Page 98 of Loving the Legend
He feeds me a bite. “Damn straight!”
I chuckle, almost choking on my food. He pats my back and hands me a glass of water.
“My heart is composed of muscle, blood, and love for you, D’Artagnan,” I choke out.
He drops his fork. “Hold up! I’m way more Athos than D'Artagnan!”
I think about it. Who could refute his noble air? “My bad. You’re right.”
I brush a quick kiss against his grinning mouth. “You know what I just realized?”
He arches his brows.
“We can probably run with us being seen in public at the club…make it seem like our friendship started tonight.” We’vebeen trying to figure out a way to show the media that we’re friends so that it won't raise eyebrows when we’re seen in public together. This could work.
“Weweresurrounded by teammates,” he says, picking his fork back up.
“Yeah, you could post something casually wishing me a happy birthday. I bet the media will take it from there.”
“Bet.”
I don’t realize I’m shaking until his hand settles over my knee. “Go piss!”
I shake my head. “It’s too good. I can’t abandon it,” I whine, savoring another bite.
He chuckles. “It’ll be here when you get back. Look, I’m putting down my fork until you return.”
The half-liter worth of shots that I chugged have expanded my bladder like a taut water balloon. My entire body trembles as I reach for one more bite.
Sid grunts. “That’s it!”
The next thing I know, I’m upside down, my nose buried in his back, dangling from his shoulder as he strides toward the bathroom. I squirm and laugh so hard that I snort, making us both laugh.
I get a whiff of his cologne and take a huge sniff of his back, making him squirm and slap my butt. I’m planted upright in front of the toilet. Holding on to him, the blood rushes from my head. I salute him and spin to take care of business.
I’m bounding back into the kitchen when I hear the flicker of a lighter. My face splits into the goofiest grin when I spot the swarm of candles, but I freeze when I take in the cake.
The night he fell sick, I told him about my trip to Paris. How my parents and I fell in love with the desserts from a tiny bakery tucked off of the beaten path in the Marais district. We ended each day of our trip with a visit to the bakery. Sid asked if Iremembered the dessert that I loved best. I had, of course. It was an opera cake. My parents picked one up on my birthday every year after our trip. I admitted that I haven’t been able to bring myself to eat it since they passed away.
“Together,” he says, extending his hand.
I stand in place and stare at him.
He offers it so faithfully—together. An answer to an unspoken prayer. How could a solitary word promise such companionship? Does he sense the birthdays I’ve spent drowning in misery, feeling utterly alone?
I walk into his outstretched arms, and we stare into the fire, watching the candle wax transform by its own flame.
I close my eyes and wish that we spend the rest of our days together and no matter the storms, each year finds us closer, happier, and more in love than the last.
“Together,” I whisper, and with a single rush of our breath, we blow out the candles.
Wisps of smoke scent the air like incense burned as an offering.
Sid hands me the first slice. I consider it before I take a bite. Ganache and buttercream. My eyes flutter closed.
A boy laughs in Paris. Suffused with boundless optimism, he tells his parents that when he’s rich, they’ll visit all the great bakeries of the world.
I miss him. I kind of felt like him tonight.
