Requited Ch. 10

"You know I love a good theory."

"I warn you, it's corny."

"I can handle corny. Hit me with it."

He shifts, so we're facing each other. His eyes are soft, reflecting the dappled rays of sun streaming down through the tree above us, "I think it's because..." He starts and then wavers, before starting again, "I think it's different for us...because we were made for each other. You and me, we were meant to be."

My chest expands so rapidly, it feels like it's going to explode. I turn to him and kiss him and hold onto his head, pulling him as close as I can. We don't move. We just hold each other. We stay like that for ages. We stay like that until his phone pings and eventually, he picks it up checks it.

"Who is it?"

"It's Lucy and Em, from next door. They're taking pizzas down to the beach tonight. I'll tell them we're going to skip it."

"You know what," I say, "maybe we should go."

"Oren will be there. We don't have to go, if you don't want to."

"We have to go eventually. Eventually, we'll have to see other people."

He shrugs and laughs, "I don't mind."

"Surely, you're going to get sick of being stuck here all summer with the same person." I tease.

"I won't."

"Oh, yes, you will."

"I won't. I won't get sick of being here with this person." He says, poking me in the ribs, "'Cause this person, is my favourite person."

"Jesus, Andy," I say, blinking quickly, "you're good. I'll give you that."

He throws his head back and chuckles softly.

*

That night, we do go to the beach. I feel ready. I feel ready to face the world and I feel ready to see Oren. I don't feel thrilled about it, but I feel ready. It's a beautiful, clear evening. Warm and still. Even down at the beach, there's not a breath of air moving. By the time we get there, a few of Andy's friends have already gathered. Some, I met last year, and a few, I'm meeting for the first time. We chat and crack open a couple of beers and have a few slices. I feel chilled. Relaxed. Andy sits next to me. He sits close. Knee to knee. Every time I say something, he leans his head down a little, so his ear is close to my mouth, so he can hear every word that I'm saying. Every time he does it, he smiles ever so slightly, so slightly, if you weren't paying close attention, you'd miss it. I don't miss it though. I see it, and I love it. Despite what I've been like, I have to admit, it is pretty great seeing other people. It feels good to be out.

I'm glad we came.

No sooner has that thought crossed my mind, when my gut clenches hard. I see a guy in the distance. A guy carrying a guitar case. Oren. I check myself. I'm definitely a little tense, but Andy's beside me.

"Do you want anything? Beer, more pizza?" He asks.

"I'm good, thanks."

He stays close. We both get up when Oren approaches, and he puts his hand at the small of my back, pressing gently.

"Hey Andy, how you going?" Says Oren.

"I'm good," replies Andy, "you remember West, right?"

"Sure," he says, giving me a hand to shake, "how could I forget?"

Andy turns and looks at me with soft eyes. His eyes find mine and for a few seconds, I can see that he's forgotten where we are and who we're with.

He moves the hand on my back downwards, snaking slowly, and eases it snugly into my back pocket. I try not to smile too hard, and I try not to breath an audible sigh of relief, but that's how I feel. Relieved. Acutely relieved. After all this time, he's mine. Standing there, talking to Oren, it finally dawns on me - Andy's mine. He's all mine. Mine only.

He wants me and loves me back.

He loves me as much as I love him.

Oren sets up his guitar and plays for a while. In truth, he's pretty good when he plays covers without the cringey little introductions. In truth, when he's not fucking Andy, he seems like a pretty okay guy, and live music on a beach is always a good thing. It's a great evening. It's an amazing evening. It's so wonderful that by the time we leave and walk home over the dune, I'm high spirits. I'm in the highest spirits you could ever imagine. I'm so happy, I take it upon myself to serenade Andy with an old REM song that I love.

"Now, Andy, did you hear about this one?" I belt out, as loudly as I can, ignoring the fact that I can't sing for shit.

I have my arm around Andy's waist, and he has his draped over my shoulder. I feel his ribs contract as he starts to laugh.

I don't know all the words, but I continue, undeterred, "Something, something...dum, dum, dum, dum..."

He's laughing for real now. I slide my other hand up the front of his t-shirt, so I can feel the rippling of his abs as he laughs.

"Andy, are you goofing on Elvis...pum pum pum puuuum?"

He's laughing helplessly, his eyes are alight, and his lips are split open, "Oh, West, you crack me up. I love you, man."

That makes me laugh, too. I'm laughing and holding onto him, and I swear, I feel bulletproof. I've never felt anything like it. I'm fully present, but I also have a strange sense that this is one of those moments I'm going to look back on in years to come. I'm going to come back to this very moment, time and time again. I'm going to remember today. I'm never, ever going to forget it.

"Andy," I say when we both calm down, "do you think this might be the best day of our lives?"

He looks at me for a second, considering my question, "Nah." He smiles.

"How do you know?"

He pulls me close, "I know, because tomorrow it's forecast to rain and tomorrow, we'll be home alone all day. When you think about it, tomorrow, there won't be any real reason for us to get out of bed."

*

That day was just the first in a series of perfect days. Day after day, we experience perfection. We enjoy the sun and the summer. We enjoy the beach and the sea. We enjoy being totally carefree. But mostly, mostly, we enjoy each other.

Days melt into weeks, and before we know it, it's almost over.

"Damn," he says, as he sets up his paints to start painting, "I can't believe my family are arriving tomorrow."

"I know. I can't decide if it feels like the last six weeks have gone slowly or super quickly."

I check my emails and make a couple of calls, as he paints. I have a message asking me to call Daniel Reiker. Daniel is the boss of the guy I reported to last summer, when I did my internship in the city. I only met him once or twice, so I'm a little puzzled as to why he wants me to call him, but I call anyway.

"Andy!" I yell, as soon as I hang up the phone, "Andy, you'll never believe it."

"Is everything okay?" He says, coming out of the den quickly to see what the commotion is about.

"You'll never believe what just happened. I just got off the phone with KKR & Co and I've been offered a job! Not just a job, a great job. I can't believe it. They're paying $12,000 more than I was hoping for. Can you believe it?"

"Yeah," he says softly, there's happiness, but not a hint of surprise on his face, "I really can."

He wraps me into a bear hug and whispers into my ear, "I'm so proud of you."

Later, after I've called my mom and told her the news, he calls me into the den.

"D'you want to see it?"

"Is it done?"

"Yeah, I think it's as close as I'm going to get it."

"Then hell yes, I want to see it."

He looks a little nervous as he lifts the easel and turns it round, so that it's facing me.

My hand flies to my face. I'm stunned. Silent. I don't move or speak. I don't blink, either. I can't. The painting is of him and me. He used the first photograph we took when we got together, as a reference. The photo we sent to Sarah. The background is white, and we appear slightly muted, blurred out. Still, you can tell at a glance that it's us. I have my arm around him and I'm looking straight at the viewer. My eyes look unreal. They look alive. They look like something that's living. He's smiling in the painting, just like he was smiling in the photograph. He looks happy. I look up at him. He doesn't just look happy.

He is happy.

My Andy is happy.

I'm so moved, it takes me several seconds to see it, but at last, I do. Finally, my gaze lands on our hands. They're laced together in the painting, just like they were that day. Only, they're different. Our skin is wrinkled like tissue paper, our knuckles are thickened and wizened, marked by the ravages of time. These are our hands, but they're not our hands now. These are the hands of two men who found each other in their twenties and held on. Two men who held on for a lifetime. Two men, who never let go.

"What's it called?" My voice cracks as I say it.

He picks up the painting carefully and turns it around. He's scrawled on the back in large charcoal letters. My whole body breaks out into gooseflesh when I read it.

Always.

I blink as hard as I can, but it's too late. Tears slide down my face. He comes to me, standing behind me, wrapping his arms around me. I reach up and find his hand, lacing my fingers in his.

"Always," He says softly, "this has to be always. For me, it's always."

"It will be." I say, sniffing and squeezing his hand tight, "It will be. All we have to do is hold on. All we have to do, is never let go."

I turn to him and look up at his beautiful face and I make a new deal. A vow. A commitment.

"Always."

*