felt like this for me. I’ve never felt secure and safe and happy and appreciated the way I feel with Ethan, and I’m holding my breath and pleading to anyone or anything that might be listening to let this work.Just let me keep him.

Ethan and I spent this morning in the car with our usual Sunday brunch of pastries and long blacks before wandering for a couple of hours along his favorite forest trail before I had to head to work. I came straight to his place when my shift ended at ten p.m., and when I arrived, he’d been standing in the kitchen wearing low-slung black sweatpants and a simple green T-shirt so tight it was nearly criminal while cooking us a latedinner. He’d ushered me to the bathroom, where I’d found almost identical pants and one of my overly worn, old concert tees that had migrated to his place at some point laid out on the counter waiting for me. When I’d emerged from the shower feeling like a new man, I’d found him pouring wine, with candles lit and dinner on the table.

The groan that escapes me as I shovel another bite of creamy pasta into my face is obscene, and it’s hard to keep my attention on simple dinner conversation with the flavors bursting on my tongue and Ethan’s shy, enticing smirk sitting so close to me.

“Before you got distracted by making pasta sex noises - which, for the record, mean that I now plan to make pasta for you every chance I get.” Ethan chuckles. “You said the words ‘this morning’ and then just stopped talking.”

“I absolutely, wholeheartedly look forward to eating nothing but this for the rest of my life.” I grin and try to ignore the rush of butterflies that flits through my chest at the way he blushes when I mention the rest of our lives. We haven’t talked much about the future over the past month and a half, and I can’t help the tendril of fear that appears every time I consider him leaving for another job when his contract at the gallery ends. I push it aside like I always do, brightening my smile and focusing on enjoying our evening.

“I was saying that Max called me this morning with an interesting offer.”

“Max from the gallery?” He looks a bit confused.

“Mmhmm,” I mumble around more pasta.

“I didn’t realize you guys know each other. I mean, it makes sense now that I think about it. It feels like even though the art community in Seattle is huge, everything is also interconnected somehow, so of course you know the owner of the gallery who is working to purchase your shop.”

“Well, ya, I guess I’d probably know her that way, but I mean, we do talk when I drop off new pieces or pick up a check for ones that have sold, which hasn’t been very often lately, but still.”

“Wait.” He sets his wine glass down, looking almost dumbfounded. “Your work is at the gallery? I’ve seen your art at the shop a few times, and I haven’t seen anything like it at work. I haven’t seen your name on anything either.”

I set my fork down, a bit unsure as to how the conversation seems to have shifted so quickly from Ethan promising me sex pasta for every meal into one that, for some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, feels heavy and serious. “Well, I use my legal name for my professional work, not Blue, and she doesn’t have any of my current pieces. The ones that are on display at the moment are from a collection I created a few years back.They’re quite a bit…darker and harsher than the collection I’m working on now. They’re on the top floor in the back corner, single sculptures on black pedestals.”

Ethan just stares at me in silence. His breathing has sped up, and he looks like he might hyperventilate. He seems more than confused now; he looks lost or hurt, and I don’t know why he looks like that, but I don’t like it. Ethan should smile always, and whatever has happened, I need to find a way to fix it.

I can’t get out of my chair to kneel at his side fast enough. “Hey, darlin’, I'm not sure what's going on here, but you’re sorta freaking me out. Can you breathe and come back to me?” I take his hand in mine gently, unsure how to help him through whatever is happening. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

He breaks himself out of his trance and clutches my hand tightly. “I just…oh my god, I mean…I don’t even know your name. I’ve known you for months, and we’ve slept together, and I’m completely falling for you, and I don’t even know your name. God, what is wrong with me? I mean, who does that?”

“Hey.” I can’t help but laugh despite the seriousness of the moment at the relief that rushes through me over the fact that the thing he’s freaking out over is something so insignificant, and I haven’t somehow missed the occurrence of a serious problem. “You know me. My name is Blue, and you know everything about me that matters; you just don’t knowwhat my parents called me before I turned eight and decided blue foods were the best. I don’t think that’s really that big of a deal, do you?”

He’s no longer crushing my fingers into dust, and the corners of his lips are trying to twitch up into a smile, so I must be getting through to him.

“It’s Xavier. The name I use when I display my work is Xavier.”

Ethan’s eyes are suddenly glassy, and he chokes out something that sounds like it’s trying to be a laugh, but it’s tainted by too many other emotions to really be successful.

“Xavier Prescott?” he asks in a near whisper.

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