right now, where would you go?” Bo asks me before filling his face with another spoonful of ice cream.
We ran out of questions from the deck a week ago, having fallen into the same routine for the past month of living together. Every evening, we eat dinner, tidy up to the sounds of another record, then ask a question. On the calmer days, when the music is jazz or soft-rock, Bo completes his sudoku puzzle on the couch. Other times, when the music calls for it, he plays air guitar or drums and throws his body around the kitchen for my amusement as I finish cleaning up.
Since we ran out, Bo’s just been making up the questions on the spot.
The twenty questions to fall in love certainly did what it says on the box.
I’m pretty hopelessly in love with Bo at this point. Platonically, of course. Mostly. The primal, baby daddy hormones sometimes disagree about the platonic part. Usually when he gives me foot rubs while we watch movies, or when his eyes dip down to my cleavage when they probably shouldn’t, or when he… you know… breathes near me.
Even still, we’ve been on our best behaviour.
“Ooh, good one,” I say, taking the communal spoon from him as he holds the carton out for me. “Somewhere warm and on a beach, for sure. But not somewhere cheap to fly to—since I could just do that myself. Maybe Greece? Yeah, Greece.”
“I was going to say Greece too,” Bo says, taking the spoon back from me. “I want to see the Temple of Poseidon.”
“Sure,” I laugh out. “We’ll go together.”
“Excellent,” he says, his mouth full of ice cream.
“Oh, Doctor Salim called, by the way. The ultrasound is in two weeks.”
“How are you feeling about it?” Bo asks.
“Uh, I’m a little nervous. Excited to see Gus, though.”
“What day?”
I tsk, trying to remember. “Uh, not sure. It was a Friday.” I lift up, moving to grab my phone. “I think the tenth?”
“My dad will be here then,” Bo says, swallowing another helping before handing me back the carton. “If that’s still okay?”
“Bo, I have sworn to you that it’s more than okay. Multiple times. I’m excited to meet your dad.”
“Just checking,” he says, raising his palms up defensively. “I’ll have that day off, though. So maybe we can drop Dad off somewhere and pick him up after the appointment.”
“No, don’t miss out on time with your dad.”
“Are you crazy? As if I’d miss an ultrasound. This is when they look like a baby, right? Not a little bean anymore?”
“Yeah, think so.” I take the final scoop of ice cream, finishing off the carton and setting it on the coffee table. “And how are you feeling about turning thirty, old man?” I say, draping my feet across his lap. He, rolling his eyes at both his new nickname and my silent demand, begins rubbing my feet.
“Honestly? Fine. I was thinking about it the other night, and I’m just grateful to still be here, and for all that’s to come. My birthday last year was pretty terrible. During the dark times.” He laughs dryly.
Bo has recently taken to referring to last year as the dark times. I’ve picked up little bits and pieces of information here and there without needing to pry all that much. After he was given the all-clear to live alone, three months post-surgery, his dad went back to France. And he was alone a lot, from what it sounds like. Other than DND with his friends once a month, he didn’t really see anyone.
“Another year older and wiser…” I say, rolling my neck as he presses his thumb into the centre of my foot.
“And more handsome,” he adds.
I snort. “Of course.”
Bo squeezes his hand around my heel, builds pressure, then releases. I let out a not-so-subtle moan, but I’m far too blissed out to care.
“There?” he asks teasingly.
“I need to get new shoes for work.”
“You need to tell them you’re pregnant,” Bo says.
“They’ll treat me differently…”
“You mean, like, give you a stool to sit on? Or maybe longer breaks? Heaven forbid.”
“Watch it. I could easily kick you right now.” I fall back against the couch, letting my eyes close as Bo wraps his giant hands around my swollen ankles and massages those too.
“Permission to bring down the mood?”
“Always,” I answer. And I mean it. I’m so desperate to know everything Bo’s got stored away that I’d let him say just about anything. I think he could unwrap the very worst parts of himself, and I’d still sit here, hanging on every word.
“I keep thinking that, as of my birthday, I’ll be older than my mom ever was. I hate that.”
I sit up slowly, peering up at him. His eyes are held absently on the mantel across the room, his hands busy working my ankles over. I consider whether I should move my feet off his lap, but it seems to me that this is keeping his hands occupied while his thoughts wander. Like he was throwing stones at the beach all those weeks ago.
Maybe Bo requires physical distractions in order to open up.
“That must feel really strange. I’m sorry,” I offer gently.
“It’s bizarre to live more life than the person who gave me mine…” he says, his voice far off.
“Is that a quote?”
“No,” Bo shrugs one shoulder, his brows inching together. “Just something that’s been rattling around my mind.”
You’re brilliant, I want to say. “We’ve never talked about how your mom passed. Would you want to?” I ask instead.
“Not now, if that’s okay.” He smiles wistfully, turning toward me as he pats my ankle, signalling that he’s done.
I shift off him, sitting up and crossing my legs in front of me. I rest my cheek against my hand, supported by the back of the couch. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
He looks at me sideways, appreciation in his eyes—mixed with a request. For a change of subject, I think.
“Are you excited to see your dad?”
“Yeah, I am. I can’t wait for him to meet you.”
My expression squeezes tight as I tuck my face into my palm, and my heart squeezes too. “Oh, well, I hope he likes me.”
Bo shakes his head, scratching his chin. “He’ll love you.”
Now it’s too tight, the burst of joy in my chest. I have to rub my palm over it, attempting to loosen it. I’m not sure exactly when such lovely sentiments from Bo began to feel slightly painful, but that’s where we’re at these days. It’s a longing sensation. A reminder of the limitations and parameters we have to abide by. Still, it’s better than blushing.
The song playing from the dining room fades, and then the turntable clicks into place, signalling that it’s time to flip the record.
“Want me to?” I ask, pointing over my shoulder toward it.
“Nah, I’ll grab it,” Bo says, sitting up and adjusting his pants, pulling at the fabric bunched around the top of his prosthesis’s socket. Lately, he’s been going without his prosthesis around the house. Usually when he’s freshly showered or has just woken up. I like it when he does. It feels like his trust is being extended.
“Fred?” Bo says, pulling my focus toward him.
I watch as he places a new record down on the turntable and lines up the needle. He turns a dial, and the music starts, an orchestration of string instruments. He turns to face me, his eyes sparkling but his lips tightly sealed. Then he holds out a hand. “Come dance with me.”
My stomach nearly leaves me behind, flying across the room. All the more reason to say no, probably. “I don’t really dance.”
“What, why? Two left feet?” he asks, smiling wickedly. “Still more than I got.”
I make a point to roll my eyes exaggeratedly.
“C’mon… Please?”
I’m screwed.
The scary truth of the matter is that Bo could get me to say yes to just about any request by adding a please that sweet and sincere at the end of it.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say, approaching just as Frank Sinatra begins singing “Strangers in the Night.”
“Then I’ll lead,” he says, taking my smaller hand in his and pulling me closer. “For once,” he mumbles. I reach up to shove his shoulder before resting my cheek against his chest next to my free hand.
“Like this?” I ask.
“Perfect,” he says, curling his other arm around my back.
We rock from side to side, rotating slowly in mindless circles as the song plays on.
“This isn’t so bad,” I whisper.
I feel Bo’s chest rise on a deep breath against my cheek.
When the song builds to the pinnacle chorus, drums picking up tempo and horns blaring, Bo tightens his grip around my little hand and pushes me away from him, spinning me in circles out in front of him as I yelp and giggle in surprise.
“You’re a natural,” he says, pulling me back to him, his hand falling dangerously low on my back.
“Do not do that again,” I laugh out, falling back against him.
There’s something so intimate about being held with zero expectations or reason beyond wanting to. Something so natural about Bo and me moving our bodies in sequence, in no rush to step away. Something so inherently safe about being in his arms.
Bo may slip up and check me out every once in a while, with his eyes held on me and his jaw taught, but he hasn’t once tried anything since we agreed to remain platonic. He’s too respectful for that. And I’m sure my eyes have done far worse damage to him over the past few weeks.
So when he presses me even closer, dips his chin to the top of my head, and curls his arms around me in more of an embrace than a dance, I let him, with zero hesitation, as I relax into the warm, solid comfort of his hold.
“One more?” he asks, his voice broken.
I nod against him.
One more song fades and blurs into five, or maybe even more. I’ve lost track. Eventually, when the turntable clicks, signalling the need to flip the record over, neither of us moves. If anything, Bo holds me tighter against him.
“You okay?” I whisper into his chest after a few moments of silence.
“I’m just trying to come up with the right words,” he says, leaning his cheek against the top of my head, his nose on my hairline with deep, steady breaths. “To thank you for everything.”
The way he says everything is like he really means every single thing.
Tears sting my nose instantly. “I should be thanking you,” I say. “For letting me crash here, for being so kind to me, for—” I almost say loving me before I catch myself. “For being such a good friend.”
“Win, I don’t think you understand. I spent my birthday last year alone on my couch, drinking and miserable. I was so lonely. I felt like half a person. I—” He chokes up and clears his throat. “I felt hopeless.” He sniffles, and I fight the urge to pull away to look at his face. To wipe his tears, if there are any. “But then you came along.”
“If things were so bad, why go to some silly Halloween party?” How did I get so lucky?
“Have you ever been so low you stop caring so much? I think I hit rock bottom. I figured nothing else was working, so why not do something scary on a night where I could be someone else for a little bit? A costume to make light of it all.”
The second I go to look up at him, he pulls me back and tightens his hold. He squeezes me to his chest like a favourite stuffed animal or blanket, tucking me under his chin. I splay my fingers out on his back and press into him, communicating back to him the same intensity. Clinging to him just the same.
“I’m sorry things were so bad,” I say softly, his sweater against the corner of my mouth.
I wish I knew you then, I think to myself.
I’d have found him there, in that dark period. Sat with him in it. Until very recently, I was there too. Perhaps that’s all Bo and I are. Two people leaving behind the worst, looking forward to the good to come. But is he ready to leave everything behind?
Because I think I might be.
“I’m not sorry,” Bo says, surprisingly steady. “Not anymore.”
He lets me go and steps backward. Even with red-rimmed, sullen eyes, he still smiles down at me. And out of the many, many smiles he’s given me, this one is different. There’s something unmistakeably hesitant about it, but mostly, it’s the hopefulness amidst it all that strikes me.
Yes, I tell him silently with my own melancholy smile. I feel it too. And yes, it’s absolutely terrifying. Let’s pretend we don’t. Not yet. Not tonight. Not until we’re both certain.
“I’d do it all over again to be at that party,” he says. “To meet you. To get Gus.”
I damn near disintegrate, my face crumpling as I shake my head. Because how can I hear him say that and not fall in love with him at this exact moment? How can I tell myself he’s not purely good when he says things like that?
“Bo…” I say, looking at our feet.
“I would,” he says adamantly, nodding as if he wants me to do the same. “Wouldn’t you?”
“If we hadn’t met… if this hadn’t happened,” I say, placing a hand on my small bump, “I think I’d have been stuck playing it safe forever.”
A tear falls from his eye, and without hesitation, I reach up to brush it away with my thumb, cradling his cheek in my hand.
“You’d have gotten yourself out eventually, Win.” He presses the corner of his mouth to my wrist, releasing a trembling breath against it. “You can do anything,” he whispers against my pulse point. And the way he says anything is as if he really means any possible thing.
And I believe him.
I truly do.
I feel my own tears come, slow and steady. To hide my face, I press myself back into his chest, and he meets me immediately, wrapping himself around me like a shield.
And we dance some more.
To the sound of nothing but each other’s withering restraint.
Accepting that this is the best thing that could have happened to us. To get us out of our own personal dark spots. To give us purpose. To find each other.
Because even though we aren’t together, I can no longer imagine a version of my life without Bo in it. Bo is simply lovely. Plain and true and all-encompassing.
So why am I still so scared?
Angry with myself, I wiggle free from his hold. I laugh weakly as he pretends to fight me, holding tighter as he sways me side to side.
“No, don’t,” he says, his hand going from shoulder to elbow. “Another record?”
I pat his shoulder at least a dozen times as I shake my head, unsure of what else to do to keep the overwhelming feelings and truths and fears from spilling out. His eyes follow the movement of my head as I shake it one last time, and he sighs, releasing me.
I walk toward the bathroom to shower without looking back, my head hung low and emotions caught heavy in my throat.
Leaving Bo still standing there.
Halfway through my shower, music starts playing again, and I fall against the tile, letting the water wash over me as I imagine Bo’s body around me in here too.
And, I realise, I’m completely fucked.
