32. Kent

THIRTY-TWO

"There's my kitty boy."

Sweetums, perched on my kitchen island, stares intensely as I walk toward him. His body retracts like he's pondering bolting away, but I snag him first, pulling him close and kissing his head.

"Did you miss me? I missed you."

And I did. After an hour of unpacking, sorting, and preparing to build the LEGO Louvre, Vincent, spurred by my incessant yawning, stopped us and took me to bed. After twenty minutes of phenomenal kissing and cuddling, I dozed off. Gosh, how I've missed sleeping with someone in my arms. After the twenty-year mark, Corrine and I drifted to opposite ends of the bed with only occasional cuddles. Vincent craves to be right next to me. Like his life depends on it. His skin on mine. Swapping between big and little spoons all night.

My eyes flew open just before dawn, and as I lay next to Vincent, I couldn't help but watch him sleep. His lips parted a tiny bit, eyes closed, and those gorgeous lashes on full display as I studied this sweet man. I hadn't planned to tell him I love him. It just happened. There was no stopping it. Like a bud on a tree in spring—a force of nature. I said it because I needed him to know. There was no expectation for him to say it back. But he did. So quickly. His words bloomed like a blossom on the bud. Hoped for, but never taken for granted.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Trying to balance Sweetums while removing it proves trickier than I thought. With a sudden burst of energy, he wriggles and jumps onto the sofa, and I lose my balance and crash onto the unforgiving wood floor.

I accept the call, lift the phone to my ear, and sigh.

"Dad, you there?"

As usual, Gillian's voice sounds slightly chaotic, frantic, and frazzled. Corrine swears she gets it from me.

"Lia, cheese goes in your mouth, not on the wall!"

"Cheese painting?"

"I want to nurture her artistic side, but not everything takes the place of paint."

"Go, tend to your little artist." I push myself up off the floor and move to the sofa, grateful for the soft cushion under my tush. "If you don't intervene, all you'll be left with is de brie."

"De what?"

"De brie. Brie? Get it?"

Gillian groans, but I know she cherishes my dad jokes.

"Go, call me back."

"No, I do not want to call you back. I want to talk now, and if Lia can't paint nicely, then ‘NO CHEESE,'" she yells, and I momentarily pull the phone away from my face.

"How are you?" she asks, forcing sweetness.

"Good, just running home to check on Sweetums, grab a few more things, and then back to Vincent's."

"How's it going?"

"With Vincent or the new software?"

"Both."

"The software goes live this weekend. Or transferring. Or something like that." Once again hungry for attention, Sweetums returns to my lap and I scratch his favorite spot, under his chin.

"And that's it? It's that simple?" she asks.

"I think so. I provided a new file from the old system. Now the young people take over. Vincent is on call. He has to push a few buttons on his laptop and check for things like errors and latency and mapping and bugs. Things I know nothing about. And frankly, I'd like to keep it that way."

"That's it?"

"Well, then everyone uses it and hopefully it helps illustrate the impact staff are having on students. We'll have the last few months to turn the ship around."

"Dad, you already know what an amazing school Lear is. Everyone knows."

"I know. You know. Most of the community knows. The school board, I'm not so sure."

"And you're spending more time with him?" I hear rustling and then crinkling.

"Sour cream and onion?" I know my daughter's taste in chips mimics my own.

"Guilty. Louis hasn't found this bag yet." More crackling, and then the loud crunching begins.

"Thick ones? With ridges?"

"Yup."

"Great, now I want chips," I say, licking my lips.

"You should've come here," she mumbles through a full mouth.

"It sounds like Lia is up to no gouda."

Silence.

"Oh, come on," I say. "That was a good one." I stop petting Sweetums momentarily, and he crashes his head onto my lap.

"Dad. No." Gillian sighs. "But really, you should've stopped by so we could kibbitz with chips."

"I roasted another chicken and wanted to pack it up for dinner. Vincent likes it. And I needed to check on Sweetums." Hearing his name, Sweetums crawls up and rests his face on my free shoulder. "Corrine feeds him and leaves. This cat requires physical affection."

"Do you love him?"

"Of course I love him. Sweetums is my baby." Sweetums snuggles into my neck, purring like a motorboat.

"Not the cat. Vincent. Do you love him?" The chewing has slowed, and relative silence fills the air. Vincent. With his endless quirks, napkins, wipes, and showers. Vincent, who needs me to brush my teeth before a make-out session. And that sexy fucking bald head. And the way his eyes peer at me when my cock is in his mouth. Even at my age, I'm still learning new things about myself and a lot of that has to do with Vincent.

"I do." Sweetums cuddles closer. "I told him. Vincent. That I love him."

"Wait, what? When? You didn't tell me."

"I'm telling you now."

"Spill it."

"It just kind of happened naturally. Last night. I told him. He told me. It wasn't a big deal."

"Oh, Dad." She sighs deeply, and a few chewed chip pieces hit the phone.

"This feels right," I say. Gillian, like all good Jewish children, has a propensity to worry about her parents. "I promise."

"No, that was a good sigh. It is a big deal. I'm so happy for you, that's all. It's been so long since …"

"I know," I say, the weight of loneliness over the last few years finally subsiding.

"And what happens after this weekend?"

"Well, typically Monday."

"No, with Vincent. Once the implementation is over."

I'm slightly lightheaded, so I scoot myself down. With my head comfortably nestled on the couch and my feet resting on the coffee table, I inhale deeply.

"We won't see each other at school, but otherwise, I imagine nothing changes," I say. Sweetums adjusts himself so he's lying on my chest, face burrowed into the crook of my neck—Vincent's favorite spot.

"I hope so," she says.

And dear God in Heaven, hear my prayer. I hope so, too.

"What's that smell?"

Vincent perches at the kitchen island, on his laptop, pecking away at a screen I don't recognize. It's dark gray and filled with lighter gray text. No pictures. No sounds. Only bland words scroll by as he scans with scrunched eyebrows, his fingers occasionally snapping keys.

"I roasted a chicken." I hold the bag up, but he's too engrossed in his current task. Placing the bag on the far end of the counter, I come behind him, lean in, and gently kiss his neck. Orange and honey mix with the faint sweetness of a scent that's all him. A flavor that compliments the others but is distinct. A deep inhale. Maple Syrup. Fresh from the tap. Slightly earthy. It's so fucking fragrant. I wish I could bottle him up. "The chicken is for you."

"One second, babe."

My stomach flips at this new term of endearment, and basking in the affection, I unpack the chicken and potatoes.

"I'll make you a plate." Taking two from Vincent's cupboard, I carefully place four slices of breast meat and two spoons of mashed potatoes on each plate, ensuring nothing touches. As I bend down into the drawer for napkins, Vincent's arms wrap around my waist, and he pulls me close.

"Thank you." Vincent's breath falls on my neck.

"You need to eat."

"I do. We have a long night ahead of us," he teases.

"Are things not going well?"

"Oh no, everything's fine. I have to check a few more times before bed, but I meant a long night in Paris." He sits and places a napkin on his lap and another beside his plate. With each passing day, Vincent becomes more familiar—his touch, his presence, the way he looks into my eyes. This comfort we're falling into, the ultimate pleasure. I haven't felt needed by someone like this in years and my face beams as I hand Vincent his plate.

"I will do my best to assist," I say, only slightly more confident in my ability to translate the coded pictures into coherent directions for Vincent. Of course, he could look at the book himself, but then what part would I play?

"Tonight, I think you might need to do more than read the directions," he says.

"Wait." I put my fork and knife down. "You're going to let me … touch them?"

"If you're good." A smile inches across his beautiful face, and a warmth sprouts in my chest. Being here. With him. Eating. Talking. Building. Vincent gazes at me with that half grin that sends my insides tumbling, and fuck. I want to drink his smile up—every last drop.