It was Thanksgiving in New York, and the tiny bungalow on Staten Island had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. The couch was shoved up against a wall and the coffee table was in the backyard. When they finally sat down to dinner, almost twenty people had squeezed into the front room.
Jack was at the head of the borrowed table, carving the turkey. Mona and Eric were on his right side. They’d spent three days baking pies—pumpkin, apple, and mincemeat. Alex and Troy had contributed a pot full of tortellini soup. The beer was from Dante and Luke. Luke’s father, Charlie, had provided the wine. Reese and his wife, Laurie, had decided to come at the last minute when a snowstorm in the Midwest canceled their planned trip to visit their daughter. At the far end of the room, Diesel’s cousin Peter and his family were munching on cheese and crackers.
If one more person walked through the door, Jack was going to have to turn himself in for violating the fire code. He’d never been happier...except for one thing. “You keep messing around in the kitchen and everyone’s going to eat without you,” he called out over the chaos.
“I’ve been snacking all day.” Diesel finally appeared in the door holding a dish full of sweet potatoes. He was dressed in a scarlet sweater that was soft to the touch. His jeans were worn with a hole in one knee and his feet were bare. Alex had convinced him to try painting his toenails a couple of weeks earlier, and he’d taken to switching the color every Friday night while they watched a movie on the couch. “I’m pretty sure I’d live.”
“Uh-huh, but then I’d have to make small talk.” Jack put his knife down just long enough to pull his lover into a strong kiss. In the six months since Diesel had moved in their bond had only grown stronger. Every morning they woke up next to each other, and each night... Yeah, Jack had been enjoying the nights.
Diesel disengaged. He put the sweet potatoes down and slipped into the chair to his left. “Does anyone want to say grace?”
Everybody made a point of looking anywhere but at each other. After a long moment’s silence Charlie Parsons cleared his throat. He pressed his elbows against the table and clasped his hands together. “We ask for the courage to face our fears and the strength to protect others. We give thanks for our community and to the partners who stand by our sides.” He paused for a second, like he was trying to figure out if anything else needed to be said. “Amen.”
It was as good a prayer as any and better than most. Everybody at the table bobbed their heads in unison. “Amen.”
The turkey was a little bit dry. The mashed potatoes were runny. The crust on the pumpkin pie was burnt. Jack loved every single bite. When it was finally over, they split up into two groups. Eric led the team putting the living room back together while Charlie helped Jack and Diesel do the dishes.
“I’m too old to be moving furniture around,” the retired police detective explained.
Jack wiped down a clean plate, stacking it on the counter. “You’re pretty spry for an old guy.”
“Yeah, well, I keep active. I sold my house last month, redid the entire thing from the ground up.” Charlie flushed. “I was going to move into one of those old age communities. I went to look at a bunch of them, but—damn—they were boring. Bought a little fixer upper instead. Figure I can work on that for a couple of years.”
“You know anything about tile?” Diesel asked. “We’re going to redo the bathroom. I can switch out a toilet, but the tile’s got me frustrated.”
“There are videos online.”
“Sure, but it’d be nice if we had help from someone who actually knows what they’re doing,” Diesel said, like they hadn’t already painted every wall in the house and reupholstered the bench seats at the breakfast table.
Jack kept doing the dishes while Diesel talked to Charlie Parsons about subway tiles versus checkered marble. When the plates were dried and stacked up and Diesel had moved on to the casserole dishes, Jack handed the towel over to Charlie. No one paid much attention as he slipped out the back door.
His hands shook as he fumbled the key in Mona’s door. Hiding Diesel’s present had taken work, but, hopefully, it’d be worth it. He grabbed the box waiting by the couch and raced back across the thatched lawn separating their two houses.
The box was heavier than he’d thought. When he got back to the kitchen, Diesel was alone, thank God. Jack hadn’t planned this far ahead. He slipped in quietly through the back door and put the box down on the built-in table. He cleared his throat.
Diesel wiped his hands on his jeans, then turned to face him, his lips stretched into a wide grin.
“There’s something on your face,” Jack said. “Right—” He reached up and swiped a smudge of cranberry sauce from Diesel’s cheek. Adorable.
Jack grinned. “Have I told you how much better my life is with you in it?”
“Not recently.”
“Fuck, I love you.” He swallowed hard as soon as the words were out of his mouth. His head was aching, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “There was supposed to be more of a buildup to that.” He’d been planning the best way to say “I love you” for weeks. He should have just said it, every morning and night and a hundred times in between.
Damn. He’d been an idiot, but it was too late to turn back now.
“I really love you.” His hands felt sweaty. He needed to explain—
“Eep.” The noise came from the table.
Diesel’s gaze narrowed. “What’s in the box, Jack?”
Right. Jack half turned. “So, I was thinking about how none of my relationships have lasted for more than four years. I don’t want that with you.” They were the real deal. A lifetime of love and commitment in an FDNY-approved package. “I love you forever and ever, and I thought one way I could show you—” It had made so much sense at the time. “You have to love me even if this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Eric and Mona are still in the other room. Whatever you’ve done, I’m sure they can think of something dumber.”
Great. Forget explaining everything. Maybe it would be easier to just show him. He opened the front of the box, reached in and scooped up his prize.
The puppy was so damn fluffy, it was like holding a cotton ball. A wriggling, mewling, cotton ball that licked his face any time it got the chance. “Eric and I picked him up from an adoption fair last weekend,” Jack said. “They don’t know all of what he is, but the lady who was fostering him says he’s at least part spaniel.”
“A puppy?”
“He’s going to live a hell of a lot longer than four years,” Jack explained. “It’s supposed to be symbolic.”
“I love him.” Diesel crossed the last few steps between them. “I love you.” He pulled Jack into a warm hug, tilting his head down to press their lips together. He tasted like gravy and beer and happy memories yet to come. Then he laughed, sharp and giddy in a way that made Jack wonder if he’d made a mistake after all. Right up until he realized the puppy was helping himself to some of the cranberry sauce still coating Diesel’s cheek. “Does he have a name?”
“His foster mom was calling him Gizmo, but I figured you could improve on it.”
“Spencer,” Diesel said emphatically. “Spencer Tracey, like the actor.”
It was absolutely freaking perfect. Jack kissed Diesel long and hard, ignoring the wiggling puppy between them. If he had his way, Spencer wouldn’t be the only one changing his last name to Tracey.
* * * * *
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