Page 95 of About to Fall

And every so often, when no one was looking, I'd slip my hand into my pocket.

Plus.

Adrian would go very still. His fork would pause halfway to his mouth. A flush would creep up the back of his neck.

Then I'd turn it down and watch the tension drain out of his shoulders. His exhale carefully controlled. I'd wait exactly long enough for him to relax. Take a sip of wine. Nod along to whatever my father was saying about the neighbourhood parking situation.

Then I'd press the button again.

It was the most fun I'd had at a family dinner in years.

◆◆◆

After dessert—bûche de Noël, my grandmother's recipe—we gathered in the living room for presents. Margaux tore through hers with the single minded focus of a child on Christmas, wrapping paper flying everywhere.

For Margaux, Adrian bought a new grooming kit for Captain and a top-of-the-line tennis racket that she immediately declared the best present ever. My father opened a set of premium golf balls with a pleased nod. My mother slipped on the cashmere lined leather gloves he had chosen and declared them perfect for her morning walks.

Then Adrian handed me a small red box with a matching bow.

“This is the appropriate for family one,” he said quietly, so only I would hear it. “Open it.”

I pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled against black velvet, was a Cartier Love bracelet. Gold. Simple. Elegant. Inlaid with small diamonds that caught the light from the Christmas tree.

The whole point of the Love bracelet was the key. It couldn’t be removed without one—and the person who gave it kept it. You’re mine. A promise locked in gold.

“I noticed you never wear jewelry,” Adrian said. His voice was carefully casual but I could hear the nervousness underneath. “I thought—if you were going to start—it should be something meaningful.”

I turned it over. On the inside, engraved in delicate script: Fall seven times, get up eight.

His words. His philosophy. The tattoo I'd traced so many times I'd memorized the shape of each letter.

“You don't have to wear it if it's not your thing—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I know you've been knocked down a lot. I just wanted you to have something that says the getting up part matters more. And that I'll be here for that part. If you want.”

My mother was watching us with an expression I couldn't quite read. My father had gone very still. Even Margaux had paused her investigation of her new tennis racket grip.

I held out my wrist.

“Put it on me.”

Adrian's hands were steady as he fastened the bracelet using the little key pendant to secure it to my wrist. When it was locked in place, he lifted my wrist to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the pulse point just below the gold.

“Merry Christmas, Nicky,” he said softly.

“Merry Christmas, Adrian.”

My mother smiled. My father cleared his throat and said something about brandy. Margaux announced that she wanted a pretty bracelet too. Adrian promised he would get her one for her birthday.

And I sat there with Adrian's gift on my wrist and his other gift turned off in my pocket—but I would definitely be using it effusively later.

40. Nico

Later—much later, after goodbyes and leftovers and a drive back to Toronto through softly falling snow—I collected on my end of the night present.

Adrian was a wreck by the time we got to his apartment. Hours of teasing had left him strung tight, desperate, begging before I even got his clothes off. He was wearing a red jock underneath his jeans—very festive—and when I pulled the plug out slowly, watching his hole clench around nothing, he whimpered. When I pushed it back in, twisting it against his prostate, he nearly sobbed.

“Nicky—please—”