Chapter 20
chapter twenty
Ryland:
Dabbs
Uh . . . why?
Ryland:
Please?
Dabbs:
We’re not going to the Statue of Liberty, are we?
Ryland:
That boring attraction? Hard pass.
Dabbs:
[laughing emoji] What are we doing there then?
Ryland:
Can you meet me at the Barnes everything moved quickly—and he was in a cab inside of five minutes, his carry-on in the trunk. He gave the driver the address to the Barnes & Noble and called Ryland.
“Are you on your way? Did you get a cab? How far away are you?”
Unfazed by Ryland’s rapid-fire questions, Dabbs said, “Yes, yes, and . . . ” He checked the GPS on the driver’s dash. “About forty minutes.”
“Forty minutes,” Ryland muttered. “That gets you here at 1:20 or so. Okay. Okay! We’ll be a bit late, but that’s fine.”
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing at the bookstore?”
Dabbs had looked it up. There were precisely zero events happening today at the B&N in Union Square.
Aside from advertising a weekly story time, the website also listed a midnight launch party for the release of a popular young adult fantasy author’s new book, but that wasn’t for another week and a half.
“You’ll find out when you get here,” Ryland said breezily. “So hey, after the bookstore, I want to go to the hotel, fall into bed with you, and not get out except to order dinner. How does that sound?”
More turned on than he had any right to be when sitting in the back of a taxi, Dabbs bit back a groan. “Sounds perfect.”
“How far away are you now?”
“Thirty-nine minutes, Ry.”
“Ugh. You’re so far away.”
They chatted for the entire drive, hanging up only when the taxi driver pulled up to the curb outside the bookstore with its familiar green awning. Dabbs’ door was jerked open before he had time to touch the handle, and in the next second, impatient hands were dragging him out of the car.
He laughed as Ryland pulled him close, and he burrowed his nose in Ryland’s neck where there was a gap between his scarf and his skin.
It had been a month since the Pilots’ holiday party—a month since he’d felt this man’s arms around him, and there had been days when Dabbs had felt like he was going to jump out of his own skin because of it.
Holding Ryland was magic in a mundane world.
The trunk of a car slamming closed wrenched him out of his Ryland-fugue, and he straightened, already reaching for his wallet. “Sorry.” He smiled sheepishly at the driver, who stood by the back of the car with Dabbs’ suitcase—like he was holding it hostage. “What do I owe you?”
Once he’d squared away his tab, he turned to Ryland and held out a hand. “Come here.”
Their lips met, cold but warming quickly. Ryland rose onto his toes, and Dabbs held him close, wishing he never had to let him go.
Ryland gave him a series of quick kisses, then bounced in place. “Save the rest for later. We’ve gotta go.”
And, grabbing the handle of Dabbs’ suitcase, he began walking down the street.
Away from the bookstore.
“Uh . . . Ry? Aren’t we going in the bookstore?”
“Nope. Well, yes. Just not that bookstore.”
“I’m so confused.”
He followed along behind Ryland anyway, getting more confused by the second.
They headed up what Dabbs thought might be west along East 17th, passing shops and restaurants and a public parking lot that charged thirty bucks a day.
On the other side of 5th Avenue, East 17th became West 17th, and Dabbs was no closer to figuring out where they were going.
Ugly beige buildings rose on either side of the street, a mix of apartments and office space.
“If we weren’t going into the Barnes & Noble,” Dabbs said, “why did you have me meet you there and not wherever we’re actually going?”
“Because having you meet me where we’re going would’ve spoiled the surprise. Which . . . ” Ryland stopped and made jazz hands. “Surprise.”
Behind him was a children’s bookstore.
“Okay, now I’m really confused,” Dabbs admitted.
Ryland held the door open and waved him in.
Inside was a kid’s dream. Rows of colorful books, fairy lights hanging from the ceiling, and artwork from children’s classics painted on the wall—Winnie the Pooh, Mary Poppins, Clifford the Big Red Dog, Babar, Charlotte’s Web.
Dabbs would’ve gotten lost in here for hours as a kid.
Hell, he could get lost in here for hours as an adult too.
A voice came from somewhere near the back of the store, too far away for Dabbs to make out the words, though it had the cadence of someone reading aloud. Had they walked in on story time?
“Hi there.” An employee wearing a smile and a name tag that read Marge approached. “Can I help you find anything?”
“We’re here for the event.” Removing his gloves, Ryland pulled out his phone and showed her an email. “That’s my ticket confirmation.”
“Sure. Go on back. The reading has started already, but there should still be some empty seats. The signing will begin after the reading.”
“Who are we here to see, exactly?” Dabbs asked in Ryland’s ear as they walked toward the back of the store.
They rounded the last row of bookshelves, and there, sitting in a chair in front of a wall of picture books, was a man reading from a board book. He had the rapt attention of the audience, which sat in several rows of folding chairs.
Something about the man niggled at Dabbs’ memory. He had graying hair styled in a side part, round black glasses, a wide forehead, and a prominent nose.
“And ‘Fly!’ said the chicken, but chickens can’t talk.”
The kids in the audience, aged six or seven and upward, giggled, and the man smiled.
And it clicked. Reginald P. Stokes, the author of the Jerry Wallace series that had provided Dabbs’ escapism as a kid. Although the man was older, the smile was the same as the one that graced the back cover of his books.
The books that sat on a shelf in Dabbs’ bedroom.
The breath caught in his throat, and love filled him so swiftly that he turned to Ryland to—
Where’d he go?
Frowning, Dabbs crept down a row of books and found Ryland crouched behind an endcap—likely so he wouldn’t make noise and disturb the event attendees—pawing through Dabbs’ open suitcase.
“What are you—”
“Ah-ha!” Ryland pulled out the first book in the Jerry Wallace series—the one his fourth-grade teacher had given him—and waved it at Dabbs in triumph. “Hold this,” he said, handing it over, then proceeded to pull books two through twelve out of the suitcase.
Fuck a duck. No wonder his carry-on had seemed heavier than he’d thought it should be. The books had been tucked into the empty spaces around his clothes, not taking much room since they weren’t very thick, but adding enough additional weight to it that he’d noticed.
But how the actual fuck had the books ended up in there in the first place?
“How . . . ?”
“Bellamy,” Ryland announced. “I told him to sneak them in when you weren’t looking.” He looked proud as fuck.
And Dabbs could only stare at him.
“I know you have multiple editions of the series,” Ryland continued, “but I figured you’d most want the original ones signed.”
Dabbs had spent days trying to figure out why Ryland wanted him in New York so bad, on this specific day at this specific time.
A reading by the author of his favorite childhood series would’ve been his very last guess.
What was it that he’d told himself just last summer? That he and Ryland were too different to make it work? Ryland, loud and flashy. Thrived as the center of attention.
He was all of that, sure.
But he was also the reason Dabbs had hopped a plane with no explanation.
And here was Ryland, looking so goddamn pleased with himself. Ryland, who was warmth and compassion and spontaneity and protectiveness and loyalty all wrapped in one package.
Those were some of the best parts of him.
When was it that Dabbs had started falling in love with him? Had it been way back in Maplewood, when he’d thought Ryland was a middle-of-the-night forest-dwelling serial killer?
“Rya.”
“Huh?” Ryland zipped the suitcase back up and stood.
“I love you.”
“Yeah?” Ryland’s laugh was bright and airy. “I mean, I thought you might when you gave me your book to read.” He placed a quick kiss on Dabbs’ lips. “I love you too. Now, come on. We’re going to miss the reading. I saw a couple of free chairs near the back.”
Hand in hand, they ambled back to the reading and sat amid adults and children alike.
It occurred to Dabbs then: that was who Ryland gave him permission to be—the adult he was and the child he’d never had the chance to be.
Sending Ryland a smile, his heart tumbling over itself when Ryland smiled back, Dabbs squeezed his hand, ready for whatever came next.