18. Echo

18

Echo

B yrd is late.

He texted me when he was leaving Santa Rosa, and the two hours it should have taken him to return have come and gone. I've thought about calling him, but it's not only the lack of cell service on the 128 that holds me back.

I've spent half the morning pacing the stairs between the kitchen and the living room, arguing with Elke in my head. Arguing with Byrd, too, although in those, I'm never sure if he's trying to get me to leave or to stay.

And arguing with the small, selfish part of myself that says it's my birthday and wants to stuff my pockets with condoms and lube.

By the time the 4-Runner pulls up the driveway, I've sweated through two tank tops. Giving up, I finally throw on a loose band tee—one of those cheesy eighties bands Byrd loves—that I've stolen and repurposed, with the sleeves cut off down past my ribs. I'm still sweating, but at least it doesn't cling to my skin.

Since it's a party, I've paired it with designer jeans—the ones with the artful tears across the thighs and the strategic holes above the pocket rivets at the back that Byrd can't resist sliding his fingers into.

It's possible selfish Echo won out where my wardrobe is concerned.

"Sorry it took so long," Byrd says when he finds me standing useless in the living room. "I had to drive back through Mendo to pick up this." He hands me a wrapped box about the size of a deck of cards.

"You got me a present?"

"Not the one you were hoping for, I know." He smirks.

My cheeks flush, which is apparently something I do now, although it's not for the reason he thinks.

I hold the box carefully in my hands, and it feels monumental. There's some meaning trapped inside the shiny paper, and I'm caught between hope and horror that it will be too much. Or not enough.

"Are you going to open it?" He's watching me, lips quirked in amusement.

"Okay." My hands are clumsy as I tear through the ribbon and the wrapping, and I should have done it sitting down, because the small box inside falls open in my rush, and something brown and glittering tumbles free.

Byrd catches it before it hits the ground and holds it out to me.

It's a key on a leather keychain stained the russet color of his hair.

"You already gave me a key to the house," I say, confused. And then, slightly breathless, "Are you asking me to move in?"

"Actually, it's for when you move out." His voice is so casual it hurts, but he cuts my legs out from under me when he continues, "The key is to my apartment in Tilburg. "

When I still don't move to take it from him, he frowns slightly. "I bought the place years ago, to use when I visit. But I never do, and there's a pretty serious housing shortage in Tilburg, so I rent it out to students. Like you." He presses it into my palm. "It's not a big deal."

He's scanning my face now, embarrassment creeping across his features. "I'm sure you and your parents would have figured something out, but it's getting late in the summer, and this way, you won't need to have five roommates and—" He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks away. "Unless you want roommates, of course. I might be able to pull some strings with Reggie at one of the Cici houses if you'd rather…"

"And I'd pay rent and everything?"

A look I can't decipher flashes across his features.

"Sure. Of course. We can draw up a lease agreement to make it legitimate." He takes a deep breath, meeting my eyes. "I promise if I do make it over there in the next four years, I'll stay with Elke or my parents. I won't show up unannounced and expect anything." His voice softens. "But I want you to have a safe place to land."

I turn the key over in my palm and notice the shape of the leather for the first time.

"The keychain."

"Yeah." He clears his throat. "There's a guy in town who does leatherwork. I thought…" He trails off again while I run my finger over the tooling. It's a replica of my tattoo—the unbroken wings. Stamped in tiny perfect letters down the middle, it says: Unlocked Dive 4-26-24. "It's the day—"

"You kissed me." Be still my fucking heart.

He smiles, some of the tension leaving his frame.

"That too."

Meaning .

Enough to suck me under and spit me out weightless, like flotsam through one of those blowholes on the ragged coast.

" Too much. " It's barely a whisper, but he still hears it. Of course he does—we're breathing the same air. The air that carries everything between us—words and want and the weight of our collision.

"If your family has already made arrangements—" he starts, but I shake my head.

"No." I close my hand around the key and the kiss and the wings the color of his hair. "We had a place lined up last year, but we gave it up after…No."

I realize I want this helplessly. I want to live in his house, maybe surrounded by things he picked out, with a door that opens to the memory of his mouth on mine and his hand on my dick in the front seat of his car in the California sun. A way to keep him after he's let me go, no matter how it might hurt.

"Good." He smiles, then seems to notice my clothes for the first time, and his eyebrows go up. "Is that my shirt?"

"It was. It's mine now. Consider it another birthday present."

"I'm pretty sure it never looked that good on me anyway."

That's a lie . Byrd in a tight, ratty band tee is the stuff of schoolboy fantasy. He crowds me back until my ass hits the top of the couch and grazes his knuckles down my ribs through the loose holes in the sides. "‘Hot for Teacher,' huh?"

"I like Van Halen." My head falls back as he steps between my thighs.

"Sure you do." He trails his fingertips down my neck. "Should I wear a tie and glasses to your party? Maybe one of those jackets with the elbow patches? Make you call me ‘Mr. Baardwijk'?"

"Um, only if you want to be really, really late."

He steps back and crosses his arms. "Take off your pants. "

"What?" I'm still picturing Byrd dressed like Indiana Jones climbing out his office window.

"I want to suck you off in nothing but that shirt and then go drink whiskey at Big Top with your taste on my tongue."

Happy birthday to me. I scramble out of my jeans.

"Yes, Mr. Baardwijk."

"Good boy."