Epilogue
Avery had always been good at numbers. Lately, he’d had a lot of new additions to his list of important ones.
7—the orgasms Linc gave him that rainy day in Seacroft before Avery finally said Linc was really, fully, and truly forgiven (but also because Avery was pretty sure if he got to eight, he’d die).
3—the seconds between the moment when Linc said, “And this is Avery,” to his family, and a tiny red-haired body barreled into Avery’s shins shouting, “Uncle Avery!”
27—the steps from the street to the front door of his new second-floor apartment in Atlanta.
1—the number of shouting matches he and Linc had wrestling the purple couch up the twenty-seven steps.
4—the orgasms Avery gave Linc as an apology for losing his cool about the couch.
43—the days it took Linc to find a job with the Atlanta Fire Rescue Department.
And finally, the newest number to add to his list:
8—the number of people he and Linc would be feeding in their apartment for Thanksgiving.
Avery pushed open the front door. “I’m back.” He held the carton of heavy cream over his head, then grimaced as he inhaled. “What’s that smell?”
Linc popped up from behind the kitchen counter with a guilty expression on his face. “It’s nothing.”
Avery scowled. “What happened?”
Linc ran a hand through his hair. “They oozed? I don’t know. I was setting the table, and there was this smell and—”
Avery pushed Linc to one side and opened the oven door. Ten sweet potatoes sat inside, and they had—well, theyhadoozed. Orange-black goo bubbled from the tiny holes Avery had meticulously punched into each potato with a fork. The goo clung to the rack and had burned to the bottom of the oven.
“Oh man,” he said. “I knew we should have wrapped them in foil.”
“The internet said you didn’t need to.”
“The internet also said we could just pop them in the microwave for five to eight minutes and they’d be cooked through, but you wouldn’t let me do that, so we had to get up two hours early to do it the old-fashioned way.”
“We’re not microwaving anything. Not with your track record.” Linc scowled at him. The expression was so frustrated, with a hint of panic at the edges, that Avery stood on his toes and kissed him.
“You’re cute when you’re mad.”
Linc sighed. “Remind me why we’re cooking Thanksgiving brunch again. No one ever cooks Thanksgiving brunch.”
“Because you’re working overnight, and Wanda and I have to be at the airport to catch our flight to San Francisco at eight.”
“I don’t see why you have to leave tonight. Or why they scheduled a meeting for tomorrow.” Linc was also seriously cute when he pouted. “Who works the Friday after Thanksgiving?”
“Anyone who doesn’t work in an office? You do. Everyone who works in retail.”
Linc waved him off. “Yeah, yeah.” He slipped an arm around Avery’s waist, pulling him close so he could kiss him. “I’m going to miss you.”
Well, that was worth the oozy sweet potato. “It’s only thirty-six hours. I’ll be back on Saturday morning.”
Linc’s kisses turned hungry, and he backed Avery against the counter, grinding against him to let him know exactly much he would be missed.
“We can’t.” Avery laughed against his lips. “My aunt and uncle will be here any minute.”
“I can be quick.”
“What if your sisters get here first? Do you want to explain to the boys what you’re doing to me?”
