The last time that either of us have had to sneak a gift into our own house was during the week of mine and Tripp’s seventh wedding anniversary. He’d put together seven days of gifts to celebrate seven years married; the last of which, was my e-reader and a gift card for my first few books.
As I close the drawer to the night stand, I cast a smiling glance to the bathroom door.
In the stories he’s told us, Connor’s first boyfriend was the only partner who’d ever put in the effort to make his birthday special. He’s had exes forget his birthday or flat out ignore it, and others who went out of their way to make it awful.
The three of us have always done something together for his birthday, but this feels different. This isn’t beer and pizza. Tomorrow is going to be a first for our new version of family; it sets a precedent. It will show him what he means to us.
It has to be special.
Chapter 35
TRIPP
“Hap— ugh,” Julia groans as she steps through the front door of the shop.
Her hand tangles in the mess of ribbon that leads up to a handful of balloons in an effort to wrestle them into submission. With great effort, she makes it through the door and the multicolored balloons spring up toward the ceiling.
“Happy birthday to you,” she continues, slightly out of breath, but still in a singsong tone. “Happy birthdayyy to youuu!”
With a laugh, I step toward her, pressing my lips to her forehead as I take a small cake from the hand that isn’t holding a horde of balloons. Connor leans against his worktable, crossing one ankle over the other as he uses his hands to brace himself while she finishes out her song.
“You brought him a cake?” Our other piercer pouts from his station. “You have never brought me a cake for my birthday.”
Jules’s eyes flare, shooting in my direction, and I offer her a smile, using my teeth to pull my jewelry into my mouth.
“Yeah, well, go back in time and turn thirty-threeafterwe’d met, and I would have,” she tells him. “You only get a cake when the numbers match, so you’ll get yours in seven years.”
“Smooth,” I whisper to her, holding back my laughter.
With a hand dropping to her lower back, I walk with her toward Connor’s station. His lips part as he leans in toward her, correcting himself by wrapping his arms around her in a hug, rather than the kiss that he’d normally offer her.
It’s been harder than I think any of us have expected to keep this between us. Jules loves to be doted on out loud. I may not look it, but I’ve always been a huge proponent of PDA. Since he’s been out around the guys here, Connor’s openly spoken about his partners.
Feeling like we have to keep this quiet has become a slow torture for all of us.
“Who’s having a slice?” Connor calls through the shop as he drops the first cut of white-and-blue icing covered chocolate onto a plate.
“Jules is,” I say, angling my head toward my wife, but she waves her hands to dismiss me.
“None for me,” she insists. “I was just dropping it off.”
Dropping a hand onto my shoulder, she raises herself onto her toes and gives a soft kiss to my cheek, making a show of offering the same to all of the other guys here. Her lips linger on Connor’s cheek longer than the others, her hand resting against his skin before they part. His hand rests briefly at the small of her back as he returns her gesture.
As my wife finishes with her goodbyes and starts for the door of the shop, I dissect her every movement; watching, studying, trying to read a message that I don’t think she wants to send to me.
Whatever it is, it feels an awful lot like a message sent out years ago by a sixteen-year-old girl whose mother forced diet pills down her throat and told her that her favorite clothes would never look good on her because she was ‘too big.’
With a smile in the direction of our oblivious birthday boy, I wipe from my mind the image of that girl, running on the track every day for a month before she finally came close enough to my self-made hideaway for me to call her out for it.
Chapter 36
JULIA
17 years old
Jesus is staring at me, judging me from his place on the crucifix hung on my wall.
“Sorry,” I quietly tell him as I stuff my pink lipstick – the one that I’m not supposed to own – into my handbag.
