Page 147 of The Best Men
“And trust me, I want to see you so much I could chew my leg off.”
I crack up. “I like your legs. Keep them on.”
“That's pretty much the only reason I haven’t chewed off the right one. Anyway, we'll see each other at Christmas. Tomorrow, when you go shopping, get an advent calendar, to pass the days. Think of it as twenty-five days of dick.”
I laugh harder. “And I better get a double dicking on Christmas,” I tell him.
“Count on it. But I do want a naked striptease on Facetime on my birthday,” Asher says. His smile makes me want to crawl through the phone to Paris.
“And you’ll get one,” I say, then sigh. “I really want to see you, Asher. Can it be June?”
“July, baby. That's when I started.”
“I hate time.”
“Me too,” he says, then we say goodnight, and I cancel my trip.
Too bad. I had so many birthday plans for him, including telling him exactly how I feel about him.
But that’ll have to wait till Christmas now.
50
PROPERTY OF MARK BANKS
ONE WEEK LATER
ASHER
I’m too old to care about birthdays, right? That’s the reason I didn’t tell anyone here that I’m having one tomorrow. And why I’m not allowed to be sad about spending it alone.
That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway, as I lie on my bed, unable to sleep, staring up at the trompe l'oeil ceiling of my cute little furnished Parisian apartment.
It’s not like I didn’t get any presents. Flip sent me a pair of noise-canceling headphones that he describes as “sick.” Lucy—who is still working for me part-time in New York—sent me a box of exquisite chocolates and a card that sings a song: “Happy Birthday, Sexy Beast.”
She gets me. Also, she’s still grateful that I flew her to Paris for a week of “business” that mostly involved her sightseeing and shopping between our “meetings.”
Only Mark’s gift is still waiting for me on the kitchen counter. I told myself I wouldn’t open it before my birthday. It should cheer me up the day that he was supposed to arrive.
But it’s already past midnight and it’s starting to sink in that today is going to be a lonely day. I’d cleared my schedule in order to spend time with Mark. Oscar and Felicity and my other friends have made plans without me.
Hell, my birthday isn’t really the problem. I was already lonely. I miss Mark all the time, except when we’re yammering on the phone. But the six-hour time difference is killing me. I’ve sat up way too late so many nights just to hear his voice. Last month, I even nodded off in the middle of one of our calls and woke a few hours later with the imprint of my phone on my face.
I’d blearily taken a selfie of that for Mark’s amusement. But then I didn’t hit send, and not because I’m too vain to send him a photo where I look, like, supernothot. But the symptoms of our separation are depressing.
So I try not to dwell on it. I try not to point out that we’ve got six more months to go. And I love our phone conversations. I know more about Mark now than I ever knew about Garrett. My boyfriend is a great listener, and a thoughtful conversationalist.
Some nights, it seems like enough. But some nights, I miss him so fucking much that it hurts.
And then? Some nights his daughter breaks her arm because I’m bending his ear about my stupid birthday.
So that was a low point. If he hadn’t been on the phone with me, snapping pics to send my way, she might not have fallen off those monkey bars. My long-distance relationship is actually a danger to children. Yay me.
It’s possible that I’m slightly depressed.
Is thirty-one too young to have a mid-life crisis?
My phone chimes with a text, and I snatch it up, even though it’s early evening in New York, and Mark told me he’s making cookies with the kid, so I doubt it’s him.
