Page 57 of The Best Parts of Him
“It just looks like a happy face. Here.” Dabbs slid the plate of apples and cheese across the counter. “Have a snack before you start carving.”
“Thank—oh hi, there.” Minnie, Bellamy’s kitten, sat at Ryland’s feet. “Have you finally decided to say hi? I’ve been here several days already, you know.” He crouched to offer her his hand.
She bolted.
“That was short-lived.”
“She isn’t a social creature,” Dabbs said.
He played a word on the Scrabble board. Ryland was half afraid to look at what it was.
And speaking of words . . .
“I noticed a book on the shelf in your room,” he said to Dabbs, munching on an apple. “Actually, I saw multiple editions of the same series.”
Dabbs nodded. “The Jerry Wallace series by Reginald P. Stokes. My fourth-grade teacher gifted me with Jerry Wallace’s Wild Adventure—the first book in the series. I’m not sure why; if she told me, I’ve forgotten. Anyway, I fell in love with it, and I remember being so bummed that my school library didn’t have the rest of the series. And then, two weeks later, they did.” The joy of discovering those books was plastered all over Dabbs’ face. “Books were my way of escaping. But I never would’ve known that if my teacher hadn’t given me that book.”
That explained why Dabbs had written a series of books for middle-grade readers—the same age he’d been when he’d discovered his love of reading. He wanted to give other kids the same escape he’d enjoyed. “And that’s why you have multiple editions of that series on your shelf.”
“Yeah,” Dabbs said, running a palm over his jaw. “Those books were my safety net. They hold a special place in my heart. The author’s UK publisher did a special edition print run a few years ago to celebrate its thirtieth anniversary, but I didn’t know about it until it was too late, and they sold out before I could buy it.”
“That sucks.”
“It does, but the copy my teacher gave me is my most read copy. My favorite of all of them because it was the original. The first book that made me fall in love with reading. You know?”
“I don’t,” Ryland said, leaning his arms on the counter across from Dabbs as they munched on their snack. “At least, not as it relates to books. I enjoy reading, but I didn’t have the same experience with it you did. Your first book was my bicycle, the one my dad got me for my sixth birthday.” He let out a little laugh. “Man, I went everywhere on that thing. This was pre-helicopter parenting. My dad would send me, Jason, and Brie out to play with our friends, and we’d come back when we were hungry if someone else’s parents didn’t feed us first. That bike was my lifeline. It let me get out of the house after my parents divorced and get away from . . . everything.”
“Do you still have that bike?”
“I did for a long time, but I gave it to my niece last year after fixing it up. Figured someone other than me should enjoy the freedom it gave me.” Straightening, Ryland snagged the last apple slice. “Tell me: which of these knives is good for pumpkin carving?”
Dabbs came around the counter, deposited the plate and paring knife in the sink, and eyed the butcher block. “Beats me. I’ve never done it. A sharp one?”
“A sharp one,” Ryland repeated, trying not to laugh. “A sharp one, he says.” Ryland kissed him. “You’re cute.”
“Cute?” Dabbs raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t what you said a couple hours ago. You said, and I quote, ‘Your cock is amazing, holy shit.’”
“You can be cute and have an amazing cock. Both things can be true. Although . . . ” Twining his arms around Dabbs’ neck, Ryland stood on his toes to whisper against his lips. “Maybe you should remind me of why I said that in the first place.”
“Gladly,” Dabbs said, already pushing Ryland’s sweatpants down.
The pumpkin didn’t get carved until later.
chapter fifteen
Hands shoved in the pockets of his faux shearling-lined jacket so he wouldn’t grab Ryland and beg him to stay for one more day, Dabbs stood with Ryland against a wall by Burlington airport’s security gate. “You have your boarding pass?”
Ryland waved his phone. “It’s on here.”
He wore virtually the same outfit he’d worn on the flight to Burlington five days ago—joggers, a hoodie with the pink-and-turquoise sunglasses hooked into the collar, a Columbus Pilots hat, and a nose ring that glinted under the airport’s fluorescent lighting.
Cozy enough not to be uncomfortable on the plane—and for Dabbs to wish they were snuggling on his living room couch while watching tonight’s game instead of . . . here.
They had to say goodbye. For weeks.
Dabbs’ stomach ached, and this time, it wasn’t appendicitis.
“Did you get your bodywash out of the bathroom?”
