Page 79 of The Best Parts of Him
“Who are we here to see, exactly?” Dabbs asked in Ryland’s ear as they walked toward the back of the store.
They rounded the last row of bookshelves, and there, sitting in a chair in front of a wall of picture books, was a man reading from a board book. He had the rapt attention of the audience, which sat in several rows of folding chairs.
Something about the man niggled at Dabbs’ memory. He had graying hair styled in a side part, round black glasses, a wide forehead, and a prominent nose.
“And ‘Fly!’ said the chicken, but chickens can’t talk.”
The kids in the audience, aged six or seven and upward, giggled, and the man smiled.
And it clicked. Reginald P. Stokes, the author of the Jerry Wallace series that had provided Dabbs’ escapism as a kid. Although the man was older, the smile was the same as the one that graced the back cover of his books.
The books that sat on a shelf in Dabbs’ bedroom.
The breath caught in his throat, and love filled him so swiftly that he turned to Ryland to?—
Where’d he go?
Frowning, Dabbs crept down a row of books and found Ryland crouched behind an endcap—likely so he wouldn’t make noise and disturb the event attendees—pawing through Dabbs’ open suitcase.
“What are you?—”
“Ah-ha!” Ryland pulled out the first book in the Jerry Wallace series—the one his fourth-grade teacher had given him—and waved it at Dabbs in triumph. “Hold this,” he said, handing it over, then proceeded to pull books two through twelve out of the suitcase.
Fuck a duck. No wonder his carry-on had seemed heavier than he’d thought it should be. The books had been tucked into the empty spaces around his clothes, not taking much room since they weren’t very thick, but adding enough additional weight to it that he’d noticed.
But how the actual fuck had the books ended up in there in the first place?
“How . . . ?”
“Bellamy,” Ryland announced. “I told him to sneak them in when you weren’t looking.” He looked proud as fuck.
And Dabbs could only stare at him.
“I know you have multiple editions of the series,” Ryland continued, “but I figured you’d most want the original ones signed.”
Dabbs had spent days trying to figure out why Ryland wanted him in New York so bad, on this specific day at this specific time.
A reading by the author of his favorite childhood series would’ve been his very last guess.
What was it that he’d told himself just last summer? That he and Ryland were too different to make it work? Ryland, loud and flashy. Thrived as the center of attention.
He was all of that, sure.
But he was also the reason Dabbs had hopped a plane with no explanation.
And here was Ryland, looking so goddamn pleased with himself. Ryland, who was warmth and compassion and spontaneity and protectiveness and loyalty all wrapped in one package.
Those were some of the best parts of him.
When was it that Dabbs had started falling in love with him? Had it been way back in Maplewood, when he’d thought Ryland was a middle-of-the-night forest-dwelling serial killer?
“Rya.”
“Huh?” Ryland zipped the suitcase back up and stood.
“I love you.”
“Yeah?” Ryland’s laugh was bright and airy. “I mean, I thought you might when you gave me your book to read.” He placed a quick kiss on Dabbs’ lips. “I love you too. Now, come on. We’re going to miss the reading. I saw a couple of free chairs near the back.”
