Page 54 of Something Like Forever
Like he could ever forget!Tim always felt the weight of that promise, even though Ben didn’tmention it often. Only when he was feeling especially upset orvulnerable. Tim thought of the night he had first taken the oath,when they had reunited after too many years of separation. Ben hadrecovered from Jace’s death as much as anyone losing a spousecould, but he had still been shaken and unable to move on. Not whendoing so might subject him to the same pain again, so Tim had swornthat he wouldn’t die before Ben did. That promise often made himease his foot off the gas, or decline another drink, or keep histemper in check during volatile situations.
“I won’t forget,” Timsaid. His phone rumbled, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away fromBen to check it.
“Is that yourride?”
“Probably.”
“You shouldgo.”
Tim stayed where he was.Fuck the gallery and any noble plans because Ben was more importantthan all of it. Tim would never leave the house again! Why shouldhe, when everything important to him was right here?
That’s when Ben said theone thing that could get him moving. “I’m proud of you.”
Tim’s shoulders sagged. Hewas willing to stay for Ben, and he was willing to leave for himtoo. “I’ll call,” he said. “A bunch. I’ll work really hard so I cancome home early. How long could it take, right? I’ll find someonethere, tell them everything I know, and I’ll be back as quick aspossible. I can’t promise when, but I’ll try.”
Ben’s face quivered, atiny earthquake that threatened to reveal larger cracks. “There’sonly one promise I need you to keep.”
“I will,” Tim said. Theyheard a honk outside, so he stepped forward, taking Ben’s handsinto his own. “Study hard but also spoil yourself, okay? At leastyou won’t have to pick up my smelly socks for a while.”
“I love your smellysocks,” Ben said with the kind of sincerity that only impendingseparation could induce.
“I love your smelly sockstoo,” Tim said, leaning forward.
They pressed their lipstogether, holding them there, as if hoping to create a kiss thatwould remain with them until they could be together again. Thenthey reluctantly pulled away.
Ben eyes were full ofshimmering tears. Then he swallowed and straightened himself up.“My socks don’t smell.”
Tim managed a laugh. “They do. Like freshlybaked cookies.”
Ben tilted his head. “Iget what you’re trying to say, but now I’m picturing cookie doughstuck between my toes, and it’s kind of gross.”
“I said freshly baked,” hecomplained. “I don’t know why you’re picturing rawdough.”
“Baked cookies aren’t muchbetter,” Ben countered. “Think of the crumbs!”
“I saidthey smelllikecookies. You’re the one wanting to shove actual food into yoursocks.” Tim’s phone started vibrating. A call, probably from thecab driver, when all he really wanted was to stand here with Benand keep saying dumb stuff to each other, because even moments likethese were the best. He pulled out his phone and answered it. “I’llbe right out. Start the meter, I don’t mind.”
When he pocketed hisphone, he looked up to see that they had returned to feeling thesame uneasy pain. “I guess this is it.”
“No,” Ben said, shakinghis head. “This isn’t even close to being it, so hurry back,okay?”
“Yeah,” Tim said, feetunable to move.
“I love you.” Ben steppedforward for a quick kiss. Then he moved past him. “I’ll check onChinchilla. She can help me water the flowers. I forgot toyesterday.”
Ben was definitely abetter actor than he gave himself credit for, because he soundedcasual, like nothing was out of the ordinary. He was fulfillingTim’s request, not by sleeping in or pretending to, but by openingthe door to the backyard and leaving him in a silent living room.Only then was Tim able to walk to the front door, pick up hisluggage, and leave the house. He looked back just before doing so.Through the glass door, he saw Ben standing on the rear patio, armsclutched around himself, but his back remained turned. Chinchilladidn’t share his discretion. She waited at the glass door, tryingto see past the reflections, and probably wondering where he was.Throat raw with pain, Tim promised not to keep her waiting forlong, and stepped outside to face an uncertain future.
Chapter Eight
After travelling fornearly twenty-four hours, Tim was surprised to find his firstimpression of Japan was subdued. Maybe he had seen too many weirdvideo clips online, because when he stepped out of the plane andinto Narita International Airport, he expected to be greeted byhyper teenage girls who were wearing panda hats and speakingrapid-fire Japanese while lobbing gelatin-filled balloons at him.Maybe such antics were reserved for their game shows, because likeall airports, this one featured white corridors and people eager tobe anywhere but there. He scanned the crowds, having been told thatsomeone would meet him. Mrs. Hashimoto, he reminded himself bychecking the notes on his phone. This wasn’t the right spot, so helet the flow take him to immigration, where he waited in line andyawned until his passport was stamped.
As soon as he collectedhis luggage and left the secured area, he noticed people holding upsigns with last names on them. Tim spotted his own, but felt lesscertain when he saw that a man was holding the sign instead of awoman. Then again, how many Wymans could be waiting for a ride fromthe Tokyo airport? He moved toward the man, who saw him,straightened up, and bowed curtly.
“Wyman-sama! How was yourtrip?” His English was perfect, with no trace of an accent. “I’mMr. Tanaka. I’ll be taking care of you during yourvisit.”
The man had jet black hairand eyes just as dark. Despite this, he didn’t look Japanese. Timwas hard-pressed to say why, and he worried it wasn’t a raciallysensitive observation, so he quickly moved on to other attributes.Mr. Tanaka was near his own age, his slim figure outfitted in ablack suit complete with white shirt and black tie. Not a lot ofcolor, but the low-key look suited him well.
“Hey,” Tim said, wonderingif he was supposed to bow too. He settled for a nod. “Uh, I wasexpecting someone by the name of… Sorry, I think itwas—”
