Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“It was selfish.”
“No, it means a lot, but you didn’t have to buy me anything.”
Fitch looked out the window. They were seated near the entrance of a popular pizza joint in the heart of the city. It was warm and smelled of melted cheese and tomato sauce inside, but outside the night was chilly for the time of year.
“Consider it an early birthday present or something,” Fitch said without meeting his eyes.
“Really early.” He tucked the gift bag near his feet.
Fitch turned to face him. “When is it?”
“August twenty-eighth, what about you?”
“May twenty-third. How old are you exactly?”
“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a lady that question?” Ansel pushed his hair behind his ears and off his collarbone.
“Wait, I can figure it out. Hold on.” Fitch looked to the ceiling. “Twenty-three?”
“How’d you guess?”
Fitch tapped his temple and winked. “I’m just that good.”
“Sure.”
“You were seventeen when you left home and you said it was six years since you saw your brother.”
Ansel bit the inside of his cheek, because the idea that Fitch was so into him that he remembered every word he’d said? Hell, that was scary—and damn sweet. “When you lay it all out, it’s not as impressive.”
Fitch laughed. “From now on, I’ll keep my methods mysterious.”
Their pepperoni pizza arrived and they each grabbed a slice. Ansel tore off a piece of the crust and mopped up the grease while Fitch folded his and let the oil drip onto the paper plate.
“You’re going to let all that go to waste? What are you, a barbarian?” Ansel reached over and dabbed his crust into Fitch’s grease and then popped the chunk-o-yum into his mouth.
“Seriously? That’s all fat.”
“And?”
“You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack.”
The inflection of his voice made Ansel wonder if there was more on his mind. “If something’s going to kill me, I doubt it will be pizza grease. More likely it will be alcohol poisoning or an allergic reaction to bullshit.”
Fitch shook his head. “My grandfather died from a heart attack when he was only fifty-five. Turns out we have a history of heart problems in the family tree.”
“That’s major.”
“I try to be careful, watch what I eat, get enough exercise, you know. But there are no guarantees, I guess.” He focused on the table.
Ansel sensed a deeper issue and reached across the table to touch Fitch’s hand. “Listen, I know it’s none of my business, but is there something wrong?”
Fitch looked at where their fingers connected, quickly glanced around the room, and sighed before looking into Ansel’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to let it affect our date.” Even under a day’s worth of facial hair, Ansel could see the pink tinge of Fitch’s embarrassment. What he didn’t know was if it was from holding hands in public or something else.
“It’s okay. You just seem, I don’t know, worried about something.”
“It’s my father. He’s...well, we don’t really know yet, but something isn’t right. He’s forgetting things more than usual and gets confused. I guess it’s been weighing on me more than I realized.” He turned his hand to cup Ansel’s in a warm and gentle hold.
So, not embarrassed then. Or at least, not enough to stop.
Stupidly, the small act warmed something inside Ansel he hadn’t realized was so cold. He squeezed Fitch’s hand and blinked away his emotions, even while his heart was swelling in sympathy. The love Fitch had for his father was so plain to see, it hurt. “I’m so sorry. Is it Alzheimer’s?”
“I hope not. He has an appointment in a couple weeks. We’ll know more then, but the wait has been dragging me down.” He paused before adding, “Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“Okay, sorry.” Fitch smiled and once again his eyes were warm and twinkling.
Ansel laughed and the tension that had gripped his shoulders fizzled. He squeezed Fitch’s hand once more before returning to the task of eating his pizza.
“I have no idea what we have in our family,” Ansel said. “My parents were first-generation immigrants and I only ever met my grandmother when she came to visit on the holidays.”
After his confession Fitch seemed lighter when he replied, “Immigrants? Where from?”
“You mean you can’t tell? Come on, Sherlock, where have your powers of deduction gone?”
“Not deduction, just math. And you’ve never mentioned anything about this before. I would’ve remembered.”
Ansel lowered his eyes to the triangle of cheese on his plate and picked off a piece of pepperoni. “Wir kommen aus Deutschland,” he replied before popping it in his mouth. His accent was rusty. Oma Richter would have been ashamed.
Fitch snapped his fingers. “I should have guessed, your name is totally German. And Lars, wow, you couldn’t get more Mein Kampf than that.”
Ansel laughed. “Are you saying my brother must be a Nazi?”
Fitch wiped his fingers on a napkin, chuckling and shaking his head. “Sorry, it was the only thing I could think of in German.”