Page 89 of One Chance to Stay
I kept the barrel pointed down as I inched my way up the stairs. The biggest scuffle I had ever gotten into involved drunken patrons. I left them to Spectrum’s bouncers. Here I pretended I lived on the frontier and that I’d stop a home invasion.
“Seamus?” I whispered.
A thud came from the spare bedroom. I tried to remember Abraham’s lessons. Only point at what I planned to shoot. What if it was Seamus thrashing about? If he couldn’t stop burglars, what was I going to do? Snark them to death? I tightened my grip just in?—
The door swung open.
“Ahh!” I didn’t even lift the barrel before Seamus pulled it away.
“Nobody shoots me in my own home.”
“I called for you. I thought somebody had— What if somebody showed up?—”
“Somebodydidshow up.”
He had a point. I’d never live down our first encounter. Every time I bumped into the ladies from the Quilting Guild, they giggled. I blamed Jon for telling the tale. Each time it grew more dire, and Seamus’s gun grew bigger. Someday, I’d get my revenge.
I spotted Seamus’s chair.
“What’s going on?”
Smiles continued to be hard won, but when they appeared, his face lit up. He stepped to the side, giving me a full view of his spare bedroom. He had removed the bed. At first, I didn’t get it—until I saw what stood in its place.
“Seamus…”
Where the headboard once rested had been replaced by an old desk. Notanydesk. Every time I visited Twice-Told Tales, I’d stop and run my fingers along its surface. I said when I graduated and had an office of my own, I wanted a desk like that. Worn, filled with stories, it occupied the width of the wall.
“How did you…”
He gestured with his chin to the other side of the room. He had installed a wall of bookshelves. Right now, they only housed a handful of books. I walked over, wanting to confirm the titles. I recognized the Introduction to Psychology textbook, still filled with a flurry of sticky notes.
“Moving doesn’t make sense,” he said. We had talked about it. I wanted to spend my nights curled up with this beautiful man, but the commute made it impossible. When I asked if he’dever leave the farm, he proudly said no. When he said, “Firefly is home,” I appreciated his rediscovery.
“I want it to feel like home.”
If rearranging his spare bedroom hadn’t been enough to shove my heart in the back of my throat, I saw the contents of the desk. He thought of every detail, right down to the neon sticky notes. A University of Maine coffee cup had been filled with pens, an equal number of black and red, all ultra-fine point.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
I pointed at his favorite chair in the corner. “You don’t need to give up your chair.”
That smile. He reminded me of a kid in a candy store as he plopped himself onto the chair. The anticipation of tasting chocolate wouldn’t make it any bigger. While I tried to choke back my feelings, I couldn’t deny how far we had come. When he caught me staring, the smile vanished, and I watched the disguise fall into place. Too late, it had already given me goosebumps.
Seamus sat down. “It’s not for you.”
“But—”
“Where do you expect me to sit while you’re studying?”
“Seamus, I don’t have words.”
“There’s a first,” he scoffed.
Just like that, he returned to the grumpy man…mygrumpy man. We didn’t toss around the L-Word often. Most of the time, he didn’t need to say it. On the desk, I spotted a picture of us taken by Mabel at the first bonfire. He framed it, setting it on the corner. He didn’t have to say the words. Seamus lived them.
“Come here.” I signaled him with a finger. He knew what came next.
