He nodded. “You’d have to pay taxes and insurance separately, but I’m sure you have a good idea what those will be since you’ve already been keeping up with them. I’m glad the upper limit looks doable, but why don’t we see how close we can get her to the lesser amount?”
“Are you… are you saying you would be willing to loan me the money?”
“Confession—I looked into your credit history as well.”
“Ain’t much there,” I said. “No car loans or rent paid. One credit card I don’t much use.”
“What I see is that you live within your means when a lot of people your age don’t. You took responsibility for a business and built it up instead of squeezing what you could get out of it or abandoning it. I’d be proud to invest in you, Mr. Wynn.”
My throat squeezed tight. I couldn’t swallow, and I sure couldn’t trust my damned self to answer. I nodded and stuck out my hand and we shook.
Pearl
By the time I was at work Thursday night, I couldn’t take it anymore. Almost a week had passed since I’d seen Boyce. He’d told me not to come over, and I knew he had his hands full running Wynn’s, watching over Sam, and dealing with his mother and her boyfriend. But my heart only knew I missed him.
I had my excuse when I remembered that his birthday was six days away—exactly two weeks after mine—or exactly one year and fifty weeks before mine. He’d flunked third grade and I’d skipped ninth, throwing us into the same forty-three person graduating class in high school.
Some people might have called that destiny, but I wasn’t one of them. I’d never believed in the illogical concept of fate—owing an A on an exam to a lucky hat or attributing a touchdown to a preordained miracle. Fortunate outcomes were the result of hard work or happy accidents. There was no correlation between wearing a hat and earning an A. It was coincidence.
Like Boyce spotting me in the water seconds before I would have drowned. Or the two of us ending up in the same biology class in tenth grade because Mel and I made the dance squad and we had to switch out of last-period biology and into Boyce and Landon’s section. In life, bad things happen, good things happen, and we do what we can to encourage one and prevent the other. Boyce was one of the good things in my life. One of the best things. I wanted to be one of his best things, even if someday all I’d be was a memory.
I decided to give Boyce a birthday gift that would make amends for those he’d never gotten. Something he’d have loved as a boy but would still love as a man. It didn’t take much deliberation to know what that thing was. A lifelong supporter of Houston’s exasperatingly subpar baseball team, he’d once told me that he’d never actually been to a major league game.
I pulled up the Astros’ schedule on the inn’s antiquated computer.
Me: Someone has a birthday coming up... but I have a little problem with your gift.
Boyce: Oh?
Me: It would intrude on one of your Sundays.
Boyce: But my birthday is on Wednesday...
Me: Yes, but your *gift* isn’t on Wednesday.
Boyce: Okay...???
Me: You said no one has influence over your Sundays.
Boyce: That has nothing to do with you.
Me: You sure?
Boyce: Yep. Positive. So what is this gift??
Me: I’ll tell you more on your birthday. If you’re still here and want to see me?
Boyce: Let’s get something straight that I should have already said. I’m not leaving. I’m busy as hell right now and I know you are too with classes and the inn, but I’m here. I don’t want you coming over because of my mom’s shit-for-brains BF hanging around. That’s the ONLY reason.
Me: I miss you. ☹
Boyce: Same. Yes I want to see you Wednesday. That’s all I want for my birthday. Let me take you out.
Me: You taking me out wouldn’t be much of a birthday – besides, I asked you. I’ll pay.
Boyce: Like hell you will. I’ll pick you up at 7.
Me: Stubborn man.
Boyce: Yep. ;)
• • • • • • • • • •
The frosted cupcake the waitress set in front of Boyce was almost the size of a salad plate and boasted one lit candle standing in the center, weeping wax from top to base.
“You gonna sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me all sexy like you sang that Lady Antebellum song?” He leaned over the candle from across the table, one brow cocked, mouth drawn up on one side. Lord have mercy, he was mischief incarnate.
“I think you endured enough of my singing on my birthday-celebration night.” I crossed and uncrossed my legs under the table, half-embarrassed, half-itching to blow that candle out and climb into his lap. Or run down to the rapidly darkening beach and hurl myself in the water because it was suddenly beyond warm in the burger joint we’d chosen.
“Naw, baby—you can carry a tune.”
The way I’d sung that song that night—right to him, hips swaying and lips puckered—oh. My. God. No wonder all my colleagues thought we were hooking up. “Psssh! If by carry you mean mangle ruthlessly.”
He laughed, that tiny flame from the candle dancing in his green eyes. “Sounded just perfect to me.”
“Then you are clearly tone-deaf, thank God. Now blow that candle out and make your wish.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, extinguishing the flame in one short burst. Another naughty smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Am I gonna get my wish?”