Chapter 15

15

YORK

H appy birthday to me. Forty-three years old today. Funny how my perception of time had changed over the years. Time used to pass so slowly, especially when I was a kid. School years lasted for-fucking-ever, and my college years were endless. But now? The days seemed to fly by, the seasons changing so rapidly I could barely keep up, and one year after another slipped away.

Twenty-five years since I graduated from high school.

Twenty-one years since Essex died.

And twenty-one years since my parents last celebrated my birthday.

I wasn't expecting anything today. Hell, did Quillon even know it was my birthday? I couldn't remember telling him, so probably not. I figured things would be weird between us after my drunk meltdown. Jesus, I'd bawled all over him and had cried my heart out, sitting on his lap. His lap! Like I was a little kid…though nothing had ever felt so good. He'd made me feel so safe, so protected.

The next day, I'd woken up with the mother of all hangovers, apprehensive of Quillon's reaction. But Quillon had pretended nothing had happened, and that had seemed like the perfect strategy, so we'd never mentioned it again. At least I hadn't fucked up the friendship building between us. I couldn't believe I'd made another friend, which I gave Quillon far more credit for than myself.

Anyway, Fir would call or maybe stop by like he always did, and he'd have a new brain puzzle for me. I loved those physical brain puzzles, where you had to free an object from a cage or figure out how three pieces fit together or something similar. Even the highest level of difficulty meant a maximum half-hour of effort, but I still liked them, and I'd gathered quite the collection over the years.

As for my parents, if it was a good day, they'd call. If my birthday reminded them too much of all the birthdays Essex would never have, they'd call the day after and explain why it had been too much for them. I'd learned to expect nothing so I wouldn't be disappointed.

When I came down the stairs and entered the living room, I came to a sudden stop. What the hell? The living room was a riot of color, all surfaces adorned with balloons in every shade imaginable. Banners hung from the ceiling, proclaiming "Happy Birthday" in bright, glittering letters. Little flags attached to strings waved happily, each bearing the same festive message. Quillon stood in the middle with the biggest smile on his face. "Happy birthday!"

He had known, then. Not only that, but he'd ordered all this stuff for me. I had to swallow before I could speak, fighting to keep my emotions in check. "Thank you."

"Can I give you a birthday hug?"

I stepped into his embrace. The man gave the best hugs, so tight and comforting. When I let go, he grabbed a wrapped gift from the coffee table and handed it to me. "Your present."

"You got me a present?"

"Of course. It's your birthday, isn't it?"

He'd gotten me a gift. An almost childish rush of excitement flooded me as I took the present. It was a book, that much I could gather from the weight and shape. I ripped off the wrapping paper and flipped the book to read the title. Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl.

"Have you read it?" Quillon asked.

"No."

He smiled. "It's the single best book I have ever read. My father gave it to me when I joined the Marines, and for many years, I took that book with me everywhere."

I scanned the synopsis on the back.

"The author was a Jewish psychologist who survived a concentration camp in the Second World War, and he wrote this book about that experience. It's so profound that every time I read it, I discover new meanings. I figured it would appeal to you."

Equating what Essex had put me through with a concentration camp was ridiculous because the two didn't even exist in the same stratosphere, but that didn't mean I hadn't suffered at the hands of my brother. As if it were a contest to determine a first prize for suffering. "Thank you. I will love this."

"I hope so."

"Regardless, the fact that you even got me something means a lot to me."

"My pleasure."

"When's your birthday? I'll need to repay the favor." I winced at how that had come out. "I didn't mean repay as in paying off a debt or to suggest this is transactional for me. It's not. I meant?—"

A warm hand on my shoulder cut me off. "I know what you meant. And it's September fifth. Turning fifty this year."

I breathed out with relief. "Does that bother you?"

"Nah, not anymore. I hated turning forty, but I'm fine now. I love my life."

His hand still rested on my shoulder, and I liked that he wasn't afraid to touch me. Maybe that was a gay thing. Fir did it a lot too, and Tiago was touchy-feely as well. Whatever it was, I liked it, and I didn't move out of fear he'd pull back. "My age doesn't bother me either. I like not being in my twenties or thirties anymore."

"Same. You hungry?"

"Sure, why?"

"‘Cause I made a special breakfast for you."

"What?"

"Fir said you once told him how much you loved French toast, so I asked Brianna for some thick-sliced Dutch white bread, and that's what we're having."

Pure joy filled me. "You made me French toast?"

"Sure did. It'll take a few minutes to finish, but let's sit down. I also have fresh orange juice, a soft-boiled egg, and a few strips of bacon."

In short, the man had made everything I loved. I hugged him again tightly. "Thank you."

He held me as long as I clung to him, which was far longer than I should have, but for once, I didn't care. What he had done for me was so momentous and meant so much that I didn't have the words to express how I felt. Hell, I didn't even know where to begin disentangling the whirlwind of emotions inside me, so hugging him would have to do.

Breakfast was delicious, and I wolfed down four slices of the best French toast I'd ever had, royally sprinkled with powdered sugar. No syrup for me, thank you. I'd never cared for it. Once not even a crumb was left, I rose to help, but Quillon pushed me down again. "Not today, birthday boy. And you're not working either."

"I'm not?"

"Of course not. It's your birthday, so we're gonna celebrate."

"Erm, I don't usually do much for my birthday."

"This year will be different."

I didn't want to spoil his fun, but what were we supposed to do all day? It was a Saturday, but even then, I usually worked. That it was my birthday made little difference.

"Why don't you go read for a bit?" Quillon suggested.

If his plan was for me to read all day, I could live with that. I'd catch up on work tomorrow. So I settled into my favorite chair with my new book and was engrossed within minutes. I understood why Quillon loved this book so much. From the very first page, I was captured by the voice of this man, the way he narrated what he had survived, and the questions about the purpose of life that had been raised for him.

The ringing of the doorbell pulled me out of the horrors of the concentration camp, and I reluctantly returned to the present. Were we expecting company? Maybe Fir was stopping by?

But the female voice didn't belong to Fir, so I got up and walked into the hallway. What was Intan doing here? The Indonesian lady had catered a party Fir had thrown, but I hadn't called her.

"Hello, York. Happy birthday to you, yes?" Before I knew what was happening, she hugged me and kissed my cheek.

"Thank you." I looked at Quillon for answers.

"Intan is delivering the food for the party."

The party? What party? Then it sank in. "You're organizing a party?" I whispered to Quillon while Intan carried in a Crock-Pot that gave off the most tantalizing aroma.

"It's your birthday, isn't it? That should be celebrated."

"But who…?"

"They're all coming, York. Everyone."

"Everyone?"

"Fir and Tomás, Tiago and Cas, Auden and Keaton, and Marnin drove in from Seattle."

My throat was so tight I couldn't swallow. "Excuse me," I stammered, then raced up the stairs to my bedroom and closed the door behind me before absolutely losing it. For the first time, I understood what they meant by ugly crying because my little breakdown wasn't pretty. I bawled until my eyes were puffy and my nose was runny.

The weird thing was that I wasn't even sure why I was crying. Quillon had done something extraordinarily sweet for me, so why all the tears? How could I be this deeply, intensely sad when I also felt such joy? I couldn't figure it out, and maybe I should stop trying. I took a few more minutes to collect myself and wash my face. The mirror told me I didn't look too pathetic, even if anyone could see I had cried. Oh well, nothing to be done about that.

When I came back downstairs, Intan had left, and five Crock-Pots stood lined up on the counter next to a collection of glass dishes. Notes of lemongrass, turmeric, and ginger blended with the heady scents of coconut, lime, and chili peppers. The enticing smell of grilled meats drifted from skewers piled high with juicy, charred pieces. Quillon was putting some things away in the fridge. I cleared my throat, and he turned around. "Sorry, I was?—"

"No apology needed."

"I don't know why I…" I made a helpless gesture.

"It's all good. Take some time to settle. Everyone will be here at four."

By the time the first guest showed up—Fir, of course, who was eternally early for everything—the evidence of my crying fit had disappeared, thankfully. Fir would've made me explain what I couldn't put into words. Instead, he gave me a warm hug and, as expected, a new brain puzzle.

The others arrived soon as well, all bearing gifts. And not the generic, well-intended-but-horribly-off-the-mark kind of presents you put in the back of a closet only to throw them out a few years later. Tiago and Cas had bought me a collection of vintage records, including a 1975 rare album of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony conducted by Carlos Kleiber. Auden and Keaton had found me a first edition of one of my favorite books, Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman , and Marnin had gotten me tickets to a Star Wars marathon where they'd be playing episodes four, five, and six, but with a live orchestra. Luckily, it wasn't until six months from now, so hopefully, this dire situation would be over by then.

"And this is from Josiah." Fir handed me another package.

I unwrapped it as eagerly as I had the first gift of the day. A T-shirt? I unfolded it and laughed out loud as I turned it around for everyone else to see. "Without data, you're just another person with an opinion," Marnin read, and everyone laughed with me.

"That's perfect for you, York," Tiago said with a grin.

"And one from Gabe." Fir gave me a similar package. Had to be another T-shirt. I loved that these boys had known what to get me as well.

Another perfect choice. "Hoth Ski Resort," I said with a chuckle. "Love it."

And when I thought they were done with the gifts, Tomás pointed at the table. "That's from Fir and me. We hope you like it," he said, uncharacteristically insecure.

I tore the wrapping paper off the heavy present, and a simple brown box appeared. When I opened it, it took me a few seconds to figure out what I was looking at. "Oh my god," I whispered. "Tomás, this is amazing…"

I pulled out two beautifully carved chess pieces and set them down carefully. One by one, I retrieved the pawns, horses, rooks, bishops, kings, and queens until I had a complete set. The last piece was the board, which was heavy and thick.

"They're hand-carved and painted," Tomás said. "There's this older guy in this village in Brazil where my parents have a second home, and he makes these from Brazilian oak. Félipe is an amazing artist."

Wait, he'd gotten this for me in Brazil? When he'd been there for his mom's surgery? But that had been weeks ago. "It's the most beautiful set I've ever seen. Thank you."

It was the single best birthday I had celebrated in my entire life. We talked and laughed, drank the exclusive port the twins had brought, and ate all the delicious food Intan had made for us. The dining table was laden with a colorful array of dishes, each one bursting with tantalizing food and exotic spices. Steaming bowls of fragrant meat stews, golden fried rice with slivers of ham and fried egg, a mound of aromatic fried noodles topped with crispy vegetables and tender chunks of meat in a rich, dark sauce, and tender satay skewers dripping with peanut sauce.

My friends accepted Quillon as easily as if he'd always been part of the group, and no more remarks about our relationship were made. Most surprisingly, I wasn't bored for a second. Usually, being around people wore me out, but these men gave me an energy that almost felt like being high. I drank it all in between pinching myself to stay grounded in the present. This was really happening, and I never wanted the day to end.

They didn't leave until ten, and when Quillon closed the door behind the last one, the house was strangely silent. Quillon and I said little as we tidied up together—he did allow me to help—and washed the Crock-Pots. We put all the leftovers in containers. We'd be eating like kings for the next few days, and I was not complaining.

When we were done, I turned to Quillon. "Thank you. For everything."

"It was my pleasure."

My eyes grew moist, and to hide it, I hugged him again. "I'll never forget this. Ever."

I held on too long, then let him go abruptly and hurried out before he could see my tears.