Page 104 of Infinite as They Come
“Well, your birthday wish won’t come true if you take it off,” I said.
Sawyer pressed his lips to my cheek, giving me a soft kiss there that lingered. “Pretty sure it already did.”
Blushing, I tried to tuck my face into his neck, only for the birthday hat I had on nearly take his eye out, so we settled on him keeping his arm wrapped around my shoulder. I wondered if he was taking in the scene like I was, at all the people who were here for his special day. His mom, who had kept her promise and was still very much in his life. Kurt, who had become as close to a father figure I knew Sawyer had ever had. His brother, who was currently in the corner with Brodie sharing a slice of cake as they chattered away. My own parents who were talking to Linda, the three of them getting along so wonderfully like always, and it never failed to warm my heart to see my parents accept her with open arms. It was warm. It was home. It was love.
Sawyer slipped something into my hand, forcing my eyes to lower. It was a napkin all neatly folded up, and I knew there had to be something on it. Maybe a message or a little drawing, and I was eager to take a look, but Spencer was suddenly pulling at my other hand, a big grin on his face as he asked me to show him some of Sawyer’s new art, and I couldn’t ever say no to him. I slipped the napkin into one of the drawers nearby and led Spencer down the hallway and into Sawyer’s studio, his smile never fading as I showed him the newest pieces his brother had been working on.
The day carried on and we eventually moved into the backyard as the heat started to fade away, my eyes, like always, falling to the lemon tree that was growing day by day. It was bigger now, standing at a good five or six feet tall, and one day it would loom over me and Sawyer. In fifteen years. In twenty years. In all the years that came after that, and God, I couldn’t wait for it. To be here with him in this life forever.
I kept my eyes on Sawyer as I took a seat on one of the chairs on the back patio, nestled up next to Annie as we shared a plate of barbecue that my dad had made. Sawyer was with Spencer, showing him around the garden even though he had been over so many times now. A few of the flowers sprouting around the garden had been planted by Spencer himself, and whenever him and Linda and Kurt would come over, Spencer always liked to do a little tour of the place to see how his plants were doing.
I let my eyes study Sawyer for a long moment. There was a smile on his face, that party hat still wedged there on his head. I knew it was uncomfortable. Mine was too. But he kept that thing on, and I was pretty sure it was because Spencer had slid it on his head in the morning.
It was good to see Sawyer so relaxed. For the first time in his life, it seemed like he could do just that. He painted every day. No more working on cars, no more on his feet all day. Instead, he had turned one of the bedrooms in the house into a studio and spent his time in there. It was perfect: the country sun would pour in and give him that perfect lighting and he’d paint the most beautiful things. The house—our home. The mountains in the distance. The nearby lakes and streams where he’d take me with him, set his stuff up, and we’d sit there in silence while he brought the scenery aroundus to life. It always gave me so much comfort to just sit there with him while he worked his magic.
He painted things for people, stuff no one else but Sawyer Westbrook would be able to pull off. He’d paint me, again and again, always surprising me with something new at the end of the week. Me sleeping, me in some new dress I bought, me cooking, me on the couch with a book in my hand. I had always been so sure he’d get bored of doing that, but no, the paintings kept rolling in, his studio stacked with canvases of me against the walls while others hung around him on every wall in that room. It always felt a little conceited walking in there and seeing my face left, right, and center, but Sawyer said it helped him work better and faster.It lets me see your pretty face when you’re stuck in your office, he always said. By office, he meant one of the rooms that had been turned into a space for me to do my writing. It was for a little publication in Moody, a magazine that let me write about small town life, or rather, the people who lived in it. Small towns had a long list of small town people with big time stories, so I knew I’d never run out. It gave me the freedom New York was never going to offer me, the chance to meet interesting people, and the space I had always craved.
Sometimes I’d spend my days in Sawyer’s studio writing while he painted. There was something about watching him work that would always fascinate me. The way his eyes would narrow in concentration, the sleeves of his flannel shirt pushed up to show me strong, sturdy forearms streaked with color against his pale skin, the way he’d shove a hand up and into his locks, making a perfectly tussled mess. I loved his studio. I loved the bright yellow walls and how his stuff was everywhere. Easel, tubes of paint, drop cloths, brushes. Small canvases, giant ones, ones that stretched on forever and ever. He got to work slowly and particularly, in his own space and in his own time, making sure every last stroke of his brush resulted in perfection. Whether it was for a new addition to his website or for some commission he was doing, he always worked so thoughtfully. It was no surprise the orders for more of his work came rolling in week after week. I had to hold back a smile, because even with the countless requests he got, he would always say the same thing to me:I really just wanna paint you.
The glow of the sun disappeared as day turned into night, and then it was just darkness and a blanket of stars. Being away from the city meant I got to see the stars properly, and it was one of my favorite parts of being in the countryside.
The later it got, the more people that left. First my parents, then Linda and Kurt and Spencer, then Annie and Brodie who’d be sharing a ride. The people slowly filtered out one by one, and soon, it was just me and my husband.
“What a day,” Sawyer said as he shut the door, leaning up against it. Reaching a hand up, he tugged off the party hat and tossed it to the table nearby.
Smiling, I moved over to him, and when I got close enough, he grabbed my hand and reeled me right in. A giggle left my lips as I felt his lips brush against mine, soft and slow, one of his hands reaching up to pull off my own hat. I wasn’t sure what he did with it, because my eyes were too busy fluttering closed. Instead, I was getting lost in the feeling of him. Strong hands, warm lips, broad chest. My favorite person. My fairytale.
“You wanna sit outside?” he asked. “It’s nice out. I want some alone time with you. And it’s my birthday, right?”
I nodded, our lips still just barely grazing together. “You’re right. And I gotta give the birthday boy what he wants.”
Humming, he pressed his lips to mine for a quick, little kiss. “And all he wants is you.”
Hands there on his chest, I opened my eyes back up. “I can’t say no to that.”
“This is where I get myothergift, right?” he asked, his rough voice going a little low.
“Other gift?”
He raised his brows. “Rich girl underwear? You know it’s my favorite.”
I laughed, pressing my face into his chest. “That comes a little later, but I promise they’ll make an appearance tonight.”
“I love my birthday,” he said lowly.
“I love it too.” I took a slow step back. “I’ll be out soon, okay? I’ll meet youout the front?”
He nodded. “Yeah, baby. Will meet you out there.”
I spun on my heels, making my way down the hallway. I was never going to get over the fact that this was our house. That overwhelmingly warm feeling I got all over had still yet to leave. It was all the photos of us on the walls, the pretty glass flower he made for me all those years ago that sat safely in a vase by my side every night we fell asleep together, the lemon tree in the backyard, and all our things jumbled together that made it all feel so special and perfect. It wouldn’t have felt like home without Sawyer. Without waking up to him and falling asleep in his arms.
I opened the nearby drawer and pulled out the napkin Sawyer had given me earlier before slipping into the bedroom and opening up the closet door. There on the hanger was exactly what Sawyer had been not so subtly hinting at earlier: a matching bustier and panties set with pretty floral embroidery, all pink and lacey with just enough sheerness to it to tease. I’d put it on in a little while. For now, there was something else I wanted to look at. Pushing my hands right through to the back of the closet, I found the familiar smooth box and pulled it out, bringing it over to the bed with me as I sat down.
My heart warmed the second I took the lid off. There they sat, all the moments I had collected over the years, all the things that were far too important for me to ever say goodbye to.
At the top sat several photo strips. Some older, some new, some from way back when Sawyer first asked me to be his. My eyes zeroed in on one of the strips. It was from one of our dates back in high school, when he had come to my house dressed up a little neater than he had to for a trip to the movies, but I knew he was trying to impress more than one person back then. I could remember that night clearly: a warm Friday night, me and my dad getting to the door at the same time, him swinging it open and rolling his eyes when he saw Sawyer standing there with a bouquet of flowers. I had practically yanked Sawyer inside that night, my hands on his shirt collar, pulling him to me for a kiss while he chuckled against my mouth and my dad mumbled something about “grocery store flowers” and “have her back by eleven or I’m calling the cops” before leaving us alone.
I could still remember what movie we watched. And the way Sawyer’s fingers threaded with mine as we walked into the cinema. And him buying the tickets and our popcorn and candy and soda, because Sawyer Westbrook was a gentleman through and through. That all burned so clearly there in my head. I took a long look at the strip of photos we had taken in the booth. My lips pressed to his cheek, his grin all big and crooked and perfect. My hands pushing through his hair as we smiled at each other. Me on his lap, his head on my shoulder. My fingers traced along them, soft and careful, before putting them back in the box.
