About a year later, or thirty-one years later.
Tom smoothed his palm over the warm slate, pausing as he reached the edge of one roof tile, before floating his hand over the next.
“It’s going to take me another year to get used to this pattern,” Frank said.
“I think it’s beautiful.”
“You would.” Settling next to him, Frank nuzzled his temple before leaning back with a sigh. “I approve of it in principle, of course.”
Of course. Frank was a deeply practical man. Even his frivolity was planned. Therefore, reclaiming and restoring as much of the original slate roofing as they could hadn’t been a tough sell—until he’d seen the end result.
The mixture of grays evened out when viewed from afar, but up here on the roof, you could tell the new from the old. Tom loved the effect. It suited the history of the lodge, particularly in light of the recently completed restoration. It suited them, reminding him of their boyhood friendship and how that was a part of their newer, deeper relationship.
And the roof made for extraordinarily beautiful photographs. Tom couldn’t wait for fall.
Beside him, Frank was fiddling with the bag he’d dragged up there with them. He’d brought blankets too. Bright, colorful rugs with knotted tassels he’d found in the marketplace of some country Tom had never heard of. Tom pulled one off the stack and started spreading it across the tile. In his pocket, something pressed into his thigh.
“What are you smiling about?” Frank asked.
Tom glanced over, unaware he’d been smiling. Straightening a tassel, he shrugged. “I dunno. The fact you still think we need to sit on something other than tile?”
“Comfort is never out of style.”
“That should be our tagline or whatever.”
Frank chuckled. “If we were running a simple bed and breakfast, I’d consider it.”
Blankets spread, Tom settled back next to Frank and leaned into his shoulder. “So what’s in the bag?” As always, Frank had packed snacks and drinks for a trip that would take them no more than five minutes from a fully stocked refrigerator. Tom had come to understand the practice went far beyond a constant need to eat, however. Or maybe he’d always known that. Frank just liked to have opportunities. He liked to surround himself with small choices. It gave him a sense of being prepared for any venture.
Frank flipped open the soft-sided cooler to reveal a cold, sweaty bottle of champagne, flutes wrapped in linen napkins, plates, silverware, and several neatly stacked Tupperware containers.
“Is this dinner?” Tom checked the sky. The August sun had dipped toward the horizon and would be making its exit soon.
“It’s ‘Oh my God the lodge is finished, except for Mount Trash between the laundry and garage, and we’re halfway done with this project and I’m exhausted and so it totally makes sense to eat on the roof.’”
Tom laughed. “Okay.”
“It makes no sense whatsoever to eat on the roof, by the way.”
Tom nudged Frank’s shoulder with his. “It’s a thing we do. That’s all anyone needs to know.”
Frank kissed his cheek. “Mmm.”
“So did you hear back from Lucas?” Sometimes Tom felt sorry for Frank’s PA. He’d had a lot to handle this past year.
“Regarding the latest Twitter storm or—”
“Don’t be coy, it doesn’t suit you. The book, Frank. Does he have the contract from your agent?”
Frank tried to purse his lips and then tipped his head toward the bottle of champagne nestled in the side of the cooler. “He has the contract.”
Jubilation exploded inside Tom’s chest. Frank had been uncharacteristically nervous about pitching his book, which was part memoir, part history of the resort industry in the Poconos. Tom had known he’d get an offer, though. Frank’s style of interviewing translated perfectly to writing about not only himself, but what he hoped to accomplish with Bossen Hill.
“Proud of you,” Tom murmured, leaning in for a proper kiss.
Frank met him halfway, his lips already soft and welcoming, and the kiss was one of Tom’s favorites: the sort that lingered without becoming too heated because they each had the time to sit there, breathing in the scent of the man they loved.
Pulling back, Frank said, “I could tell you your photos clinched the deal.”
Tom scoffed. “Whatever.”
“I couldn’t have put together the proposal without you, and we’re going to write it together. You know that, right?”
Tom swallowed a lump that got smaller every time he had to deal with it. Every time he realized, all over again, that Frank was here, sitting next to him, loving him. “Okay.”
“So let’s celebrate!”
The cork flew, the bubbly flowed, the food served and picked over. The sun set over talk of inconsequential things, including what color they’d paint the bedroom in the small apartment they’d made out of Robert’s bedroom and bathroom, the workroom, and unused space at the end of that hallway.
Frank had sold his apartment in Jersey City late the year before and they’d been “camping” in whichever room had the least amount of dust while work went forward on the lodge. Frank had complained about their living situation almost daily, but Tom had quickly come to appreciate that Frank mostly did so because he felt he should. The only time he’d suggested they leave and stay somewhere else for a few days was the trip they’d taken shortly after Tom’s mom had passed away. Frank had taken him to Cape May, and they’d given most of his mom’s ashes to the sea. The rest were in a small urn next to Robert and Madge.
“She’s family,” Frank had said.
Whether Frank’s father and mother had agreed or not, they’d made Tom feel welcome in their B&B, where Tom and Frank had been the only guests on that cold and blustery week in January. When Annabelle arrived with all of her family, Tom had truly felt a part of something for the first time in a long, long while, even though that something had involved saying goodbye to his mom.
He’d been glad to get home, though. Back to Pennsylvania, the lodge, and his future with Frank. Back where he truly belonged.
Frank burped softly and rubbed his stomach. “Not sure those stuffed peppers were such a good idea.”
Chuckling, Tom rolled over to pat Frank’s belly. “But you’ll try anything once, right?”
“Absolutely.” Frank turned to face him. “Or more than once, if required. Some things take a while to work.” His forehead wrinkled. “I’m trying to come up with some sort of metaphor about flavors developing and marinating, but it all sounds so sticky.”
“And someone is paying you to write a book.”
“It’s a silly old world, isn’t it?”
“Mmm.”
Frank studied him in silence for a beat. “You’re quiet tonight. Not that you’re ever loud.”
“I can be loud in bed.”
“You can.”
Tom smiled.
“What’s up?” Frank asked, his eyebrows twitching together.
Tom reached over to smooth the crease in the middle of Frank’s forehead. “Know what today is?”
“The day we tore down the dust sheets and declared an end to the war on our sinuses?”
“Think back a little farther.”
Frank frowned. “Hmm . . .”
“About thirty—no, thirty-one years.”
“Oh.” Frank got it instantly. “Really? Today’s the day you broke my nose?”
“I actually broke it?”
“Yes! There was blood everywhere, and I had to go to college with a black eye.”
“Shit.”
“Why are you laughing?”
“I’m not . . .” Tom pressed a hand to his side and sat up. “I’m . . . Okay, I’m laughing.”
Frank was too. “I don’t know why it’s funny. It hurt. Then there was the whole broken-heart deal.”
“And the letters I never answered.”
“And thirty years of us being the most stubborn people ever conceived. Truly, Tom, why did we never come find each other? Why did we wait so long?”
The lump in Tom’s throat swelled. “I don’t know,” he croaked.
Frank sat up and leaned forward, touching his forehead to Tom’s. “Shh. Don’t. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m sorry.”
“Are we going to set this day aside as our annual day of apology?” Frank moved back a little, putting some breathing space between them. “We could save up all the apologies of the year and deal with them all on one day. Sounds marvelously efficient, don’t you think?”
Tom shook his head. “No, it sounds terrible. I’m not going to sit on shit like this, or anything, for even a day anymore. If I do something that requires apology, I’m making good there and then, even if I have to write a letter on my arm.”
“You and this obsession with letters. You know I really don’t require a handwritten note explaining why you didn’t replace the toilet paper.”
“That was a joke. I did it once!” Tom patted the pocket of his jeans and reached inside for the paper he had folded there and the small book tucked in beside it, and pulled them both out.
“What’s this, then?” Frank asked, touching the book.
Tom handed it to him. This was the easy part. “Our new notebook.”
Brow creasing, Frank flipped open the cover and scanned the first page, where Tom had written: The New Adventures of Benjamin and Franklin. He glanced up with glassy eyes, and turned the page to find Tom had already recorded their trip to Cape May. Frank touched the words and smiled. “It’s a good start.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Smile widening, Frank nodded toward the note in Tom’s hand. “And that? Is it about the muddy footprints you tracked across the kitchen floor?”
Tom coughed out a laugh. “What? No. That wasn’t me.”
“I’ll be glad when all the outdoor work is completed.”
“Another year and you’ll only have me to blame for muddy tracks.”
Frank sat up straighter. “Then we’ll have guests.”
“We’ll have guests before then.”
“We will?”
Tom unfolded his piece of paper. “I hope so.” He glanced down and all the blood in his body ran backward in a loud rush, getting stuck and abandoning vital processes. His head seemed to swell and sway and the sound of the crickets and frogs dialed upward.
“Tom? Are you feeling okay?”
Tom ran his thumb across the first words on his page. “‘Dear Frankie.’” He looked up.
Frank had his quizzical expression on. A half smile, his brow lightly furrowed.
Tom showed him the letter, and together they read the rest of it: You are the best of me, know the worst of me, all that is me. I have loved and will love you forever. Marry me. Please. Yours always, Tommy.
“You signed it ‘Tommy.’”
“I was always Tommy to you, from that very first day.”
“Tom . . .” Frank’s eyes glinted in the twilight.
“I know—”
Frank put a finger to Tom’s lips. “No.”
Tom’s heart stopped. “No?”
“I mean no excuses. No qualifiers. No explanation. No apologies. Just . . . yes. Yes, Tommy, I will marry you.”
Frank’s arms were around him, and Tom leaned into the crushing hug, surprised they were hugging and not kissing, which was how he’d imagined this moment progressing—when not torturing himself with dark fantasies of Frank laughing, Frank tearing up his letter, Frank telling him he didn’t believe in marriage, or that it wasn’t for them, Frank . . .
Oh, Frank.
The letter fluttered from Tom’s fingers, skimmed along the tiles, old and new, and drifted over the edge of the roof. No one yelled from below. Nothing but the loud buzz of a summer night celebrated with them. But for Tom, the moment rewrote an entire chapter of history.
They couldn’t go back. They both knew that. Thing was, he didn’t want to. Because what he had now was bigger, better, and more complete than he could ever have imagined. A life, lived. And now a life he planned to share with the man he’d always loved.
The man who had just promised him forever.
“Love you, Tommy.”
Tom nestled that impossible inch closer. “Love you too.”