“I really wish I’d explained all this earlier,” Porter murmured against my shoulder after we’d caught our breath. “I was trying not to burden you with my immature shit?—”
“Your emotions aren’t a burden, Porter. I want to know how you’re feeling, always, because you’re mine.Allof you. Every bit. Even theunreasonablestuff.” I smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re my soul’s other half. My heart’s delight. My joy by day, my peace in the night.”
Porter frowned thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I don’t know that one.”
“Because I just came up with it.” I smiled smugly. “You’re not the only sonnet writer in this family, Porter. You need to share the crown.”
Porter grinned, his whole face lighting up with delight. “You make me so happy, Theo Hancock. I love you.”
“But can we besure?” I teased, trailing my fingers downhis spine. “Maybe you onlythinkyou love me. Maybe Pecky’s forcing you to say that.”
Porter rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright. I might deserve that. Stealing the cock was not my finest hour.”
“You stole him?” I demanded, sitting up straighter.
He shrugged. “More like… borrowed. I’ll bring him back tomorrow.”
I mock gasped. “Grand Theft Poultry, Porter?”
“Hey! You were okay withmurdera minute ago!”
We both burst out laughing. And as I looked toward the closet where that smug little rooster still sat, watching us with its painted eyes, I felt a kind of joy bubble up inside me that I’d never known before the night Porter Sunday had first shown up at my door.
The rooster might not be magic, but the man in my arms and the love we’d found sure as fuck were.
And I was going to hold on to them forever.
MARCO AND DREW
CHAPTER NINE
MARCO
“Okay, how about this one?”The kitchen chair creaked as I lifted a T-shirt out of the purple storage tote on the floor and held it up for Drew’s inspection. “Keep, Toss, or Donate?”
Late-morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window of the Sunday farmhouse—now Luke and Webb’s place—spotlighting all the dust motes Drew and I had stirred up and making the room incredibly hot… at least by most folks’ standards.
Drew, who sat cross-legged on the floor in his gauzy “new” caftan printed with pictures of the Golden Girls—one he’d picked up for “a song” at last weekend’s charity rummage sale since it “wasjust likeone he had at home”—seemed not to feel the heat. He tipped down his red-framed reading glasses and pursed his lips in thought, like whole civilizations might rise or fall based on his choice.
I stifled a sigh. Sorting through decades of assorted clutter was notmyfavorite way to spend a sunny summer day. Not when I could be gardening, or up at the lake with Aiden and Luke, or visiting my granddaughter, or even in bed at home with the air conditioner jacked down so low I’d need to pull out the duvet. But this task was important.
When Drew had finally moved in with me two years ago, he’d left a few things behind in the farmhouse basement so he could take his time sorting through them. I think we’d both underestimated just how long we’d put off the project, though,andhow long it would take once we finally got started.
Lord knew I’d underestimated what “a few things” meant.
Still, I was determined not to get impatient. Not today. I’d learned my lesson the last time I’d lost my patience and had made a careless mistake as a result. A mistake that was very obviously coming back to bite me in the ass.
If I’d learned one thing in the seventeen years Drew Sunday had been my partner, my lover, and my best friend, it was that there were consequences when the man felt rushed or bossed around.
“Hmmm.” Drew leaned toward me and ran a hand over the front of the T-shirt, fingering a spot that was nearly worn through and another where mutant-green speckles dotted the hem. I knew for a fact this shirt was two sizes smaller than anything Drew currently wore. He smiled. “Keep.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and blew out a breath. “Drew. Baby. We’ve been at this an hour already, and we have twenty more storage totes to go through.” I pointed at the multicolored containers stacked along the kitchen wall. “You can’t keep everything, honey. That’s not what downsizingmeans.”
“But Marco, that’s the shirt I wore when I helped Emma dye her hair green to protest climate change back when she was thirteen, remember? I was so proud my girl was such a justice fighter. I can’t just throw it away.”
“But—”
“Can’t.” He lifted his chin in challenge. “Can. Not.” He grabbed the shirt from my hand and deposited it in the Keep box, alongside a mix tape labeled “LILITH FAIR ROAD TRIP TUNES 1995!”, a construction paper snowman with googly eyes, a cucumber-shaped sugar bowl emblazoned with thewords “I GOT PICKLED IN WINSOME,” and a rusted aluminum pan.
