Page 131 of The ABCs of You & Me

“Are you staying for the weekend? The cottage is yours if you need it.”

“We can do that,” Foster agrees.

We’ve been done the alphabet for a couple weeks, and nothing has really changed, other than plans automatically being for both of us. Friends and family have adjusted to say “you two” and Foster and I speak in “we’s” more than “me’s” now.

We’re on the way back to his apartment after grabbing some ingredients to make a recipe from Cyprus. Since ending the alphabet, we’ve started on popular dishes from different countries. So far we’ve had meat pie from Australia and egg biryani from Bangladesh. Foster wanted to make all of them from scratch, and as much as I would love to watch him cook and eat whatever he’s willing to make me, some of the dishes can take hours and I’m not that patient. There are better things I can think of to do with him for hours. So we compromised and agreed to do half at home and half at a restaurant.

“Dinner is on the Friday night, so we could always do something on Saturday,” I suggest.

“That works. I’ll see if Marley and Bennett can come too, and obviously Cass is invited. She’s here half the time, anyway.” My mom laughs then swears as the sound of something metal echoes through the phone.

“You okay?”

“Oh yeah, just knocked a knife off the counter, missed my foot by an inch, no harm done.” I roll my eyes at Foster who looks somewhat concerned. “Anyway, I’ll let you two get back to whatever it is you were doing. I’ll call when I have all the details. Love you!”

“Love you too,” I say before hitting the end call button on my steering wheel.

“Another family-filled weekend around the corner. You going to be okay with that?” I ask Foster.

He shrugs. “I love your family so that’s not going to be an issue.”

“Here,” Foster says, handing me a beautifully wrapped box.

“What’s this for? A very late birthday gift?” I joke, looking up from the box to find Foster looking nervous.

Pushing back the white tissue paper, I reveal what looks to be a photo album. I look up at him, an unasked question on my lips, unshed tears in my eyes.

“Open it,” he says, gesturing at the book.

The first page has a giant A, messily colored in. Below it is a picture of me and Foster from the gala. “How did you get this?” I ask, running my fingers over the image, the memory of his hand on my bare skin making my skin heat.

“It was on the website. I reached out to the photographer to see if I could get a better copy to print.”

The next picture is one of me holding the fake drink from the April Fools’ barbecue upside down over Foster’s head.

Each page has a letter in the same style as the first followed by a picture.

I run my fingers over the image of Foster dipping me at the aquarium, smiling at the memory of how that moment felt. How something slid into place that day, filling the emptiness I’d been dealing with for months.

The last picture is a selfie of us doing our best zombie faces. Or it was maybe the second one he’d taken, but at the last second Foster had turned and licked my cheek. My mouth is wide open as I laugh and despite my expression, it’s hot. I can practically feel his tongue on my skin as I look at the picture.

I flip back to the cover, and try to keep it together. But the tears come despite my best efforts, “The ABCs of You and Me” blurring in front of me.

“Um, Pete made the letters. I’m shocked he kept it a secret from you,” he babbles nervously.

“Foster.” I sniff. “This… it’s the best gift I’ve ever received.” I burst into tears, and he gathers me up.

It probably seems ridiculous that I’m nearly hysterical over this gift. But I spent years getting expensive shit from a man who had clearly never listened to a thing I said. Gaudy designer bags, a car that was totally impractical for my needs, lingerie that made me feel self-conscious and not at all sexy. Everything was forhim. Things he wanted to see or wanted other people to see and know he was the one who provided them for me. Every gift that man had ever given me was for himself, and I’d been made to feel ungrateful for not jumping with delight with each one.

As I look at the beautiful, simple gift in my hands, all I want to do is jump for joy, but my body can’t seem to move. Probably because Foster is holding me so tightly, whispering “I love you” and “don’t cry, sunshine” against my temple. I’m trying not to cry because I know that when he pulls back he’ll have started crying too. I know that no matter what kind of tears I shed, he’ll shed them along with me.

The very best part of Foster Walsh is that he never saw me as someone he needed to fix. He was there. He showed up day in and day out without complaint. He’s the sun and the moon, always lighting my life so I’ll never be stuck in the dark again.

FIFTY-NINE

FOSTER

Two Months Later

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