Page 91 of When Ben Loved Tim
I shrug shamelessly. “Those are the life skills you learn with an older sibling around.”
“Sounds nice,” Tim says, stopping to look at a warmly lit house with a tree prominently displayed in the front window. “Although I didn’t have a bad childhood. I just learned to play on my own.” He glances at me with reservation before his features relax. “And I always had my art.”
“Yeah?” I ask encouragingly.
“Yeah. I can hardly remember anything about kindergarten, but the day we fingerpainted is crystal clear in my mind. Getting to dip my fingers in raw color and discovering how they blend together… It was a revelation. I felt like I had magic powers. I could create any color I wanted! And you don’t have to learn how to use a brush or hold a pencil. It was instant access to art. I was sold.”
“I always liked crayons,” I say, struggling to relate.
Tim shakes his head. “They were too limiting for me. Paint is more forgiving. You can keep adding layers until you get what you want. I remember going to school the next day and being upset that we weren’t going to fingerpaint again. I asked my teacher if we could. She said no, but I kept asking until she let me try again. The other kids went out to play. I stayed inside so I could paint. I still remember how my hands looked when everyone came back inside. My palms were rainbows. When I was told to wash my hands, I refused. The paint had dried by then anyway. After my mom came to pick me up, the teacher explained what happened and sent me home with the leftovers.”
Tim is staring down at his open palm before he blinks and glances around. Then he laughs self-consciously. “So anyway, after I ran out of paint, I begged my mom for more. Every birthday and Christmas, that’s what I wanted: art supplies. And I usually got them. So in a way, I’m glad I had so much time alone as a kid. I needed it.”
He made good use of that time, sure, but I can’t help feeling that he needed more from his parents. Even now. But hey, I’m more than happy to pick up the slack. “Let’s keep walking,” I say, using the excuse to grab his hand and pull on him. “I’m getting cold.”
“You’re freezing!” Tim says before shaking me off. “I should have bought you some gloves.”
“I’m not looking for a sugar daddy,” I say as we continue to walk, “but a boyfriend would be nice.”
My hopes for a Christmas miracle are shot down when I catch him rolling his eyes.
“Oh come on!” I plead. “Krista got to call you her boyfriend. What can she do for you that I can’t?”
“I can think of a few things,” Tim murmurs.
“Like what?” I challenge. “Biological children? Unless you were planning to start a family right after high school, who cares?”
“I’m definitely not ready for kids,” Tim chuckles. “But trying to make them sure is fun.”
“So she’s got a vagina,” I retort. “Big deal.Reallybig, because entire babies come sliding out of those things. You’ve got a better option if you’re looking for a nice tight hole.”
“What if I am?” Tim challenges.
“Then it sounds like you need a boyfriend,” I tease.
The prospect has featured in my fantasies more often as of late. I don’t have experience with such things, but then, I never felt like trying with any of the other guys. The mere thought of losing my virginity to Tim makes my heart flutter. I want to give that to him and make it a permanent part of my history, like a tattoo that can’t be erased. But I don’t plan on spelling that out for him.
We continue walking, passing a plastic Santa and a team of reindeer in someone’s yard before we circle back around to his house.
“The coat is great,” I say while taking it off in the entryway, “but it’s too damn cold out there.”
Tim engulfs my hands in his before pressing them to his lips. “I’ve got something that’ll warm you up.”
“Anything!” I say.
He leads me to his father’s den, stopping by the wet bar. “How about some wine?”
“Really?” I ask in excitement.
“Yeah, why not?”
He opens a cabinet and takes out a couple of bottles, setting them on the counter. I’m convinced we’re the most sophisticated eighteen-year-olds on the planet until he says, “Red wine is served at room temperature, but I like the yellow kind better, even though it’s chilled.”
“You mean white wine?” I ask with a snort.
“If it was white, it would look like milk,” Tim replies. “What’ll be?”
“Yellow wine,” I answer, because he’s got a point.
