Chapter 22
Jeremiah
After dinner, we spent another hour wandering through the stacks, Theo moving from shelf to shelf like a kid in the world’s most intellectual candy store. I watched him run his fingers along leather spines, his expression shifting between wonder and something that looked suspiciously like longing.
I was more interested in watching him than looking at the books, fascinated by the way his face lit up with each new discovery. Twice, I caught him reaching into his pocket and pulling out what appeared to be a small packet of tissues to dab at his eyes.
“You carry tissues?” I asked, grinning.
“They’re my emergency stash. I carry them everywhere.” He flushed slightly. “Books make me emotional, especially the classics. There’s something about knowing how many hands have held them, how many people have found comfort in the same words . . .”
“You carry tissues specifically for book-related crying?”
This was too adorable, even for Theo. My heart felt like it might melt into a puddle, right there in the bookstore.
“Don’t judge. You’ve seen me with Debbie—I’ve learned to be prepared for all kinds of situations.”
That he was practical enough to anticipate his own tears was both endearing and hilarious. This man planned for everything.
Eventually, we left the warmth of the bookstore for the crisp night air.
Downtown Atlanta had never been the most pedestrian-friendly area, especially at night, but with Theo’s hand in mine, I barely noticed the uneven sidewalks or the occasional car horn.
We walked slowly, neither of us in any hurry to end the evening.
“Tell me more about Debbie,” I said as we paused at a crosswalk. “I mean, I know she’s amazing, and you told me about how she came to live with you, but how does it work? I mean, you’re not her dad, but you are, sort of. Right?”
Theo was quiet for a moment, and I worried I’d overstepped.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry—”
“No, it’s okay.” He squeezed my hand. “Her parents were my closest friends.
Sarah and David. They were like the brother and sister I never had—we did everything together: game nights, vacations, holidays.
I was at the hospital when Debbie was born.
Aside from Sarah, I was the first person to hold her, even before David.
“God, she was tiny. Newborns aren’t exactly pretty or cute, despite what every parent out there will tell you. They look like they’re half baked and need to be shoved back in the oven for another hour—or month—though I doubt there’s a mother alive who’d be willing to test that theory.”
He chuckled, but it was a distant sound, as though he was truly lost in memory.
“Debbie was so perfect. I can still see her chunky cheeks and itty-bitty sausage fingers. She was the most beautiful thing I’ve never seen. She still is.”
His voice grew softer as we started walking again.
“Sarah and David died in a car accident when she was about to turn one. A drunk driver ran a red light. By some miracle of miracles, Debbie wasn’t hurt.
They had her strapped into one of those military-grade child seats in the back.
Thank God for that.” He paused, swallowing hard.
“Sarah made me promise, back when Debbie was still a newborn, that if anything ever happened to them, I’d take care of her.
It was one of those hypothetical conversations you’re sure will matter. ”
I squeezed his hand, not sure what to say.
“The thing is,” he continued, “losing them didn’t just change Debbie’s life; it wrecked mine, too.
They were my family, you know? My chosen family, at least. And .
. . suddenly they were gone, and I had this fragile one-year-old who needed me to be strong when I could barely get out of bed in the morning. ”
“That must have been incredibly hard,” I said, choking back my own emotions.
“I mourned them so deeply I thought my world might shatter, but I had to hold it together for her, had to learn about car seats and bedtime stories and why little girls need seventeen different hair ties and none of them can be the wrong shade of pink. I was such an idiot. No one prepared me for any of it. I wasn’t made to be a dad.
I’m a single gay man, for Christ’s sake. What do I know about procreating?”
Despite the sadness in his voice, I caught a hint of a smile.
Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “She saved me. From the utter blackness of loss, she made me whole again with her endless questions and boundless energy and that irresistible giggle. Every time I thought I couldn’t handle one more day, she’d do something that reminded me there was still joy in the world.
And she reminded me of Sarah and David—so, so much. She still does.”
My chest felt tight. The love in his voice when he talked about Debbie, the way he’d taken on the responsibility of raising her while dealing with his own profound loss—it made me see him in a completely different way.
“You’re an incredible father,” I said. “You know that, right?”
He barked out a laugh and shook his head. “I’m winging it most days, but she makes it easy to love her.” He paused, then added, “Actually, I’ve been wanting to tell you something. It’s kind of a big deal, but I didn’t want to say anything until Debbie agreed to it.”
This sounded profound—and slightly terrifying.
“Um, okay.”
He stopped walking again and turned so that our shoulders were squared. The way he looked up at me, into my eyes, there was no faltering or weakness or the lack of confidence too often written in his features. Whatever this was, he was firm in his conviction—and appeared happy about it.
“I’m making it official.”
I cocked my head. “You’re making what official?”
He smiled. “Adoption. I’ve been Debbie’s legal guardian since the accident.
My thought was that I would adopt her when she was old enough to understand what it meant.
As much as I love her, I never wanted to make that kind of decision without her.
I know she’s only five, but she gets it. She knows it’s a big deal.”
I stared, not sure I got it. It felt like a huge deal, like a life-altering, amazing, incredible deal. It felt . . . permanent, which I supposed it was, being adoption and all.
“I asked her permission last weekend. Had this whole serious conversation about wanting to become her ‘forever daddy,’ as she put it. She said yes, of course, but I needed her to understand what it meant.”
I ran a hand through my hair, buying time to process it all.
“How does that even work?” I asked, genuinely curious. “The legal side of it, I mean.”
“It’s definitely been a process,” Theo said, turning and resuming our lazy pace.
“I’ve been working on it for nearly a year.
There’s been background checks, home studies, and mountains of paperwork taller than my house.
We have a court hearing in a couple of weeks where the judge will hopefully grant the adoption, and then .
. . that will be that. She’ll officially be mine .
. . or as she would probably put it, I’ll be hers. ”
“That’s incredible—and nerve-wracking, I imagine.”
“Terrifying isn’t a strong enough word,” he admitted.
“Not because I have any doubts about wanting her, but because it’s so important.
We’re already family in every way that matters, but having the legal protection, knowing that no one can ever question my right to be her father .
. .” He shook his head and choked out, “It means everything.”
I squeezed his hand again, and this time, he squeezed back. “She’s lucky to have you.”
“I think we’re lucky to have each other.”
His phone chimed, and he pulled it out and flicked the screen to life.
“We should head back,” he said with obvious reluctance. “Julia’s been there since six, and I don’t want to take advantage of her patience.”
I hated for the night to end but nodded and turned us to head back to where my car was parked.
The drive back to his house felt too short.
We talked about books and plans for the weekend and whether Debbie might want to visit the bookstore sometime.
It was everything and nothing, the kind of conversation that flowed easily between people who’d grown comfortable with each other.
When I pulled into his driveway, the soft glow of lamps shone through the living room window. Julia was probably reading on the couch while Debbie slept upstairs, the picture of domestic tranquility.
I walked Theo to his door, both of us moving slowly.
“Thank you,” Theo said softly, turning to face me. “For tonight. It really was perfect.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” I reached up and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead, the gesture more intimate than anything we’d done all evening.
He leaned into my touch, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. When he opened them again, they were soft and warm and completely focused on me.
I leaned in and kissed him, slow and tender, pouring all the feelings I couldn’t quite name into the press of my lips against his.
He melted into my arms with a soft sigh, and then his hands were gripping my jacket with a desperation that caught me completely off guard.
He held me like I might disappear, like I was something precious he was afraid of losing.
The intensity of it, the raw need in the way he clung to me, filled my heart with a joy so profound it was almost overwhelming.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
“I should go in,” he whispered, but he made no move to step away.
“You should,” I agreed, but I didn’t let go either.
Finally, with what looked like monumental effort, he stepped back and fumbled for his keys.
“I’ll text you tomorrow,” I said.
“You better.”
He slipped inside with one last smile, and I stood there on his porch, my palm pressed against the door long after the light went out. The neighborhood was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.
Eventually, I made my way back to my car, my heart still racing from the way he’d held me like I was exactly what he’d been waiting for his whole life.
And maybe I was.
Maybe we both were.